CHAPTER IX.

try. “Basil,”hesaid,comingoverquitecloseandlookinghimstraightintheface,“wehaveeachofusasecret.Letmeknowyours,andIshalltellyoumine.Whatwasyourreasonforrefusingtoexhibitmypicture?” Thepaintershudderedinspiteofhimself.“Dorian,ifItoldyou,youmightlikemelessthanyoudo,andyouwouldcertainlylaughatme.Icouldnotbearyourdoingeitherofthosetwothings.Ifyouwishmenevertolookatyourpictureagain,Iamcontent.Ihavealwaysyoutolookat.IfyouwishthebestworkIhaveeverdonetobehiddenfromtheworld,Iamsatisfied.Yourfriendshipisdearertomethananyfameorreputation.” “No,Basil,youmusttellme,”insistedDorianGray.“IthinkIhavearighttoknow.”Hisfeelingofterrorhadpassedaway,andcuriosityhadtakenitsplace.HewasdeterminedtofindoutBasilHallward’smystery. “Letussitdown,Dorian,”saidthepainter,lookingtroubled.“Letussitdown.Andjustanswermeonequestion.Haveyounoticedinthepicturesomethingcurious?—somethingthatprobablyatfirstdidnotstrikeyou,butthatrevealeditselftoyousuddenly?” “Basil!”criedthelad,clutchingthearmsofhischairwithtremblinghandsandgazingathimwithwildstartledeyes. “Iseeyoudid.Don’tspeak.WaittillyouhearwhatIhavetosay.Dorian,fromthemomentImetyou,yourpersonalityhadthemostextraordinaryinfluenceoverme.Iwasdominated,soul,brain,andpower,byyou.Youbecametomethevisibleincarnationofthatunseenidealwhosememoryhauntsusartistslikeanexquisitedream.Iworshippedyou.Igrewjealousofeveryonetowhomyouspoke.Iwantedtohaveyoualltomyself.IwasonlyhappywhenIwaswithyou.Whenyouwereawayfromme,youwerestillpresentinmyart....Ofcourse,Ineverletyouknowanythingaboutthis.Itwouldhavebeenimpossible.Youwouldnothaveunderstoodit.Ihardlyunderstooditmyself.IonlyknewthatIhadseenperfectionfacetoface,andthattheworldhadbecomewonderfultomyeyes—toowonderful,perhaps,forinsuchmadworshipsthereisperil,theperiloflosingthem,nolessthantheperilofkeepingthem....Weeksandweekswenton,andIgrewmoreandmoreabsorbedinyou.Thencameanewdevelopment.IhaddrawnyouasParisindaintyarmour,andasAdoniswithhuntsman’scloakandpolishedboar-spear.Crownedwithheavylotus-blossomsyouhadsatontheprowofAdrian’sbarge,gazingacrossthegreenturbidNile.YouhadleanedoverthestillpoolofsomeGreekwoodlandandseeninthewater’ssilentsilverthemarvelofyourownface.Andithadallbeenwhatartshouldbe—unconscious,ideal,andremote.Oneday,afataldayIsometimesthink,Ideterminedtopaintawonderfulportraitofyouasyouactuallyare,notinthecostumeofdeadages,butinyourowndressandinyourowntime.Whetheritwastherealismofthemethod,orthemerewonderofyourownpersonality,thusdirectlypresentedtomewithoutmistorveil,Icannottell.ButIknowthatasIworkedatit,everyflakeandfilmofcolourseemedtometorevealmysecret.Igrewafraidthatotherswouldknowofmyidolatry.Ifelt,Dorian,thatIhadtoldtoomuch,thatIhadputtoomuchofmyselfintoit.ThenitwasthatIresolvednevertoallowthepicturetobeexhibited.Youwerealittleannoyedbutthenyoudidnotrealizeallthatitmeanttome.Harry,towhomItalkedaboutit,laughedatme.ButIdidnotmindthat.Whenthepicturewasfinished,andIsatalonewithit,IfeltthatIwasright....Well,afterafewdaysthethingleftmystudio,andassoonasIhadgotridoftheintolerablefascinationofitspresence,itseemedtomethatIhadbeenfoolishinimaginingthatIhadseenanythinginit,morethanthatyouwereextremelygood-lookingandthatIcouldpaint.EvennowIcannothelpfeelingthatitisamistaketothinkthatthepassiononefeelsincreationiseverreallyshownintheworkonecreates.Artisalwaysmoreabstractthanwefancy.Formandcolourtellusofformandcolour—thatisall.Itoftenseemstomethata