It was a lovely night, so warm that he threw his coat over his arm, and
did not even put his silk scarf round his throat. As he strolled home,
smoking his cigarette, two young men in evening dress passed him. He
heard one of them whisper to the other, "That is Dorian Gray." He
remembered how pleased he used to be when he was pointed out, or stared
at, or talked about. He was tired of hearing his own name now. Half the
charm of the little village where he had been so often lately was that
no one knew who he was. He had often told the girl whom he had lured to
love him that he was poor, and she had believed him. He had told her
once that he was wicked, and she had laughed at him, and answered that
wicked people were always very old and very ugly. What a laugh she
had!--just like a thrush singing. And how pretty she had been in her
cotton dresses and her large hats! She knew nothing, but she had
everything that he had lost.
When he reached home, he found his servant waiting up for him. He sent
him to bed, and threw himself down on the sofa in the library, and began
to think over some of the things that Lord Henry had said to him.
Was it really true that one could never change? He felt a wild longing
for the unstained purity of his boyhood--his rose-white boyhood, as Lord
Henry had once called it. He knew that he had tarnished himself, filled
his mind with corruption, and given horror to his fancy; that he had
been an evil influence to others, and had experienced a terrible joy in
being so; and that, of the lives that had crossed his own, it had been
the fairest and the most full of promise that he had brought to shame.
But was it all irretrievable? Was there no hope for him?
Ah! in what a monstrous moment of pride and passion he had prayed that
the portrait should bear the burden of his days, and he keep the
unsullied splendour of eternal youth! All his failure had been due to
that. Better for him that each sin of his life had brought its sure,
swift penalty along with it. There was purification in punishment. Not
"Forgive us our sins," but "Smite us for our iniquities" should be the
prayer of a man to a most just God.
The curiously carved mirror that Lord Henry had given to him, so many
years ago now, was standing on the table, and the white-limbed Cupids
laughed round it as of old. He took it up, as he had done on that night
of horror, when he had first noted the change in the fatal picture, and
with wild, tear-dimmed eyes looked into its polished shield. Once, some
one who had terribly loved him had written to him a mad letter, ending
with these idolatrous words: "The world is changed because you are made
of ivory and gold. The curves of your lips rewrite history." The phrases
came back to his memory, and he repeated them over and over to himself.
Then he loathed his own beauty, and, flinging the mirror on the floor,
crushed it into silver splinters beneath his heel. It was his beauty
that had ruined him, his beauty and the youth that he had prayed for.
But for those two things, his life might have been free from stain. His
beauty had been to him but a mask, his youth but a mockery. What was
youth at best? A green, an unripe time, a time of shallow moods and
sickly thoughts. Why had he worn its livery? Youth had spoiled him.
It was better not to think of the past. Nothing could alter that. It was
of himself, and of his own future, that he had to think. James Vane was
hidden in a nameless grave in Selby churchyard. Alan Campbell had shot
himself one night in his laboratory, but had not revealed the secret
that he had been forced to know. The excitement, such as it was, over
Basil Hallward's disappearance would soon pass away. It was already
waning. He was perfectly safe there. Nor, indeed, was it the death of
Basil Hallward that weighed most upon his mind. It was the living death
of his own soul that troubled him. Basil had painted the portrait that
had marred his life. He could not forgive him that. It was the portrait
that had done everything. Basil had said things to him that were
unbearable, and that he had yet borne with patience. The murder had been
simply the madness of a moment. As for Alan Campbell, his suicide had
been his own act. He had chosen to do it. It was nothing to him.
A new life! That was what he wanted. That was what he was waiting for.
Surely he had begun it already. He had spared one innocent thing, at any
rate. He would never again tempt innocence. He would be good.
As he thought of Hetty Merton, he began to wonder if the portrait in the
locked room had changed. Surely it was not still so horrible as it had
been? Perhaps if his life became pure, he would be able to expel every
sign of evil passion from the face. Perhaps the signs of evil had
already gone away. He would go and look.
He took the lamp from the table and crept upstairs. As he unbarred the
door a smile of joy flitted across his strangely young-looking face and
lingered for a moment about his lips. Yes, he would be good, and the
hideous thing that he had hidden away would no longer be a terror to
him. He felt as if the load had been lifted from him already.
He went in quietly, locking the door behind him, as was his custom, and
dragged the purple hanging from the portrait. A cry of pain and
indignation broke from him. He could see no change, save that in the
eyes there was a look of cunning, and in the mouth the curved wrinkle of
the hypocrite. The thing was still loathsome--more loathsome, if
possible, than before--and the scarlet dew that spotted the hand seemed
brighter, and more like blood newly spilt. Then he trembled. Had it been
merely vanity that had made him do his one good deed? Or the desire for
a new sensation, as Lord Henry had hinted, with his mocking laugh? Or
that passion to act a part that sometimes makes us do things finer than
we are ourselves? Or, perhaps, all these? And why was the red stain
larger than it had been? It seemed to have crept like a horrible disease
over the wrinkled fingers. There was blood on the painted feet, as
though the thing had dripped--blood even on the hand that had not held
the knife. Confess? Did it mean that he was to confess? To give himself
up, and be put to death? He laughed. He felt that the idea was
monstrous. Besides, even if he did confess, who would believe him? There
was no trace of the murdered man anywhere. Everything belonging to him
had been destroyed. He himself had burned what had been below-stairs.
The world would simply say that he was mad. They would shut him up if he
persisted in his story.... Yet it was his duty to confess, to suffer
public shame, and to make public atonement. There was a God who called
upon men to tell their sins to earth as well as to heaven. Nothing that
he could do would cleanse him till he had told his own sin. His sin? He
shrugged his shoulders. The death of Basil Hallward seemed very little
to him. He was thinking of Hetty Merton. For it was an unjust mirror,
this mirror of his soul that he was looking at. Vanity? Curiosity?
Hypocrisy? Had there been nothing more in his renunciation than that?
There had been something more. At least he thought so. But who could
tell?... No. There had been nothing more. Through vanity he had spared
her. In hypocrisy he had worn the mask of goodness. For curiosity's
sake he had tried the denial of self. He recognised that now.
But this murder--was it to dog him all his life? Was he always to be
burdened by his past? Was he really to confess? Never. There was only
one bit of evidence left against him. The picture itself--that was
evidence. He would destroy it. Why had he kept it so long? Once it had
given him pleasure to watch it changing and growing old. Of late he had
felt no such pleasure. It had kept him awake at night. When he had been
away, he had been filled with terror lest other eyes should look upon
it. It had brought melancholy across his passions. Its mere memory had
marred many moments of joy. It had been like conscience to him. Yes, it
had been conscience. He would destroy it.
He looked round, and saw the knife that had stabbed Basil Hallward. He
had cleaned it many times, till there was no stain left upon it. It was
bright, and glistened. As it had killed the painter, so it would kill
the painter's work, and all that that meant. It would kill the past, and
when that was dead he would be free. It would kill this monstrous
soul-life, and, without its hideous warnings, he would be at peace. He
seized the thing, and stabbed the picture with it.
There was a cry heard, and a crash. The cry was so horrible in its agony
that the frightened servants woke, and crept out of their rooms. Two
gentlemen, who were passing in the Square below, stopped, and looked up
at the great house. They walked on till they met a policeman, and
brought him back. The man rang the bell several times, but there was no
answer. Except for a light in one of the top windows, the house was all
dark. After a time, he went away and stood in an adjoining portico and
watched.
"Whose house is that, constable?" asked the elder of the two gentlemen.
"Mr. Dorian Gray's, sir," answered the policeman.
They looked at each other, as they walked away and sneered. One of them
was Sir Henry Ashton's uncle.
Inside, in the servants' part of the house, the half-clad domestics were
talking in low whispers to each other. Old Mrs. Leaf was crying and
wringing her hands. Francis was as pale as death.
After about a quarter of an hour, he got the coachman and one of the
footmen and crept upstairs. They knocked, but there was no reply. They
called out. Everything was still. Finally, after vainly trying to force
the door, they got on the roof, and dropped down on to the balcony. The
windows yielded easily; their bolts were old.
When they entered they found, hanging upon the wall, a splendid portrait
of their master as they had last seen him, in all the wonder of his
exquisite youth and beauty. Lying on the floor was a dead man, in
evening dress, with a knife in his heart. He was withered, wrinkled, and
loathsome of visage. It was not till they had examined the rings that
they recognised who it was.
THE END
* * *
BIBLIOGRAPHICAL NOTE
PIRATED EDITIONS
Owing to the number of unauthorised editions of "THE PICTURE OF DORIAN
GRAY" issued at various times both in America and on the Continent of
Europe, it has become necessary to indicate which are the only
authorised editions of Oscar Wilde's masterpiece.
Many of the pirated editions are incomplete in that they omit the
Preface and seven additional chapters which were first published in the
London edition of 1891. In other cases certain passages have been
mutilated, and faulty spellings and misprints are numerous.
AUTHORISED EDITIONS
(I) First published in _Lippincott's Monthly Magazine_, July, 1890.
London: Ward, Lock & Co. _Copyrighted in London_.
Published _simultaneously_ in America. Philadelphia: J.-B. Lippincott
Co. _Copyrighted in the United States of America_.
(II) A Preface to "Dorian Gray." _Fortnightly Review_, March 1, 1891.
London: Chapman & Hall. (_All rights reserved._)
(III) With the Preface and Seven additional chapters. London, New York,
and Melbourne: Ward, Lock & Co. (n. d.).
(Of this edition 250 copies were issued on L.P., _dated_ 1891.)
(IV) The same. London, New York, and Melbourne: Ward, Lock & Bowden. (n.
d.).
(Published 1894 or 1895.) See Stuart Mason's "Art and Morality" (page
153).
THE FOLLOWING EDITIONS
were issued by Charles Carrington, _Publisher and Literary Agent_, late
of 13 Faubourg Montmartre, Paris, and 10 _Rue de la Tribune_, BRUSSELS
(Belgium), to whom the Copyright belongs.
(V) Small 8vo, vii 334 pages, printed on English antique wove paper,
silk-cloth boards. 500 copies, 1901.
(VI) The same, vii 327 pages, silk-cloth boards. 500 copies, 1905.
Of this edition 100 copies were issued on hand-made paper.
(VII) 4to, vi 312 pages, broad margins, claret-coloured paper wrappers,
title on label on the outside. 250 copies. Price 10_s_. 6_d_. 1908
(February).
(VIII) Cr. 8vo, uniform with Methuen's (London) complete edition of
Wilde's _Works_. xi 362 pages, printed on hand-made paper, white cloth,
gilt extra.
1000 copies. Price 12_s._ 6_d._ 1908 (April 16).
Of this edition 80 further copies were printed on Imperial Japanese
vellum, full vellum binding, gilt extra. Price 42_s_.
(IX) Illustrated edition. Containing seven fullpaged illustrations by
Paul Thirlat, engraved on Wood by Eugène Dété (both of Paris), and
artistically printed by Brendon & Son, Ltd. (of Plymouth), 4to, vi 312
pages, half parchment bound, with corners, and _fleur-de-lys_ on side.
1908-9. Price 15_s._
(X) Small edition, uniform with Messrs. Methuen's Issue of "Oscar
Wilde's Works" at same price. 12mo, xii and 352 pages. 2000 copies.
Bound in green cloth. 1910. Price 5_s._
It follows from all this that, with the exception of the version in
_Lippincott's Magazine_ only those editions are authorised to be sold in
Great Britain and her Colonies which bear the imprimatur of Ward, Lock &
Co., London, or Charles Carrington, Paris and Brussels; and that all
other editions, whether American, Continental (_save Carrington's Paris
editions above specified_) or otherwise, may not be sold within British
jurisdiction without infringing the _Berne_ law of literary copyright
and incurring the disagreements that may therefrom result.
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End of Project Gutenberg's The Picture of Dorian Gray, by Oscar Wilde