Chapter 10

When the servant entered, Dorian Gray told him to tell the house-keeper that he wanted to see her. Mrs. Leaf had been with his family for many years. He asked her for the key to the old schoolroom.

“The old schoolroom, Mr. Dorian?” she exclaimed. “But it is full of dust! I must clean it first.”

“I don’t want it cleaned. Just give me the key.”

“Well, sir, you’ll be covered with dust if you go into it. It hasn’t been open for nearly five years, not since your grandfather died. Here is the key, sir,” said the old lady. “But you are not going to live up there, are you, sir?”

“No, no,” he cried. “Thank you, Mrs. Leaf. You can go.’

An hour later two men arrived to move the portrait.

“It’s very heavy, sir,’ said one of the men, as they climbed the stairs.

“I am afraid it is rather heavy,” murmured Dorian, as he unlocked the door of the old schoolroom where he was going to hide the secret of his corrupted soul.

He had not entered the room since he was a child. It was a large room built by his grandfather to keep him at a distance. Every moment of his lonely childhood came back to him as he looked round.

It was a room full of terrible memories, but it was safe. He had the key, and no one else could enter it. The face in the portrait could grow old and ugly. What did it matter? No one could see it. He himself would not see it. He did not have to watch the terrible corruption of his soul. He would stay young – that was enough.

When the men had gone, Dorian locked the door, and put the key in his pocket. He felt safe now. No one would ever look at that horrible thing. Only he would ever see his shame.

He went back to the library and found a note from Lord Henry. In it was a report from the newspaper about Sibyl Vane. Her death was officially described as an accident.

He frowned, and tore the paper in two. Then he walked across the room and threw the pieces away. How ugly it all was! And how horribly real ugliness made things!

Perhaps the servant had read the report, and had begun to suspect something. And, yet, what did it matter? What had Dorian Gray to do with Sibyl Vane’s death? There was nothing to fear. Dorian Gray had not killed her.

His eye fell on the yellow book that Lord Henry had sent him. What was it, he wondered. It was the strangest book that he had ever read. It was a novel without a plot and with only one character.

It was almost nine o’clock before he reached the club, where he found Lord Henry sitting alone, looking very much bored.

“I am so sorry, Harry,” he cried, “but really it is entirely your fault. That book you sent me so fascinated me that I forgot how the time was going.”

“Yes, I thought you would like it,” replied his host, rising from his chair.

“I didn’t say I liked it, Harry. I said it fascinated me. There is a great difference.”

“Ah, you have discovered that?” murmured Lord Henry. And they passed into the dining-room.

Chapter 11

For years, Dorian Gray could not free himself from the influence of this book. The hero, the wonderful young Parisian, became to him a kind of type of himself. And, indeed, the whole book seemed to him to contain the story of his own life, written before he had lived it.

The years passed, and the picture of Dorian Gray grew more and more ugly. Dorian himself looked exactly as he did when he was twenty. For many years people had heard strange and terrible things about Dorian Gray, but they did not believe these things. Many people suspected that there was something very wrong with Dorian’s life, but only he knew about the portrait. There were rumours that Dorian did horrible things and went to horrible places, but no one knew for sure if they were true. Lord Henry was still his closest friend, and he and Dorian threw famous parties at Dorian’s beautifully decorated house with famous musicians and beautiful women. And Dorian always had the look of someone who had kept himself pure.

Dorian became interested in everything which made life beautiful on the outside – jewels, perfume, fine cloth, gold, silver – but he would go to the room at the top of his house every once in a while to see how he would look if his true character showed on his face. Dorian had become selfish and irresponsible. He did not care about the consequences of his behaviour, because he always looked young and beautiful. He lost many friends, and there were many people who hated him, but there were also those who thought he was some kind of modern hero. He was rich and handsome, and the wild stories people told about him seemed exciting, if they were true.

When he was twenty, Dorian had been a beautiful young man. Now he was thirty-eight and he was still a beautiful young man. People thought he must be good and kind.

People were wrong. The strange and terrible things were true. Dorian was unkind and cruel. Dorian spent time in strange places and he knew evil men.

But only Dorian knew the secret of the picture. He often went up to the attic room. He unlocked the room and stood in front of the picture for hours.

The face of the man in the picture was ugly and wrinkled. The face was getting older and older, and it was very, very evil. The picture showed the evil inside Dorian Gray. It showed the evil in his soul.

Often Dorian looked at the picture, then looked in a mirror. The picture, locked in the room at the top of his house, changed with every one of Dorian’s cruel or selfish acts. It was a portrait of a man who looked much older than Dorian Gray. Dorian was now almost thirty-eight, but the man in the picture had thin grey hair. His face was wrinkled and his body looked old and weak. He laughed when he saw his face in the mirror. It was young and beautiful. Dorian’s wish had come true.

Dorian had been happy for many years. He had enjoyed his life. He had not cared about other people. Dorian had done the things Harry had told him to do.

Dorian was a rich man. He bought a house in the country. He bought valuable pictures and fine books and he bought beautiful furniture. He wore beautiful clothes and expensive jewellery. He always wore many rings on his fingers.

But now Dorian was worried. He was worried because he was not happy any longer.

Some people would not speak to him now. Some people would leave a room when he entered it. Some people told stories about the strange life of Dorian Gray.

And Dorian was worried that somebody would find out the truth. He was worried that somebody would see the portrait. Then everybody would find out that the stories were true. They would find out that he was an evil man.

Often, Dorian left dinner parties early and hurried home to see his portrait. Sometimes he went on holiday, then hurried home to see his portrait. Again, on returning home he himself would creep upstairs to the locked room, open the door with the key that never left him now, and stand, with a mirror, in front of the portrait that Basil Hallward had painted of him. He would look first at the horrible, old face in the picture, and then at the handsome young face that laughed back at him from the mirror. He fell more and more in love with his own beauty. And more and more interested in the corruption of his own soul.

And he was afraid. What if the portrait should be stolen? Surely the world would know his secret then. Perhaps the world already suspected it.

Chapter 12

It was on the ninth of November, the eve of his own thirty-eighth birthday, as he often remembered afterwards. He was walking home about eleven o’clock from Lord Henry’s, where he had been dining, and was wrapped in heavy furs, as the night was cold and foggy. Suddenly a man passed him in the fog. He was walking very fast, and had the collar of his coat turned up. He had a bag in his hand. Dorian recognized him. It was Basil Hallward, A strange sense of fear, for which he could not account, came over him.

He made no sign of recognition and went on quickly in the direction of his own house.

But Hallward had seen him. Dorian heard him hurrying after him. In a few moments his hand was on his arm.

“Dorian! What an extraordinary piece of luck! I have been waiting for you in your library ever since nine o’clock, I am going to Paris on the midnight train, and I wanted to see you before I left. I thought it was you, or rather your fur coat, as you passed me. But I wasn’t quite sure. Didn’t you recognize me?”

“In this fog, my dear Basil? I can’t recognize anything, I believe my house is somewhere about here, but I don’t feel at all certain about it. I am sorry you are going away as I have not seen you for ages. But I suppose you will be back soon?”

“No, I am going to be out of England for six months. I intend to take a studio in Paris and shut myself up till I have finished a great picture I have in my head. Here we are at your door. Let me come in for a moment. I have something to say to you.”

Dorian was not happy to see Basil, but he invited him back to his house for a drink before he left.

“That would be lovely. But won’t you miss your train?” said Dorian Gray, as he went up the steps and opened the door with his key.

“I have plenty of time,” he answered. “The train doesn’t go until twelve-fifteen, and it is only just eleven. All I have with me is this bag, and I can easily get to Victoria Station in twenty minutes.”

Dorian looked at him and smiled. “Come in, or the fog will get into the house. And mind you don’t talk about anything serious. Nothing is serious nowadays. At least nothing should be.”

Hallward followed Dorian into the library. There was a bright wood fire on one side of the room and two lamps on the other.

“Would you like a drink?” asked Dorian.

“No thanks, I won’t have anything more,” said the painter, taking his hat and coat off. “And now, my dear Dorian, I want to speak to you seriously. Don’t frown like that. You make it so much more difficult for me.”

“What is it all about?” cried Dorian, throwing himself down on the sofa. “I hope it is not about myself, I am tired of myself tonight, I would prefer to be somebody different.”

“It is about yourself,” answered Hallward in his grave deep voice, “and I must say it to you. I shall only keep you half an hour.”

Dorian breathed deeply and lit a cigarette. “Is it really necessary, Basil?”

“I think you should know some of the terrible things that people are saying about you. People don’t want to be seen with you. They say you have destroyed the lives of many young men and women. You have a negative influence on people and you encourage them to do evil things.”

“I don’t want to know anything about them. I love scandals about other people, but scandals about myself don’t interest me.”

“They must interest you, Dorian. Every gentleman is interested in his good name, Dorian. You don’t want people to talk of you as something terrible and corrupt. But I don’t believe these rumours at all. At least I can’t believe them when I see you. Sin is a thing that writes itself across a man’s face. It cannot be concealed.”

“My dear Basil —”

“I can’t believe anything against you. And yet I see you very seldom, and you never come down to the studio now, and when I am away from you, and I hear all these hideous things that people are whispering about you, I don’t know what to say. Why is it, Dorian, that men leave the room of a club when you enter it? Why is it that so many gentlemen in London will neither go to your house or invite you to theirs? Why have so many of your friends killed themselves?”

“Stop, Basil. You are talking about things of which you know nothing,” said Dorian Gray, biting his lip. “I know how people talk in England. This is a country where people have two faces. They whisper rumours about people like myself, and then do much worse things when others are not looking.”

“Dorian,” cried Hallward, “that is not the question. England is bad enough, I know, and English society is all wrong. That is the reason why I want you to be fine. You have not been fine. I want you to be a good influence on your friends. Instead you have lost all belief in goodness and honesty. You have filled poor young men with a madness for pleasure. Why don’t people want to be your friends any more, Dorian?” he asked. “The Duke of Berwick will not stay in the same room as you. Because of you, Sir Henry Ashton has left England for ever.” “And there are worse things,” he went on. “A young soldier has killed himself. Adrian Singleton has disappeared. Lord Kent is very upset about his son. Nobody will talk to the Duke… Oh, Dorian, these people were your friends. What have you done to them?”

“Stop it, Basil!” shouted Dorian. “I haven’t done anything. It is not my fault if young men do stupid things.”

“I want to believe you,” said Basil sadly. “But you have influenced your friends. You have made people do terrible things. What did you do to Harry’s sister? Now no one will speak to her. Are you an evil man, Dorian?”

“Take care, Basil. You go too far.”

“I must speak, and you must listen. You shall listen. There are terrible stories about you. Are they true? Can they be true? When I first heard them, I laughed. I hear them now, and they make me shudder. Dorian, you don’t know what is said about you.”

Dorian smiled.

“How can you smile like that? I want you to have a clean name. I want you to get rid of the dreadful people you associate with. Don’t be so indifferent. You have a wonderful influence. Let it be for good, not for evil. They say that you corrupt every one with whom you become intimate. I don’t know whether it is so or not. How should I know? I wonder do I know you? Before I could answer that, I have to see your soul. Show me your soul, Dorian. Make me believe you are good and not evil and that people are spreading lies about you.”

“To see my soul!” muttered Dorian Gray, starting up from the sofa and turning almost white from fear.

“Yes,” answered Hallward, “to see your soul. But only God can do that.”

A bitter laugh came from the lips of the younger man. “You will see it yourself, tonight!” he cried, picking up a lamp from the table. “Come: it is your own work. Why shouldn’t you look at it? You can tell the world all about it after, if you want. Nobody will believe you. If they do believe you, they will like me better for it. Come, I tell you. You have talked enough about corruption. Now you will see it face to face.”

There was the madness of pride in every word he uttered. He felt a terrible delight that someone was going to share his secret. The man who had painted the portrait was going to share his shame. The painter would suffer for the rest of his life with the memory of what he had done.

“Yes,” he continued, coming closer to him. “I will show you my soul. You will see what you think only God can see.”

Hallward jumped back. “This is blasphemy, Dorian!” he cried. “You must not say things like that. They are horrible, and they don’t mean anything.”

“You think so?” he laughed again.

“I know so. As for what I said to you tonight, I said it for your good. You know I have been always a friend to you.”

“Don’t touch me. Finish what you have to say.”

The painter felt very sad. He walked over to the fire and stood there.

“I am waiting, Basil,” said the young man, in a hard, clear voice.

Basil turned round. “What I have to say is this,” he cried. “You must give me some answer to the horrible things people are saying against you. Deny them, Dorian, deny them! Can’t you see what I am going through? My God! don’t tell me that you are bad, and corrupt, and shameful.”

“Come upstairs, Basil,” he said quietly. “I keep a diary of my life from day to day, and it never leaves the room in which it is written. I shall show it to you if you come with me.”

“I shall come with you, Dorian, if you wish it. I see I have missed my train. That makes no matter. I can go tomorrow. But don’t ask me to read anything tonight. All I want is an answer to my question.”