At home he thought about his conversation with Lord Henry. Could he really change he wondered? He had lived an evil life and had destroyed other people’s lives as well. Was there any hope for him?
Why had he ever made that wish about the picture? He had kept his youth and beauty, but he had paid a terrible price for it. His beauty had destroyed his soul. He picked up a mirror and stared at his face. What was he now? A face without a heart. Suddenly he hated his own beauty and dropped the mirror on the floor where it broke into many small pieces.
James Vane, Basil Hallward, Sybil Vane – these deaths were not important to him now. It was better not to think of the past. Nothing could change that. He must think of himself. ‘Perhaps,’ he thought, ‘if I live a better life the picture will become less ugly.’ He remembered the pretty village girl – he had not destroyed her young life. He had done one good thing. Perhaps, the picture had already begun to look better.
He went quietly upstairs to the locked room. Yes, he would live a good life and he need not be afraid of any more of the evil face of his soul. But when he uncovered the picture he gave a cry of pain. There was no change. The face in the picture was still terrible - more hateful, if possible, than before – and the red on the hand seemed brighter like new blood.
He stared at the picture with hate and fear in his eyes. Years ago he had loved to watch it changing and growing old; now he couldn’t sleep because of it. It had stolen every chance of peace or happiness from him. He must destroy it.
He looked round and saw the knife that had killed Basil Hallward. ‘Now it will kill the artist’s work,’ he said to himself. ‘it will kill the past and when that is dead, I will be free.’ He picked up the knife and dug it into the picture.
There was a terrible cry and a loud crash. The servants woke, and two passing gentlemen who were passing in the road below stopped and looked up at the house. A policeman came by and they asked him:
‘Whose house is that?’
‘Mr. Dorian Gray’s, sir’ was the answer.
The two gentlemen looked at each other then turned away from the house and walked on.
Inside the house the servants talked in low, frightened voices. After some minutes they went up to the room. They knocked but there was no reply. They called out. Nothing. They could not open the door so they climbed down from the roof and got in through the window. Against the wall they saw a fine portrait of the young Dorian Gray, in all his wonderful youth and beauty. Lying on the floor, was a dead man, with a knife in his heart. His face was old and ugly, and yellow with disease.
Only the rings on his fingers told them who he was.