The Picture of Dorian Gray

st next morning, Basil Hallw

t have telegraphed for me when you heard of it first. I read of it quite by chance in a late edition of The Globe that I picked up at the club. I came here at once and was miserable at not finding you. I can't tell you how heart-broken I am about the whole thing. I know what you must suffer. But where were you? Did you g

arry's sister, for the first time. We were in her box. She is perfectly charming; and Patti sang divinely. Don't talk about horrid subjects. If one doesn't talk about a thing, it has never happened. It is simply expression, as Harry says, that

Sibyl Vane was lying dead in some sordid lodging? You can talk to me of other women being charming, and of Patti singing divinely, befor

ping to his feet. "You must not tell me about thi

yesterday

rid of an emotion. A man who is master of himself can end a sorrow as easily as he can invent a pleasure.

wn to my studio to sit for his picture. But you were simple, natural, and affectionate then. You were the most unspoiled creature in the who

the green, flickering, sun-lashed garden. "I owe a great deal to Harry, Bas

for that, Dorian-or

he exclaimed, turning round. "I don't

ay I used to paint,"

is hand on his shoulder, "you have come too late. Yest

o doubt about that?" cried Hallward, look

t think it was a vulgar acciden

is hands. "How fearful," he mutter

it passed away. I cannot repeat an emotion. No one can, except sentimentalists. And you are awfully unjust, Basil. You come down here to console me. That is charming of you. You find me consoled, and you are furious. How like a sympathetic person! You remind me of a story Harry told me about a certain philanthropist who spent twenty years of his life in trying to get some grievance redressed, or some unjust law altered-I forget exactly what it was. Finally he succeeded, and nothing could exceed his disappointment. He had absolutely nothing to do, almost died of ennui, and became a confirmed misanthrope. And besides, my dear old Basil, if you really want to console me, teach me rather to forget what has happened, or to see it from a proper artistic point of view. Was it not Gautier who used to write about la consolation des arts? I remember picking up a little vellum-covered book in your studio one day and chancing on that delightful phrase. Well, I am not like that young man you told me of when we were down at Marlow together, the y

ning point in his art. He could not bear the idea of reproaching him any more. After all, his indifference was p

t this horrible thing, after to-day. I only trust your name won't be mentioned in con

the mention of the word "inquest." There was something so crude and vul

rely sh

ous to learn who I was, and that she invariably told them my name was Prince Charming. It was pretty of her. You must do me a dra

uld please you. But you must come and sit to m

n, Basil. It is impossible!"

s it? Why have you pulled the screen in front of it? Let me look at it. It is the best thing I have ever done. Do take the scree

im arrange my room for me? He settles my flowers for me sometimes-that

an admirable place for it. Let me see it." And

between the painter and the screen. "Basil," he said, looki

ot serious. Why shouldn't I look at

as long as I live. I am quite serious. I don't offer any explanation, and you are not t

r seen him like this before. The lad was actually pallid with rage. His hands were clen

ria

't s

er towards the window. "But, really, it seems rather absurd that I shouldn't see my own work, especially as I am going to exhibit it in

eeping over him. Was the world going to be shown his secret? Were people to gape at the myst

Rue de Seze, which will open the first week in October. The portrait will only be away a month. I should think you could easily spar

thers have. The only difference is that your moods are rather meaningless. You can't have forgotten that you assured me most solemnly that nothing in the world would induce you to send it to any exhibition. You told Harry exactly the same thing." He stopped suddenly, and a gleam of light came into his eyes. He re

he face, "we have each of us a secret. Let me know yours, and I shall t

not bear your doing either of those two things. If you wish me never to look at your picture again, I am content. I have always you to look at. If

ight to know." His feeling of terror had passed away, and curiosity had

ust answer me one question. Have you noticed in the picture something curious?-somethi

rms of his chair with trembling hands a

ak and polished boar-spear. Crowned with heavy lotus-blossoms you had sat on the prow of Adrian's barge, gazing across the green turbid Nile. You had leaned over the still pool of some Greek woodland and seen in the water's silent silver the marvel of your own face. And it had all been what art should be-unconscious, ideal, and remote. One day, a fatal day I sometimes think, I determined to paint a wonderful portrait of you as you actually are, not in the costume of dead ages, but in your own dress and in your own time. Whether it was the realism of the method, or the mere wonder of your own personality, thus directly presented to me without mist or veil, I cannot tell. But I know that as I worked at it, every flake and film of colour seemed to me to reveal my secret. I grew afraid that others would know of my idolatry. I felt, Dorian, that I had told too much, that I had put too much of myself into it. Then it was that I resolved never to allow the picture to be exhibited. You were a little annoyed; but then you did not realize all that it meant to me. Harry, to whom I talked ab

the painter who had just made this strange confession to him, and wondered if he himself would ever be so dominated by the personality of a friend. Lord Henry had the charm of being very dangerous.

Hallward, "that you should have seen thi

answered, "something that

mind my looking a

k me that, Basil. I could not possibly

some day

ev

in my life who has really influenced my art. Whatever I have done that is good, I o

told me? Simply that you felt that you admire

Now that I have made it, something seems to have gone out o

y disappointi

idn't see anything else in the picture,

t you mustn't talk about worship. It is foolish. You a

arry," said the

credible and his evenings in doing what is improbable. Just the sort of life I would like to lead.

sit to m

ossi

fusing, Dorian. No man comes across t

. There is something fatal about a portrait. It has a life of its ow

now good-bye. I am sorry you won't let me look at the picture once agai

ret, he had succeeded, almost by chance, in wresting a secret from his friend! How much that strange confession explained to him! The painter's absurd fits of jealousy, his wild devot

ld not run such a risk of discovery again. It had been mad of him to have allowed the