Chapter 20

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.

It was a lovely night, so warm that he carried his coat over his arm and did not even put his silk scarf around his neck. As he walked home, smoking a cigarette, two young men in evening dress passed him. He heard one whisper to the other, “That is Dorian Gray.” He remembered how pleased he used to feel when people pointed him out, stared at him, or talked about him. Now he was tired of hearing his own name. Half the charm of the little village he had visited so often lately was that no one knew who he was. He had often told the girl he had lured into loving him that he was poor, and she had believed him. Once, he had told her he was wicked. She had laughed and said that wicked people were always very old and very ugly. What a laugh she had! It was just like a thrush singing. And how pretty she had been in her cotton dresses and large hats! She knew nothing, but she had everything 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.

When he got home, he found his servant waiting up for him. He sent him to bed and threw himself down on the library sofa. He began to think over some of the things 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?

Was it really true that he could never change? He felt a desperate longing for the untouched purity of his boyhood. Lord Henry had once called it his rose-white boyhood. He knew he had stained himself, filled his mind with corruption, and filled his imagination with horrors. He had been a bad influence on others and had taken a terrible pleasure in it. Of all the lives that had crossed his, he had brought shame on the most beautiful and promising ones. But was all of it beyond repair? 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 man to a most just God.

Ah! What a monstrous moment of pride and passion had led him to pray that the portrait would bear the burden of his years, while he kept the flawless splendor of eternal youth! All his failure had been due to that prayer. He would have been better off if each sin had brought its certain, swift punishment. Punishment could purify. Man's prayer to a most just God should be not “Forgive us our sins” but “Punish us for our wrongs.”

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.

The strangely carved mirror Lord Henry had given him so many years ago stood on the table. The white-limbed Cupids around it laughed as they always had. He picked up the mirror, just as he had on that night of horror. That was when he had first noticed the change in the fateful picture. Now he looked into the mirror's polished surface with wild, tear-filled eyes. Once, someone who had loved him desperately had written him a mad letter. It ended with these worshipful words: “The world is changed because you are made of ivory and gold. The curves of your lips rewrite history.” The words came back to him, and he repeated them to himself again and again. Then he hated his own beauty. He threw the mirror on the floor and crushed it into silver splinters under his heel. His beauty had ruined him, along with the youth he had prayed for. Without those two things, his life might have been free from stain. His beauty had been nothing but a mask, his youth nothing but a mockery. What was youth at best? A green, unripe time, a time of shallow moods and sickly thoughts. Why had he worn its uniform? 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.

It was better not to think about the past. Nothing could change it. He had to think about himself and his own future. James Vane lay in an unmarked grave in Selby churchyard. Alan Campbell had shot himself one night in his laboratory. But he had not revealed the secret he had been forced to learn. What little excitement there was over Basil Hallward’s disappearance would soon pass. It was already fading. He was perfectly safe on that account. Besides, it was not Basil Hallward’s death that weighed most on his mind. What troubled him was the living death of his own soul. Basil had painted the portrait that had ruined his life. He could not forgive him for that. The portrait had caused everything. Basil had said unbearable things to him, yet he had endured them patiently. The murder had been nothing more than a moment of madness. 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.

A new life! That was what he wanted. That was what he was waiting for. Surely he had already begun his new life. At least he had spared one innocent thing. 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.

As he thought about Hetty Merton, he began to wonder if the portrait in the locked room had changed. Surely it was no longer as horrible as before? Perhaps, if his life became pure, he could erase every sign of evil passion from the face. Perhaps the signs of evil had already disappeared. 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 took the lamp from the table and crept upstairs. As he unbarred the door, a joyful smile crossed his strangely young-looking face. It lingered on his lips for a moment. Yes, he would be good, and the hideous thing he had hidden away would no longer terrify him. He felt as if the burden had already been lifted from him.

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 spilled. 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 recognized that now.

He went in quietly, locking the door behind him as usual, and pulled the purple curtain from the portrait. He cried out in pain and outrage. He could see no change, except for a cunning look in the eyes and the curved wrinkle of a hypocrite around the mouth. The thing was still revolting, more revolting, if possible, than before. The scarlet drops that spotted the hand seemed brighter and more like freshly spilled blood. Then he trembled. Had he done his one good deed merely out of vanity? Or had he wanted a new sensation, as Lord Henry had suggested with his mocking laugh? Or had he been driven by that urge to play a part, which sometimes makes us do things nobler than we are? Or perhaps all of these? And why was the red stain larger than before? It seemed to have spread over the wrinkled fingers like a horrible disease. There was blood on the painted feet, as though it had dripped down. There was even blood on the hand that had not held the knife. Confess? Did the blood mean that he was supposed to confess? To give himself up and be put to death? He laughed. The idea seemed monstrous to him. 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. Dorian himself had burned the things that had been downstairs. The world would simply say he was mad. If he persisted in his story, they would shut him up.... Yet it was his duty to confess, to suffer public shame, and to make amends in public. There was a God who called on people to confess their sins on earth as well as in heaven. Nothing Dorian could do would cleanse him until he had confessed 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 the portrait he was looking at was an unjust mirror of his soul. Vanity? Curiosity? Hypocrisy? Had there been nothing more than that in his decision to give her up? There had been something more. At least he thought so. But who could tell? ... No. There had been nothing more. He had spared her out of vanity. He had hypocritically worn the mask of goodness. He had tried denying himself for the sake of curiosity. He recognized 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.

But would this murder haunt him all his life? Would he always be burdened by his past? Was he really going to confess? Never. Only one piece of evidence remained against him. The picture itself was evidence. He would destroy it. Why had he kept it so long? Once, he had enjoyed watching the picture change and grow old. Lately, he had felt no such pleasure. It had kept him awake at night. When he was away, he had been terrified that others might see it. It had cast a shadow of sadness over his passions. Even the memory of it had spoiled many moments of joy. It had been like a conscience to him. Yes, it had been his 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.

He looked around and saw the knife he had used to stab Basil Hallward. He had cleaned it many times, until no stain remained. It was bright and gleaming. Just as it had killed the painter, it would kill the painter’s work and all that the work meant. It would kill the past, and when the past was dead, he would be free. It would kill this monstrous life of the soul, and without its hideous warnings, he would be at peace. He grabbed the knife 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.

A cry rang out, followed by a crash. The cry was so horribly full of agony that the frightened servants woke and crept out of their rooms. Two gentlemen passing through the square below stopped and looked up at the great house. They walked on until they met a policeman and brought him back. The policeman rang the bell several times, but there was no answer. The house was completely dark except for a light in one of the upper windows. After a while, he went away and stood in a neighboring portico to watch.

“Whose house is that, Constable?” asked the elder of the two gentlemen.

“Whose house is that, Officer?” asked the older of the two men.

“Mr. Dorian Gray’s, sir,” answered the policeman.

“Mr. Dorian Gray’s, sir,” said the policeman.

They looked at each other, as they walked away, and sneered. One of them was Sir Henry Ashton’s uncle.

As they walked away, they looked at each other 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.

Inside, in the servants’ quarters, the half-dressed servants whispered to one another. 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.

After about fifteen minutes, he fetched the coachman and one of the footmen, and they crept upstairs. They knocked, but there was no answer. They called out. Everything was silent. Finally, after trying in vain to force the door open, they climbed onto the roof and dropped down onto the balcony. The windows opened easily because 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 recognized who it was.

When they entered, they found a splendid portrait of their master hanging on the wall. It showed him as they had last seen him, in all the wonder of his exquisite youth and beauty. A dead man lay on the floor, dressed in evening clothes, with a knife in his heart. He was withered and wrinkled, and his face was hideous. Only after they examined the rings did they recognize him.

THE END

THE END