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1It was long past noon when he awoke. His valet had crept several times on tiptoe into the room to see if he was
2stirring, and had wondered what made his young master sleep so late. Finally his bell sounded, and Victor came in softly
3with a cup of tea, and a pile of letters, on a small tray of old Sevres china, and drew back the olive-satin curtains,
4with their shimmering blue lining, that hung in front of the three tall windows. "Monsieur has well slept this morning,"
5he said, smiling. "What o'clock is it, Victor?" asked Dorian Gray drowsily. "One hour and a quarter, Monsieur." How late
6it was! He sat up, and having sipped some tea, turned over his letters. One of them was from Lord Henry, and had been
7brought by hand that morning. He hesitated for a moment, and then put it aside. The others he opened listlessly. They
8contained the usual collection of cards, invitations to dinner, tickets for private views, programmes of charity
9concerts, and the like that are showered on fashionable young men every morning during the season. There was a rather
10heavy bill for a chased silver Louis-Quinze toilet-set that he had not yet had the courage to send on to his guardians,
11who were extremely old-fashioned people and did not realize that we live in an age when unnecessary things are our only
12necessities; and there were several very courteously worded communications from Jermyn Street money-lenders offering to
13advance any sum of money at a moment's notice and at the most reasonable rates of interest. After about ten minutes he
14got up, and throwing on an elaborate dressing-gown of silk-embroidered cashmere wool, passed into the onyx-paved
15bathroom. The cool water refreshed him after his long sleep. He seemed to have forgotten all that he had gone through. A
16dim sense of having taken part in some strange tragedy came to him once or twice, but there was the unreality of a dream
17about it. As soon as he was dressed, he went into the library and sat down to a light French breakfast that had been
18laid out for him on a small round table close to the open window. It was an exquisite day. The warm air seemed laden
19with spices. A bee flew in and buzzed round the blue-dragon bowl that, filled with sulphur-yellow roses, stood before
20him. He felt perfectly happy. Suddenly his eye fell on the screen that he had placed in front of the portrait, and he
21started. "Too cold for Monsieur?" asked his valet, putting an omelette on the table. "I shut the window?" Dorian shook
22his head. "I am not cold," he murmured. Was it all true? Had the portrait really changed? Or had it been simply his own
23imagination that had made him see a look of evil where there had been a look of joy? Surely a painted canvas could not
24alter? The thing was absurd. It would serve as a tale to tell Basil some day. It would make him smile. And, yet, how
25vivid was his recollection of the whole thing! First in the dim twilight, and then in the bright dawn, he had seen the
26touch of cruelty round the warped lips. He almost dreaded his valet leaving the room. He knew that when he was alone he
27would have to examine the portrait. He was afraid of certainty. When the coffee and cigarettes had been brought and the
28man turned to go, he felt a wild desire to tell him to remain. As the door was closing behind him, he called him back.
29The man stood waiting for his orders. Dorian looked at him for a moment. "I am not at home to any one, Victor," he said
30with a sigh. The man bowed and retired. Then he rose from the table, lit a cigarette, and flung himself down on a
31luxuriously cushioned couch that stood facing the screen. The screen was an old one, of gilt Spanish leather, stamped
32and wrought with a rather florid Louis-Quatorze pattern. He scanned it curiously, wondering if ever before it had
33concealed the secret of a man's life. Should he move it aside, after all? Why not let it stay there? What was the use of
34knowing? If the thing was true, it was terrible. If it was not true, why trouble about it? But what if, by some fate or
35deadlier chance, eyes other than his spied behind and saw the horrible change? What should he do if Basil Hallward came
36and asked to look at his own picture? Basil would be sure to do that. No; the thing had to be examined, and at once.
37Anything would be better than this dreadful state of doubt. He got up and locked both doors. At least he would be alone
38when he looked upon the mask of his shame. Then he drew the screen aside and saw himself face to face. It was perfectly
39true. The portrait had altered. As he often remembered afterwards, and always with no small wonder, he found himself at
40first gazing at the portrait with a feeling of almost scientific interest. That such a change should have taken place
41was incredible to him. And yet it was a fact. Was there some subtle affinity between the chemical atoms that shaped
42themselves into form and colour on the canvas and the soul that was within him? Could it be that what that soul thought,
43they realized?--that what it dreamed, they made true? Or was there some other, more terrible reason? He shuddered, and
44felt afraid, and, going back to the couch, lay there, gazing at the picture in sickened horror. One thing, however, he
45felt that it had done for him. It had made him conscious how unjust, how cruel, he had been to Sibyl Vane. It was not
46too late to make reparation for that. She could still be his wife. His unreal and selfish love would yield to some
47higher influence, would be transformed into some nobler passion, and the portrait that Basil Hallward had painted of him
48would be a guide to him through life, would be to him what holiness is to some, and conscience to others, and the fear
49of God to us all. There were opiates for remorse, drugs that could lull the moral sense to sleep. But here was a visible
50symbol of the degradation of sin. Here was an ever-present sign of the ruin men brought upon their souls. Three o'clock
51struck, and four, and the half-hour rang its double chime, but Dorian Gray did not stir. He was trying to gather up the
52scarlet threads of life and to weave them into a pattern; to find his way through the sanguine labyrinth of passion
53through which he was wandering. He did not know what to do, or what to think. Finally, he went over to the table and
54wrote a passionate letter to the girl he had loved, imploring her forgiveness and accusing himself of madness. He
55covered page after page with wild words of sorrow and wilder words of pain. There is a luxury in self-reproach. When we
56blame ourselves, we feel that no one else has a right to blame us. It is the confession, not the priest, that gives us
57absolution. When Dorian had finished the letter, he felt that he had been forgiven. Suddenly there came a knock to the
58door, and he heard Lord Henry's voice outside. "My dear boy, I must see you. Let me in at once. I can't bear your
59shutting yourself up like this." He made no answer at first, but remained quite still. The knocking still continued and
60grew louder. Yes, it was better to let Lord Henry in, and to explain to him the new life he was going to lead, to
61quarrel with him if it became necessary to quarrel, to part if parting was inevitable. He jumped up, drew the screen
62hastily across the picture, and unlocked the door. "I am so sorry for it all, Dorian," said Lord Henry as he entered.
63"But you must not think too much about it." "Do you mean about Sibyl Vane?" asked the lad. "Yes, of course," answered
64Lord Henry, sinking into a chair and slowly pulling off his yellow gloves. "It is dreadful, from one point of view, but
65it was not your fault. Tell me, did you go behind and see her, after the play was over?" "Yes." "I felt sure you had.
66Did you make a scene with her?" "I was brutal, Harry--perfectly brutal. But it is all right now. I am not sorry for
67anything that has happened. It has taught me to know myself better." "Ah, Dorian, I am so glad you take it in that way!
68I was afraid I would find you plunged in remorse and tearing that nice curly hair of yours."
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