finished_summaries/gradesaver/The Picture of Dorian Gray/section_13_part_0.txt
The Picture of Dorian Gray.chapter 20
chapter 20
{"name": "Chapter 20", "url": "https://web.archive.org/web/20210421171214/https://www.gradesaver.com/the-picture-of-dorian-gray/study-guide/summary-chapter-20", "summary": "During the walk home from Henry's, Dorian enjoys the warm evening. He is annoyed when several people mutter his name in astonishment as he passes, an occurence that used to please him, but he cheers himself by thinking of the beautiful and innocent Hetty, and his recent \"good action.\" She had been hopelessly naive, but this was her charm, \"she had everything that he had lost.\" He arrives at home and looks at his face in a mirror given to him by Henry long ago, but is so overcome with loathing that he shatters the mirror on the floor. He tries to focus on the future, to block out people like James Vane, now \"hidden in a nameless grave,\" Alan Campbell, who shot himself without betraying Dorian's secret, or Basil Hallward, who Dorian \"murdered in the madness of a moment.\" He attempts to assuage his guilt by blaming all of his troubles on Basil's portrait, and by contemplating the new life he has begun. He thinks of Hetty, the preservation of whose innocence he holds as proof of his newfound goodness, and wonders whether his good deed has caused his portrait to change for the better. He climbs to the attic, locks the door behind him, and throws the curtain from the picture. A horrified gasp escapes his lips when he sees \"no change, save that in the eyes there was a look of cunning, and in the mouth the curved wrinkle of the hypocrite.\" Dorian realizes that his kindness towards Hetty was either an act of vanity, driven by his desire to improve the appearance of his soul, or simply a different sort of selfishness, driven by \"the desire for a new sensation.\" Desperate to escape his past crimes, Dorian sees the painting as the one piece of evidence revealing his guilt: \"It had been like a conscience to him...He would destroy it.\" The knife on the table, he notices, is still stained with Basil's blood. He takes it, cleans it several times, and stabs the picture. Dorian's servants are awoken by a dreadful shriek. It is so loud that two passing gentlemen hear it from the sidewalk and fetch a policeman to the house. The policeman informs them that it is Dorian Gray's residence, and the men walk away, sneering, without reporting the scream. The servants cannot open the locked door of the attic, so they manage to climb in through the roof. They find the body of a \"withered, wrinkled, and loathsome\" man, lying on the floor with a knife in his chest. They only recognize their master from the rings on his fingers.", "analysis": "While thinking of Hetty, Dorian remembers telling her that he was a very wicked man, to which she responded that \"wicked people were always very old and very ugly.\"  Like the shallow people of Dorian's class, the \"pure\" Hetty assumes that appearance is everything.  While this superficiality is precisely what allows Dorian to win so many hearts, it also prevents anyone from truly knowing who he is. Dorian resolves to undo his past, to block it from his thoughts, and to focus on ensuring a positive future.  He crushes the mirror given to him by Lord Henry, a symbolic rejection of his own vanity and the corrupting influence of Henry's friendship.  He desperately clings to his treatment of Hetty as an indicator that it is possible to cleanse his soul, but it is too little, too late.  Even this seemingly conscientious gesture was committed out of the hedonistic desire to experience an unfamiliar sensation, and the vain wish to improve the appearance of his soul, as depicted in the portrait.  Vanity, not morality, drove his action, proving once again that Dorian is a condemned soul. When Dorian kills himself by trying to destroy the painting, the picture and the man once again trade appearances.  The man in the portrait becomes young and beautiful, while the real Dorian becomes old and disfigured by guilt.  Dorian has unwittingly realized the fear he had upon first seeing the painting: that he would wither and die, while the painting would remain young and beautiful forever.  Furthermore, since the painting has been restored to its original appearance, the masterpiece of Basil Hallward is returned to the world.  Dorian, seeing the knife, thinks that \"As it had killed the painter, so it would kill the painter's work\" , but the work and the painter are instead granted the immortality of artistic greatness, while Dorian himself is destroyed. The weapon used by Dorian is the same one he had used to kill Basil.  Ironically, Basil offered to destroy the painting with a knife as soon as he sensed Dorian's negative reaction to it , but Dorian's newfound vanity and appreciation for artistic beauty prompted him to throw his own body in front of the image.  Eighteen years and eighteen chapters later, Dorian decides to do precisely what he had prevented from happening, and once again his body throws itself before the painting, subject to the dangers of its beauty."}

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 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 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.

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 recognized who it was.









Chapter 20
During the walk home from Henry's, Dorian enjoys the warm evening. He is annoyed when several people mutter his name in astonishment as he passes, an occurence that used to please him, but he cheers himself by thinking of the beautiful and innocent Hetty, and his recent "good action." She had been hopelessly naive, but this was her charm, "she had everything that he had lost." He arrives at home and looks at his face in a mirror given to him by Henry long ago, but is so overcome with loathing that he shatters the mirror on the floor. He tries to focus on the future, to block out people like James Vane, now "hidden in a nameless grave," Alan Campbell, who shot himself without betraying Dorian's secret, or Basil Hallward, who Dorian "murdered in the madness of a moment." He attempts to assuage his guilt by blaming all of his troubles on Basil's portrait, and by contemplating the new life he has begun. He thinks of Hetty, the preservation of whose innocence he holds as proof of his newfound goodness, and wonders whether his good deed has caused his portrait to change for the better. He climbs to the attic, locks the door behind him, and throws the curtain from the picture. A horrified gasp escapes his lips when he sees "no change, save that in the eyes there was a look of cunning, and in the mouth the curved wrinkle of the hypocrite." Dorian realizes that his kindness towards Hetty was either an act of vanity, driven by his desire to improve the appearance of his soul, or simply a different sort of selfishness, driven by "the desire for a new sensation." Desperate to escape his past crimes, Dorian sees the painting as the one piece of evidence revealing his guilt: "It had been like a conscience to him...He would destroy it." The knife on the table, he notices, is still stained with Basil's blood. He takes it, cleans it several times, and stabs the picture. Dorian's servants are awoken by a dreadful shriek. It is so loud that two passing gentlemen hear it from the sidewalk and fetch a policeman to the house. The policeman informs them that it is Dorian Gray's residence, and the men walk away, sneering, without reporting the scream. The servants cannot open the locked door of the attic, so they manage to climb in through the roof. They find the body of a "withered, wrinkled, and loathsome" man, lying on the floor with a knife in his chest. They only recognize their master from the rings on his fingers.
While thinking of Hetty, Dorian remembers telling her that he was a very wicked man, to which she responded that "wicked people were always very old and very ugly."  Like the shallow people of Dorian's class, the "pure" Hetty assumes that appearance is everything.  While this superficiality is precisely what allows Dorian to win so many hearts, it also prevents anyone from truly knowing who he is. Dorian resolves to undo his past, to block it from his thoughts, and to focus on ensuring a positive future.  He crushes the mirror given to him by Lord Henry, a symbolic rejection of his own vanity and the corrupting influence of Henry's friendship.  He desperately clings to his treatment of Hetty as an indicator that it is possible to cleanse his soul, but it is too little, too late.  Even this seemingly conscientious gesture was committed out of the hedonistic desire to experience an unfamiliar sensation, and the vain wish to improve the appearance of his soul, as depicted in the portrait.  Vanity, not morality, drove his action, proving once again that Dorian is a condemned soul. When Dorian kills himself by trying to destroy the painting, the picture and the man once again trade appearances.  The man in the portrait becomes young and beautiful, while the real Dorian becomes old and disfigured by guilt.  Dorian has unwittingly realized the fear he had upon first seeing the painting: that he would wither and die, while the painting would remain young and beautiful forever.  Furthermore, since the painting has been restored to its original appearance, the masterpiece of Basil Hallward is returned to the world.  Dorian, seeing the knife, thinks that "As it had killed the painter, so it would kill the painter's work" , but the work and the painter are instead granted the immortality of artistic greatness, while Dorian himself is destroyed. The weapon used by Dorian is the same one he had used to kill Basil.  Ironically, Basil offered to destroy the painting with a knife as soon as he sensed Dorian's negative reaction to it , but Dorian's newfound vanity and appreciation for artistic beauty prompted him to throw his own body in front of the image.  Eighteen years and eighteen chapters later, Dorian decides to do precisely what he had prevented from happening, and once again his body throws itself before the painting, subject to the dangers of its beauty.