The Picture of Dorian Gray

Chapter XX

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Dorian Gray · Ch. XXpage 1 of 14
That is Dorian Gray. I'm tired of hearing my own name. Back in the village, no one knew who I was. Hetty loved me. She believed I was poor. I told her once that I was wicked. She laughed. Wicked people, she said, are always very old and very ugly. The day he painted me, I wished it: let the picture grow old, and let me stay young forever. Since then it has carried my years, and my sins. Dorian — The world is changed because you are made of ivory and gold. The curves of your lips rewrite history. Killing Basil, who painted me, was a moment's madness. Nothing more. I will be good. At least I left her as innocent as I found her. Maybe my good deed has changed the painting? It must have. No better. Worse. Does it mean I must confess? Ha! My sin? It's an unjust mirror, this mirror of my soul. Why did I spare her? Vanity? Curiosity? Hypocrisy. You've been my conscience. Not for much longer. This knife killed the painter. Now it will kill his work, and the past. Then I'll be free. Aaaaah— Whose house is that, Constable? Mr. Dorian Gray’s, sir. Inside, in the servants’ part of the house… Aaaaah— Mr. Gray! Sir!