Chapter 9As he was sitting at breakfast m, Basil Hallward was shown into the room."I am so gd I have found you, Dorian," he said gravely. "I called st night, and they told me you were at the opera. Of course, I khat was impossible. But I wish you had left word where you had really goo. I passed a dreadful evening, half afraid that oragedy might be followed by another. I think you might have telegraphed for me when you heard of it first. I read of it quite by a te edition of The Globe that I picked up at the club. I came here at ond was miserable at not finding you. I t tell you how heart-broken I am about the whole thing. I know what you must suffer. But where were you? Did you go down ahe girls mother? For a moment I thought of following you there. They gave the address in the paper. Somewhere in the Euston Road, isnt it? But I was afraid of intruding upon a sorrow that I could not lighten. Poor woman! What a state she must be in! And her only child, too! What did she say about it all?""My dear Basil, how do I know?" murmured Dorian Gray, sipping some pale-yellow wine from a delicate, gold-beaded bubble of Veian gss and looking dreadfully bored. "I was at the opera. You should have e on there. I met Lady Gwendolen, Harrys sister, for the first time. We were in her box. She is perfectly charming; and Patti sang divinely. Dont talk about horrid subjects. If one doesnt talk about a thing, it has never happened. It is simply expression, as Harry says, that gives reality to things. I may mention that she was not the womans only child. There is a son, a charming fellow, I believe. But he is not oage. He is a sailor, or something. And now, tell me about yourself and what you are painting.""You went to the opera?" said Hallward, speaking very slowly and with a straiouch of pain in his voice. "You went to the opera while Sibyl Vane was lying dead in some sordid lodging? You talk to me of other women being charming, and of Patti singing divinely, before the girl you loved has even the quiet of a grave to sleep in? Why, man, there are horrors in store for that little white body of hers!""Stop, Basil! I wont hear it!" cried Dorian, leaping to his feet. "You must not tell me about things. What is done is done. What is past is past.""You call yesterday the past?""What has the actual pse of time got to do with it? It is only shallow people who require years to get rid of aion. A man who is master of himself end a sorrow as easily as he i a pleasure. I dont want to be at the mery emotions. I want to use them, to enjoy them, and to domihem.""Dorian, this is horrible! Something has ged you pletely. You look exactly the same wonderful boy who, day after day, used to e down to my studio to sit for his picture. But you were simple, natural, and affeate then. You were the most unspoiled creature in the whole world. Now, I dont know what has e over you. You talk as if you had , no pity in you. It is all Harrys influence. I see that."The d flushed up and, going to the window, looked out for a few moments on the green, flickering, sun-shed garden. "I owe a great deal to Harry, Basil," he said at st, "more than I owe to you. You only taught me to be vain.""Well, I am punished for that, Dorian--or shall be some day.""I dont know what you mean, Basil," he excimed, turning round. "I dont know what you want. What do you want?""I want the Dorian Gray I used to paint," said the artist sadly."Basil," said the d, going over to him and putting his hand on his shoulder, "you have e too te. Yesterday, when I heard that Sibyl Vane had killed herself--""Killed herself! Good heavens! is there no doubt about that?" cried Hallward, looking up at him with an expression of horror."My dear Basil! Surely you dont think it was a vulgar act? Of course she killed herself."The elder man buried his fa his hands. "How fearful," he muttered, and a shudder ran through him."No," said Dorian Gray, "there is nothing fearful about it. It is one of the great romantic tragedies of the age. As a rule, people who act lead the most onpce lives. They are good husbands, or faithful wives, or something tedious. You know what I mean--middle-css virtue and all that kind of thing. How different Sibyl was! She lived her firagedy. She was always a heroihe st night she pyed-- the night you saw her--she acted badly because she had known the reality of love. When she ks uy, she died, as Juliet might have died. She passed again into the sphere of art. There is something of the martyr about her. Her death has all the pathetic uselessness of martyrdom, all its wasted beauty. But, as I was saying, you must not think I have not suffered. If you had e ierday at a particur moment-- about half-past five, perhaps, or a quarter to six-- you would have found me in tears. Even Harry, who was here, whht me the news, in fact, had no idea what I was going through. I suffered immensely. Then it passed away. I ot repeat aion. No one , except sealists. And you are awfully unjust, Basil. You e dowo e. That is charming of you. You find me soled, and you are furious. How like a sympathetic person! You remind me of a story Harry told me about a certain phinthropist who spent twenty years of his life in trying to get some grievance redressed, or some unjust w altered--I fet exactly what it was. Finally he succeeded, and nothing could exceed his disappoi. He had absolutely nothing to do, almost died of ennui, and became a firmed misanthrope. And besides, my dear old Basil, if you really want to e, teach me rather tet what has happened, or to see it from a proper artistic point of view. Was it not Gautier who used to write about sotion des arts? I remember pig up a little vellum-covered book in your studio one day and g on that delightful phrase. Well, I am not like that young man you told me of when we were down at Marlow together, the young man who used to say that yellow satin could sole one for all the miseries of life. I love beautiful things that one toud handle. Old brocades, green bronzes, cquer-work, carved ivories, exquisite surroundings, luxury, pomp--there is much to be got from all these. But the artistic temperament that they create, or at any rate reveal, is still more to me. To bee the spectator of ones own life, as Harry says, is to escape the suffering of life. I know you are surprised at my talking to you like this. You have not realized how I have developed. I was a schoolboy when you knew me. I am a man now. I have new passions, houghts, new ideas. I am different, but you must not like me less. I am ged, but you must always be my friend. Of course, I am very fond of Harry. But I know that you are better than he is. You are not stronger-- you are too much afraid of life--but you are better. And hoy we used to be together! Dont leave me, Basil, and dont quarrel with me. I am what I am. There is nothing more to be said."The painter felt strangely moved. The d was infinitely dear to him, and his personality had been the great turning point in his art. He could not bear the idea of reproag him any more. After all, his indifference robably merely a mood that would pass away. There was so mu him that was good, so mu him that was noble."Well, Dorian," he said at length, with a sad smile, "I wont speak to you again about this horrible thing, after to-day. I only trust your name wont be mentioned in e with it. The i is to take pce this afternoon. Have they summoned you?"Dorian shook his head, and a look of annoyance passed over his face at the mention of the word "i." There was something so crude and vulgar about everything of the kind. "They dont know my name," he answered."But surely she did?""Only my Christian name, and that I am quite sure she never mentioo any one. She told me ohat they were all rather curious to learn who I was, and that she invariably told them my name rince Charming. It retty of her. You must do me a drawing of Sibyl, Basil. I should like to have something more of her than the memory of a few kisses and some broken pathetic words.""I will try and do something, Dorian, if it would please you. But you must e and sit to me yourself again. I t get on without you.""I ever sit to you again, Basil. It is impossible!" he excimed, starting back.The paiared at him. "My dear boy, what nonsense!" he cried. "Do you mean to say you dont like what I did of you? Where is it? Why have you pulled the s in front of it? Let me look at it. It is the best thing I have ever done. Do take the s away, Dorian. It is simply disgraceful of your servant hiding my work like that. I felt the room looked different as I came in.""My servant has nothing to do with it, Basil. You dont imagine I let him arrange my room for me? He settles my flowers for me sometimes-- that is all. No; I did it myself. The light was to on the portrait.""To! Surely not, my dear fellow? It is an admirable pce for it. Let me see it." And Hallward walked towards the er of the room.A cry of terror broke from Dorian Grays lips, and he rushed between the painter and the s. "Basil," he said, looking very pale, "you must not look at it. I dont wish you to.""Not look at my own work! You are not serious. Why shouldnt I look at it?" excimed Hallward, ughing."If you try to look at it, Basil, on my word of honour I will never speak to you again as long as I live. I am quite serious. I dont offer any expnation, and you are not to ask for any. But, remember, if you touch this s, everything is over between us."Hallward was thuruck. He looked at Dorian Gray in absolute amazement. He had never seen him like this before. The d was actually pallid with rage. His hands were ched, and the pupils of his eyes were like disks of blue fire. He was trembling all over."Dorian!""Dont speak!""But what is the matter? Of course I wont look at it if you dont wao," he said, rather coldly, turning on his heel and going over towards the window. "But, really, it seems rather absurd that I shouldnt see my own work, especially as I am going to exhibit it in Paris iumn. I shall probably have to give it another coat of varnish before that, so I must see it some day, and why not to-day?""To exhibit it! You want to exhibit it?" excimed Dorian Gray, a strange sense of terror creeping over him. Was the woing to be shown his secret? Were people to gape at the mystery of his life? That was impossible. Something--he did not know what--had to be do once."Yes; I dont suppose you will object to that. Gees Petit is going to collect all my best pictures for a special exhibition in the Rue de Seze, which will open the first week in October. The portrait will only be away a month. I should think you could easily spare it for that time. In fact, you are sure to be out of town. And if you keep it always behind a s, you t care much about it."Dorian Gray passed his hand over his forehead. There were beads of perspiration there. He felt that he was on the brink of a horrible danger. "You told me a month ago that you would never exhibit it," he cried. "Why have you ged your mind? You people who go in for being sistent have just as many moods as others have. The only difference is that your moods are rather meaningless. You t have fotten that you assured me most solemnly that nothing in the world would induce you to send it to any exhibition. You told Harry exactly the same thing." He stopped suddenly, and a gleam of light came into his eyes. He remembered that Lord Henry had said to him once, half seriously and half i, "If you want to have a strange quarter of an het Basil to tell you why he wont exhibit your picture. He told me why he wouldnt, and it was a revetion to me." Yes, perhaps Basil, too, had his secret. He would ask him and try."Basil," he said, ing over quite close and looking him straight in the face, "we have each of us a secret. Let me know yours, and I shall tell you mine. What was your reason for refusing to exhibit my picture?"The painter shuddered in spite of himself. "Dorian, if I told you, you might like me less than you do, and you would certainly ugh at me. I could not bear your doiher of those two things. If you wish me o look at your picture again, I am tent. I have always you to look at. If you wish the best work I have ever doo be hidden from the world, I am satisfied. Your friendship is dearer to me than any fame or reputation.""No, Basil, you must tell me," insisted Dorian Gray. "I think I have a right to know." His feeling of terror had passed away, and curiosity had taken its pce. He was determio find out Basil Hallwards mystery."Let us sit down, Dorian," said the painter, looking troubled. "Let us sit down. And just answer me one question. Have you noticed in the picture something curious?--something that probably at first did not strike you, but that revealed itself to you suddenly?""Basil!" cried the d, clutg the arms of his chair with trembling hands and gazing at him with wild startled eyes."I see you did. Dont speak. Wait till you hear what I have to say. Dorian, from the moment I met you, your personality had the most extraordinary influence over me. I was dominated, soul, brain, and power, by you. You became to me the visible ination of that unseen ideal whose memory haunts us artists like an exquisite dream. I worshipped you. I grew jealous of every oo whom you spoke. I wao have you all to myself. I was only happy when I was with you. When you were away from me, you were still present in my art.... Of course, I never let you know anything about this. It would have been impossible. You would not have uood it. I hardly uood it myself. I only khat I had seen perfe face to face, and that the world had bee wonderful to my eyes-- too wonderful, perhaps, for in such mad worships there is peril, the peril of losing them, han the peril of keeping them.... Weeks and weeks went on, and I grew more and more absorbed in you. Then came a new development. I had drawn you as Paris in dainty armour, and as Adonis with huntsmans cloak and polished boar-spear. ed with heavy lotus-blossoms you had sat on the prow of Adrians barge, gazing across the green turbid Nile. You had leaned over the still pool of some Greek woodnd and seen iers silent silver the marvel of your own face. And it had all been what art should be--unscious, ideal, ae. One day, a fatal day I sometimes think, I determio paint a wonderful portrait of you as you actually are, not in the e of dead ages, but in your own dress and in your own time. Whether it was the realism of the method, or the mere wonder of your own personality, thus directly preseo me without mist or veil, I ot tell. But I know that as I worked at it, every fke and film of colour seemed to me to reveal my secret. I grew afraid that others would know of my idotry. I felt, Dorian, that I had told too much, that I had put too muyself into it. Then it was that I resolved o allow the picture to be exhibited. You were a little annoyed; but then you did not realize all that it meant to me. Harry, to whom I talked about it, ughed at me. But I did not mind that. When the picture was finished, and I sat aloh it, I felt that I was right.... Well, after a few days the thi my studio, and as soon as I had got rid of the intolerable fasation of its prese seemed to me that I had been foolish in imagining that I had seen anything in it, more than that you were extremely good-looking and that I could paint. Even now I ot help feeling that it is a mistake to think that the passion one feels iion is ever really shown in the work one creates. Art is always more abstract than we fancy. Form and colour tell us of form and colour--that is all. It ofteo me that art ceals the artist far more pletely than it ever reveals him. And so when I got this offer from Paris, I determio make your portrait the principal thing in my exhibition. It never occurred to me that you would refuse. I see now that you were right. The picture ot be shown. You must not be angry with me, Dorian, for what I have told you. As I said to Harry, once, you are made to be worshipped."Dorian Gray drew a long breath. The colour came back to his cheeks, and a smile pyed about his lips. The peril was over. He was safe for the time. Yet he could not help feeling infiy for the painter who had just made this strange fession to him, and wondered if he himself would ever be so dominated by the personality of a friend. Lord Henry had the charm of being very dangerous. But that was all. He was too clever and too ical to be really fond of. Would there ever be some one who would fill him with a strange idotry? Was that one of the things that life had in store?"It is extraordinary to me, Dorian," said Hallward, "that you should have seen this in the portrait. Did you really see it?""I saw something in it," he answered, "something that seemed to me very curious.""Well, you dont mind my looking at the thing now?"Dorian shook his head. "You must not ask me that, Basil. I could not possibly let you stand in front of that picture.""You will some day, surely?""Never.""Well, perhaps you are right. And now good-bye, Dorian. You have been the one person in my life who has really influenced my art. Whatever I have dohat is good, I owe to you. Ah! you dont know what it e to tell you all that I have told you.""My dear Basil," said Dorian, "what have you told me? Simply that you felt that you admired me too much. That is not even a pliment.""It was not intended as a pliment. It was a fession. Now that I have made it, something seems to have go of me. Perhaps one should never put ones worship into words.""It was a very disappointing fession.""Why, what did you expect, Dorian? You didnt see anything else in the picture, did you? There was nothing else to see?""No; there was nothing else to see. Why do you ask? But you mustnt talk about worship. It is foolish. You and I are friends, Basil, and we must always remain so.""You have got Harry," said the painter sadly."Oh, Harry!" cried the d, with a ripple of ughter. "Harry spends his days in saying what is incredible and his evenings in doing what is improbable. Just the sort of life I would like to lead. But still I dont think I would go to Harry if I were in trouble. I would so to you, Basil.""You will sit to me again?""Impossible!""You spoil my life as an artist by refusing, Dorian. No man es across two ideal things. Few e across one.""I t expin it to you, Basil, but I must never sit to you again. There is something fatal about a portrait. It has a life of its own. I will e and have tea with you. That will be just as pleasant.""Pleasanter for you, I am afraid," murmured Hallward regretfully. "And now good-bye. I am sorry you wo me look at the picture once again. But that t be helped. I quite uand what you feel about it."As he left the room, Dorian Gray smiled to himself. Poor Basil! How little he knew of the true reason! And how stra was that, instead of having been forced to reveal his ow, he had succeeded, almost by ce, iing a secret from his friend! How much that strange fession expio him! The painters absurd fits of jealousy, his wild devotion, his extravagant panegyrics, his curious retices-- he uood them all now, and he felt sorry. There seemed to him to be something tragi a friendship so coloured by romance.He sighed and touched the bell. The portrait must be hidden away at all costs. He could not run such a risk of discain. It had been mad of him to have allowed the thing to remain, even for an hour, in a room to whiy of his friends had access.