CHAPTER II.

ittlelonger.” Astheyenteredthestudio,DorianGrayputhishanduponLordHenry’sarm.“Inthatcase,letourfriendshipbeacaprice,”hemurmured,flushingathisownboldness,thensteppedupontheplatformandresumedhispose. LordHenryflunghimselfintoalargewickerarm-chairandwatchedhim.Thesweepanddashofthebrushonthecanvasmadetheonlysoundthatbrokethestillness,exceptwhen,nowandthen,Hallwardsteppedbacktolookathisworkfromadistance.Intheslantingbeamsthatstreamedthroughtheopendoorwaythedustdancedandwasgolden.Theheavyscentoftherosesseemedtobroodovereverything. AfteraboutaquarterofanhourHallwardstoppedpainting,lookedforalongtimeatDorianGray,andthenforalongtimeatthepicture,bitingtheendofoneofhishugebrushesandfrowning.“Itisquitefinished,”hecriedatlast,andstoopingdownhewrotehisnameinlongvermilionlettersontheleft-handcornerofthecanvas. LordHenrycameoverandexaminedthepicture.Itwascertainlyawonderfulworkofart,andawonderfullikenessaswell. “Mydearfellow,Icongratulateyoumostwarmly,”hesaid.“Itisthefinestportraitofmoderntimes.Mr.Gray,comeoverandlookatyourself.” Theladstarted,asifawakenedfromsomedream. “Isitreallyfinished?”hemurmured,steppingdownfromtheplatform. “Quitefinished,”saidthepainter.“Andyouhavesatsplendidlyto-day.Iamawfullyobligedtoyou.” “Thatisentirelyduetome,”brokeinLordHenry.“Isn’tit,Mr.Gray?” Dorianmadenoanswer,butpassedlistlesslyinfrontofhispictureandturnedtowardsit.Whenhesawithedrewback,andhischeeksflushedforamomentwithpleasure.Alookofjoycameintohiseyes,asifhehadrecognizedhimselfforthefirsttime.Hestoodtheremotionlessandinwonder,dimlyconsciousthatHallwardwasspeakingtohim,butnotcatchingthemeaningofhiswords.Thesenseofhisownbeautycameonhimlikearevelation.Hehadneverfeltitbefore.BasilHallward’scomplimentshadseemedtohimtobemerelythecharmingexaggerationoffriendship.Hehadlistenedtothem,laughedatthem,forgottenthem.Theyhadnotinfluencedhisnature.ThenhadcomeLordHenryWottonwithhisstrangepanegyriconyouth,histerriblewarningofitsbrevity.Thathadstirredhimatthetime,andnow,ashestoodgazingattheshadowofhisownloveliness,thefullrealityofthedescriptionflashedacrosshim.Yes,therewouldbeadaywhenhisfacewouldbewrinkledandwizen,hiseyesdimandcolourless,thegraceofhisfigurebrokenanddeformed.Thescarletwouldpassawayfromhislipsandthegoldstealfromhishair.Thelifethatwastomakehissoulwouldmarhisbody.Hewouldbecomedreadful,hideous,anduncouth. Ashethoughtofit,asharppangofpainstruckthroughhimlikeaknifeandmadeeachdelicatefibreofhisnaturequiver.Hiseyesdeepenedintoamethyst,andacrossthemcameamistoftears.Hefeltasifahandoficehadbeenlaiduponhisheart. “Don’tyoulikeit?”criedHallwardatlast,stungalittlebythelad’ssilence,notunderstandingwhatitmeant. “Ofcoursehelikesit,”saidLordHenry.“Whowouldn’tlikeit?Itisoneofthegreatestthingsinmodernart.Iwillgiveyouanythingyouliketoaskforit.Imusthaveit.” “Itisnotmyproperty,Harry.” “Whosepropertyisit?” “Dorian’s,ofcourse,”answeredthepainter. “Heisaveryluckyfellow.” “Howsaditis!”murmuredDorianGraywithhiseyesstillfixeduponhisownportrait.“Howsaditis!Ishallgrowold,andhorrible,anddreadful.Butthispicturewillremainalwaysyoung.ItwillneverbeolderthanthisparticulardayofJune....Ifitwereonlytheotherway!IfitwereIwhowastobealwaysyoung,andthepicturethatwastogrowold!Forthat—forthat—Iwouldgiveeverything!Yes,thereisnothinginthewholeworldIwouldnotgive!Iwouldgivemysoulforthat!” “Youwouldhardlycareforsuchanarrangement,Basil,”criedLordHenry,laughing.“Itwouldberatherhardlinesonyourwork.” “Ishouldobjectverystrongly,Harry,”saidHallward. DorianGrayturnedandlookedathim.“Ibelieveyouwould,Basil.Youlikeyourartbetterthanyourfriends.Iamnomoretoyouthanagreenbronzefigure.Hardlyasmuch,Idaresay.” Thepainterstaredinamazement.ItwassounlikeDoriantospeaklikethat.Whathadhappened?Heseemedquiteangry.Hisfacewasflushedandhischeeksburning. “Yes,”hecontinued,“IamlesstoyouthanyourivoryHermesoryoursilverFaun.Youwilllikethemalways.Howlongwillyoulikeme?TillIhavemyfirstwrinkle,Isuppose.Iknow,now,thatwhenonelosesone’sgoodlooks,whatevertheymaybe,oneloseseverything.Yourpicturehastaughtmethat.LordHenryWottonisperfectlyright.Youthistheonlythingworthhaving.WhenIfindthatIamgrowingold,Ishallkillmyself.” Hallwardturnedpaleandcaughthishand.“Dorian!Dorian!”hecried,“don’ttalklikethat.Ihaveneverhadsuchafriendasyou,andIshallneverhavesuchanother.Youarenotjealousofmaterialthings,areyou?—youwhoarefinerthananyofthem!” “Iamjealousofeverythingwhosebeautydoesnotdie.Iamjealousoftheportraityouhavepaintedofme.WhyshoulditkeepwhatImustlose?Everymomentthatpassestakessomethingfrommeandgivessomethingtoit.Oh,ifitwereonlytheotherway!Ifthepicturecouldchange,andIcouldbealwayswhatIamnow!Whydidyoupaintit?Itwillmockmesomeday—mockmehorribly!”Thehottearswelledintohiseyeshetorehishandawayand,flinginghimselfonthedivan,heburiedhisfaceinthecushions,asthoughhewaspraying. “Thisisyourdoing,Harry,”saidthepainterbitterly. LordHenryshruggedhisshoulders.“ItistherealDorianGray—thatisall.” “Itisnot.” “Ifitisnot,whathaveItodowithit?” “YoushouldhavegoneawaywhenIaskedyou,”hemuttered.