if it had not been lived in for years. A faded Flemish tapestry, a
curtained picture, an old Italian cassone, and an almost empty
book-case--that was all that it seemed to contain, besides a chair and a
table. As Dorian Gray was lighting a half-burned candle that was
standing on the mantelshelf, he saw that the whole place was covered
with dust and that the carpet was in holes. A mouse ran scuffling behind
the wainscoting. There was a damp odour of mildew.

"So you think that it is only God who sees the soul, Basil? Draw that
curtain back, and you will see mine."

The voice that spoke was cold and cruel. "You are mad, Dorian, or
playing a part," muttered Hallward, frowning.

"You won't? Then I must do it myself," said the young man, and he tore
the curtain from its rod and flung it on the ground.

An exclamation of horror broke from the painter's lips as he saw in the
dim light the hideous face on the canvas grinning at him. There was
something in its expression that filled him with disgust and loathing.
Good heavens! it was Dorian Gray's own face that he was looking at! The
horror, whatever it was, had not yet entirely spoiled that marvellous
beauty. There was still some gold in the thinning hair and some scarlet
on the sensual mouth. The sodden eyes had kept something of the
loveliness of their blue, the noble curves had not yet completely passed
away from chiselled nostrils and from plastic throat. Yes, it was Dorian
himself. But who had done it? He seemed to recognize his own brushwork,
and the frame was his own design. The idea was monstrous, yet he felt
afraid. He seized the lighted candle, and held it to the picture. In the
left-hand corner was his own name, traced in long letters of bright
vermilion.

It was some foul parody, some infamous ignoble satire. He had never done
that. Still, it was his own picture. He knew it, and he felt as if his
blood had changed in a moment from fire to sluggish ice. His own
picture! What did it mean? Why had it altered? He turned and looked at
Dorian Gray with the eyes of a sick man. His mouth twitched, and his
parched tongue seemed unable to articulate. He passed his hand across
his forehead. It was dank with clammy sweat.

The young man was leaning against the mantelshelf, watching him with
that strange expression that one sees on the faces of those who are
absorbed in a play when some great artist is acting. There was neither
real sorrow in it nor real joy. There was simply the passion of the
spectator, with perhaps a flicker of triumph in his eyes. He had taken
the flower out of his coat, and was smelling it, or pretending to do so.

"What does this mean?" cried Hallward, at last. His own voice sounded
shrill and curious in his ears.

"Years ago, when I was a boy," said Dorian Gray, crushing the flower in
his hand, "you met me, flattered me, and taught me to be vain of my good
looks. One day you introduced me to a friend of yours, who explained to
me the wonder of youth, and you finished a portrait of me that revealed
to me the wonder of beauty. In a mad moment that, even now, I don't know
whether I regret or not, I made a wish, perhaps you would call it a
prayer. . . ."

"I remember it! Oh, how well I remember it! No! the thing is impossible.
The room is damp. Mildew has got into the canvas. The paints I used had
some wretched mineral poison in them. I tell you the thing is impossible."

"Ah, what is impossible?" murmured the young man, going over to the
window and leaning his forehead against the cold, mist-stained glass.

"You told me you had destroyed it."

"I was wrong. It has destroyed me."

"I don't believe it is my picture."

"Can't you see your ideal in it?" said Dorian bitterly.

"My ideal, as you call it. . ."

"As you called it."

"There was nothing evil in it, nothing shameful. You were to me such an
ideal as I shall never meet again. This is the face of a satyr."

"It is the face of my soul."

"Christ! what a thing I must have worshipped! It has the eyes of a devil."

"Each of us has heaven and hell in him, Basil," cried Dorian with a wild
gesture of despair.

Hallward turned again to the portrait and gazed at it. "My God! If it is
true," he exclaimed, "and this is what you have done with your life,
why, you must be worse even than those who talk against you fancy you to
be!" He held the light up again to the canvas and examined it. The
surface seemed to be quite undisturbed and as he had left it. It was
from within, apparently, that the foulness and horror had come. Through
some strange quickening of inner life the leprosies of sin were slowly
eating the thing away. The rotting of a corpse in a watery grave was not
so fearful.

His hand shook, and the candle fell from its socket on the floor and lay
there sputtering. He placed his foot on it and put it out. Then he flung
himself into the rickety chair that was standing by the table and buried


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