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THE PICTURE OF DORIAN GRAY

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It was the ninth of November， the evening before his thirty-eighth birthday． Dorian Gray was walking home from Lord Henry's house when he saw Basil Hallward．He felt strangely afraid and tried to pretend that he had not seen him，but Basil hurried after him．

'Dorian！'he called．'What extraordinary luck！I'm catching the midnight train to Paris and I wanted to see you before I left．I'll be away from England for six months．'He put his hand on Dorian's arm．'Look，we're near your house．May I come in for a moment？ I have something to say to you．'

'Of course．But won't you miss your train？'asked Dorian lazily，as he walked up the steps to his door．

'I have plenty of time．It's only eleven o'clock．'

They went in and sat down by the fire．

'Now，my dear Dorian，I want to speak to you seriously，'Basil began．'I must tell you that people in London are saying the most terrible things about you．'

Dorian lit a cigarette and looked bored．'I don't want to know anything about it．It doesn't interest me．'

'But it must interest you，Dorian，'said Basil．'Every gentleman is interested in his good name．Of course，when I look at you， I know that these stories can't be true．A man's face shows if his life is good or bad． But why does Lord Berwick leave the room when you enter it？ Why does Lord Staveley say that no honest woman is safe with you？ That young soldier， who was your friend—why did he kill himself？There was Sir Henry Ashton， who had to leave England with a bad name． And what about Lord Kent's son？ What kind of life does he have now？'

'Stop，Basil．You don't know what you're talking about，'said Dorian coldly．'Did I teach these people how to live their lives？ And the people who tell these stories—are their lives any better than mine？'

'And there are other stories too，'continued Basil．'Are they true？ Can your life really be so bad，so evil？ You were a fine young man once，but now，when I hear these stories，I wonder…Do I know you at all？ What has happened to the real Dorian Gray？ I think I would have to see your soul before I could answer those questions．'

'The real Dorian Gray？'asked Dorian quietly， his face white with fear．

'Yes，'said the artist sadly．'But only God can see your soul．'

A terrible laugh came from the younger man．'Come，Basil，'he cried．'Come with me！I will show you what only God can see． Why not？It's your own work． You've talked enough about evil．Now you must look at it．'

He took Basil upstairs to the locked room．Inside，he turned to the artist，with smiling lips and cold， hard eyes．'You're the one man in the world who should know my secret．Are you sure that you want to？'

'Yes．'

'Then uncover that picture， Basil，and you will see my soul．'

A cry of horror came from the artist when he saw the terrible face in the portrait． How could that evil and unlovely face be Dorian Gray's？But yes，it was．He went nearer to the picture．It could not be the portrait that he had painted．But yes， there was his name written in the corner． He turned and looked at Dorian Gray with the eyes of a sick man．

'What does this mean？'he asked at last．

'When you finished the portrait，'replied Dorian，'I made a wish…'

'I remember，yes，'said Basil．'You wished that the picture could become old，and that you could stay young．But this…'He stared again at the picture．'This is impossible．And you told me that you'd destroyed the picture．'

'I was wrong．It has destroyed me．'

'My God，Dorian！'cried the artist．'If this is true…If this is the face of your soul， then you are more evil than the worst of the stories about you．'He sat down at the table and put his face in his hands．'You must ask God for his help．'

'It's too late， Basil．'

'It's never too late， Dorian．Look at that terrible face．Look at it！'

Dorian turned and stared at the face in the picture， and suddenly he hated Basil more than he had ever hated anyone in his life．Basil now knew his secret， and had seen the real Dorian Gray．Violent feelings burned inside Dorian．He picked up a knife from the table． Then the hate inside him exploded，and like a wild animal， he ran towards Basil，and dug the knife into the artist's neck，again and again and again．The murdered man's head fell forwards， and the blood ran slowly across the table，and down onto the floor．

Dorian stood and listened． He could hear nothing—only the drip， drip of blood onto the floor． He went to the window and looked down into the street． He felt strangely calm． The friend who had painted his portrait had gone out of his life．That was all．

He locked the door behind him and went quietly downstairs．His servants were all in bed．He sat down and began to think．No one had seen Basil in Dorian's house tonight．Paris．Yes！Basil had gone to Paris， of course， so it would be six months before people asked where he was． Six months！That was more than enough time．

Dorian walked up and down the room． Then he took out a book from his desk and began to search for a name． Alan Campbell．Yes，that was the name that he wanted．