Chapter 12

It was on the ninth of November, the eve of his own thirty-eighth birthday, as he often remembered afterwards.

It was November 9, the day before his thirty-eighth birthday. He often remembered this afterward.

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. At the corner of Grosvenor Square and South Audley Street, a man passed him in the mist, walking very fast and with the collar of his grey ulster 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.

Around eleven o’clock, Dorian was walking home from Lord Henry’s, where he had been dining. He was wrapped in heavy furs because the night was cold and foggy. At the corner of Grosvenor Square and South Audley Street, a man passed him in the mist. The man was walking very fast, with the collar of his long grey coat turned up. He carried a bag. Dorian recognized him. It was Basil Hallward. A strange feeling of fear came over Dorian, though he could not explain it. He gave no sign that he recognized Basil and walked quickly on toward his own house.

But Hallward had seen him. Dorian heard him first stopping on the pavement and then hurrying after him. In a few moments, his hand was on his arm.

But Hallward had seen him. Dorian heard him stop on the sidewalk, then hurry after him. A few moments later, Hallward put his hand on Dorian's arm.

“Dorian! What an extraordinary piece of luck! I have been waiting for you in your library ever since nine o’clock. Finally I took pity on your tired servant and told him to go to bed, as he let me out. I am off to Paris by the midnight train, and I particularly 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?”

“Dorian! What amazing luck! I’ve been waiting for you in your library since nine o’clock. Finally, I felt sorry for your tired servant. I told him to go to bed when he let me out. I’m taking the midnight train to Paris, and I really wanted to see you before I left. I thought it was you as you passed me. Or rather, I recognized your fur coat. But I wasn’t quite sure. Didn’t you recognize me?”

“In this fog, my dear Basil? Why, I can’t even recognize Grosvenor Square. 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?”

“In this fog, my dear Basil? I can’t even recognize Grosvenor Square. I think my house is somewhere around here, but I’m not at all sure. I’m sorry you’re going away, because I haven’t seen you for ages. But I suppose you’ll 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. However, it wasn’t about myself I wanted to talk. Here we are at your door. Let me come in for a moment. I have something to say to you.”

“No, I’m going to be away from England for six months. I plan to rent a studio in Paris and shut myself away until I’ve finished a great painting I have in mind. But I didn’t want to talk about myself. Here we are at your door. Let me come in for a moment. I have something to tell you.”

“I shall be charmed. But won’t you miss your train?” said Dorian Gray languidly as he passed up the steps and opened the door with his latch-key.

“I’d be delighted. But won’t you miss your train?” Dorian Gray said lazily as he climbed the steps and unlocked the door.

The lamplight struggled out through the fog, and Hallward looked at his watch. “I have heaps of time,” he answered. “The train doesn’t go till twelve-fifteen, and it is only just eleven. In fact, I was on my way to the club to look for you, when I met you. You see, I shan’t have any delay about luggage, as I have sent on my heavy things. All I have with me is in this bag, and I can easily get to Victoria in twenty minutes.”

The lamplight struggled through the fog, and Hallward looked at his watch. “I have plenty of time,” he answered. “The train doesn’t leave until twelve-fifteen, and it’s only just eleven. In fact, I was on my way to the club to look for you when I met you. I won’t be delayed by luggage because I’ve already sent my heavy things ahead. Everything I have with me is in this bag, and I can easily get to Victoria in twenty minutes.”

Dorian looked at him and smiled. “What a way for a fashionable painter to travel! A Gladstone bag and an ulster! 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.”

Dorian looked at him and smiled. “What a way for a fashionable painter to travel! A travel bag and an overcoat! Come in, or the fog will get into the house. And make sure you don’t talk about anything serious. Nothing is serious these days. At least nothing should be.”

Hallward shook his head, as he entered, and followed Dorian into the library. There was a bright wood fire blazing in the large open hearth. The lamps were lit, and an open Dutch silver spirit-case stood, with some siphons of soda-water and large cut-glass tumblers, on a little marqueterie table.

Hallward shook his head as he entered and followed Dorian into the library. A bright wood fire blazed in the large open fireplace. The lamps were lit. An open Dutch silver liquor case stood on a small inlaid table, along with some soda-water siphons and large cut-glass tumblers.

“You see your servant made me quite at home, Dorian. He gave me everything I wanted, including your best gold-tipped cigarettes. He is a most hospitable creature. I like him much better than the Frenchman you used to have. What has become of the Frenchman, by the bye?”

“You see, your servant made me feel quite at home, Dorian. He gave me everything I wanted, including your best gold-tipped cigarettes. He is a very hospitable fellow. I like him much better than the Frenchman you used to have. What happened to the Frenchman, by the way?”

Dorian shrugged his shoulders. “I believe he married Lady Radley’s maid, and has established her in Paris as an English dressmaker. Anglomanie is very fashionable over there now, I hear. It seems silly of the French, doesn’t it? But—do you know?—he was not at all a bad servant. I never liked him, but I had nothing to complain about. One often imagines things that are quite absurd. He was really very devoted to me and seemed quite sorry when he went away. Have another brandy-and-soda? Or would you like hock-and-seltzer? I always take hock-and-seltzer myself. There is sure to be some in the next room.”

Dorian shrugged. “I believe he married Lady Radley’s maid and set her up in Paris as an English dressmaker. I hear Anglomanie is very fashionable there now. It seems silly of the French, doesn’t it? But you know, he wasn’t a bad servant at all. I never liked him, but I had nothing to complain about. One often imagines things that are quite absurd. He was really very devoted to me and seemed quite sorry to leave. Have another brandy and soda? Or would you like hock and seltzer? I always drink hock and seltzer myself. There’s sure to be some in the next room.”

“Thanks, I won’t have anything more,” said the painter, taking his cap and coat off and throwing them on the bag that he had placed in the corner. “And now, my dear fellow, I want to speak to you seriously. Don’t frown like that. You make it so much more difficult for me.”

“Thanks, I won’t have anything more,” said the painter. He took off his cap and coat and threw them on the bag he had placed in the corner. “Now, my dear fellow, I want to speak to you seriously. Don’t frown like that. You make it so much harder for me.”

“What is it all about?” cried Dorian in his petulant way, flinging himself down on the sofa. “I hope it is not about myself. I am tired of myself to-night. I should like to be somebody else.”

“What is it all about?” Dorian cried, sulking as he threw himself onto the sofa. “I hope it is not about me. I am tired of myself tonight. I would like to be someone else.”

“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.”

“It’s about you,” Hallward replied in his serious, deep voice, “and I have to tell you. I’ll only take half an hour of your time.”

Dorian sighed and lit a cigarette. “Half an hour!” he murmured.

Dorian sighed and lit a cigarette. “Half an hour!” he murmured.

“It is not much to ask of you, Dorian, and it is entirely for your own sake that I am speaking. I think it right that you should know that the most dreadful things are being said against you in London.”

“I’m not asking much of you, Dorian, and I’m saying this entirely for your own sake. I think you should know that the most terrible things are being said about you in London.”

“I don’t wish to know anything about them. I love scandals about other people, but scandals about myself don’t interest me. They have not got the charm of novelty.”

“I don’t want to know anything about them. I love scandals about other people, but scandals about me don’t interest me. There’s nothing new about them.”

“They must interest you, Dorian. Every gentleman is interested in his good name. You don’t want people to talk of you as something vile and degraded. Of course, you have your position, and your wealth, and all that kind of thing. But position and wealth are not everything. Mind you, 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. People talk sometimes of secret vices. There are no such things. If a wretched man has a vice, it shows itself in the lines of his mouth, the droop of his eyelids, the moulding of his hands even. Somebody—I won’t mention his name, but you know him—came to me last year to have his portrait done. I had never seen him before, and had never heard anything about him at the time, though I have heard a good deal since. He offered an extravagant price. I refused him. There was something in the shape of his fingers that I hated. I know now that I was quite right in what I fancied about him. His life is dreadful. But you, Dorian, with your pure, bright, innocent face, and your marvellous untroubled youth—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 a man like the Duke of Berwick leaves 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? You used to be a friend of Lord Staveley. I met him at dinner last week. Your name happened to come up in conversation, in connection with the miniatures you have lent to the exhibition at the Dudley. Staveley curled his lip and said that you might have the most artistic tastes, but that you were a man whom no pure-minded girl should be allowed to know, and whom no chaste woman should sit in the same room with. I reminded him that I was a friend of yours, and asked him what he meant. He told me. He told me right out before everybody. It was horrible! Why is your friendship so fatal to young men? There was that wretched boy in the Guards who committed suicide. You were his great friend. There was Sir Henry Ashton, who had to leave England with a tarnished name. You and he were inseparable. What about Adrian Singleton and his dreadful end? What about Lord Kent’s only son and his career? I met his father yesterday in St. James’s Street. He seemed broken with shame and sorrow. What about the young Duke of Perth? What sort of life has he got now? What gentleman would associate with him?”

“They must matter to you, Dorian. Every gentleman cares about his reputation. You don’t want people to talk about you as someone vile and degraded. Of course, you have your social standing, your wealth, and all that. But standing and wealth aren’t everything. Mind you, I don’t believe these rumors at all. At least, I can’t believe them when I see you. Sin writes itself across a man’s face. It can’t be hidden. People sometimes talk about secret vices. There’s no such thing. If a wretched man has a vice, it shows in the lines around his mouth, his drooping eyelids, even the shape of his hands. “Someone came to me last year to have his portrait painted. I won’t mention his name, but you know him. I had never seen him before and hadn’t heard anything about him then, though I’ve heard a great deal since. He offered me an extravagant price. I refused him. There was something about the shape of his fingers that I hated. I now know I was quite right about him. His life is dreadful. “But you, Dorian, with your pure, bright, innocent face and your wonderful, carefree youth, I can’t believe anything against you. And yet I see you very rarely, and you never come to the studio now. When I’m away from you and hear all these horrible things people whisper about you, I don’t know what to say. “Why is it, Dorian, that a man like the Duke of Berwick leaves a room at his club when you enter? Why will so many gentlemen in London neither visit your house nor invite you to theirs? You used to be a friend of Lord Staveley. I met him at dinner last week. Your name came up in conversation because of the miniature portraits you’ve lent to the exhibition at the Dudley. Staveley curled his lip and said you might have the most artistic tastes. But he said no pure-minded girl should be allowed to know you, and no virtuous woman should sit in the same room with you. I reminded him that I was your friend and asked what he meant. He told me. He said it outright, in front of everyone. It was horrible! “Why is your friendship so fatal to young men? There was that wretched boy in the Guards who killed himself. You were his close friend. There was Sir Henry Ashton, who had to leave England with his reputation ruined. You and he were inseparable. What about Adrian Singleton and his dreadful end? What about Lord Kent’s only son and his career? I met his father yesterday in St. James’s Street. He seemed broken by shame and sorrow. What about the young Duke of Perth? What kind of life does he have now? What gentleman would associate with him?”

“Stop, Basil. You are talking about things of which you know nothing,” said Dorian Gray, biting his lip, and with a note of infinite contempt in his voice. “You ask me why Berwick leaves a room when I enter it. It is because I know everything about his life, not because he knows anything about mine. With such blood as he has in his veins, how could his record be clean? You ask me about Henry Ashton and young Perth. Did I teach the one his vices, and the other his debauchery? If Kent’s silly son takes his wife from the streets, what is that to me? If Adrian Singleton writes his friend’s name across a bill, am I his keeper? I know how people chatter in England. The middle classes air their moral prejudices over their gross dinner-tables, and whisper about what they call the profligacies of their betters in order to try and pretend that they are in smart society and on intimate terms with the people they slander. In this country, it is enough for a man to have distinction and brains for every common tongue to wag against him. And what sort of lives do these people, who pose as being moral, lead themselves? My dear fellow, you forget that we are in the native land of the hypocrite.”

“Stop, Basil. You’re talking about things you know nothing about,” said Dorian Gray, biting his lip, his voice full of contempt. “You ask why Berwick leaves a room when I enter. It’s because I know everything about his life, not because he knows anything about mine. With his blood, how could his record be clean? You ask about Henry Ashton and young Perth. Did I teach Ashton his vices, or Perth his debauchery? If Kent’s silly son marries a woman from the streets, what does that have to do with me? If Adrian Singleton forges his friend’s name on a bill, am I responsible for him? “I know how people gossip in England. The middle classes air their moral prejudices over their lavish dinner tables. They whisper about what they call the immorality of their social betters. They do it to pretend they belong to high society and are close to the people they slander. In this country, a man only needs distinction and intelligence to make every common tongue wag against him. And what sort of lives do these people who pretend to be moral lead? My dear fellow, you forget that we’re in the native land of the hypocrite.”

“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. One has a right to judge of a man by the effect he has over his friends. Yours seem to lose all sense of honour, of goodness, of purity. You have filled them with a madness for pleasure. They have gone down into the depths. You led them there. Yes: you led them there, and yet you can smile, as you are smiling now. And there is worse behind. I know you and Harry are inseparable. Surely for that reason, if for none other, you should not have made his sister’s name a by-word.”

“Dorian,” Hallward cried, “that is not the question. I know England is bad enough, and English society is all wrong. That is why I want you to be a good man. You have not been one. We have the right to judge a man by his influence on his friends. Your friends seem to lose all sense of honor, goodness, and purity. You have made them mad for pleasure. They have sunk to the depths. You led them there. Yes, you led them there, and yet you can smile, as you are smiling now. And there is worse still. I know you and Harry are inseparable. Surely, if for no other reason, you should not have made his sister’s name a byword for disgrace.”

“Take care, Basil. You go too far.”

“Be careful, Basil. You’re going too far.”

“I must speak, and you must listen. You shall listen. When you met Lady Gwendolen, not a breath of scandal had ever touched her. Is there a single decent woman in London now who would drive with her in the park? Why, even her children are not allowed to live with her. Then there are other stories—stories that you have been seen creeping at dawn out of dreadful houses and slinking in disguise into the foulest dens in London. Are they true? Can they be true? When I first heard them, I laughed. I hear them now, and they make me shudder. What about your country-house and the life that is led there? Dorian, you don’t know what is said about you. I won’t tell you that I don’t want to preach to you. I remember Harry saying once that every man who turned himself into an amateur curate for the moment always began by saying that, and then proceeded to break his word. I do want to preach to you. I want you to lead such a life as will make the world respect you. I want you to have a clean name and a fair record. I want you to get rid of the dreadful people you associate with. Don’t shrug your shoulders like that. 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, and that it is quite sufficient for you to enter a house for shame of some kind to follow after. I don’t know whether it is so or not. How should I know? But it is said of you. I am told things that it seems impossible to doubt. Lord Gloucester was one of my greatest friends at Oxford. He showed me a letter that his wife had written to him when she was dying alone in her villa at Mentone. Your name was implicated in the most terrible confession I ever read. I told him that it was absurd—that I knew you thoroughly, and that you were incapable of anything of the kind. Know you? I wonder do I know you? Before I could answer that, I should have to see your soul.”

“I have to speak, and you have to listen. You will listen. When you met Lady Gwendolen, no scandal had ever touched her. Is there a single respectable woman in London who would ride with her in the park now? Why, even her children aren’t allowed to live with her. Then there are other stories. People say you’ve been seen sneaking out of terrible houses at dawn. They say you’ve gone in disguise into the most filthy dens in London. Are the stories true? Can they be true? When I first heard them, I laughed. Now, when I hear them, they make me shudder. What about your country house and the way people live there? Dorian, you don’t know what people say about you. I won’t tell you that I don’t want to preach to you. I remember Harry once saying that every man who briefly became an amateur preacher always began by saying that. Then he went on to break his word. I do want to preach to you. I want you to live in a way that makes the world respect you. I want you to have a clean name and a good record. I want you to get rid of the dreadful people you spend time with. Don’t shrug your shoulders like that. Don’t be so indifferent. You have a powerful influence. Use it for good, not for evil. People say you corrupt everyone you become close to. They say you only have to enter a house for some kind of shame to follow. I don’t know whether that’s true or not. How could I know? But people say these things about you. I’m told things that seem impossible to doubt. Lord Gloucester was one of my closest friends at Oxford. He showed me a letter his wife had written to him while she was dying alone in her villa at Mentone. Your name was involved in the most terrible confession I have ever read. I told him the idea was absurd. I said I knew you completely and that you were incapable of anything like that. Know you? I wonder if I do know you. Before I could answer that, I would have to see your soul.”

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

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

“Yes,” answered Hallward gravely, and with deep-toned sorrow in his voice, “to see your soul. But only God can do that.”

“Yes,” Hallward answered seriously, his voice filled with deep sorrow, “to see your soul. But only God can do that.”

A bitter laugh of mockery broke from the lips of the younger man. “You shall see it yourself, to-night!” he cried, seizing a lamp from the table. “Come: it is your own handiwork. Why shouldn’t you look at it? You can tell the world all about it afterwards, if you choose. Nobody would believe you. If they did believe you, they would like me all the better for it. I know the age better than you do, though you will prate about it so tediously. Come, I tell you. You have chattered enough about corruption. Now you shall look on it face to face.”

The younger man let out a bitter, mocking laugh. “You’ll see it for yourself tonight!” he cried, grabbing a lamp from the table. “Come. It’s your own work. Why shouldn’t you look at it? You can tell the world all about it afterward, if you choose. Nobody would believe you. If they did believe you, they would like me all the more for it. I know this age better than you do, though you talk about it so tediously. Come, I tell you. You’ve talked enough about corruption. Now you’ll see it face to face.”

There was the madness of pride in every word he uttered. He stamped his foot upon the ground in his boyish insolent manner. He felt a terrible joy at the thought that some one else was to share his secret, and that the man who had painted the portrait that was the origin of all his shame was to be burdened for the rest of his life with the hideous memory of what he had done.

Every word he spoke was filled with a madness of pride. He stamped his foot in his boyish, defiant way. He felt a terrible joy at the thought that someone else would share his secret. The man who had painted the portrait was the source of all his shame. And that man would carry the dreadful memory of what he had done for the rest of his life.

“Yes,” he continued, coming closer to him and looking steadfastly into his stern eyes, “I shall show you my soul. You shall see the thing that you fancy only God can see.”

“Yes,” he continued, stepping closer and looking steadily into his stern eyes. “I’ll show you my soul. You’ll see what you think only God can see.”

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

Hallward stepped 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.

“You think so?” He laughed again.

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

“I know that. What I said to you tonight was for your own good. You know I have always been a loyal friend to you.”

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

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

A twisted flash of pain shot across the painter’s face. He paused for a moment, and a wild feeling of pity came over him. After all, what right had he to pry into the life of Dorian Gray? If he had done a tithe of what was rumoured about him, how much he must have suffered! Then he straightened himself up, and walked over to the fire-place, and stood there, looking at the burning logs with their frostlike ashes and their throbbing cores of flame.

A sudden flash of pain twisted the painter’s face. He paused for a moment, and a wild feeling of pity came over him. After all, what right did he have to pry into Dorian Gray’s life? If Dorian had done even a tenth of what people said he had, how much he must have suffered! Then the painter stood up straight and walked over to the fireplace. He stood there, looking at the burning logs, their frostlike ashes and their pulsing cores of flame.

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

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

He turned round. “What I have to say is this,” he cried. “You must give me some answer to these horrible charges that are made against you. If you tell me that they are absolutely untrue from beginning to end, I shall believe 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.”

He turned around. “This is what I have to say,” he cried. “You must answer these horrible accusations against you. If you tell me they are completely untrue from beginning to end, I will believe you. Deny them, Dorian, deny them! Can’t you see what I’m going through? My God! Don’t tell me you are bad, corrupt, and shameful.”

Dorian Gray smiled. There was a curl of contempt in his lips. “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.”

Dorian Gray smiled. His lips curled with contempt. “Come upstairs, Basil,” he said quietly. “I keep a daily diary of my life, and it never leaves the room where I write it. I’ll 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 to-morrow. But don’t ask me to read anything to-night. All I want is a plain answer to my question.”

“I’ll come with you, Dorian, if you want me to. I see I’ve missed my train. That doesn’t matter. I can go tomorrow. But don’t ask me to read anything tonight. All I want is a straightforward answer to my question.”

“That shall be given to you upstairs. I could not give it here. You will not have to read long.”

“You’ll be given that upstairs. I couldn’t give it to you here. You won’t have to read for long.”