feat_summary_path: finished_summaries/cliffnotes/The Picture of Dorian Gray/section_9_part_0.txt
feat_book_id: The Picture of Dorian Gray.chapter 9
feat_summary_id: chapter 9
feat_summary: {"name": "Chapter 9", "url": "https://web.archive.org/web/20201219150422/https://www.cliffsnotes.com/literature/p/the-picture-of-dorian-gray/summary-and-analysis/chapter-9", "summary": "While Dorian breakfasts the next morning, Basil arrives, upset about Sibyl's death and concerned for Dorian. Basil had come by Dorian's home the night before but was told that Dorian was at the opera. Basil cannot believe that Dorian could have gone to the opera so soon after Sibyl's suicide, and he is concerned that \"one tragedy might be followed by another.\" Dorian is bored and indifferent about Sybil. He tells Basil that Sibyl's mother has a son but that he has no idea how the woman is faring. Beyond that, he wants no more talk of \"horrid subjects.\" Instead, he asks about Basil's paintings. Basil is astonished at Dorian's indifference. He asks Dorian how he could attend the opera while Sibyl Vane lay dead but not yet buried. Dorian tries to interrupt. Echoing his mentor, Lord Henry, he observes that a person who is \"master of himself can end a sorrow as easily as he can invent a pleasure.\" Basil continues, saying that Dorian's attitude is \"horrible.\" He accuses Dorian of having no heart and blames the change in Dorian on Lord Henry's influence. Dorian retorts that he owes \"a great deal\" to Lord Henry, more than he owes to Basil, who \"only taught me to be vain.\" Basil sadly responds, \"Well, I am punished for that, Dorian -- or shall be some day,\" a major foreshadowing of events to come in the novel. Basil is even more distraught when he learns that Sibyl's death was a suicide. Dorian, however, again echoes Lord Henry by calling Sibyl's death \"one of the great romantic tragedies of the age.\" Besides, Dorian points out, he did grieve; however, he recalls, it soon passed. He repeats a self-serving anecdote about his own life and concedes that he has indeed changed. He admits that Basil may be \"better\" than Lord Henry, but the latter is stronger. Basil, he concludes, is too afraid of life. The subject turns to art. Dorian asks Basil to make a drawing of Sibyl, and Basil agrees to try making the portrait. More importantly, he asks Dorian to sit for him again. That would be impossible, says Dorian. Basil then asks to see the portrait because he now plans to exhibit it in Paris. Dorian is horrified that Basil wants to exhibit the portrait; he fears that his secret would be revealed to the whole world. Dorian reminds Basil of his promise never to exhibit the portrait and asks why he has changed his mind. Basil explains that he didn't want to exhibit the portrait for fear that others might see his feelings for Dorian in it. Since that time, he has come to the conclusion that \"art conceals the artist far more completely than it ever reveals him,\" and that he doesn't fear others seeing the portrait. Basil finally agrees not to exhibit the portrait and leaves. At the end of the chapter, Dorian marvels at how he was spared from telling his own secret and, instead, managed to manipulate his friend into telling his secret. He vows to keep the portrait hidden away forever.", "analysis": "Wilde uses this chapter to continue his character development of both Basil and Dorian. Basil shows himself to be a decent, caring human being who is as concerned for Sibyl and her mother as he is for Dorian. Unlike Lord Henry, he does not encourage Dorian to turn away from the girl's death or treat it like some entertaining fantasy. In a moment of heightened irony, Dorian accuses Basil of being \"too much afraid of life.\" In fact, Dorian is afraid that Basil will see the portrait and thus learn of his secret pact. As for Dorian, he shows himself to be fully immersed in his new life of selfishness and manipulation. For example, when Dorian learns of Basil's strange admiration for him, an admiration that has obviously had a major impact on Basil, Dorian is simply pleased to be adored by Basil. As he wonders if he will ever feel that way toward someone, it becomes evident that he already does -- while he respects Lord Henry, Dorian only adores himself. When he gets Basil to admit his secret without having to reveal his own, he feels pleasure at having manipulated the situation so completely to his own advantage. His decision at the end of the chapter to hide the painting reveals his commitment to a life of vanity and self-gratification. Wilde also shows the reader the tension that Dorian feels about keeping his pact a secret. Dorian becomes gripped with raging fear when he hears that Basil wants to see the painting and to show it to others -- he is so afraid that he actually breaks into a sweat. Dorian's fear points to an important theme in the book: A life devoted solely to the pursuit of selfish pleasure will always be marred by self-con-scious fear. Dorian has what he wants -- eternal youth and a life filled with pleasure -- but he can't fully enjoy his life for fear that his secret will be discovered. Dorian's fear in this chapter is the first sign that Dorian's new life will be a study in disappointment. Readers should note that this chapter contains several ironic allusions that become important later in the story. For example, Dorian makes a fleeting and flippant reference about Sibyl's brother; when Dorian mentions James, the reader is reminded of the brother's promise to kill anyone who harms Sybil. The repeated references to the brother remind the reader of his presence and foreshadow his later reemergence in the book. As the novel progresses, the reader also will see the irony in Dorian's statement that he would turn to Basil in a time of trouble. Glossary martyr one who suffers death rather than compromise principles; one who sacrifices greatly. philanthropist one who attempts to benefit mankind through charitable aid. ennui French, \"boredom.\" misanthrope a person who scorns or hates mankind. Gautier Theophile Gautier , French poet and critic. la consolation des arts French, \"the consolation of the arts.\" pallid ashen, or pale. Paris in Greek mythology, the son of King Priam of Troy and his wife, Hecuba; his choice of Helen as the winner of a beauty contest, and his refusal to return her, caused the Trojan War; later, he shot the arrow that caused the death of Achilles. Adonis in Greek mythology, a youth of astonishing beauty, favored by the goddess of love, Aphrodite. Adrian Publius Aelius Hadrianus , popularly known as Hadrian, or Adrian, Roman emperor ; had strong ties to Egypt and lost a close friend to drowning in the Nile. panegyrics praise."}
text: 
  As he was sitting at breakfast next morning, Basil Hallward was shown
  into the room.
  
  "I am so glad I have found you, Dorian," he said gravely.  "I called
  last night, and they told me you were at the opera.  Of course, I knew
  that was impossible.  But I wish you had left word where you had really
  gone to.  I passed a dreadful evening, half afraid that one tragedy
  might be followed by another.  I think you might have telegraphed for
  me when you heard of it first.  I read of it quite by chance in a late
  edition of _The Globe_ that I picked up at the club.  I came here at once
  and was miserable at not finding you.  I can't tell you how
  heart-broken I am about the whole thing.  I know what you must suffer.
  But where were you?  Did you go down and see the girl's mother?  For a
  moment I thought of following you there.  They gave the address in the
  paper.  Somewhere in the Euston Road, isn't it?  But I was afraid of
  intruding upon a sorrow that I could not lighten.  Poor woman!  What a
  state she must be in!  And her only child, too!  What did she say about
  it all?"
  
  "My dear Basil, how do I know?" murmured Dorian Gray, sipping some
  pale-yellow wine from a delicate, gold-beaded bubble of Venetian glass
  and looking dreadfully bored.  "I was at the opera.  You should have
  come on there.  I met Lady Gwendolen, Harry's sister, for the first
  time.  We were in her box.  She is perfectly charming; and Patti sang
  divinely.  Don't talk about horrid subjects.  If one doesn't talk about
  a thing, it has never happened.  It is simply expression, as Harry
  says, that gives reality to things.  I may mention that she was not the
  woman's only child.  There is a son, a charming fellow, I believe.  But
  he is not on the stage.  He is a sailor, or something.  And now, tell
  me about yourself and what you are painting."
  
  "You went to the opera?" said Hallward, speaking very slowly and with a
  strained touch of pain in his voice.  "You went to the opera while
  Sibyl Vane was lying dead in some sordid lodging?  You can talk to me
  of other women being charming, and of Patti singing divinely, before
  the girl you loved has even the quiet of a grave to sleep in?  Why,
  man, there are horrors in store for that little white body of hers!"
  
  "Stop, Basil!  I won't hear it!" cried Dorian, leaping to his feet.
  "You must not tell me about things.  What is done is done.  What is
  past is past."
  
  "You call yesterday the past?"
  
  "What has the actual lapse of time got to do with it?  It is only
  shallow people who require years to get rid of an emotion.  A man who
  is master of himself can end a sorrow as easily as he can invent a
  pleasure.  I don't want to be at the mercy of my emotions.  I want to
  use them, to enjoy them, and to dominate them."
  
  "Dorian, this is horrible!  Something has changed you completely.  You
  look exactly the same wonderful boy who, day after day, used to come
  down to my studio to sit for his picture.  But you were simple,
  natural, and affectionate then.  You were the most unspoiled creature
  in the whole world.  Now, I don't know what has come over you.  You
  talk as if you had no heart, no pity in you.  It is all Harry's
  influence.  I see that."
  
  The lad flushed up and, going to the window, looked out for a few
  moments on the green, flickering, sun-lashed garden.  "I owe a great
  deal to Harry, Basil," he said at last, "more than I owe to you.  You
  only taught me to be vain."
  
  "Well, I am punished for that, Dorian--or shall be some day."
  
  "I don't know what you mean, Basil," he exclaimed, turning round.  "I
  don't know what you want.  What do you want?"
  
  "I want the Dorian Gray I used to paint," said the artist sadly.
  
  "Basil," said the lad, going over to him and putting his hand on his
  shoulder, "you have come too late.  Yesterday, when I heard that Sibyl
  Vane had killed herself--"
  
  "Killed herself!  Good heavens! is there no doubt about that?" cried
  Hallward, looking up at him with an expression of horror.
  
  "My dear Basil!  Surely you don't think it was a vulgar accident?  Of
  course she killed herself."
  
  The elder man buried his face in his hands.  "How fearful," he
  muttered, and a shudder ran through him.
  
  "No," said Dorian Gray, "there is nothing fearful about it.  It is one
  of the great romantic tragedies of the age.  As a rule, people who act
  lead the most commonplace lives.  They are good husbands, or faithful
  wives, or something tedious.  You know what I mean--middle-class virtue
  and all that kind of thing.  How different Sibyl was!  She lived her
  finest tragedy.  She was always a heroine.  The last night she
  played--the night you saw her--she acted badly because she had known
  the reality of love.  When she knew its unreality, she died, as Juliet
  might have died.  She passed again into the sphere of art.  There is
  something of the martyr about her.  Her death has all the pathetic
  uselessness of martyrdom, all its wasted beauty.  But, as I was saying,
  you must not think I have not suffered.  If you had come in yesterday
  at a particular moment--about half-past five, perhaps, or a quarter to
  six--you would have found me in tears.  Even Harry, who was here, who
  brought me the news, in fact, had no idea what I was going through.  I
  suffered immensely.  Then it passed away.  I cannot repeat an emotion.
  No one can, except sentimentalists.  And you are awfully unjust, Basil.
  You come down here to console me.  That is charming of you.  You find
  me consoled, and you are furious.  How like a sympathetic person!  You
  remind me of a story Harry told me about a certain philanthropist who
  spent twenty years of his life in trying to get some grievance
  redressed, or some unjust law altered--I forget exactly what it was.
  Finally he succeeded, and nothing could exceed his disappointment.  He
  had absolutely nothing to do, almost died of _ennui_, and became a
  confirmed misanthrope.  And besides, my dear old Basil, if you really
  want to console me, teach me rather to forget what has happened, or to
  see it from a proper artistic point of view.  Was it not Gautier who
  used to write about _la consolation des arts_?  I remember picking up a
  little vellum-covered book in your studio one day and chancing on that
  delightful phrase.  Well, I am not like that young man you told me of
  when we were down at Marlow together, the young man who used to say
  that yellow satin could console one for all the miseries of life.  I
  love beautiful things that one can touch and handle.  Old brocades,
  green bronzes, lacquer-work, carved ivories, exquisite surroundings,
  luxury, pomp--there is much to be got from all these.  But the artistic
  temperament that they create, or at any rate reveal, is still more to
  me.  To become the spectator of one's own life, as Harry says, is to
  escape the suffering of life.  I know you are surprised at my talking
  to you like this.  You have not realized how I have developed.  I was a
  schoolboy when you knew me.  I am a man now.  I have new passions, new
  thoughts, new ideas.  I am different, but you must not like me less.  I
  am changed, but you must always be my friend.  Of course, I am very
  fond of Harry.  But I know that you are better than he is.  You are not
  stronger--you are too much afraid of life--but you are better.  And how
  happy we used to be together!  Don't leave me, Basil, and don't quarrel
  with me.  I am what I am.  There is nothing more to be said."
  
  The painter felt strangely moved.  The lad was infinitely dear to him,
  and his personality had been the great turning point in his art.  He
  could not bear the idea of reproaching him any more.  After all, his
  indifference was probably merely a mood that would pass away.  There
  was so much in him that was good, so much in him that was noble.
  
  "Well, Dorian," he said at length, with a sad smile, "I won't speak to
  you again about this horrible thing, after to-day.  I only trust your
  name won't be mentioned in connection with it.  The inquest is to take
  place this afternoon.  Have they summoned you?"
  
  Dorian shook his head, and a look of annoyance passed over his face at
  the mention of the word "inquest."  There was something so crude and
  vulgar about everything of the kind.  "They don't know my name," he
  answered.
  
  "But surely she did?"
  
  "Only my Christian name, and that I am quite sure she never mentioned
  to any one.  She told me once that they were all rather curious to
  learn who I was, and that she invariably told them my name was Prince
  Charming.  It was pretty of her.  You must do me a drawing of Sibyl,
  Basil.  I should like to have something more of her than the memory of
  a few kisses and some broken pathetic words."
  
  "I will try and do something, Dorian, if it would please you.  But you
  must come and sit to me yourself again.  I can't get on without you."
  
  "I can never sit to you again, Basil.  It is impossible!" he exclaimed,
  starting back.
  
  The painter stared at him.  "My dear boy, what nonsense!" he cried.
  "Do you mean to say you don't like what I did of you?  Where is it?
  Why have you pulled the screen in front of it?  Let me look at it.  It
  is the best thing I have ever done.  Do take the screen away, Dorian.
  It is simply disgraceful of your servant hiding my work like that.  I
  felt the room looked different as I came in."
  
  "My servant has nothing to do with it, Basil.  You don't imagine I let
  him arrange my room for me?  He settles my flowers for me
  sometimes--that is all.  No; I did it myself.  The light was too strong
  on the portrait."
  
  "Too strong!  Surely not, my dear fellow?  It is an admirable place for
  it.  Let me see it."  And Hallward walked towards the corner of the
  room.
  
  A cry of terror broke from Dorian Gray's lips, and he rushed between
  the painter and the screen.  "Basil," he said, looking very pale, "you
  must not look at it.  I don't wish you to."
  
  "Not look at my own work!  You are not serious.  Why shouldn't I look
  at it?" exclaimed Hallward, laughing.
  
  "If you try to look at it, Basil, on my word of honour I will never
  speak to you again as long as I live.  I am quite serious.  I don't
  offer any explanation, and you are not to ask for any.  But, remember,
  if you touch this screen, everything is over between us."
  
  Hallward was thunderstruck.  He looked at Dorian Gray in absolute
  amazement.  He had never seen him like this before.  The lad was
  actually pallid with rage.  His hands were clenched, and the pupils of
  his eyes were like disks of blue fire.  He was trembling all over.
  
  "Dorian!"
  
  "Don't speak!"
  
  "But what is the matter?  Of course I won't look at it if you don't
  want me to," he said, rather coldly, turning on his heel and going over
  towards the window.  "But, really, it seems rather absurd that I
  shouldn't see my own work, especially as I am going to exhibit it in
  Paris in the autumn.  I shall probably have to give it another coat of
  varnish before that, so I must see it some day, and why not to-day?"
  
  "To exhibit it!  You want to exhibit it?" exclaimed Dorian Gray, a
  strange sense of terror creeping over him.  Was the world going to be
  shown his secret?  Were people to gape at the mystery of his life?
  That was impossible.  Something--he did not know what--had to be done
  at once.
  
  "Yes; I don't suppose you will object to that.  Georges Petit is going
  to collect all my best pictures for a special exhibition in the Rue de
  Seze, which will open the first week in October.  The portrait will
  only be away a month.  I should think you could easily spare it for
  that time.  In fact, you are sure to be out of town.  And if you keep
  it always behind a screen, you can't care much about it."
  
  Dorian Gray passed his hand over his forehead.  There were beads of
  perspiration there.  He felt that he was on the brink of a horrible
  danger.  "You told me a month ago that you would never exhibit it," he
  cried.  "Why have you changed your mind?  You people who go in for
  being consistent have just as many moods as others have.  The only
  difference is that your moods are rather meaningless.  You can't have
  forgotten that you assured me most solemnly that nothing in the world
  would induce you to send it to any exhibition.  You told Harry exactly
  the same thing." He stopped suddenly, and a gleam of light came into
  his eyes.  He remembered that Lord Henry had said to him once, half
  seriously and half in jest, "If you want to have a strange quarter of
  an hour, get Basil to tell you why he won't exhibit your picture.  He
  told me why he wouldn't, and it was a revelation to me."  Yes, perhaps
  Basil, too, had his secret.  He would ask him and try.
  
  "Basil," he said, coming over quite close and looking him straight in
  the face, "we have each of us a secret.  Let me know yours, and I shall
  tell you mine.  What was your reason for refusing to exhibit my
  picture?"
  
  The painter shuddered in spite of himself.  "Dorian, if I told you, you
  might like me less than you do, and you would certainly laugh at me.  I
  could not bear your doing either of those two things.  If you wish me
  never to look at your picture again, I am content.  I have always you
  to look at.  If you wish the best work I have ever done to be hidden
  from the world, I am satisfied.  Your friendship is dearer to me than
  any fame or reputation."
  
  "No, Basil, you must tell me," insisted Dorian Gray.  "I think I have a
  right to know."  His feeling of terror had passed away, and curiosity
  had taken its place.  He was determined to find out Basil Hallward's
  mystery.
  
  "Let us sit down, Dorian," said the painter, looking troubled.  "Let us
  sit down.  And just answer me one question.  Have you noticed in the
  picture something curious?--something that probably at first did not
  strike you, but that revealed itself to you suddenly?"
  
  "Basil!" cried the lad, clutching the arms of his chair with trembling
  hands and gazing at him with wild startled eyes.
  
  "I see you did.  Don't speak.  Wait till you hear what I have to say.
  Dorian, from the moment I met you, your personality had the most
  extraordinary influence over me.  I was dominated, soul, brain, and
  power, by you.  You became to me the visible incarnation of that unseen
  ideal whose memory haunts us artists like an exquisite dream.  I
  worshipped you.  I grew jealous of every one to whom you spoke.  I
  wanted to have you all to myself.  I was only happy when I was with
  you.  When you were away from me, you were still present in my art....
  Of course, I never let you know anything about this.  It would have
  been impossible.  You would not have understood it.  I hardly
  understood it myself.  I only knew that I had seen perfection face to
  face, and that the world had become wonderful to my eyes--too
  wonderful, perhaps, for in such mad worships there is peril, the peril
  of losing them, no less than the peril of keeping them....  Weeks and
  weeks went on, and I grew more and more absorbed in you.  Then came a
  new development.  I had drawn you as Paris in dainty armour, and as
  Adonis with huntsman's cloak and polished boar-spear. Crowned with
  heavy lotus-blossoms you had sat on the prow of Adrian's barge, gazing
  across the green turbid Nile.  You had leaned over the still pool of
  some Greek woodland and seen in the water's silent silver the marvel of
  your own face.  And it had all been what art should be--unconscious,
  ideal, and remote.  One day, a fatal day I sometimes think, I
  determined to paint a wonderful portrait of you as you actually are,
  not in the costume of dead ages, but in your own dress and in your own
  time.  Whether it was the realism of the method, or the mere wonder of
  your own personality, thus directly presented to me without mist or
  veil, I cannot tell.  But I know that as I worked at it, every flake
  and film of colour seemed to me to reveal my secret.  I grew afraid
  that others would know of my idolatry.  I felt, Dorian, that I had told
  too much, that I had put too much of myself into it.  Then it was that
  I resolved never to allow the picture to be exhibited.  You were a
  little annoyed; but then you did not realize all that it meant to me.
  Harry, to whom I talked about it, laughed at me.  But I did not mind
  that.  When the picture was finished, and I sat alone with it, I felt
  that I was right.... Well, after a few days the thing left my studio,
  and as soon as I had got rid of the intolerable fascination of its
  presence, it seemed to me that I had been foolish in imagining that I
  had seen anything in it, more than that you were extremely good-looking
  and that I could paint.  Even now I cannot help feeling that it is a
  mistake to think that the passion one feels in creation is ever really
  shown in the work one creates.  Art is always more abstract than we
  fancy.  Form and colour tell us of form and colour--that is all.  It
  often seems to me that art conceals the artist far more completely than
  it ever reveals him.  And so when I got this offer from Paris, I
  determined to make your portrait the principal thing in my exhibition.
  It never occurred to me that you would refuse.  I see now that you were
  right.  The picture cannot be shown.  You must not be angry with me,
  Dorian, for what I have told you.  As I said to Harry, once, you are
  made to be worshipped."
  
  Dorian Gray drew a long breath.  The colour came back to his cheeks,
  and a smile played about his lips.  The peril was over.  He was safe
  for the time.  Yet he could not help feeling infinite pity for the
  painter who had just made this strange confession to him, and wondered
  if he himself would ever be so dominated by the personality of a
  friend.  Lord Henry had the charm of being very dangerous.  But that
  was all.  He was too clever and too cynical to be really fond of.
  Would there ever be some one who would fill him with a strange
  idolatry?  Was that one of the things that life had in store?
  
  "It is extraordinary to me, Dorian," said Hallward, "that you should
  have seen this in the portrait.  Did you really see it?"
  
  "I saw something in it," he answered, "something that seemed to me very
  curious."
  
  "Well, you don't mind my looking at the thing now?"
  
  Dorian shook his head.  "You must not ask me that, Basil.  I could not
  possibly let you stand in front of that picture."
  
  "You will some day, surely?"
  
  "Never."
  
  "Well, perhaps you are right.  And now good-bye, Dorian.  You have been
  the one person in my life who has really influenced my art.  Whatever I
  have done that is good, I owe to you.  Ah! you don't know what it cost
  me to tell you all that I have told you."
  
  "My dear Basil," said Dorian, "what have you told me?  Simply that you
  felt that you admired me too much.  That is not even a compliment."
  
  "It was not intended as a compliment.  It was a confession.  Now that I
  have made it, something seems to have gone out of me.  Perhaps one
  should never put one's worship into words."
  
  "It was a very disappointing confession."
  
  "Why, what did you expect, Dorian?  You didn't see anything else in the
  picture, did you?  There was nothing else to see?"
  
  "No; there was nothing else to see.  Why do you ask?  But you mustn't
  talk about worship.  It is foolish.  You and I are friends, Basil, and
  we must always remain so."
  
  "You have got Harry," said the painter sadly.
  
  "Oh, Harry!" cried the lad, with a ripple of laughter.  "Harry spends
  his days in saying what is incredible and his evenings in doing what is
  improbable.  Just the sort of life I would like to lead.  But still I
  don't think I would go to Harry if I were in trouble.  I would sooner
  go to you, Basil."
  
  "You will sit to me again?"
  
  "Impossible!"
  
  "You spoil my life as an artist by refusing, Dorian.  No man comes
  across two ideal things.  Few come across one."
  
  "I can't explain it to you, Basil, but I must never sit to you again.
  There is something fatal about a portrait.  It has a life of its own.
  I will come and have tea with you.  That will be just as pleasant."
  
  "Pleasanter for you, I am afraid," murmured Hallward regretfully.  "And
  now good-bye. I am sorry you won't let me look at the picture once
  again.  But that can't be helped.  I quite understand what you feel
  about it."
  
  As he left the room, Dorian Gray smiled to himself.  Poor Basil!  How
  little he knew of the true reason!  And how strange it was that,
  instead of having been forced to reveal his own secret, he had
  succeeded, almost by chance, in wresting a secret from his friend!  How
  much that strange confession explained to him!  The painter's absurd
  fits of jealousy, his wild devotion, his extravagant panegyrics, his
  curious reticences--he understood them all now, and he felt sorry.
  There seemed to him to be something tragic in a friendship so coloured
  by romance.
  
  He sighed and touched the bell.  The portrait must be hidden away at
  all costs.  He could not run such a risk of discovery again.  It had
  been mad of him to have allowed the thing to remain, even for an hour,
  in a room to which any of his friends had access.
  
  
  
feat_summary_name: Chapter 9
target: While Dorian breakfasts the next morning, Basil arrives, upset about Sibyl's death and concerned for Dorian. Basil had come by Dorian's home the night before but was told that Dorian was at the opera. Basil cannot believe that Dorian could have gone to the opera so soon after Sibyl's suicide, and he is concerned that "one tragedy might be followed by another." Dorian is bored and indifferent about Sybil. He tells Basil that Sibyl's mother has a son but that he has no idea how the woman is faring. Beyond that, he wants no more talk of "horrid subjects." Instead, he asks about Basil's paintings. Basil is astonished at Dorian's indifference. He asks Dorian how he could attend the opera while Sibyl Vane lay dead but not yet buried. Dorian tries to interrupt. Echoing his mentor, Lord Henry, he observes that a person who is "master of himself can end a sorrow as easily as he can invent a pleasure." Basil continues, saying that Dorian's attitude is "horrible." He accuses Dorian of having no heart and blames the change in Dorian on Lord Henry's influence. Dorian retorts that he owes "a great deal" to Lord Henry, more than he owes to Basil, who "only taught me to be vain." Basil sadly responds, "Well, I am punished for that, Dorian -- or shall be some day," a major foreshadowing of events to come in the novel. Basil is even more distraught when he learns that Sibyl's death was a suicide. Dorian, however, again echoes Lord Henry by calling Sibyl's death "one of the great romantic tragedies of the age." Besides, Dorian points out, he did grieve; however, he recalls, it soon passed. He repeats a self-serving anecdote about his own life and concedes that he has indeed changed. He admits that Basil may be "better" than Lord Henry, but the latter is stronger. Basil, he concludes, is too afraid of life. The subject turns to art. Dorian asks Basil to make a drawing of Sibyl, and Basil agrees to try making the portrait. More importantly, he asks Dorian to sit for him again. That would be impossible, says Dorian. Basil then asks to see the portrait because he now plans to exhibit it in Paris. Dorian is horrified that Basil wants to exhibit the portrait; he fears that his secret would be revealed to the whole world. Dorian reminds Basil of his promise never to exhibit the portrait and asks why he has changed his mind. Basil explains that he didn't want to exhibit the portrait for fear that others might see his feelings for Dorian in it. Since that time, he has come to the conclusion that "art conceals the artist far more completely than it ever reveals him," and that he doesn't fear others seeing the portrait. Basil finally agrees not to exhibit the portrait and leaves. At the end of the chapter, Dorian marvels at how he was spared from telling his own secret and, instead, managed to manipulate his friend into telling his secret. He vows to keep the portrait hidden away forever.
feat_summary_analysis: Wilde uses this chapter to continue his character development of both Basil and Dorian. Basil shows himself to be a decent, caring human being who is as concerned for Sibyl and her mother as he is for Dorian. Unlike Lord Henry, he does not encourage Dorian to turn away from the girl's death or treat it like some entertaining fantasy. In a moment of heightened irony, Dorian accuses Basil of being "too much afraid of life." In fact, Dorian is afraid that Basil will see the portrait and thus learn of his secret pact. As for Dorian, he shows himself to be fully immersed in his new life of selfishness and manipulation. For example, when Dorian learns of Basil's strange admiration for him, an admiration that has obviously had a major impact on Basil, Dorian is simply pleased to be adored by Basil. As he wonders if he will ever feel that way toward someone, it becomes evident that he already does -- while he respects Lord Henry, Dorian only adores himself. When he gets Basil to admit his secret without having to reveal his own, he feels pleasure at having manipulated the situation so completely to his own advantage. His decision at the end of the chapter to hide the painting reveals his commitment to a life of vanity and self-gratification. Wilde also shows the reader the tension that Dorian feels about keeping his pact a secret. Dorian becomes gripped with raging fear when he hears that Basil wants to see the painting and to show it to others -- he is so afraid that he actually breaks into a sweat. Dorian's fear points to an important theme in the book: A life devoted solely to the pursuit of selfish pleasure will always be marred by self-con-scious fear. Dorian has what he wants -- eternal youth and a life filled with pleasure -- but he can't fully enjoy his life for fear that his secret will be discovered. Dorian's fear in this chapter is the first sign that Dorian's new life will be a study in disappointment. Readers should note that this chapter contains several ironic allusions that become important later in the story. For example, Dorian makes a fleeting and flippant reference about Sibyl's brother; when Dorian mentions James, the reader is reminded of the brother's promise to kill anyone who harms Sybil. The repeated references to the brother remind the reader of his presence and foreshadow his later reemergence in the book. As the novel progresses, the reader also will see the irony in Dorian's statement that he would turn to Basil in a time of trouble. Glossary martyr one who suffers death rather than compromise principles; one who sacrifices greatly. philanthropist one who attempts to benefit mankind through charitable aid. ennui French, "boredom." misanthrope a person who scorns or hates mankind. Gautier Theophile Gautier , French poet and critic. la consolation des arts French, "the consolation of the arts." pallid ashen, or pale. Paris in Greek mythology, the son of King Priam of Troy and his wife, Hecuba; his choice of Helen as the winner of a beauty contest, and his refusal to return her, caused the Trojan War; later, he shot the arrow that caused the death of Achilles. Adonis in Greek mythology, a youth of astonishing beauty, favored by the goddess of love, Aphrodite. Adrian Publius Aelius Hadrianus , popularly known as Hadrian, or Adrian, Roman emperor ; had strong ties to Egypt and lost a close friend to drowning in the Nile. panegyrics praise.