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[wildesgrey]

When they entered, they found hanging upon the wall a splendid portrait of their master as they had last seen him, in all the wonder of his exquisite youth and beauty. Lying on the floor was a dead man, in evening dress, with a knife in his heart. He was withered, wrinkled, and loathsome of visage. It was not till they had examined the rings that they recognised who it was.

— Oscar Wilde, The Picture of Dorian Gray

[wildesgrey]

After about a quarter of an hour, he got the coachman and one of the footmen and crept upstairs. They knocked, but there was no reply. They called out. Everything was still. Finally, after vainly trying to force the door, they got on the roof, and dropped down on to the balcony. The windows yielded easily: the bolts were old.

— Oscar Wilde, The Picture of Dorian Gray

[wildesgrey]

Inside, in the servants’ part of the house, the half-clad domestics were talking in low whispers to each other. Old Mrs. Leaf was crying, and wringing her hands. Francis was as pale as death.

— Oscar Wilde, The Picture of Dorian Gray

[wildesgrey]

“Whose house is that, constable?” asked the elder of the two gentlemen.

“Mr. Dorian Gray’s, Sir,” answered the policeman.

They looked at each other, as they walked away, and sneered. One of them was Sir Henry Ashton’s uncle.

— Oscar Wilde, The Picture of Dorian Gray

[wildesgrey]

The house was all dark, except for a light in one of the top windows. After a time, he went away, and stood in the portico of the next house and watched.

— Oscar Wilde, The Picture of Dorian Gray

[wildesgrey]

There was a cry heard, and a crash. The cry was so horrible in its agony that the frightened servants woke, and crept out of their rooms. Two gentlemen, who were passing in the square below, stopped, and looked up at the great house. They walked on till they met a policeman, and brought him back. The man rang the bell several times, but there was no answer. 

— Oscar Wilde, The Picture of Dorian Gray

[wildesgrey]

As it had killed the painter, so it would kill the painter’s work, and all that that meant. It would kill the past, and when that was dead he would be free. He seized it, and stabbed the canvas with it, ripping the thing right up from top to bottom.

— Oscar Wilde, The Picture of Dorian Gray

[wildesgrey]

He looked round, and saw the knife that had stabbed Basil Hallward. He had cleaned it many times, till there was no stain left upon it. It was bright, and glistened. 

— Oscar Wilde, The Picture of Dorian Gray

[wildesgrey]

When he had been away, he had been filled with terror lest other eyes should look upon it. It had brought melancholy across his passions. Its mere memory had marred many moments of joy. It had been like conscience to him. Yes, it had been conscience. He would destroy it.

— Oscar Wilde, The Picture of Dorian Gray

[wildesgrey]

He would destroy it. Why had he kept it so long? It had given him pleasure once to watch it changing and growing old. Of late he had felt no such pleasure. It had kept him awake at night. 

— Oscar Wilde, The Picture of Dorian Gray

[wildesgrey]

And this murder—was it to dog him all his life? Was he never to get rid of the past? Was he really to confess? No. There was only one bit of evidence left against him. The picture itself. That was evidence.

— Oscar Wilde, The Picture of Dorian Gray

[wildesgrey]

It was an unjust mirror, this mirror of his soul that he was looking at. Vanity? Curiosity? Hypocrisy? Had there been nothing more in his renunciation than that? There had been something more. At least he thought so. But who could tell?

— Oscar Wilde, The Picture of Dorian Gray

[wildesgrey]

Yet it was his duty to confess, to suffer public shame, and to make public atonement. There was a God who called upon men to tell their sins to earth as well as to Heaven. Nothing that he could do would cleanse him till he had told his own sin. His sin? He shrugged his shoulders. The death of Basil Hallward seemed very little to him. He was thinking of Hetty Merton.

— Oscar Wilde, The Picture of Dorian Gray

[wildesgrey]

There was no trace of the murdered man anywhere. Everything belonging to him had been destroyed. He himself had burned what had been below-stairs. The world would simply say he was mad. They would shut him up if he persisted in his story.

— Oscar Wilde, The Picture of Dorian Gray

[wildesgrey]

Confess? Did it mean that he was to confess? To give himself up, and be put to death? He laughed. He felt that the idea was monstrous. Besides, who would believe him, even if he did confess? 

— Oscar Wilde, The Picture of Dorian Gray

[wildesgrey]

Why was the red stain larger than it had been? It seemed to have crept like a horrible disease over the wrinkled fingers. There was blood on the painted feet, as though the thing had dripped; blood even on the hand that had not held the knife.

— Oscar Wilde, The Picture of Dorian Gray

[wildesgrey]

Had it been merely vanity that had made him do his one good deed? Or the desire of a new sensation, as Lord Henry had hinted, with his mocking laugh? Or that passion to act a part that sometimes makes us do things finer than we are ourselves? Or, perhaps, all these?

— Oscar Wilde, The Picture of Dorian Gray