The Picture of Dorian Gray

made his young master sleep so late. Finally his bell sounded, and Victor came in softly with a cup of tea, and a pile of letters, on a small tr

slept this morning,

, Victor?" asked Do

nd a quarte

tickets for private views, programmes of charity concerts, and the like that are showered on fashionable young men every morning during the season. There was a rather heavy bill for a chased silver Louis-Quinze toilet-set that he had not yet had the courage to send on to his guardians, who were extremely old

nyx-paved bathroom. The cool water refreshed him after his long sleep. He seemed to have forgotten all that he had gone through. A

on a small round table close to the open window. It was an exquisite day. The warm air seemed laden with spices. A bee fle

een that he had placed in front

is valet, putting an omelette on

head. "I am not c

made him see a look of evil where there had been a look of joy? Surely a painted canvas could not a

. He knew that when he was alone he would have to examine the portrait. He was afraid of certainty. When the coffee and cigarettes had been brought and the man turned to go, he felt a wild desire to tell him to remain

acing the screen. The screen was an old one, of gilt Spanish leather, stamped and wrought with a rather florid Lou

out it? But what if, by some fate or deadlier chance, eyes other than his spied behind and saw the horrible change? What should he do if Basil Hallward came and asked

oked upon the mask of his shame. Then he drew the screen aside and saw

le to him. And yet it was a fact. Was there some subtle affinity between the chemical atoms that shaped themselves into form and colour on the canvas and the soul that was within him? Could it be that what that soul th

d yield to some higher influence, would be transformed into some nobler passion, and the portrait that Basil Hallward had painted of him would be a guide to him through life, would be to him what holiness is to some, and conscience to other

was wandering. He did not know what to do, or what to think. Finally, he went over to the table and wrote a passionate letter to the girl he had loved, imploring her forgiveness and accusing himself of madness. He covered page after page with wild words of sorrow and

enry's voice outside. "My dear boy, I must see you. Let me i

let Lord Henry in, and to explain to him the new life he was going to lead, to quarrel with him if it became necessary to

said Lord Henry as he entered. "But

out Sibyl Vane?

off his yellow gloves. "It is dreadful, from one point of view, but it was no

es

had. Did you make

ll right now. I am not sorry for anything that has

ay! I was afraid I would find you plunged in re

conscience is, to begin with. It is not what you told me it was. It is the divinest thing in us. Don't sneer at

ethics, Dorian! I congratulate you o

ying Sib

, standing up and looking at him in per

Don't say it. Don't ever say things of that kind to me again. Two days ago I asked

my letter? I wrote to you this morning,

Harry. I was afraid there might be something in it that I

w nothin

do you

k both his hands in his own and held them tightly. "Dorian," he said, "

et, tearing his hands away from Lord Henry's grasp. "Dead! Sibyl

you must not be mixed up in it. Things like that make a man fashionable in Paris. But in London people are so prejudiced. Here, one should never make one's debut with a scandal. One should reserve t

ered, in a stifled voice, "Harry, did you say an inquest? What did you mean by that

ad forgotten something upstairs. They waited some time for her, but she did not come down again. They ultimately found her lying dead on the floor of her dressing-room. She had swallowed something by mist

it is terrible!

nger than that. She looked such a child, and seemed to know so little about acting. Dorian, you mustn't let this thing get on your nerves. You must come and dine with m

o me, it seems far too wonderful for tears. Here is the first passionate love-letter I have ever written in my life. Strange, that my first passionate love-letter should have been addressed to a dead girl. Can they feel, I wonder, those white silent people we call the dead? Sibyl! Can she feel, or know, or listen? Oh, Harry, how I loved her once! It seems years ago to me now. She was everything to me. Then came that dreadful night-was it really only last night?-when she played so badly, and my hear

wretched. Of course, you would have treated her kindly. One can always be kind to people about whom one cares nothing. But she would have soon found out that you were absolutely indifferent to her. And when a woman finds that out about her husband, she either becomes dreadfully d

as my duty. It is not my fault that this terrible tragedy has prevented my doing what was right. I remember your sa

absolutely nil. They give us, now and then, some of those luxurious sterile emotions that have a certain charm for the

beside him, "why is it that I cannot feel this tragedy as

ortnight to be entitled to give yourself that name, Dori

I am not. And yet I must admit that this thing that has happened does not affect me as it should. It seems to me to be simply like a wonderful ending

ometimes, however, a tragedy that possesses artistic elements of beauty crosses our lives. If these elements of beauty are real, the whole thing simply appeals to our sense of dramatic effect. Suddenly we find that we are no longer the actors, but the spectators of the play. Or rather we are both. We watch ourselves, and the mere wonder of the spectacle enthralls us. In the present case, what is it that has really happened? Some one has killed herself for love of you. I wish that I had ever had such an experience. It would have made me

ies in my garden

that I had spoiled her life. I am bound to state that she ate an enormous dinner, so I did not feel any anxiety. But what a lack of taste she showed! The one charm of the past is that it is the past. But women never know when the curtain has fallen. They always want a sixth act, and as soon as the interest of the play is entirely over, they propose to continue it. If they were allowed their own way, every comedy would have a tragic ending, and every tragedy would culminate in a farce. They are charmingly artificial, but they have no sense of art. You are more fortunate than I am. I assure you, Dorian, that not one of the women I have known would have done for me what Sibyl Vane did for you. Ordinary women always console themselves. Some of them do

Harry?" said th

rian, how different Sibyl Vane must have been from all the women one meets! There is something to me quite beautiful about her death. I am glad I am l

cruel to her.

for their masters, all the same. They love being dominated. I am sure you were splendid. I have never seen you really and absolutely angry, but I can fancy how delightful you looked. And,

as that

nes of romance-that she was Desdemona one night, and Ophelia the

again now," muttered the lad,

d, and so she has never really died. To you at least she was always a dream, a phantom that flitted through Shakespeare's plays and left them lovelier for its presence, a reed through which Shakespeare's music sounded richer and more full of joy. The moment she touched actual life, s

oiselessly, and with silver feet, the shadows crept in f

l that you have said, but somehow I was afraid of it, and I could not express it to myself. How well you know me! But we will not talk agai

n. There is nothing that you, with your extr

ecame haggard, and old,

re brought to you. No, you must keep your good looks. We live in an age that reads too much to be wise, and that thinks too mu

Harry. I feel too tired to eat anything.

nd tier. You will see her name on the door

ly obliged to you for all that you have said to me. You are cert

ered Lord Henry, shaking him by the hand. "Good-bye. I shall s

nutes Victor appeared with the lamps and drew the blinds down. He waited impati

ous of the events of life as they occurred. The vicious cruelty that marred the fine lines of the mouth had, no doubt, appeared at the very moment that the girl had drunk the poison, whatever it was. Or was it

d always be a sacrament to him now. She had atoned for everything by the sacrifice she had made of her life. He would not think any more of what she had made him go through, on that horrible night at the theatre. When he thought of her, it would be as a wonderful tragic

at for him-life, and his own infinite curiosity about life. Eternal youth, infinite passion, pleasures subtle and secret,

miled so cruelly at him. Morning after morning he had sat before the portrait wondering at its beauty, almost enamoured of it, as it seemed to him at times. Was it to alter now with every mood to which he yielded? Was i

hat fateful consequences it might be fraught? Besides, was it really under his control? Had it indeed been prayer that had produced the substitution? Might there not be some curious scientific reason for it all? If thought could exercise its influence upon a living organism, might not thought exercise an influence upon dead and inorganic things? Nay, without

when winter came upon it, he would still be standing where spring trembles on the verge of summer. When the blood crept from its face, and left behind a pallid mask of chalk with leaden eyes, he would keep the glamour of boyhood. Not one blossom of his

he did so, and passed into his bedroom, where his valet was already waiting for