"There is no use your telling me that you are going to be good," cried
Lord Henry, dipping his white fingers into a red copper bowl filled
with rose-water. "You are quite perfect.  Pray, don't change."

Dorian Gray shook his head.  "No, Harry, I have done too many dreadful
things in my life.  I am not going to do any more.  I began my good
actions yesterday."

"Where were you yesterday?"

"In the country, Harry.  I was staying at a little inn by myself."

"My dear boy," said Lord Henry, smiling, "anybody can be good in the
country.  There are no temptations there.  That is the reason why
people who live out of town are so absolutely uncivilized.
Civilization is not by any means an easy thing to attain to.  There are
only two ways by which man can reach it.  One is by being cultured, the
other by being corrupt.  Country people have no opportunity of being
either, so they stagnate."

"Culture and corruption," echoed Dorian.  "I have known something of
both.  It seems terrible to me now that they should ever be found
together.  For I have a new ideal, Harry.  I am going to alter.  I
think I have altered."

"You have not yet told me what your good action was.  Or did you say
you had done more than one?" asked his companion as he spilled into his
plate a little crimson pyramid of seeded strawberries and, through a
perforated, shell-shaped spoon, snowed white sugar upon them.

"I can tell you, Harry.  It is not a story I could tell to any one
else.  I spared somebody.  It sounds vain, but you understand what I
mean.  She was quite beautiful and wonderfully like Sibyl Vane.  I
think it was that which first attracted me to her.  You remember Sibyl,
don't you?  How long ago that seems!  Well, Hetty was not one of our
own class, of course.  She was simply a girl in a village.  But I
really loved her.  I am quite sure that I loved her.  All during this
wonderful May that we have been having, I used to run down and see her
two or three times a week.  Yesterday she met me in a little orchard.
The apple-blossoms kept tumbling down on her hair, and she was
laughing.  We were to have gone away together this morning at dawn.
Suddenly I determined to leave her as flowerlike as I had found her."

"I should think the novelty of the emotion must have given you a thrill
of real pleasure, Dorian," interrupted Lord Henry.  "But I can finish
your idyll for you.  You gave her good advice and broke her heart.
That was the beginning of your reformation."

"Harry, you are horrible!  You mustn't say these dreadful things.
Hetty's heart is not broken.  Of course, she cried and all that.  But
there is no disgrace upon her.  She can live, like Perdita, in her
garden of mint and marigold."

"And weep over a faithless Florizel," said Lord Henry, laughing, as he
leaned back in his chair.  "My dear Dorian, you have the most curiously
boyish moods.  Do you think this girl will ever be really content now
with any one of her own rank?  I suppose she will be married some day
to a rough carter or a grinning ploughman.  Well, the fact of having
met you, and loved you, will teach her to despise her husband, and she
will be wretched.  From a moral point of view, I cannot say that I
think much of your great renunciation.  Even as a beginning, it is
poor.  Besides, how do you know that Hetty isn't floating at the
present moment in some starlit mill-pond, with lovely water-lilies
round her, like Ophelia?"

"I can't bear this, Harry!  You mock at everything, and then suggest
the most serious tragedies.  I am sorry I told you now.  I don't care
what you say to me.  I know I was right in acting as I did.  Poor
Hetty!  As I rode past the farm this morning, I saw her white face at
the window, like a spray of jasmine.  Don't let us talk about it any
more, and don't try to persuade me that the first good action I have
done for years, the first little bit of self-sacrifice I have ever
known, is really a sort of sin.  I want to be better.  I am going to be
better.  Tell me something about yourself.  What is going on in town?
I have not been to the club for days."

"The people are still discussing poor Basil's disappearance."

"I should have thought they had got tired of that by this time," said
Dorian, pouring himself out some wine and frowning slightly.

"My dear boy, they have only been talking about it for six weeks, and
the British public are really not equal to the mental strain of having
more than one topic every three months.  They have been very fortunate
lately, however.  They have had my own divorce-case and Alan Campbell's
suicide.  Now they have got the mysterious disappearance of an artist.
Scotland Yard still insists that the man in the grey ulster who left
for Paris by the midnight train on the ninth of November was poor
Basil, and the French police declare that Basil never arrived in Paris
at all.  I suppose in about a fortnight we shall be told that he has
been seen in San Francisco.  It is an odd thing, but every one who
disappears is said to be seen at San Francisco.  It must be a
delightful city, and possess all the attractions of the next world."

"What do you think has happened to Basil?" asked Dorian, holding up his
Burgundy against the light and wondering how it was that he could
discuss the matter so calmly.

"I have not the slightest idea.  If Basil chooses to hide himself, it
is no business of mine.  If he is dead, I don't want to think about
him.  Death is the only thing that ever terrifies me.  I hate it."

"Why?" said the younger man wearily.

"Because," said Lord Henry, passing beneath his nostrils the gilt
trellis of an open vinaigrette box, "one can survive everything
nowadays except that.  Death and vulgarity are the only two facts in
the nineteenth century that one cannot explain away.  Let us have our
coffee in the music-room, Dorian.  You must play Chopin to me.  The man
with whom my wife ran away played Chopin exquisitely.  Poor Victoria!
I was very fond of her.  The house is rather lonely without her.  Of
course, married life is merely a habit, a bad habit.  But then one
regrets the loss even of one's worst habits.  Perhaps one regrets them
the most.  They are such an essential part of one's personality."

Dorian said nothing, but rose from the table, and passing into the next
room, sat down to the piano and let his fingers stray across the white
and black ivory of the keys.  After the coffee had been brought in, he
stopped, and looking over at Lord Henry, said, "Harry, did it ever
occur to you that Basil was murdered?"

Lord Henry yawned.  "Basil was very popular, and always wore a
Waterbury watch.  Why should he have been murdered?  He was not clever
enough to have enemies.  Of course, he had a wonderful genius for
painting.  But a man can paint like Velasquez and yet be as dull as
possible.  Basil was really rather dull.  He only interested me once,
and that was when he told me, years ago, that he had a wild adoration
for you and that you were the dominant motive of his art."

"I was very fond of Basil," said Dorian with a note of sadness in his
voice.  "But don't people say that he was murdered?"

"Oh, some of the papers do.  It does not seem to me to be at all
probable.  I know there are dreadful places in Paris, but Basil was not
the sort of man to have gone to them.  He had no curiosity.  It was his
chief defect."

"What would you say, Harry, if I told you that I had murdered Basil?"
said the younger man.  He watched him intently after he had spoken.

"I would say, my dear fellow, that you were posing for a character that
doesn't suit you.  All crime is vulgar, just as all vulgarity is crime.
It is not in you, Dorian, to commit a murder.  I am sorry if I hurt
your vanity by saying so, but I assure you it is true.  Crime belongs
exclusively to the lower orders.  I don't blame them in the smallest
degree.  I should fancy that crime was to them what art is to us,
simply a method of procuring extraordinary sensations."

"A method of procuring sensations?  Do you think, then, that a man who
has once committed a murder could possibly do the same crime again?
Don't tell me that."

"Oh! anything becomes a pleasure if one does it too often," cried Lord
Henry, laughing.  "That is one of the most important secrets of life.
I should fancy, however, that murder is always a mistake.  One should
never do anything that one cannot talk about after dinner.  But let us
pass from poor Basil.  I wish I could believe that he had come to such
a really romantic end as you suggest, but I can't. I dare say he fell
into the Seine off an omnibus and that the conductor hushed up the
scandal.  Yes:  I should fancy that was his end.  I see him lying now
on his back under those dull-green waters, with the heavy barges
floating over him and long weeds catching in his hair.  Do you know, I
don't think he would have done much more good work.  During the last
ten years his painting had gone off very much."

Dorian heaved a sigh, and Lord Henry strolled across the room and began
to stroke the head of a curious Java parrot, a large, grey-plumaged
bird with pink crest and tail, that was balancing itself upon a bamboo
perch.  As his pointed fingers touched it, it dropped the white scurf
of crinkled lids over black, glasslike eyes and began to sway backwards
and forwards.

"Yes," he continued, turning round and taking his handkerchief out of
his pocket; "his painting had quite gone off.  It seemed to me to have
lost something.  It had lost an ideal.  When you and he ceased to be
great friends, he ceased to be a great artist.  What was it separated
you?  I suppose he bored you.  If so, he never forgave you.  It's a
habit bores have.  By the way, what has become of that wonderful
portrait he did of you?  I don't think I have ever seen it since he
finished it.  Oh!  I remember your telling me years ago that you had
sent it down to Selby, and that it had got mislaid or stolen on the
way.  You never got it back?  What a pity! it was really a
masterpiece.  I remember I wanted to buy it.  I wish I had now.  It
belonged to Basil's best period.  Since then, his work was that curious
mixture of bad painting and good intentions that always entitles a man
to be called a representative British artist.  Did you advertise for
it?  You should."

"I forget," said Dorian.  "I suppose I did.  But I never really liked
it.  I am sorry I sat for it.  The memory of the thing is hateful to
me.  Why do you talk of it?  It used to remind me of those curious
lines in some play--Hamlet, I think--how do they run?--

    "Like the painting of a sorrow,
     A face without a heart."

Yes:  that is what it was like."

Lord Henry laughed.  "If a man treats life artistically, his brain is
his heart," he answered, sinking into an arm-chair.

Dorian Gray shook his head and struck some soft chords on the piano.
"'Like the painting of a sorrow,'" he repeated, "'a face without a
heart.'"

The elder man lay back and looked at him with half-closed eyes.  "By
the way, Dorian," he said after a pause, "'what does it profit a man if
he gain the whole world and lose--how does the quotation run?--his own
soul'?"

The music jarred, and Dorian Gray started and stared at his friend.
"Why do you ask me that, Harry?"

"My dear fellow," said Lord Henry, elevating his eyebrows in surprise,
"I asked you because I thought you might be able to give me an answer.
That is all.  I was going through the park last Sunday, and close by
the Marble Arch there stood a little crowd of shabby-looking people
listening to some vulgar street-preacher. As I passed by, I heard the
man yelling out that question to his audience.  It struck me as being
rather dramatic.  London is very rich in curious effects of that kind.
A wet Sunday, an uncouth Christian in a mackintosh, a ring of sickly
white faces under a broken roof of dripping umbrellas, and a wonderful
phrase flung into the air by shrill hysterical lips--it was really very
good in its way, quite a suggestion.  I thought of telling the prophet
that art had a soul, but that man had not.  I am afraid, however, he
would not have understood me."

"Don't, Harry.  The soul is a terrible reality.  It can be bought, and
sold, and bartered away.  It can be poisoned, or made perfect.  There
is a soul in each one of us.  I know it."

"Do you feel quite sure of that, Dorian?"

"Quite sure."

"Ah! then it must be an illusion.  The things one feels absolutely
certain about are never true.  That is the fatality of faith, and the
lesson of romance.  How grave you are!  Don't be so serious.  What have
you or I to do with the superstitions of our age?  No:  we have given
up our belief in the soul.  Play me something.  Play me a nocturne,
Dorian, and, as you play, tell me, in a low voice, how you have kept
your youth.  You must have some secret.  I am only ten years older than
you are, and I am wrinkled, and worn, and yellow.  You are really
wonderful, Dorian.  You have never looked more charming than you do
to-night. You remind me of the day I saw you first.  You were rather
cheeky, very shy, and absolutely extraordinary.  You have changed, of
course, but not in appearance.  I wish you would tell me your secret.
To get back my youth I would do anything in the world, except take
exercise, get up early, or be respectable.  Youth!  There is nothing
like it.  It's absurd to talk of the ignorance of youth.  The only
people to whose opinions I listen now with any respect are people much
younger than myself.  They seem in front of me.  Life has revealed to
them her latest wonder.  As for the aged, I always contradict the aged.
I do it on principle.  If you ask them their opinion on something that
happened yesterday, they solemnly give you the opinions current in
1820, when people wore high stocks, believed in everything, and knew
absolutely nothing.  How lovely that thing you are playing is!  I
wonder, did Chopin write it at Majorca, with the sea weeping round the
villa and the salt spray dashing against the panes?  It is marvellously
romantic.  What a blessing it is that there is one art left to us that
is not imitative!  Don't stop.  I want music to-night. It seems to me
that you are the young Apollo and that I am Marsyas listening to you.
I have sorrows, Dorian, of my own, that even you know nothing of.  The
tragedy of old age is not that one is old, but that one is young.  I am
amazed sometimes at my own sincerity.  Ah, Dorian, how happy you are!
What an exquisite life you have had!  You have drunk deeply of
everything.  You have crushed the grapes against your palate.  Nothing
has been hidden from you.  And it has all been to you no more than the
sound of music.  It has not marred you.  You are still the same."

"I am not the same, Harry."

"Yes, you are the same.  I wonder what the rest of your life will be.
Don't spoil it by renunciations.  At present you are a perfect type.
Don't make yourself incomplete.  You are quite flawless now.  You need
not shake your head:  you know you are.  Besides, Dorian, don't deceive
yourself.  Life is not governed by will or intention.  Life is a
question of nerves, and fibres, and slowly built-up cells in which
thought hides itself and passion has its dreams.  You may fancy
yourself safe and think yourself strong.  But a chance tone of colour
in a room or a morning sky, a particular perfume that you had once
loved and that brings subtle memories with it, a line from a forgotten
poem that you had come across again, a cadence from a piece of music
that you had ceased to play--I tell you, Dorian, that it is on things
like these that our lives depend.  Browning writes about that
somewhere; but our own senses will imagine them for us.  There are
moments when the odour of _lilas blanc_ passes suddenly across me, and I
have to live the strangest month of my life over again.  I wish I could
change places with you, Dorian.  The world has cried out against us
both, but it has always worshipped you.  It always will worship you.
You are the type of what the age is searching for, and what it is
afraid it has found.  I am so glad that you have never done anything,
never carved a statue, or painted a picture, or produced anything
outside of yourself!  Life has been your art.  You have set yourself to
music.  Your days are your sonnets."

Dorian rose up from the piano and passed his hand through his hair.
"Yes, life has been exquisite," he murmured, "but I am not going to
have the same life, Harry.  And you must not say these extravagant
things to me.  You don't know everything about me.  I think that if you
did, even you would turn from me.  You laugh.  Don't laugh."

"Why have you stopped playing, Dorian?  Go back and give me the
nocturne over again.  Look at that great, honey-coloured moon that
hangs in the dusky air.  She is waiting for you to charm her, and if
you play she will come closer to the earth.  You won't?  Let us go to
the club, then.  It has been a charming evening, and we must end it
charmingly.  There is some one at White's who wants immensely to know
you--young Lord Poole, Bournemouth's eldest son.  He has already copied
your neckties, and has begged me to introduce him to you.  He is quite
delightful and rather reminds me of you."

"I hope not," said Dorian with a sad look in his eyes.  "But I am tired
to-night, Harry.  I shan't go to the club.  It is nearly eleven, and I
want to go to bed early."

"Do stay.  You have never played so well as to-night. There was
something in your touch that was wonderful.  It had more expression
than I had ever heard from it before."

"It is because I am going to be good," he answered, smiling.  "I am a
little changed already."

"You cannot change to me, Dorian," said Lord Henry.  "You and I will
always be friends."

"Yet you poisoned me with a book once.  I should not forgive that.
Harry, promise me that you will never lend that book to any one.  It
does harm."

"My dear boy, you are really beginning to moralize.  You will soon be
going about like the converted, and the revivalist, warning people
against all the sins of which you have grown tired.  You are much too
delightful to do that.  Besides, it is no use.  You and I are what we
are, and will be what we will be.  As for being poisoned by a book,
there is no such thing as that.  Art has no influence upon action.  It
annihilates the desire to act.  It is superbly sterile.  The books that
the world calls immoral are books that show the world its own shame.
That is all.  But we won't discuss literature.  Come round to-morrow. I
am going to ride at eleven.  We might go together, and I will take you
to lunch afterwards with Lady Branksome.  She is a charming woman, and
wants to consult you about some tapestries she is thinking of buying.
Mind you come.  Or shall we lunch with our little duchess?  She says
she never sees you now.  Perhaps you are tired of Gladys?  I thought
you would be.  Her clever tongue gets on one's nerves.  Well, in any
case, be here at eleven."

"Must I really come, Harry?"

"Certainly.  The park is quite lovely now.  I don't think there have
been such lilacs since the year I met you."

"Very well.  I shall be here at eleven," said Dorian.  "Good night,
Harry."  As he reached the door, he hesitated for a moment, as if he
had something more to say.  Then he sighed and went out.

Several months later, Dorian is back in London, conversing with Lord Henry at the older man's house. Dorian, it seems, has decided to change his ways. Henry tells him that he is perfect the way he is and that there's no use trying to change, but Dorian replies that "I have done too many dreadful things in my life," and that "I began my good actions yesterday." His so-called "good action" was his treatment of Hetty, a beautiful young peasant girl who reminded him of Sibyl Vane. She fell in love with Dorian, but instead of taking advantage of her and breaking her heart, as was his usual way, he "determined to leave her as flower-like as had found her." Henry mocks him and asks whether he's sure that Hetty "isn't floating at the present moment in some star-lit millpond...like Ophelia." This upsets Dorian, as he desperately wants to believe in the value of his good intentions. The conversation turns towards the whereabouts of Basil Hallward. The painter's disappearance, now six weeks old, is still the talk of the town, along with Henry's divorce and the suicide of Alan Campbell. Henry asks Dorian to play Chopin for him, because "The man with whom my wife ran away played Chopin exquisitely." At the piano, Dorian nonchalantly asks what Henry would think if he told him that he had murdered Basil. "I would say," he responds, "that you were posing for a character that didn't suit you." Such crimes, Henry believes, are the specialty of the lower classes. Besides, Henry cannot imagine that Basil would have met such a romantic end, because his paintings had steadily declined in the years following his soiled friendship with Dorian. His painting of Dorian was, apparently, his final masterpiece. Henry believes that the painting was stolen a long time ago, and Dorian claims to have forgotten all about it. Henry catches Dorian off-guard by paraphrasing the Bible, asking him: "what does it profit a man if he gain the whole world and lose...his soul?" When Dorian is startled by this statement, Henry just laughs, telling him that he heard a preacher posing this quesiton to a crowd during a walk through the park on a rainy day. Henry describes his amusement at the spectacle of the somber crowd standing in the rain, listening to "an uncouth Christian in a macintosh." He apparently wanted to tell the preacher that "Art had a soul, but that man did not." Henry's light-heartedness offends Dorian, who says that "The soul is a terrible reality...It can be poisoned or made perfect." He tells Henry that he is certain of this fact, to which Henry replies, "then it must be an illusion. The things one feels absolutely certain about are never true." Dorian begins to play a nocturne by Chopin, which greatly affects Henry and prompts a rambling tirade on romance and how exquisite Dorian's life has been. Dorian agrees, but reminds Henry that he has turned over a new leaf, and that he will never forgive him for his corrupting influence. On his way out, Henry invites Dorian to lunch the next day, and Dorian reluctantly agrees to accompany the older man.

When telling Henry about Hetty, Dorian insists that she will "live, like Perdita, in her garden," to which Henry asks "how do you know that Hetty isn't floating...like Ophelia?"  These are both Shakespearean characters  that Sibyl used to play on stage.  Dorian has already stated that Hetty reminds him of Sibyl, whom he loved because of all the characters she represented to him.  Dorian now seeks to make amends for his treatment of Sibyl vicariously, through Hetty; he thinks of her as Perdita, a character who meets a happy ending.  Lord Henry's allusion to the tragic character of Ophelia is unbearable to Dorian because it reminds him of the actual circumstances of Sibyl's death, and his callous decision to view it as a theatrical drama. Shakespeare is also evoked after Henry inquires about the state of Basil's painting.  While playing the piano, Dorian says that the picture reminded him of certain lines from Hamlet: "Like the painting of a sorrow,/ A face without a heart."  This lines relate directly and poignantly to Dorian's condition.  They not only refer to the painting, but to Dorian himself, who now feels reduced to "a face without a heart."  When Henry tires to coax Dorian out of his somber mood with the line "If a man treats life artistically, his brain is his heart", Dorian only repeats the quotation.  It is if Dorian is trying to obliquely communicate his true plight to Henry.  He has already attempted, albeit unsuccessfully, to confess to Basil's murder.  Dorian is hopelessly isolated even from his oldest remaining friend.  Before leaving to return home, Dorian hesitates at the door, "as if he had something more to say," but says nothing, a further indication of his pathetic lonliness. Although Henry fancies himself to be Dorian's best friend, he tells Dorian that, after all their years together, "you are still the same."  This reminds us that, for all of his seeming wisdom, Lord Henry can still only take things at face value; to him, looking the same and being the same are one and the same thing.  He has no clue as to the true degradation of Dorian's character. Henry's earlier comment that a man ought to "treat life artistically," one of the major themes of the book, is best considered in conjunction with the closing remark of the preface, that "All art is quite useless."  Considering that this is the opinion of the author, it is clear that trying to make a work of art out of one's life will not be very rewarding in Dorian Gray. Dorian remarks that Henry "poisoned me with a book once," and tells his friend to "promise me that you will never lend that book to anyone.  It does harm."  Dorian has done precisely what the preface warns against when it declares that "All art is...surface," and that "Those who go beneath the surface do so at their peril."  He has gone so deeply "beneath the surface" of the book that he has transformed it into a sort of outline for his own life. The corruption of his soul, and the ruin of his life, is what this "peril" has wrought on Dorian.

This whole James Vane incident seems to have shaken Dorian significantly. Back in London, he informs Lord Henry that he's going to become a good person again. Henry doesn't believe it, nor does he think Dorian should change at all. In his view, his friend is perfect. For about the thousandth time, we think about how warped Lord Henry is. Apparently, the day before, Dorian was staying out in the countryside by himself, and Henry comments that it's a lot easier to be good out there, since there's nothing to do. Dorian continues, saying that he's altered . Lord Henry demands to know what Dorian's done that's so great. Dorian tells Henry about a young girl that he met and fell in love with in the countryside. She reminded him of Sibyl Vane, and she totally fell for him. However, instead of corrupting her and destroying her life, he decided to let her go--he leaves her in her innocent state. Dorian thinks this good deed is enough to set him on the path to righteousness, despite Henry's doubts. Lord Henry continues to mock Dorian's fantasies. Dorian abruptly changes the subject, and asks Henry what's going on around town. Apparently, the gossip around their club is all about Basil--people are still discussing his disappearance. We also hear in passing that Alan Campbell committed suicide . Dorian plays it cool, and asks Henry what he thinks happened to Basil; Lord Henry's basically like, "Screw Basil! Listen to me talk about my life." But Dorian doesn't want to let it go. He asks Henry if he's ever wondered if Basil was murdered--or, for that matter, if anyone else thinks that. Henry's just not that concerned; besides, he doesn't think Basil was interesting enough to get himself murdered. Dorian asks an interesting hypothetical question: what would Henry think if he said that he had killed Basil? Henry basically laughs this off, too, saying that crime is for the lower classes. He honestly just doesn't care, and even jokes that Basil probably drowned in the river Seine. Since Basil's paintings haven't been that great lately, Henry doesn't think there's anything to be sad about. Henry brings up the portrait, which he identifies as one of Basil's great works. Apparently Dorian told him that it was either lost or stolen. They discuss the painting a bit more, and Dorian confesses that he never liked it . Lord Henry changes the topic slightly to souls--what might it be like to sell one's soul? Little does he know that he's talking to the one person who knows... Dorian tells Henry that that he's sure that everyone has a soul, for better or worse. Languidly, Henry asks Dorian to play some Chopin on the piano. As Dorian plays, Henry muses at length about Dorian's youth and beauty, and his own lost youth. He tells Dorian that he's led an amazing, full life, and mistakenly praises him for still being the same. Dorian corrects him, saying that he's not the same, but Henry doesn't believe it. He thinks that Dorian is perfect. Henry goes on, saying that Dorian has always been loved by the world, even when it denounced him; he says that Dorian is the ideal of their time, and that, though he's never created anything, his whole life has been art. Dorian stops playing and tells Henry again that things are going to be different from now on. He resists Henry's praise of him. After insisting that he's going to change, Dorian reminds Lord Henry that the older man poisoned him with the yellow book, all those years ago. Henry doesn't buy it, saying that art doesn't influence real life. Dorian says his goodbyes and extricates himself from Henry, after wearily promising to see him the next day.


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.

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.

Dorian walks pensively home from Henry's house in the pleasant, warm evening air. On his way, he hears people gossiping about him as he passes. Dorian wistfully thinks of the lovely country girl he left, and the idyllic town where nobody knew who he was. At home, Dorian begins to worry about what Henry said--is it true that people can't really change? He thinks back on his innocent boyhood, and knows that he's ruined himself--but can't he change back? Dorian regards his own beautiful face in the mirror, and suddenly is filled with self-loathing. He throws the mirror down, shattering it. He can't believe he's invested so much in youth--what a foolish thing! Now, Dorian tries to get over the past and think of the future. As far as he can tell, he's perfectly safe from the law, and from anyone ever knowing about the things he's done. Looking back, he blames everything on the portrait; it was the portrait's fault that he killed Basil, after all. Dorian longs for a new life, and wonders if he's already started it by saving Hetty, the young country girl, from his corruption. He wonders if this one good deed has started making the portrait look any different yet. Excited and anxious, Dorian goes upstairs to see. In the schoolroom, Dorian confronts his portrait again, certain that it will look less loathsome. However, the terrible truth is that it's actually worse than ever--the bloodstain on the figure's hand that dates from Basil's death looks even brighter and more real. Furthermore, there's a new look of hypocrisy on its face--the portrait knows, even if Dorian doesn't, that he doesn't actually want to become good again. Dorian wonders for a moment if he should confess all his crimes, but quickly dismisses that idea. Instead, he decides to destroy all the evidence of his shameful life--the portrait itself. Fittingly, Dorian grabs the very same knife he used to kill Basil, and stabs the picture with it. Downstairs, Dorian's servants are terrified--they hear a mysterious scream and a crash. It's even audible outside, and two passing gentleman go to get a policeman. The three men knock on the door, but there's no answer. When they find out that it's Dorian Gray's house, they leave--they don't want to help him. Dorian's valet, Francis, and the housekeeper, Mrs. Leaf, are petrified. Finally, Francis and two other servants go up to the schoolroom to investigate. They easily knock down the old door. Inside the schoolroom, the servants discover something terrible: the portrait of their master, Dorian, restored to its youth and beauty, hangs over an old, hideous, dead man with a knife in his heart. When they look at the mysterious corpse's rings, they realize that it's Dorian.


The studio was filled with the rich odour of roses, and when the light
summer wind stirred amidst the trees of the garden, there came through
the open door the heavy scent of the lilac, or the more delicate
perfume of the pink-flowering thorn.

From the corner of the divan of Persian saddle-bags on which he was
lying, smoking, as was his custom, innumerable cigarettes, Lord Henry
Wotton could just catch the gleam of the honey-sweet and honey-coloured
blossoms of a laburnum, whose tremulous branches seemed hardly able to
bear the burden of a beauty so flamelike as theirs; and now and then
the fantastic shadows of birds in flight flitted across the long
tussore-silk curtains that were stretched in front of the huge window,
producing a kind of momentary Japanese effect, and making him think of
those pallid, jade-faced painters of Tokyo who, through the medium of
an art that is necessarily immobile, seek to convey the sense of
swiftness and motion.  The sullen murmur of the bees shouldering their
way through the long unmown grass, or circling with monotonous
insistence round the dusty gilt horns of the straggling woodbine,
seemed to make the stillness more oppressive.  The dim roar of London
was like the bourdon note of a distant organ.

In the centre of the room, clamped to an upright easel, stood the
full-length portrait of a young man of extraordinary personal beauty,
and in front of it, some little distance away, was sitting the artist
himself, Basil Hallward, whose sudden disappearance some years ago
caused, at the time, such public excitement and gave rise to so many
strange conjectures.

As the painter looked at the gracious and comely form he had so
skilfully mirrored in his art, a smile of pleasure passed across his
face, and seemed about to linger there.  But he suddenly started up,
and closing his eyes, placed his fingers upon the lids, as though he
sought to imprison within his brain some curious dream from which he
feared he might awake.

"It is your best work, Basil, the best thing you have ever done," said
Lord Henry languidly.  "You must certainly send it next year to the
Grosvenor.  The Academy is too large and too vulgar.  Whenever I have
gone there, there have been either so many people that I have not been
able to see the pictures, which was dreadful, or so many pictures that
I have not been able to see the people, which was worse.  The Grosvenor
is really the only place."

"I don't think I shall send it anywhere," he answered, tossing his head
back in that odd way that used to make his friends laugh at him at
Oxford.  "No, I won't send it anywhere."

Lord Henry elevated his eyebrows and looked at him in amazement through
the thin blue wreaths of smoke that curled up in such fanciful whorls
from his heavy, opium-tainted cigarette.  "Not send it anywhere?  My
dear fellow, why?  Have you any reason?  What odd chaps you painters
are!  You do anything in the world to gain a reputation.  As soon as
you have one, you seem to want to throw it away.  It is silly of you,
for there is only one thing in the world worse than being talked about,
and that is not being talked about.  A portrait like this would set you
far above all the young men in England, and make the old men quite
jealous, if old men are ever capable of any emotion."

"I know you will laugh at me," he replied, "but I really can't exhibit
it.  I have put too much of myself into it."

Lord Henry stretched himself out on the divan and laughed.

"Yes, I knew you would; but it is quite true, all the same."

"Too much of yourself in it! Upon my word, Basil, I didn't know you
were so vain; and I really can't see any resemblance between you, with
your rugged strong face and your coal-black hair, and this young
Adonis, who looks as if he was made out of ivory and rose-leaves. Why,
my dear Basil, he is a Narcissus, and you--well, of course you have an
intellectual expression and all that.  But beauty, real beauty, ends
where an intellectual expression begins.  Intellect is in itself a mode
of exaggeration, and destroys the harmony of any face.  The moment one
sits down to think, one becomes all nose, or all forehead, or something
horrid.  Look at the successful men in any of the learned professions.
How perfectly hideous they are!  Except, of course, in the Church.  But
then in the Church they don't think.  A bishop keeps on saying at the
age of eighty what he was told to say when he was a boy of eighteen,
and as a natural consequence he always looks absolutely delightful.
Your mysterious young friend, whose name you have never told me, but
whose picture really fascinates me, never thinks.  I feel quite sure of
that.  He is some brainless beautiful creature who should be always
here in winter when we have no flowers to look at, and always here in
summer when we want something to chill our intelligence.  Don't flatter
yourself, Basil:  you are not in the least like him."

"You don't understand me, Harry," answered the artist.  "Of course I am
not like him.  I know that perfectly well.  Indeed, I should be sorry
to look like him.  You shrug your shoulders?  I am telling you the
truth.  There is a fatality about all physical and intellectual
distinction, the sort of fatality that seems to dog through history the
faltering steps of kings.  It is better not to be different from one's
fellows.  The ugly and the stupid have the best of it in this world.
They can sit at their ease and gape at the play.  If they know nothing
of victory, they are at least spared the knowledge of defeat.  They
live as we all should live--undisturbed, indifferent, and without
disquiet.  They neither bring ruin upon others, nor ever receive it
from alien hands.  Your rank and wealth, Harry; my brains, such as they
are--my art, whatever it may be worth; Dorian Gray's good looks--we
shall all suffer for what the gods have given us, suffer terribly."

"Dorian Gray?  Is that his name?" asked Lord Henry, walking across the
studio towards Basil Hallward.

"Yes, that is his name.  I didn't intend to tell it to you."

"But why not?"

"Oh, I can't explain.  When I like people immensely, I never tell their
names to any one.  It is like surrendering a part of them.  I have
grown to love secrecy.  It seems to be the one thing that can make
modern life mysterious or marvellous to us.  The commonest thing is
delightful if one only hides it.  When I leave town now I never tell my
people where I am going.  If I did, I would lose all my pleasure.  It
is a silly habit, I dare say, but somehow it seems to bring a great
deal of romance into one's life.  I suppose you think me awfully
foolish about it?"

"Not at all," answered Lord Henry, "not at all, my dear Basil.  You
seem to forget that I am married, and the one charm of marriage is that
it makes a life of deception absolutely necessary for both parties.  I
never know where my wife is, and my wife never knows what I am doing.
When we meet--we do meet occasionally, when we dine out together, or go
down to the Duke's--we tell each other the most absurd stories with the
most serious faces.  My wife is very good at it--much better, in fact,
than I am.  She never gets confused over her dates, and I always do.
But when she does find me out, she makes no row at all.  I sometimes
wish she would; but she merely laughs at me."

"I hate the way you talk about your married life, Harry," said Basil
Hallward, strolling towards the door that led into the garden.  "I
believe that you are really a very good husband, but that you are
thoroughly ashamed of your own virtues.  You are an extraordinary
fellow.  You never say a moral thing, and you never do a wrong thing.
Your cynicism is simply a pose."

"Being natural is simply a pose, and the most irritating pose I know,"
cried Lord Henry, laughing; and the two young men went out into the
garden together and ensconced themselves on a long bamboo seat that
stood in the shade of a tall laurel bush.  The sunlight slipped over
the polished leaves.  In the grass, white daisies were tremulous.

After a pause, Lord Henry pulled out his watch.  "I am afraid I must be
going, Basil," he murmured, "and before I go, I insist on your
answering a question I put to you some time ago."

"What is that?" said the painter, keeping his eyes fixed on the ground.

"You know quite well."

"I do not, Harry."

"Well, I will tell you what it is.  I want you to explain to me why you
won't exhibit Dorian Gray's picture.  I want the real reason."

"I told you the real reason."

"No, you did not.  You said it was because there was too much of
yourself in it.  Now, that is childish."

"Harry," said Basil Hallward, looking him straight in the face, "every
portrait that is painted with feeling is a portrait of the artist, not
of the sitter.  The sitter is merely the accident, the occasion.  It is
not he who is revealed by the painter; it is rather the painter who, on
the coloured canvas, reveals himself.  The reason I will not exhibit
this picture is that I am afraid that I have shown in it the secret of
my own soul."

Lord Henry laughed.  "And what is that?" he asked.

"I will tell you," said Hallward; but an expression of perplexity came
over his face.

"I am all expectation, Basil," continued his companion, glancing at him.

"Oh, there is really very little to tell, Harry," answered the painter;
"and I am afraid you will hardly understand it.  Perhaps you will
hardly believe it."

Lord Henry smiled, and leaning down, plucked a pink-petalled daisy from
the grass and examined it.  "I am quite sure I shall understand it," he
replied, gazing intently at the little golden, white-feathered disk,
"and as for believing things, I can believe anything, provided that it
is quite incredible."

The wind shook some blossoms from the trees, and the heavy
lilac-blooms, with their clustering stars, moved to and fro in the
languid air.  A grasshopper began to chirrup by the wall, and like a
blue thread a long thin dragon-fly floated past on its brown gauze
wings.  Lord Henry felt as if he could hear Basil Hallward's heart
beating, and wondered what was coming.

"The story is simply this," said the painter after some time.  "Two
months ago I went to a crush at Lady Brandon's. You know we poor
artists have to show ourselves in society from time to time, just to
remind the public that we are not savages.  With an evening coat and a
white tie, as you told me once, anybody, even a stock-broker, can gain
a reputation for being civilized.  Well, after I had been in the room
about ten minutes, talking to huge overdressed dowagers and tedious
academicians, I suddenly became conscious that some one was looking at
me.  I turned half-way round and saw Dorian Gray for the first time.
When our eyes met, I felt that I was growing pale.  A curious sensation
of terror came over me.  I knew that I had come face to face with some
one whose mere personality was so fascinating that, if I allowed it to
do so, it would absorb my whole nature, my whole soul, my very art
itself.  I did not want any external influence in my life.  You know
yourself, Harry, how independent I am by nature.  I have always been my
own master; had at least always been so, till I met Dorian Gray.
Then--but I don't know how to explain it to you.  Something seemed to
tell me that I was on the verge of a terrible crisis in my life.  I had
a strange feeling that fate had in store for me exquisite joys and
exquisite sorrows.  I grew afraid and turned to quit the room.  It was
not conscience that made me do so:  it was a sort of cowardice.  I take
no credit to myself for trying to escape."

"Conscience and cowardice are really the same things, Basil.
Conscience is the trade-name of the firm.  That is all."

"I don't believe that, Harry, and I don't believe you do either.
However, whatever was my motive--and it may have been pride, for I used
to be very proud--I certainly struggled to the door.  There, of course,
I stumbled against Lady Brandon.  'You are not going to run away so
soon, Mr. Hallward?' she screamed out.  You know her curiously shrill
voice?"

"Yes; she is a peacock in everything but beauty," said Lord Henry,
pulling the daisy to bits with his long nervous fingers.

"I could not get rid of her.  She brought me up to royalties, and
people with stars and garters, and elderly ladies with gigantic tiaras
and parrot noses.  She spoke of me as her dearest friend.  I had only
met her once before, but she took it into her head to lionize me.  I
believe some picture of mine had made a great success at the time, at
least had been chattered about in the penny newspapers, which is the
nineteenth-century standard of immortality.  Suddenly I found myself
face to face with the young man whose personality had so strangely
stirred me.  We were quite close, almost touching.  Our eyes met again.
It was reckless of me, but I asked Lady Brandon to introduce me to him.
Perhaps it was not so reckless, after all.  It was simply inevitable.
We would have spoken to each other without any introduction.  I am sure
of that.  Dorian told me so afterwards.  He, too, felt that we were
destined to know each other."

"And how did Lady Brandon describe this wonderful young man?" asked his
companion.  "I know she goes in for giving a rapid _precis_ of all her
guests.  I remember her bringing me up to a truculent and red-faced old
gentleman covered all over with orders and ribbons, and hissing into my
ear, in a tragic whisper which must have been perfectly audible to
everybody in the room, the most astounding details.  I simply fled.  I
like to find out people for myself.  But Lady Brandon treats her guests
exactly as an auctioneer treats his goods.  She either explains them
entirely away, or tells one everything about them except what one wants
to know."

"Poor Lady Brandon!  You are hard on her, Harry!" said Hallward
listlessly.

"My dear fellow, she tried to found a _salon_, and only succeeded in
opening a restaurant.  How could I admire her?  But tell me, what did
she say about Mr. Dorian Gray?"

"Oh, something like, 'Charming boy--poor dear mother and I absolutely
inseparable.  Quite forget what he does--afraid he--doesn't do
anything--oh, yes, plays the piano--or is it the violin, dear Mr.
Gray?'  Neither of us could help laughing, and we became friends at
once."

"Laughter is not at all a bad beginning for a friendship, and it is far
the best ending for one," said the young lord, plucking another daisy.

Hallward shook his head.  "You don't understand what friendship is,
Harry," he murmured--"or what enmity is, for that matter.  You like
every one; that is to say, you are indifferent to every one."

"How horribly unjust of you!" cried Lord Henry, tilting his hat back
and looking up at the little clouds that, like ravelled skeins of
glossy white silk, were drifting across the hollowed turquoise of the
summer sky.  "Yes; horribly unjust of you.  I make a great difference
between people.  I choose my friends for their good looks, my
acquaintances for their good characters, and my enemies for their good
intellects.  A man cannot be too careful in the choice of his enemies.
I have not got one who is a fool.  They are all men of some
intellectual power, and consequently they all appreciate me.  Is that
very vain of me?  I think it is rather vain."

"I should think it was, Harry.  But according to your category I must
be merely an acquaintance."

"My dear old Basil, you are much more than an acquaintance."

"And much less than a friend.  A sort of brother, I suppose?"

"Oh, brothers!  I don't care for brothers.  My elder brother won't die,
and my younger brothers seem never to do anything else."

"Harry!" exclaimed Hallward, frowning.

"My dear fellow, I am not quite serious.  But I can't help detesting my
relations.  I suppose it comes from the fact that none of us can stand
other people having the same faults as ourselves.  I quite sympathize
with the rage of the English democracy against what they call the vices
of the upper orders.  The masses feel that drunkenness, stupidity, and
immorality should be their own special property, and that if any one of
us makes an ass of himself, he is poaching on their preserves.  When
poor Southwark got into the divorce court, their indignation was quite
magnificent.  And yet I don't suppose that ten per cent of the
proletariat live correctly."

"I don't agree with a single word that you have said, and, what is
more, Harry, I feel sure you don't either."

Lord Henry stroked his pointed brown beard and tapped the toe of his
patent-leather boot with a tasselled ebony cane.  "How English you are
Basil!  That is the second time you have made that observation.  If one
puts forward an idea to a true Englishman--always a rash thing to
do--he never dreams of considering whether the idea is right or wrong.
The only thing he considers of any importance is whether one believes
it oneself.  Now, the value of an idea has nothing whatsoever to do
with the sincerity of the man who expresses it.  Indeed, the
probabilities are that the more insincere the man is, the more purely
intellectual will the idea be, as in that case it will not be coloured
by either his wants, his desires, or his prejudices.  However, I don't
propose to discuss politics, sociology, or metaphysics with you.  I
like persons better than principles, and I like persons with no
principles better than anything else in the world.  Tell me more about
Mr. Dorian Gray.  How often do you see him?"

"Every day.  I couldn't be happy if I didn't see him every day.  He is
absolutely necessary to me."

"How extraordinary!  I thought you would never care for anything but
your art."

"He is all my art to me now," said the painter gravely.  "I sometimes
think, Harry, that there are only two eras of any importance in the
world's history.  The first is the appearance of a new medium for art,
and the second is the appearance of a new personality for art also.
What the invention of oil-painting was to the Venetians, the face of
Antinous was to late Greek sculpture, and the face of Dorian Gray will
some day be to me.  It is not merely that I paint from him, draw from
him, sketch from him.  Of course, I have done all that.  But he is much
more to me than a model or a sitter.  I won't tell you that I am
dissatisfied with what I have done of him, or that his beauty is such
that art cannot express it.  There is nothing that art cannot express,
and I know that the work I have done, since I met Dorian Gray, is good
work, is the best work of my life.  But in some curious way--I wonder
will you understand me?--his personality has suggested to me an
entirely new manner in art, an entirely new mode of style.  I see
things differently, I think of them differently.  I can now recreate
life in a way that was hidden from me before.  'A dream of form in days
of thought'--who is it who says that?  I forget; but it is what Dorian
Gray has been to me.  The merely visible presence of this lad--for he
seems to me little more than a lad, though he is really over
twenty--his merely visible presence--ah!  I wonder can you realize all
that that means?  Unconsciously he defines for me the lines of a fresh
school, a school that is to have in it all the passion of the romantic
spirit, all the perfection of the spirit that is Greek.  The harmony of
soul and body--how much that is!  We in our madness have separated the
two, and have invented a realism that is vulgar, an ideality that is
void.  Harry! if you only knew what Dorian Gray is to me!  You remember
that landscape of mine, for which Agnew offered me such a huge price
but which I would not part with?  It is one of the best things I have
ever done.  And why is it so?  Because, while I was painting it, Dorian
Gray sat beside me.  Some subtle influence passed from him to me, and
for the first time in my life I saw in the plain woodland the wonder I
had always looked for and always missed."

"Basil, this is extraordinary!  I must see Dorian Gray."

Hallward got up from the seat and walked up and down the garden.  After
some time he came back.  "Harry," he said, "Dorian Gray is to me simply
a motive in art.  You might see nothing in him.  I see everything in
him.  He is never more present in my work than when no image of him is
there.  He is a suggestion, as I have said, of a new manner.  I find
him in the curves of certain lines, in the loveliness and subtleties of
certain colours.  That is all."

"Then why won't you exhibit his portrait?" asked Lord Henry.

"Because, without intending it, I have put into it some expression of
all this curious artistic idolatry, of which, of course, I have never
cared to speak to him.  He knows nothing about it.  He shall never know
anything about it.  But the world might guess it, and I will not bare
my soul to their shallow prying eyes.  My heart shall never be put
under their microscope.  There is too much of myself in the thing,
Harry--too much of myself!"

"Poets are not so scrupulous as you are.  They know how useful passion
is for publication.  Nowadays a broken heart will run to many editions."

"I hate them for it," cried Hallward.  "An artist should create
beautiful things, but should put nothing of his own life into them.  We
live in an age when men treat art as if it were meant to be a form of
autobiography.  We have lost the abstract sense of beauty.  Some day I
will show the world what it is; and for that reason the world shall
never see my portrait of Dorian Gray."

"I think you are wrong, Basil, but I won't argue with you.  It is only
the intellectually lost who ever argue.  Tell me, is Dorian Gray very
fond of you?"

The painter considered for a few moments.  "He likes me," he answered
after a pause; "I know he likes me.  Of course I flatter him
dreadfully.  I find a strange pleasure in saying things to him that I
know I shall be sorry for having said.  As a rule, he is charming to
me, and we sit in the studio and talk of a thousand things.  Now and
then, however, he is horribly thoughtless, and seems to take a real
delight in giving me pain.  Then I feel, Harry, that I have given away
my whole soul to some one who treats it as if it were a flower to put
in his coat, a bit of decoration to charm his vanity, an ornament for a
summer's day."

"Days in summer, Basil, are apt to linger," murmured Lord Henry.
"Perhaps you will tire sooner than he will.  It is a sad thing to think
of, but there is no doubt that genius lasts longer than beauty.  That
accounts for the fact that we all take such pains to over-educate
ourselves.  In the wild struggle for existence, we want to have
something that endures, and so we fill our minds with rubbish and
facts, in the silly hope of keeping our place.  The thoroughly
well-informed man--that is the modern ideal.  And the mind of the
thoroughly well-informed man is a dreadful thing.  It is like a
_bric-a-brac_ shop, all monsters and dust, with everything priced above
its proper value.  I think you will tire first, all the same.  Some day
you will look at your friend, and he will seem to you to be a little
out of drawing, or you won't like his tone of colour, or something.
You will bitterly reproach him in your own heart, and seriously think
that he has behaved very badly to you.  The next time he calls, you
will be perfectly cold and indifferent.  It will be a great pity, for
it will alter you.  What you have told me is quite a romance, a romance
of art one might call it, and the worst of having a romance of any kind
is that it leaves one so unromantic."

"Harry, don't talk like that.  As long as I live, the personality of
Dorian Gray will dominate me.  You can't feel what I feel.  You change
too often."

"Ah, my dear Basil, that is exactly why I can feel it.  Those who are
faithful know only the trivial side of love: it is the faithless who
know love's tragedies."  And Lord Henry struck a light on a dainty
silver case and began to smoke a cigarette with a self-conscious and
satisfied air, as if he had summed up the world in a phrase.  There was
a rustle of chirruping sparrows in the green lacquer leaves of the ivy,
and the blue cloud-shadows chased themselves across the grass like
swallows.  How pleasant it was in the garden!  And how delightful other
people's emotions were!--much more delightful than their ideas, it
seemed to him.  One's own soul, and the passions of one's
friends--those were the fascinating things in life.  He pictured to
himself with silent amusement the tedious luncheon that he had missed
by staying so long with Basil Hallward.  Had he gone to his aunt's, he
would have been sure to have met Lord Goodbody there, and the whole
conversation would have been about the feeding of the poor and the
necessity for model lodging-houses. Each class would have preached the
importance of those virtues, for whose exercise there was no necessity
in their own lives.  The rich would have spoken on the value of thrift,
and the idle grown eloquent over the dignity of labour.  It was
charming to have escaped all that!  As he thought of his aunt, an idea
seemed to strike him.  He turned to Hallward and said, "My dear fellow,
I have just remembered."

"Remembered what, Harry?"

"Where I heard the name of Dorian Gray."

"Where was it?" asked Hallward, with a slight frown.

"Don't look so angry, Basil.  It was at my aunt, Lady Agatha's.  She
told me she had discovered a wonderful young man who was going to help
her in the East End, and that his name was Dorian Gray.  I am bound to
state that she never told me he was good-looking. Women have no
appreciation of good looks; at least, good women have not.  She said
that he was very earnest and had a beautiful nature.  I at once
pictured to myself a creature with spectacles and lank hair, horribly
freckled, and tramping about on huge feet.  I wish I had known it was
your friend."

"I am very glad you didn't, Harry."

"Why?"

"I don't want you to meet him."

"You don't want me to meet him?"

"No."

"Mr. Dorian Gray is in the studio, sir," said the butler, coming into
the garden.

"You must introduce me now," cried Lord Henry, laughing.

The painter turned to his servant, who stood blinking in the sunlight.
"Ask Mr. Gray to wait, Parker:  I shall be in in a few moments." The
man bowed and went up the walk.

Then he looked at Lord Henry.  "Dorian Gray is my dearest friend," he
said.  "He has a simple and a beautiful nature.  Your aunt was quite
right in what she said of him.  Don't spoil him.  Don't try to
influence him.  Your influence would be bad.  The world is wide, and
has many marvellous people in it.  Don't take away from me the one
person who gives to my art whatever charm it possesses:  my life as an
artist depends on him.  Mind, Harry, I trust you."  He spoke very
slowly, and the words seemed wrung out of him almost against his will.

"What nonsense you talk!" said Lord Henry, smiling, and taking Hallward
by the arm, he almost led him into the house.

In the midst of a beautiful, luxurious painter's studio, we meet Lord Henry Wotton and his friend, artist Basil Hallward. The studio is Basil's, and, as they chat, he critically regards his current masterpiece, a portrait of a gorgeous young man. Lord Henry tells Basil that the painting is his best work ever and suggests where he should exhibit it--but Basil says he doesn't want to do that. Lord Henry is appalled, but Basil holds out, claiming that he's put too much of himself into this painting. Henry protests that there's absolutely no resemblance between Basil and the man in the picture; while the subject of the painting is totally hot, intellectuals like Basil, he half-jokingly says, are generally pretty ugly. Basil tells Henry that he's wrong--looks aside, anyone who's different in any way is marked by fate. He predicts that his art, Lord Henry's wealth, and Dorian Gray's beauty will make them all suffer for their distinction. Lord Henry ignores Basil's dire prophecy, and focuses on the name--Dorian Gray, the beautiful boy in the portrait. Basil, it turns out, hadn't wanted to tell Henry Dorian's name, and Lord Henry asks why. Basil replies that some names are special to him; whenever he likes someone, he always conceals their names from friends, because it makes them seem more mysterious. In general, mysteries are more appealing. This is something Lord Henry completely understands. In his marriage for example, he and his wife have nothing but secrets, and they both like it that way. Basil laughs off Lord Henry's cynical attitude, and claims that his friend isn't really a cynic on the inside. Lord Henry responds that everyone's a poseur of one kind or another, and that cynicism is entertaining, in the least. The friends go out into the garden, and Henry announces that he has to leave. Before he goes, though, he asks one more question: why won't he exhibit Dorian's portrait? Basil protests that he already told Lord Henry the real reason. Under pressure, he explains further, that it's not the sitter that the portrait reveals, but the artist himself. Basil is afraid that showing the picture would reveal the secret of his very soul. Lord Henry laughs and asks what this secret is; Basil says he will tell it, though he warns that Lord Henry will hardly believe it, much less understand. Basil then relates how he met Dorian at a party at Lady Brandon's. As he chatted with various boring nobles, he realized someone was looking at him--someone so utterly fascinating that it terrified him. He tried to leave, but Lady Brandon grabbed him. He suddenly found himself face to face with the handsome young man who scared him: it's Dorian Gray. Basil and Dorian start their friendship by laughing together at Lady Brandon; Lord Henry says lightly that laughter is a good way to begin a friendship, but the best way to end one, to which Basil replies that Henry does not understand what friendship or enmity is. Lord Henry, who apparently is never serious, protests that he does indeed distinguish between his friends and enemies. He chooses his friends for their looks and his enemies for their brains. Basil and Henry kid around a bit, and Basil claims again that his friend really is a decent man, inside his flippant facade. Henry returns to the subject at hand--Dorian Gray. We learn that Basil sees Dorian every day. Lord Henry remarks that it's amazing that Basil now cares for something more than his art, but Basil insists that Dorian is his art now; apparently, meeting Dorian has changed the whole way he sees the world. Lord Henry starts hassling Basil about meeting Dorian. Basil finally admits that he doesn't want to exhibit the picture because the world will find out about his adoration for Dorian, something he hasn't even told Dorian about. Lord Henry asks if Dorian feels the same way about Basil; Basil thinks Dorian likes him, but isn't sure. Lord Henry suggests that Basil might get sick of Dorian--after all, he reasons, genius lasts longer than mere physical beauty. Basil thinks not. He argues that Lord Henry couldn't possibly understand, since he's so faithless in his loves. Ooh, ouch. Lord Henry remembers that he's heard the name Dorian Gray before, from his Aunt Agatha; he hadn't paid attention when she mentioned him, but now wishes he had. Basil replies that he's glad he didn't because he still doesn't want Henry to meet Dorian--and right on cue, Basil's butler announces that Mr. Dorian Gray has arrived. Score one for Lord Henry. Basil orders the butler to tell Dorian to wait a few moments. Then he turns to Lord Henry authoritatively, and tries to impart once more how much Dorian means to him. Basil tells Lord Henry that Dorian is his best friend and warns him not to "influence" him. Lord Henry just laughs him off, and we have to wonder what his plans are...

The Picture of Dorian Gray opens in the London studio of Basil Hallward, an artist. With him, reclining and smoking a cigarette, is Lord Henry "Harry" Wotton. Basil is finishing painting a portrait of "a young man of extraordinary personal beauty." Lord Henry praises the portrait as the best work that Basil has done and insists that it must be shown at a suitable gallery. To Lord Henry's surprise, Basil states that he will not show it anywhere: "I have put too much of myself in it." Basil tries to keep the painting's subject's identity a secret from Lord Henry, then accidentally discloses that the beautiful young man's name is Dorian Gray. Basil admits that he prefers to keep favorite people to himself, not even telling others their names because he feels he might lose a part of them. In fact, he has "grown to love secrecy." Even when he takes a trip, he keeps the destination private, a revelation that becomes important later in the story. Lord Henry answers that he understands, but he is more interested in Basil's reason for not exhibiting the portrait. Basil responds that any painting done with true feeling reveals more of the artist than it does the subject. He fears that the painting will reveal the secret of his soul. Basil explains how he met Dorian at Lady Brandon's home. He felt terror upon first seeing Dorian because he sensed that the young man's personality was so powerful that it could absorb him. More important, Dorian inspires a fresh approach to art in Basil, allowing him to produce the best work of his professional life. Because Basil worries that the public will detect his personal and artistic idolatry of Gray, he will not exhibit the portrait. Echoing a basic tenet of Aestheticism, he suggests that an artist should create beautiful work for its own sake; art shouldn't mean anything. He dismisses artists and critics who see art as a means for biographical expression, and he refuses to have his work thought of in that way. When Lord Henry expresses his desire to meet Gray, Basil explains that he wants to keep Dorian and the painting hidden away so that neither Dorian nor the world will ever know about his "curious artistic idolatry." Lord Henry suggests that Basil's feeling may pass and that he will eventually become indifferent to Dorian, but Basil disagrees. At that moment, the butler enters, announcing the arrival of Dorian, and Lord Henry laughs that they must meet now. Before entering the studio where Dorian is waiting, Basil asks Lord Henry not to influence or take away the person who inspires him as an artist.

Chapter 1 introduces two of the major characters of the book, and the reader learns a good deal about them. Basil is an artist of apparently independent means. He is secretive, and Wilde even mentions that Basil has disappeared without notice in the past. In addition, the distinctive toss of his head, the one that "used to make his friends laugh at him at Oxford," characterizes Basil as someone who is thought of as an odd, yet endearing, fellow. Although Basil claims to be independent, he is instantly overpowered by Dorian upon meeting him, becoming dependent on Dorian immediately as his muse, spirit, art, and life. Basil's attraction to Dorian seems to be both professional and personal. Dorian inspires Basil to a new vision of art, combining Greek perfection with Romantic passion. However, there is every implication of something more personal in the attraction. Basil is also a jealous person, wanting to keep Dorian from Lord Henry so that he can have Dorian all to himself. The other main character introduced in Chapter 1 is Lord Henry Wotton, a very intelligent, confident, manipulative man. He decadently smokes opium-tainted cigarettes and has a commanding presence no matter where he is or whom he socializes with. He is very judgmental and enjoys sounding profound. Like Wilde himself, Lord Henry often speaks in aphorisms. As he speaks with Basil, Lord Henry picks a daisy from the grass to examine it, later pulling the daisy apart, an act that symbolizes his role throughout the novel as a manipulator and destroyer of beauty for his own amusement. Although it may seem strange to categorize a painting as a character, Basil's portrait of Dorian plays such an important role in the book that the reader is actually introduced to the painting as if it were a character before meeting Dorian himself. Perhaps Wilde is indicating that Dorian's reputation for physical beauty precedes him and is more important to his character than any other attribute. In any case, the presence of the portrait in Chapter 1 allows the reader to hear something about Dorian before his character appears in the novel. Basil speaks at length about Dorian, stating that he is charming, but also that "Now and then, however, he is horribly thoughtless, and seems to take a real delight in giving me pain." This characterization links Dorian with Lord Henry as a manipulator and foreshadows their close relationship later in the story. Chapter 1 also introduces some of the major themes of the novel: the importance and power of beauty in relation to the intellect and the soul, and the fleeting nature of beauty. While discussing the merits of beauty as opposed to intellect, Basil states that there is "a fatality about all physical and intellectual distinction, the sort of fatality that seems to dog through history the faltering steps of kings." Basil's statement indicates that physical and intellectual excellence are often the downfall of those who possess them. The reader should note how Basil's statement rings true throughout the novel. Wilde claimed that Lord Henry represented his public image but that the author actually was more like Basil and yearned to be more like Dorian. While the reader must always take care in accepting Wilde's comments at face value, he was like Basil in that he was a creative artist and privately perhaps less secure than his public image. He certainly did admire youth and beauty, which Dorian possesses. Still, Lord Henry is the Wildean character in this novel: bright, witty, and controlling. Glossary Persian saddle-bags enormous leather bags laid across the backs of camels, behind the saddle; here, a number of them are stuffed and arranged together so that a person can lounge or recline on them. blossoms of a laburnum a small, spreading tree with golden flowers and highly poisonous seeds. the long tussore-silk curtains brown silk from India, usually stronger but more coarsely woven than Chinese silk. straggling woodbine In the United States, woodbine is called wild honeysuckle and is sometimes referred to as Virginia creeper. the bourdon note of a distant organ a bourdon note is an extremely low, droning note. the Grosvenor For thirteen years, from 1877 to 1890, the Grosvenor Gallery was one of London's most prestigious galleries. During its heyday it often featured works from the Aesthetic movement, mentioned in Wilde's novel. stars and garters a reference to various public decorations such as the Order of the Garter, England's highest order of knighthood. precis French, meaning "brief summary." salon French, meaning "living room" or "parlor"; here, it means a weekly or monthly gathering of artists and intellectuals. tremulous vibrating or quivering. ensconced settled securely or comfortably. pallid abnormally pale. truculent savage, belligerent. skeins lengths of thread or yarn wound into long, loose coils. languid lacking energy or spirit. proletariat the poorest class of working people. dowagers rich widows. the Academy The Royal Academy of Arts in London, founded in 1768. Its annual exhibition, which has been held every summer without a break since 1769, features the best 1,500 paintings, sculptures, drawings, and engravings from those submitted for judging. Oxford one of the two most revered British universities; the other is Cambridge. He is a Narcissus a self-centered person who is exceedingly fond of his appearance. I went to a crush a cocktail party. She brought me up to royalties Here, the reference is to frequent dinners and parties with the titled upper class. the East End the industrial or working class area of London, east of the banking and commercial section of London, referred to as "the City."

The novel begins in the elegantly appointed London home of Basil Hallward, a well-known artist. Basil discusses his latest portrait with his friend, the clever and scandalously amoral Lord Henry Wotton. Lord Henry admires the painting, the subject of which is a gorgeous, golden-haired young man. Believing it to be Basil's finest work, he insists that the painter exhibit it. Basil, however, refuses, claiming that he cannot show the work in public because he has put too much of himself into it. When Lord Henry presses him for a more satisfying reason, Basil reluctantly describes how he met his young subject, whose name is Dorian Gray, at a party. He admits that, upon seeing Dorian for the first time, he was terrified; indeed, he was overcome by the feeling that his life was "on the verge of a terrible crisis. Dorian has become, however, an object of fascination and obsession for Basil, who sees the young man every day and declares him to be his sole inspiration. Basil admits that he cannot bring himself to exhibit the portrait because the piece betrays the "curious artistic idolatry" that Dorian inspires in him. Lord Henry, astonished by this declaration, remembers where he heard the name Dorian Gray before: his aunt, Lady Agatha, mentioned that the young man promised to help her with charity work in the slums of London. At that moment, the butler announces that Dorian Gray has arrived, and Lord Henry insists on meeting him. Basil reluctantly agrees but begs his friend not to try to influence the young man. According to Basil, Dorian has a "simple and a beautiful nature" that could easily be spoiled by Lord Henry's cynicism

The Preface-Chapter Two The Preface to The Picture of Dorian Gray is a collection of epigrams that aptly sums up the philosophical tenets of the artistic and philosophical movement known as aestheticism. Aestheticism, which found its footing in Europe in the early nineteenth century, proposed that art need not serve moral, political, or otherwise didactic ends. Whereas the romantic movement of the early and mid-nineteenth century viewed art as a product of the human creative impulse that could be used to learn more about humankind and the world, the aesthetic movement denied that art must necessarily be an instructive force in order to be valuable. Instead, the aestheticists believed, art should be valuable in and of itself--art for art's sake. Near the end of the nineteenth century, Walter Pater, an English essayist and critic, suggested that life itself should be lived in the spirit of art. His views, especially those presented in a collection of essays called The Renaissance, had a profound impact on the English poets of the 1890s, most notably Oscar Wilde. Aestheticism flourished partly as a reaction against the materialism of the burgeoning middle class, assumed to be composed of philistines  who responded to art in a generally unrefined manner. In this climate, the artist could assert him- or herself as a remarkable and rarefied being, one leading the search for beauty in an age marked by shameful class inequality, social hypocrisy, and bourgeois complacency. No one latched onto this attitude more boldly, or with more flair, than Oscar Wilde. His determination to live a life of beauty and to mold his life into a work of art is reflected in the beliefs and actions of several characters in Wilde's only novel.  The Picture of Dorian Gray has often been compared to the famous German legend of Faust, immortalized in Christopher Marlowe's sixteenth-century play Doctor Faustus and in Johann Wolfgang von Goethe's nineteenth-century poem Faust. The legend tells of a learned doctor who sells his soul to the devil in return for knowledge and magical abilities. Although Dorian Gray never contracts with the devil, his sacrifice is similar: he trades his soul for the luxury of eternal youth. For its overtones of supernaturalism, its refusal to satisfy popular morality, and its portrayal of homoerotic culture, The Picture of Dorian Gray was met with harsh criticism. Many considered the novel dangerously subversive, one offended critic calling it "a poisonous book, the atmosphere of which is heavy with the mephitic odours of moral and spiritual putrefaction." The fear of a bad--or good--influence is, in fact, one of the novel's primary concerns. As a work that sets forth a philosophy of aestheticism, the novel questions the degree and kind of influence a work of art can have over an individual. Furthermore, since the novel conceives of art as including a well-lived life, it is also interested in the kind of influence one person can have over another. After all, the artful Lord Henry himself has as profound an effect upon Dorian's life as Basil's painting does. While Lord Henry exercises influence over other characters primarily through his skillful use of language, it is Dorian's beauty that seduces the characters with whom he associates. Basil, a serious artist and rather dull moralist, admits that Dorian has had "ome subtle influence" over him; it is this influence that Basil is certain that his painting reveals. As he confides to Lord Henry, "I have put into it some expression of all this curious artistic idolatry." Ultimately, however, Lord Henry's brilliant speech is a much more influential force than aesthetic beauty. His witty and biting epigrams threaten to seduce not only the impressionable young Dorian but the reader as well. Lord Henry's ironic speech cuts through social convention and hypocrisy to reveal unexpected, unpleasant truths. The characters whose lifestyles Lord Henry criticizes resist his extreme theories. Basil's resistance to Lord Henry's argument that scandal is a function of class typifies the reactions of the characters whom Lord Henry criticizes; after all, their position and comfort depend upon the hypocrisies he tends to expose. To some degree, every character in the novel is seduced by Lord Henry's philosophies, Dorian Gray more so than anyone else. In these opening chapters, Dorian emerges as an incredibly impressionable young man, someone who Basil fears is open to the "influence" of Lord Henry, which will "spoil" him. Basil's fear is well founded, as before the end of his first conversation with Lord Henry, Dorian is "dimly conscious that entirely fresh influences were at work within him."