Itwasalovelynight,sowarmthathethrewhiscoatoverhisarmanddidnotevenputhissilkscarfroundhisthroat. Ashestrolledhome,smokinghiscigarette,twoyoungmenineveningdresspassedhim. Heheardoneofthemwhispertotheother,“ThatisDorianGray.” Herememberedhowpleasedheusedtobewhenhewaspointedout,orstaredat,ortalkedabout. Hewastiredofhearinghisownnamenow. Halfthecharmofthelittlevillagewherehehadbeensooftenlatelywasthatnooneknewwhohewas. Hehadoftentoldthegirlwhomhehadluredtolovehimthathewaspoor,andshehadbelievedhim. Hehadtoldheroncethathewaswicked,andshehadlaughedathimandansweredthatwickedpeoplewerealwaysveryoldandveryugly.Whatalaughshehad!—justlikeathrushsinging. Andhowprettyshehadbeeninhercottondressesandherlargehats! Sheknewnothing,butshehadeverythingthathehadlost. Whenhereachedhome,hefoundhisservantwaitingupforhim. Hesenthimtobed,andthrewhimselfdownonthesofainthelibrary,andbegantothinkoversomeofthethingsthatLordHenryhadsaidtohim. Wasitreallytruethatonecouldneverchange? Hefeltawildlongingfortheunstainedpurityofhisboyhood—hisrose-whiteboyhood,asLordHenryhadoncecalledit. Heknewthathehadtarnishedhimself,filledhismindwithcorruptionandgivenhorrortohisfancy;thathehadbeenanevilinfluencetoothers,andhadexperiencedaterriblejoyinbeingso;andthatofthelivesthathadcrossedhisown,ithadbeenthefairestandthemostfullofpromisethathehadbroughttoshame.Butwasitallirretrievable?Wastherenohopeforhim? Ah!inwhatamonstrousmomentofprideandpassionhehadprayedthattheportraitshouldbeartheburdenofhisdays,andhekeeptheunsulliedsplendourofeternalyouth!Allhisfailurehadbeenduetothat. Betterforhimthateachsinofhislifehadbroughtitssureswiftpenaltyalongwithit.Therewaspurificationinpunishment. Not“Forgiveusoursins”but“Smiteusforouriniquities”shouldbetheprayerofmantoamostjustGod. ThecuriouslycarvedmirrorthatLordHenryhadgiventohim,somanyyearsagonow,wasstandingonthetable,andthewhite-limbedCupidslaughedrounditasofold. Hetookitup,ashehaddoneonthatnightofhorrorwhenhehadfirstnotedthechangeinthefatalpicture,andwithwild,tear-dimmedeyeslookedintoitspolishedshield. Once,someonewhohadterriblylovedhimhadwrittentohimamadletter,endingwiththeseidolatrouswords:“Theworldischangedbecauseyouaremadeofivoryandgold. Thecurvesofyourlipsrewritehistory.” Thephrasescamebacktohismemory,andherepeatedthemoverandovertohimself. Thenheloathedhisownbeauty,andflingingthemirroronthefloor,crusheditintosilversplintersbeneathhisheel. Itwashisbeautythathadruinedhim,hisbeautyandtheyouththathehadprayedfor. Butforthosetwothings,hislifemighthavebeenfreefromstain. Hisbeautyhadbeentohimbutamask,hisyouthbutamockery.Whatwasyouthatbest? Agreen,anunripetime,atimeofshallowmoods,andsicklythoughts.Whyhadhewornitslivery?Youthhadspoiledhim. Itwasbetternottothinkofthepast.Nothingcouldalterthat. Itwasofhimself,andofhisownfuture,thathehadtothink. JamesVanewashiddeninanamelessgraveinSelbychurchyard. AlanCampbellhadshothimselfonenightinhislaboratory,buthadnotrevealedthesecretthathehadbeenforcedtoknow. Theexcitement,suchasitwas,overBasilHallward’sdisappearancewouldsoonpassaway.Itwasalreadywaning.Hewasperfectlysafethere. Nor,indeed,wasitthedeathofBasilHallwardthatweighedmostuponhismind. Itwasthelivingdeathofhisownsoulthattroubledhim. Basilhadpaintedtheportraitthathadmarredhislife.Hecouldnotforgivehimthat. Itwastheportraitthathaddoneeverything. Basilhadsaidthingstohimthatwereunbearable,andthathehadyetbornewithpatience. Themurderhadbeensimplythemadnessofamoment. AsforAlanCampbell,hissuicidehadbeenhisownact.Hehadchosentodoit.Itwasnothingtohim. Anewlife!Thatwaswhathewanted.Thatwaswhathewaswaitingfor.Surelyhehadbegunitalready. Hehadsparedoneinnocentthing,atanyrate.Hewouldneveragaintemptinnocence.Hewouldbegood. AshethoughtofHettyMerton,hebegantowonderiftheportraitinthelockedroomhadchanged. Surelyitwasnotstillsohorribleasithadbeen? Perhapsifhislifebecamepure,hewouldbeabletoexpeleverysignofevilpassionfromtheface. Perhapsthesignsofevilhadalreadygoneaway.Hewouldgoandlook. Hetookthelampfromthetableandcreptupstairs. Asheunbarredthedoor,asmileofjoyflittedacrosshisstrangelyyoung-lookingfaceandlingeredforamomentabouthislips. Yes,hewouldbegood,andthehideousthingthathehadhiddenawaywouldnolongerbeaterrortohim. Hefeltasiftheloadhadbeenliftedfromhimalready. Hewentinquietly,lockingthedoorbehindhim,aswashiscustom,anddraggedthepurplehangingfromtheportrait. Acryofpainandindignationbrokefromhim. Hecouldseenochange,savethatintheeyestherewasalookofcunningandinthemouththecurvedwrinkleofthehypocrite. Thethingwasstillloathsome—moreloathsome,ifpossible,thanbefore—andthescarletdewthatspottedthehandseemedbrighter,andmorelikebloodnewlyspilled.Thenhetrembled. Haditbeenmerelyvanitythathadmadehimdohisonegooddeed? Orthedesireforanewsensation,asLordHenryhadhinted,withhismockinglaugh? Orthatpassiontoactapartthatsometimesmakesusdothingsfinerthanweareourselves?Or,perhaps,allthese? Andwhywastheredstainlargerthanithadbeen? Itseemedtohavecreptlikeahorriblediseaseoverthewrinkledfingers. Therewasbloodonthepaintedfeet,asthoughthethinghaddripped—bloodevenonthehandthathadnotheldtheknife.Confess?Diditmeanthathewastoconfess?Togivehimselfupandbeputtodeath?Helaughed.Hefeltthattheideawasmonstrous. Besides,evenifhedidconfess,whowouldbelievehim? Therewasnotraceofthemurderedmananywhere. Everythingbelongingtohimhadbeendestroyed. Hehimselfhadburnedwhathadbeenbelow-stairs. Theworldwouldsimplysaythathewasmad. Theywouldshuthimupifhepersistedinhisstory....Yetitwashisdutytoconfess,tosufferpublicshame,andtomakepublicatonement. TherewasaGodwhocalleduponmentotelltheirsinstoearthaswellastoheaven. Nothingthathecoulddowouldcleansehimtillhehadtoldhisownsin.Hissin?Heshruggedhisshoulders. ThedeathofBasilHallwardseemedverylittletohim.HewasthinkingofHettyMerton. Foritwasanunjustmirror,thismirrorofhissoulthathewaslookingat.Vanity?Curiosity?Hypocrisy? Hadtherebeennothingmoreinhisrenunciationthanthat?Therehadbeensomethingmore.Atleasthethoughtso.Butwhocouldtell?...No.Therehadbeennothingmore.Throughvanityhehadsparedher. Inhypocrisyhehadwornthemaskofgoodness. Forcuriosity’ssakehehadtriedthedenialofself.Herecognizedthatnow. Butthismurder—wasittodoghimallhislife? Washealwaystobeburdenedbyhispast?Washereallytoconfess?Never. Therewasonlyonebitofevidenceleftagainsthim.Thepictureitself—thatwasevidence.Hewoulddestroyit.Whyhadhekeptitsolong? Onceithadgivenhimpleasuretowatchitchangingandgrowingold.Oflatehehadfeltnosuchpleasure.Ithadkepthimawakeatnight. Whenhehadbeenaway,hehadbeenfilledwithterrorlestothereyesshouldlookuponit. Ithadbroughtmelancholyacrosshispassions. Itsmerememoryhadmarredmanymomentsofjoy.Ithadbeenlikeconsciencetohim.Yes,ithadbeenconscience.Hewoulddestroyit. HelookedroundandsawtheknifethathadstabbedBasilHallward. Hehadcleaneditmanytimes,tilltherewasnostainleftuponit.Itwasbright,andglistened. Asithadkilledthepainter,soitwouldkillthepainter’swork,andallthatthatmeant. Itwouldkillthepast,andwhenthatwasdead,hewouldbefree. Itwouldkillthismonstroussoul-life,andwithoutitshideouswarnings,hewouldbeatpeace. Heseizedthething,andstabbedthepicturewithit. Therewasacryheard,andacrash.Thecrywassohorribleinitsagonythatthefrightenedservantswokeandcreptoutoftheirrooms. Twogentlemen,whowerepassinginthesquarebelow,stoppedandlookedupatthegreathouse. Theywalkedontilltheymetapolicemanandbroughthimback. Themanrangthebellseveraltimes,buttherewasnoanswer. Exceptforalightinoneofthetopwindows,thehousewasalldark. Afteratime,hewentawayandstoodinanadjoiningporticoandwatched. “Whosehouseisthat,Constable?”askedtheelderofthetwogentlemen. “Mr.DorianGray’s,sir,”answeredthepoliceman. Theylookedateachother,astheywalkedaway,andsneered.OneofthemwasSirHenryAshton’suncle. Inside,intheservants’partofthehouse,thehalf-claddomesticsweretalkinginlowwhisperstoeachother.OldMrs.Leafwascryingandwringingherhands.Franciswasaspaleasdeath. Afteraboutaquarterofanhour,hegotthecoachmanandoneofthefootmenandcreptupstairs.Theyknocked,buttherewasnoreply.Theycalledout.Everythingwasstill. Finally,aftervainlytryingtoforcethedoor,theygotontheroofanddroppeddownontothebalcony. Thewindowsyieldedeasily—theirboltswereold. Whentheyentered,theyfoundhanginguponthewallasplendidportraitoftheirmasterastheyhadlastseenhim,inallthewonderofhisexquisiteyouthandbeauty. Lyingonthefloorwasadeadman,ineveningdress,withaknifeinhisheart. Hewaswithered,wrinkled,andloathsomeofvisage. Itwasnottilltheyhadexaminedtheringsthattheyrecognizedwhoitwas. 
