Chapter 9

17 min

As he was sitting at breakfast next morning, Basil Hallward was shown into the room.

The next morning, as he sat eating breakfast, Basil Hallward was shown into the room.

“I am so glad I have found you, Dorian,” he said gravely. “I called last night, and they told me you were at the opera. Of course, I knew that was impossible. But I wish you had left word where you had really gone to. I passed a dreadful evening, half afraid that one tragedy might be followed by another. I think you might 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 go down and see the girl’s mother? For a moment I thought of following you there. They gave the address in the paper. Somewhere in the Euston Road, isn’t it? But I was afraid of intruding upon a sorrow that I could not lighten. Poor woman! What a state she must be in! And her only child, too! What did she say about it all?”

“I’m so glad I found you, Dorian,” he said seriously. “I called last night, and they told me you were at the opera. Of course, I knew that was impossible. But I wish you had left word about where you had really gone. I spent a dreadful evening, half afraid that one tragedy might be followed by another. I think you could have sent me a telegram when you first heard about it. I read about it by chance in a late edition of The Globe I picked up at the club. I came here at once and was miserable when I couldn’t find you. I can’t tell you how heartbroken I am about the whole thing. I know how much you must be suffering. But where were you? Did you go and see the girl’s mother? For a moment I thought of following you there. They gave her address in the paper. It’s somewhere on Euston Road, isn’t it? But I was afraid of intruding on a grief I couldn’t ease. Poor woman! She must be in such a state! And the girl was her only child, too! What did she say about it all?”

“My dear Basil, how do I know?” murmured Dorian Gray, sipping some pale-yellow wine from a delicate, gold-beaded bubble of Venetian glass and looking dreadfully bored. “I was at the opera. You should have come on there. I met Lady Gwendolen, Harry’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 gives reality to things. I may mention that she was not the woman’s only child. There is a son, a charming fellow, I believe. But he is not on the stage. He is a sailor, or something. And now, tell me about yourself and what you are painting.”

“My dear Basil, how would I know?” murmured Dorian Gray. He sipped pale yellow wine from a delicate, gold-beaded Venetian glass and looked terribly bored. “I was at the opera. You should have come there. I met Lady Gwendolen, Harry’s sister, for the first time. We were in her box. She is absolutely charming, and Patti sang beautifully. Don’t talk about awful subjects. If you don’t talk about something, it has never happened. As Harry says, it is simply expressing things that makes them real. I might mention that she was not the woman’s only child. There is a son. I believe he is a charming fellow. But he is not on the stage. He is a sailor or something. And now, tell me about yourself and what you are painting.”

“You went to the opera?” said Hallward, speaking very slowly and with a strained touch of pain in his voice. “You went to the opera while Sibyl Vane was lying dead in some sordid lodging? You can talk to me of other women being charming, and of Patti singing divinely, before the girl you loved has even the quiet of a grave to sleep in? Why, man, there are horrors in store for that little white body of hers!”

“You went to the opera?” said Hallward. He spoke very slowly, his voice tight with pain. “You went to the opera while Sibyl Vane lay dead in some filthy rented room? You can talk to me about other women being charming and Patti singing beautifully? And the girl you loved has not even been laid to rest in a grave? Why, man, terrible things are still to come for her little white body!”

“Stop, Basil! I won’t hear it!” cried Dorian, leaping to his feet. “You must not tell me about things. What is done is done. What is past is past.”

“Stop, Basil! I won’t listen!” cried Dorian, jumping to his feet. “You must not tell me about things. What’s done is done. The past is past.”

“You call yesterday the past?”

“What has the actual lapse of time got to do with it? It is only shallow people who require years to get rid of an emotion. A man who is master of himself can end a sorrow as easily as he can invent a pleasure. I don’t want to be at the mercy of my emotions. I want to use them, to enjoy them, and to dominate them.”

“What does the actual passage of time have to do with it? Only shallow people need years to get over an emotion. A man who controls himself can end his sorrow as easily as he can create a pleasure. I don’t want to be at the mercy of my emotions. I want to use them, enjoy them, and control them.”

“Dorian, this is horrible! Something has changed you completely. You look exactly the same wonderful boy who, day after day, used to come down to my studio to sit for his picture. But you were simple, natural, and affectionate then. You were the most unspoiled creature in the whole world. Now, I don’t know what has come over you. You talk as if you had no heart, no pity in you. It is all Harry’s influence. I see that.”

“Dorian, this is horrible! Something has completely changed you. You look just like the wonderful boy who used to come to my studio every day to pose for his portrait. But back then, you were simple, natural, and affectionate. You were the most unspoiled person in the whole world. Now, I don’t know what has come over you. You talk as if you have no heart, no pity. It is all Harry’s influence. I can see that.”

The lad flushed up and, going to the window, looked out for a few moments on the green, flickering, sun-lashed garden. “I owe a great deal to Harry, Basil,” he said at last, “more than I owe to you. You only taught me to be vain.”

The young man blushed and went to the window. For a few moments, he looked out at the green garden, flickering in the bright sunlight. “I owe a great deal to Harry, Basil,” he said at last. “More than I owe to you. You only taught me to be vain.”

“Well, I am punished for that, Dorian—or shall be some day.”

“Well, I am being punished for that, Dorian, or I will be someday.”

“I don’t know what you mean, Basil,” he exclaimed, turning round. “I don’t know what you want. What do you want?”

“I don’t know what you mean, Basil,” he exclaimed, turning around. “I don’t know what you want. What do you want?”

“I want the Dorian Gray I used to paint,” said the artist sadly.

“I want the Dorian Gray I used to paint,” the artist said sadly.

“Basil,” said the lad, going over to him and putting his hand on his shoulder, “you have come too late. Yesterday, when I heard that Sibyl Vane had killed herself—”

“Basil,” the young man said, walking over and putting his hand on Basil’s shoulder, “you’re too late. Yesterday, when I heard that Sibyl Vane had killed herself...”

“Killed herself! Good heavens! is there no doubt about that?” cried Hallward, looking up at him with an expression of horror.

“She killed herself! Oh my God! Are you sure?” cried Hallward, looking up at him in horror.

“My dear Basil! Surely you don’t think it was a vulgar accident? Of course she killed herself.”

“My dear Basil! Surely you don’t think it was an ordinary accident? Of course she killed herself.”

The elder man buried his face in his hands. “How fearful,” he muttered, and a shudder ran through him.

The older man buried his face in his hands. “How terrible,” he murmured, and shuddered.

“No,” said Dorian Gray, “there is nothing fearful about it. It is one of the great romantic tragedies of the age. As a rule, people who act lead the most commonplace lives. They are good husbands, or faithful wives, or something tedious. You know what I mean—middle-class virtue and all that kind of thing. How different Sibyl was! She lived her finest tragedy. She was always a heroine. The last night she played—the night you saw her—she acted badly because she had known the reality of love. When she knew its unreality, she died, as Juliet might have died. She passed again into the sphere of art. There is something of the martyr about her. Her death has all the pathetic uselessness of martyrdom, all its wasted beauty. But, as I was saying, you must not think I have not suffered. If you had come in yesterday at a particular moment—about half-past five, perhaps, or a quarter to six—you would have found me in tears. Even Harry, who was here, who brought me the news, in fact, had no idea what I was going through. I suffered immensely. Then 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 young man who used to say that yellow satin could console one for all the miseries of life. I love beautiful things that one can touch and handle. Old brocades, green bronzes, lacquer-work, carved ivories, exquisite surroundings, luxury, pomp—there is much to be got from all these. But the artistic temperament that they create, or at any rate reveal, is still more to me. To become the spectator of one’s own life, as Harry says, is to escape the suffering of life. I know you are surprised at my talking to you like this. You have not realized how I have developed. I was a schoolboy when you knew me. I am a man now. I have new passions, new thoughts, new ideas. I am different, but you must not like me less. I am changed, but you must always be my friend. Of course, I am very fond of Harry. But I know that you are better than he is. You are not stronger—you are too much afraid of life—but you are better. And how happy we used to be together! Don’t leave me, Basil, and don’t quarrel with me. I am what I am. There is nothing more to be said.”

“No,” said Dorian Gray, “there is nothing frightening about it. It is one of the great romantic tragedies of our time. As a rule, actors lead the most ordinary lives. They are good husbands, or faithful wives, or something equally tedious. You know what I mean: middle-class virtue and all that. How different Sibyl was! She lived her greatest tragedy. She was always a heroine. On her last night onstage, the night you saw her, she acted badly because she had known real love. When she learned that love was unreal, she died, as Juliet might have died. She returned to the world of art. There is something of the martyr about her. Her death has all the heartbreaking futility of martyrdom, all its wasted beauty. “But, as I was saying, you must not think I haven’t suffered. If you had come in yesterday at a certain moment, perhaps around half past five or quarter to six, you would have found me in tears. Even Harry had no idea what I was going through. He was here, and in fact he brought me the news. I suffered terribly. Then the feeling passed. I cannot feel the same emotion twice. No one can, except sentimentalists. “And you are terribly unfair, Basil. You come here to comfort me. That is charming of you. You find me comforted, and you are furious. How typical of a sympathetic person! You remind me of a story Harry told me about a certain philanthropist. The man spent twenty years trying to right some wrong or change some unjust law. I forget exactly what it was. Finally he succeeded, and nothing could have made him more disappointed. He had absolutely nothing to do. He nearly died of boredom and became a confirmed misanthrope. “And besides, my dear old Basil, if you really want to comfort me, teach me to forget what happened instead. Or teach me to see it from a proper artistic point of view. Wasn’t it Gautier who used to write about the consolation of the arts? I remember picking up a little vellum-covered book in your studio one day and coming across that delightful phrase. Well, I am not like that young man you told me about when we were together at Marlow. He used to say that yellow satin could comfort a person for all the miseries of life. I love beautiful things one can touch and handle. Old brocades, green bronzes, lacquerwork, carved ivories, exquisite surroundings, luxury, pomp: there is much to gain from all these. But the artistic temperament they create, or at least reveal, means even more to me. As Harry says, becoming a spectator of your own life is a way to escape its suffering. “I know you are surprised to hear me talk like this. You haven’t realized how I have grown. I was a schoolboy when you knew me. I am a man now. I have new passions, new thoughts, new ideas. I am different, but you must not like me less. I have changed, but you must always be my friend. Of course, I am very fond of Harry. But I know you are better than he is. You are not stronger, because you are too afraid of life, but you are better. And how happy we used to be together! Don’t leave me, Basil, and don’t quarrel with me. I am what I am. There is nothing more to be said.”

The painter felt strangely moved. The lad was infinitely dear to him, and his personality had been the great turning point in his art. He could not bear the idea of reproaching him any more. After all, his indifference was probably merely a mood that would pass away. There was so much in him that was good, so much in him that was noble.

The painter felt strangely moved. The young man was infinitely dear to him. His personality had been the great turning point in the painter's art. The painter could not bear to criticize him anymore. After all, his indifference was probably just a passing mood. There was so much that was good in him, so much that was noble.

“Well, Dorian,” he said at length, with a sad smile, “I won’t speak to you again about this horrible thing, after to-day. I only trust your name won’t be mentioned in connection with it. The inquest is to take place this afternoon. Have they summoned you?”

“Well, Dorian,” he said at last, with a sad smile, “I won’t speak to you about this horrible thing again after today. I only hope your name won’t be mentioned in connection with it. The inquest is this afternoon. Have they called you to attend?”

Dorian shook his head, and a look of annoyance passed over his face at the mention of the word “inquest.” There was something so crude and vulgar about everything of the kind. “They don’t know my name,” he answered.

Dorian shook his head. He looked annoyed at the mention of the word “inquest.” There was something so crude and vulgar about anything like that. “They don’t know my name,” he replied.

“But surely she did?”

“But she did, surely?”

“Only my Christian name, and that I am quite sure she never mentioned to any one. She told me once that they were all rather curious 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 drawing of Sibyl, Basil. I should like to have something more of her than the memory of a few kisses and some broken pathetic words.”

“Only my first name, and I’m quite sure she never mentioned it to anyone. She once told me they were all rather curious to know who I was. She always told them my name was Prince Charming. That was sweet of her. You must draw Sibyl for me, Basil. I’d like to have more of her than the memory of a few kisses and some broken, sad words.”

“I will try and do something, Dorian, if it would please you. But you must come and sit to me yourself again. I can’t get on without you.”

“I’ll try to do something, Dorian, if it would please you. But you must come and sit for me again. I can’t go on without you.”

“I can never sit to you again, Basil. It is impossible!” he exclaimed, starting back.

“I can never pose for you again, Basil. It’s impossible!” he exclaimed, stepping back.

The painter stared at him. “My dear boy, what nonsense!” he cried. “Do you mean to say you don’t like what I did of you? Where is 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 screen away, Dorian. It is simply disgraceful of your servant hiding my work like that. I felt the room looked different as I came in.”

The painter stared at him. “My dear boy, what nonsense!” he cried. “Do you mean you don’t like the portrait I painted of you? Where is it? Why have you pulled the screen in front of it? Let me look at it. It’s the best thing I’ve ever done. Please move the screen, Dorian. It’s disgraceful that your servant hid my work like that. I thought the room looked different when I came in.”

“My servant has nothing to do with it, Basil. You don’t imagine I let him arrange my room for me? He settles my flowers for me sometimes—that is all. No; I did it myself. The light was too strong on the portrait.”

“My servant had nothing to do with it, Basil. You don’t think I let him arrange my room for me, do you? He arranges my flowers sometimes. That’s all. No, I did it myself. The light was too strong on the portrait.”

“Too strong! Surely not, my dear fellow? It is an admirable place for it. Let me see it.” And Hallward walked towards the corner of the room.

“Too strong! Surely not, my friend? It's an excellent place for it. Let me see it.” And Hallward walked toward the corner of the room.

A cry of terror broke from Dorian Gray’s lips, and he rushed between the painter and the screen. “Basil,” he said, looking very pale, “you must not look at it. I don’t wish you to.”

Dorian Gray cried out in terror and rushed between the painter and the screen. “Basil,” he said, looking very pale, “you must not look at it. I don’t want you to.”

“Not look at my own work! You are not serious. Why shouldn’t I look at it?” exclaimed Hallward, laughing.

“Not look at my own work? You can’t be serious. Why shouldn’t I look at it?” Hallward exclaimed, laughing.

“If you try to look at it, Basil, on my word of honour I will never speak to you again as long as I live. I am quite serious. I don’t offer any explanation, and you are not to ask for any. But, remember, if you touch this screen, everything is over between us.”

“If you try to look at it, Basil, I swear I will never speak to you again as long as I live. I am completely serious. I won’t explain, and you must not ask me to. But remember, if you touch this screen, everything between us is over.”

Hallward was thunderstruck. He looked at Dorian Gray in absolute amazement. He had never seen him like this before. The lad was actually pallid with rage. His hands were clenched, and the pupils of his eyes were like disks of blue fire. He was trembling all over.

Hallward was stunned. He looked at Dorian Gray in complete amazement. He had never seen Dorian like this before. The young man was actually pale with rage. His hands were clenched, and his pupils looked like disks of blue fire. He was trembling all over.

“Dorian!”

“Don’t speak!”

“But what is the matter? Of course I won’t look at it if you don’t want me to,” he said, rather coldly, turning on his heel and going over 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 Paris in the autumn. I shall probably have to give it another coat of varnish before that, so I must see it some day, and why not to-day?”

“But what’s wrong? Of course I won’t look at it if you don’t want me to,” he said rather coldly. He turned and walked toward the window. “But really, it seems rather absurd that I can’t see my own work. Especially since I’m going to exhibit it in Paris in the fall. I’ll probably have to give it another coat of varnish before then. So I must see it someday, and why not today?”

“To exhibit it! You want to exhibit it?” exclaimed Dorian Gray, a strange sense of terror creeping over him. Was the world going to be shown his secret? Were people to gape at the mystery of his life? That was impossible. Something—he did not know what—had to be done at once.

“To exhibit it! You want to exhibit it?” exclaimed Dorian Gray, as a strange sense of terror crept over him. Was the world going to see his secret? Were people going to stare at the mystery of his life? That was impossible. He had to do something at once, though he did not know what.

“Yes; I don’t suppose you will object to that. Georges Petit is going to collect all my best pictures for a special exhibition in the Rue de Sèze, which will open the first week in October. The portrait will only be away a month. I should think you could easily spare it for that time. In fact, you are sure to be out of town. And if you keep it always behind a screen, you can’t care much about it.”

“Yes, I don’t suppose you’ll object to that. Georges Petit is going to gather all my best pictures for a special exhibition in the Rue de Sèze. The exhibition will open in the first week of October. The portrait will only be away for a month. I should think you could easily spare it for that long. In fact, you’re sure to be out of town. And if you always keep it behind a screen, you can’t care much about it.”

Dorian Gray passed his hand over his forehead. There were beads of perspiration there. He felt that he was on the brink of a horrible danger. “You told me a month ago that you would never exhibit it,” he cried. “Why have you changed your mind? You people who go in for being consistent have just as many moods as others 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 remembered that Lord Henry had said to him once, half seriously and half in jest, “If you want to have a strange quarter of an hour, get Basil to tell you why he won’t exhibit your picture. He told me why he wouldn’t, and it was a revelation to me.” Yes, perhaps Basil, too, had his secret. He would ask him and try.

Dorian Gray ran his hand over his forehead. Beads of sweat had gathered there. He felt he was on the brink of a terrible danger. “You told me a month ago that you would never exhibit it,” he cried. “Why have you changed your mind? You people who pride yourselves on being consistent have just as many moods as everyone else. The only difference is that your moods are rather meaningless. You can’t have forgotten how solemnly you assured me that nothing in the world would make you send it to an exhibition. You told Harry exactly the same thing.” He stopped suddenly, and a light shone in his eyes. He remembered something Lord Henry had once said to him, half seriously and half jokingly. “If you want to spend a strange quarter of an hour, get Basil to tell you why he won’t exhibit your picture. He told me why he wouldn’t, and it was a revelation to me.” Yes, perhaps Basil had his secret too. Dorian would ask him and find out.

“Basil,” he said, coming over quite close and looking him straight in the face, “we have each of us a secret. Let me know yours, and I shall tell you mine. What was your reason for refusing to exhibit my picture?”

“Basil,” he said, coming very close and looking him straight in the face, “we each have a secret. Tell me yours, and I’ll tell you mine. Why did you refuse to exhibit my portrait?”

The painter shuddered in spite of himself. “Dorian, if I told you, you might like me less than you do, and you would certainly laugh at me. I could 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 you wish the best work I have ever done to be hidden from the world, I am satisfied. Your friendship is dearer to me than any fame or reputation.”

The painter shuddered despite himself. “Dorian, if I told you, you might like me less than you do. And you would certainly laugh at me. I couldn't bear either of those things. If you want me never to look at your picture again, I'm content. I can always look at you. If you want the best work I've ever done hidden from the world, I'm satisfied. Your friendship means more to me than any fame or reputation.”

“No, Basil, you must tell me,” insisted Dorian Gray. “I think I have a right to know.” His feeling of terror had passed away, and curiosity had taken its place. He was determined to find out Basil Hallward’s mystery.

“No, Basil, you have to tell me,” Dorian Gray insisted. “I think I have a right to know.” His terror had passed, and curiosity had taken its place. He was determined to uncover Basil Hallward’s secret.

“Let us sit down, Dorian,” said the painter, looking troubled. “Let us sit down. And just answer me one question. Have you noticed in the picture something curious?—something that probably at first did not strike you, but that revealed itself to you suddenly?”

“Let’s sit down, Dorian,” said the painter, looking troubled. “Let’s sit down. Just answer one question. Have you noticed something strange in the picture? Something you probably didn’t notice at first, but suddenly saw?”

“Basil!” cried the lad, clutching the arms of his chair with trembling hands and gazing at him with wild startled eyes.

“Basil!” cried the young man. He gripped the arms of his chair with trembling hands and stared at him with wild, startled eyes.

“I see you did. Don’t speak. Wait till you hear what I have to say. Dorian, from the moment I met you, your personality had the most extraordinary influence over me. I was dominated, soul, brain, and power, by you. You became to me the visible incarnation of that unseen ideal whose memory haunts us artists like an exquisite dream. I worshipped you. I grew jealous of every one to whom you spoke. I wanted to have you all to myself. I was only happy when I was with you. When you were away from me, you were still present in my art.... Of course, I never let you know anything about this. It would have been impossible. You would not have understood it. I hardly understood it myself. I only knew that I had seen perfection face to face, and that the world had become wonderful to my eyes—too wonderful, perhaps, for in such mad worships there is peril, the peril of losing them, no less than the peril of keeping them.... Weeks and weeks went on, and I grew more and more absorbed in you. Then came a new development. I had drawn you as Paris in dainty armour, and as Adonis with huntsman’s cloak 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 about it, laughed at me. But I did not mind that. When the picture was finished, and I sat alone with it, I felt that I was right.... Well, after a few days the thing left my studio, and as soon as I had got rid of the intolerable fascination of its presence, it seemed to me that I had been foolish in imagining that I had seen anything in it, more than that you were extremely good-looking and that I could paint. Even now I cannot help feeling that it is a mistake to think that the passion one feels in creation is ever really shown in the work one creates. Art is always more abstract than we fancy. Form and colour tell us of form and colour—that is all. It often seems to me that art conceals the artist far more completely than it ever reveals him. And so when I got this offer from Paris, I determined to make your portrait the principal thing in my exhibition. It never occurred to me that you would refuse. I see now that you were right. The picture cannot be shown. You must not be angry with me, Dorian, for what I have told you. As I said to Harry, once, you are made to be worshipped.”

“I see you did. Don’t speak. Wait until you hear what I have to say. Dorian, from the moment I met you, your personality had an extraordinary influence over me. You dominated my soul, my mind, and all my powers. To me, you became the visible form of an unseen ideal. Its memory haunts us artists like a beautiful dream. I worshipped you. I grew jealous of everyone you spoke to. I wanted you all to myself. I was only happy when I was with you. When you were away, you were still present in my art.... Of course, I never let you know any of this. It would have been impossible. You would not have understood. I hardly understood it myself. I only knew that I had seen perfection face to face. The world had become wonderful in my eyes. Perhaps it had become too wonderful. Such mad worship carries danger, both in losing what one worships and in keeping it.... Weeks went by, and I became more and more absorbed in you. Then something new happened. I had drawn you as Paris in delicate armour, and as Adonis with a hunter’s cloak and a polished boar spear. Wearing a crown of heavy lotus blossoms, you had sat at the front of Adrian’s barge. You gazed across the muddy green Nile. You had leaned over a still pool in a Greek woodland. In the water’s silent silver, you had seen the wonder 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 decided to paint a wonderful portrait of you as you really are. You would wear your own clothes, not the costume of ages past, and belong to your own time. I cannot say what caused what followed. Perhaps it was the realism of the method. Or perhaps it was the sheer wonder of your personality, presented directly to me without mist or veil. But as I worked, every fleck and layer of colour seemed to reveal my secret. I grew afraid that others would see how I worshipped you. I felt, Dorian, that I had told too much, that I had put too much of myself into the portrait. So I decided never to let it be exhibited. You were a little annoyed, but you did not realize how much the portrait meant to me. Harry laughed at me when I talked to him about it. But I did not mind. When the portrait was finished, I sat alone with it and felt that I was right.... Well, after a few days, the portrait left my studio. Its presence had fascinated me unbearably, and once I was free of it, I thought I had been foolish. I had imagined I saw more in the portrait than your extraordinary good looks and my own skill as a painter. Even now I cannot help feeling that we are mistaken to think our creative passion ever really shows in our work. Art is always more abstract than we imagine. Form and colour tell us about form and colour. That is all. It often seems to me that art conceals the artist far more completely than it ever reveals him. So, when I received this offer from Paris, I decided to make your portrait the centrepiece of my exhibition. It never occurred to me that you would refuse. I see now that you were right. The portrait cannot be shown. You must not be angry with me, Dorian, for what I have told you. As I once said to Harry, you are made to be worshipped.”

Dorian Gray drew a long breath. The colour came back to his cheeks, and a smile played about his lips. The peril was over. He was safe for the time. Yet he could not help feeling infinite pity for 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. But that was all. He was too clever and too cynical to be really fond of. Would there ever be some one who would fill him with a strange idolatry? Was that one of the things that life had in store?

Dorian Gray took a deep breath. Color returned to his cheeks, and a smile played on his lips. The danger had passed. He was safe for the moment. Yet he felt deep pity for the painter who had just made this strange confession to him. He wondered if a friend’s personality would ever have such power over him. Lord Henry was charming because he was so dangerous. But that was all. He was too clever and too cynical to be truly fond of. Would there ever be someone Dorian would idolize in that strange way? Was that one of the things life had in store for him?

“It is extraordinary to me, Dorian,” said Hallward, “that you should have seen this in the portrait. Did you really see it?”

“It’s remarkable to me, Dorian,” said Hallward, “that you saw this in the portrait. Did you really see it?”

“I saw something in it,” he answered, “something that seemed to me very curious.”

“I saw something in it,” he answered, “something that seemed very strange to me.”

“Well, you don’t mind my looking at the thing now?”

“Well, you don’t mind if I look at the thing now?”

Dorian shook his head. “You must not ask me that, Basil. I could not possibly let you stand in front of that picture.”

Dorian shook his head. “You must not ask me that, Basil. I can’t possibly let you stand in front of that picture.”

“You will some day, surely?”

“You will someday, surely?”

“Never.”

“Well, perhaps you are right. And now good-bye, Dorian. You have been the one person in my life who has really influenced my art. Whatever I have done that is good, I owe to you. Ah! you don’t know what it cost me to tell you all that I have told you.”

“Well, perhaps you’re right. And now goodbye, Dorian. You’re the one person in my life who has truly influenced my art. I owe everything good I’ve done to you. Ah! You don’t know how hard it was for me to tell you everything I’ve told you.”

“My dear Basil,” said Dorian, “what have you told me? Simply that you felt that you admired me too much. That is not even a compliment.”

“My dear Basil,” said Dorian, “what have you told me? Only that you felt you admired me too much. That isn't even a compliment.”

“It was not intended as a compliment. It was a confession. Now that I have made it, something seems to have gone out of me. Perhaps one should never put one’s worship into words.”

“It wasn't meant as a compliment. It was a confession. Now that I've made it, I feel as though something has left me. Perhaps one should never put one's worship into words.”

“It was a very disappointing confession.”

“Why, what did you expect, Dorian? You didn’t see anything else in the picture, did you? There was nothing else to see?”

“No; there was nothing else to see. Why do you ask? But you mustn’t talk about worship. It is foolish. You and I are friends, Basil, and we must always remain so.”

“No, there was nothing else to see. Why do you ask? But you mustn’t talk about worship. It’s foolish. You and I are friends, Basil, and we must always stay friends.”

“You have got Harry,” said the painter sadly.

“You have Harry,” the painter said sadly.

“Oh, Harry!” cried the lad, with a ripple of laughter. “Harry spends his days in saying what is incredible and his evenings in doing what is improbable. Just the sort of life I would like to lead. But still I don’t think I would go to Harry if I were in trouble. I would sooner go to you, Basil.”

“Oh, Harry!” the young man cried, laughing. “Harry spends his days saying unbelievable things and his evenings doing unlikely things. That’s just the kind of life I’d like to lead. But I still don’t think I’d go to Harry if I were in trouble. I’d rather go to you, Basil.”

“You will sit to me again?”

“Will you pose for me again?”

“Impossible!”

“You spoil my life as an artist by refusing, Dorian. No man comes across two ideal things. Few come across one.”

“By refusing, Dorian, you ruin my life as an artist. No man finds two ideal things. Few find even one.”

“I can’t explain it to you, Basil, but I must never sit to you again. There is something fatal about a portrait. It has a life of its own. I will come and have tea with you. That will be just as pleasant.”

“I can’t explain it to you, Basil, but I must never pose for you again. There is something dangerous about a portrait. It has a life of its own. I will come and have tea with you. That will be just as pleasant.”

“Pleasanter for you, I am afraid,” murmured Hallward regretfully. “And now good-bye. I am sorry you won’t let me look at the picture once again. But that can’t be helped. I quite understand what you feel about it.”

“I’m afraid it will be more pleasant for you,” Hallward murmured regretfully. “And now, goodbye. I’m sorry you won’t let me look at the picture again. But that can’t be helped. I completely understand how you feel about it.”

As he left the room, Dorian Gray smiled to himself. Poor Basil! How little he knew of the true reason! And how strange it was that, instead of having been forced to reveal his own secret, 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 devotion, his extravagant panegyrics, his curious reticences—he understood them all now, and he felt sorry. There seemed to him to be something tragic in a friendship so coloured by romance.

As he left the room, Dorian Gray smiled to himself. Poor Basil! He knew so little of the true reason! How strange it was that Dorian had not been forced to reveal his own secret. Instead, almost by chance, he had managed to draw a secret from his friend! How much that strange confession explained to him! He now understood the painter’s absurd fits of jealousy, his passionate devotion, his excessive praise, and his curious silences. He understood them all, and he felt sorry. There seemed to him to be something tragic about a friendship so touched by romance.

He sighed and touched the bell. The portrait must be hidden away at all costs. He could not run such a risk of discovery again. It had been mad of him to have allowed the thing to remain, even for an hour, in a room to which any of his friends had access.

He sighed and pressed the bell. The portrait had to be hidden at all costs. He could not risk anyone discovering it again. It had been crazy to leave it, even for an hour, in a room any of his friends could enter.