Lord Henry Wotton had set himself early in life to the serious study...
of the great aristocratic art of doing absolutely nothing.
He lived only for pleasure...
but his greatest pleasure was to observe the emotions of his friends...
while experiencing none of his own.
He diverted himself by exercising a subtle influence on the lives of others.
Eighteen, I think you said, sir.
- Shall I wait, sir? - Yes.
Among Lord Henry's friends was the painter Basil Hallward.
He had been strangely secretive about his latest painting...
and Lord Henry, sensing a mystery...
determined to discover what it was that his friend wished to conceal.
I'm sorry, my lord, Mr. Hallward is not at home.
Mr. Hallward doesn't wish to be disturbed.
It's your best work, Basil. The best thing you've ever done.
Of course, I can't believe that anyone is really as handsome as that portrait.
Who is he? What's his name? Why are you being so secretive about it?
It's a great painting.
You ought to send it to the Grosvenor and let everyone admire it.
- I shall not send it anywhere. - But why?
I've put too much of myself into it.
I knew you'd laugh, but it's true all the same.
Well, there certainly isn't any resemblance between you and this young Adonis.
You have an intellectual expression, and intellect destroys the beauty of any face.
Don't flatter yourself, Basil. You're not in the least like him.
Of course I'm not like him. And I'm glad of it.
"The Wisdom of Buddha."
You always did have a passion for virtue, Basil.
Why are you glad you're not like him?
We suffer for what the gods give us...
and I'm afraid Dorian Gray will pay for his good looks.
Dorian Gray. Is that his name?
Yes. I didn't intend to tell it to you.
If I'm going to keep visiting you, I'll have to send some good sherry.
- Why didn't you intend to tell me his name? - I can't explain.
As I've grown older, I've come to love secrecy.
I suppose that sounds foolish to you.
Come into the garden. It doesn't sound foolish to me at all.
You forget that I am married and that the one charm of marriage...
is that it makes a life of deception absolutely necessary to both parties.
I believe you are really a very good husband, Harry...
but that you are thoroughly ashamed of your own virtues.
- Your cynicism is simply a pose. - Being natural is simply a pose...
and the most irritating pose I know. But you haven't answered my question.
I want to know the real reason why you won't exhibit Dorian Gray's picture.
There is really very little to tell, Harry. Besides, I'm afraid you will hardly believe it.
I can believe anything provided that it is quite incredible.
I'm afraid this will seem so.
There is something I can't quite understand.
- Something mystic about it. - Mystic?
I don't know how to explain it, but whenever Dorian poses for me...
it seems as if a power outside myself were guiding my hand.
It's as if the painting had a life of its own, independent of me.
That's why I'm not going to exhibit it.
It belongs rightfully to Dorian, and I shall give it to him.
I want to meet this extraordinary young man. I think we shall be friends.
I choose my friends for their good looks and my enemies for their good intellects.
A man cannot be too careful in his choice of enemies.
Harry, I despise your principles, but I do enjoy the way you express them.
I like persons better than principles...
and persons with no principles better than anything else.
- Now I remember. - Remember what, Harry?
- Where I heard the name of Dorian Gray. - Where was it?
Well, don't look so startled. It was at my Aunt Agatha's.
My aunt told me that she had discovered a wonderful young man...
who was going to help with her charities and that his name was Dorian Gray.
I pictured somebody with spectacles and lank hair...
tramping about on huge feet, and so I avoided meeting him.
That's a very common type of butterfly.
Limenitis sibylla. It hardly belongs in a gentleman's garden.
- I'm glad you didn't meet Dorian Gray. - Why?
I don't want you to meet him.
Who's that at your piano, Basil?
- You've come early today, Dorian. - Have I?
You must lend me these pieces, Basil. I want to learn them.
Depends on how you sit this afternoon.
I thought the picture was going to be done today.
It will be.
Please go on, Mr. Gray. You play brilliantly.
This is Lord Henry Wotton, Dorian. An old Oxford friend of mine.
My aunt has spoken to me about you.
You are one of her favorites and one of her victims too.
- You shouldn't go in for philanthropy. - Harry, I want to finish this picture.
Would you think it rude if I asked you to go away?
Am I to go, Mr. Gray?
- Stay and tell me why not philanthropy. - You don't really mind, do you, Basil?
You've told me that you liked your sitters to have someone to chat to.
Sit down then, Harry.
Now, Dorian, get up on the platform...
and don't pay any attention to what Lord Henry says.
He has a bad influence over his friends, with the single exception of myself.
Have you really a bad influence, Lord Henry?
There's no such thing as a good influence, Mr. Gray.
- All influence is immoral. - Why?
Because the aim of life is self-development.
To realize one's nature perfectly.
That's what we're here for.
A man should live out his life fully and completely...
give form to every feeling, expression to every thought...
reality to every dream.
Every impulse that we suppress broods in the mind and poisons us.
There's only one way to get rid of a temptation and that's to yield to it.
Resist it and the soul grows sick...
with longing for the things it has forbidden to itself.
There is nothing that can cure the soul but the senses.
Just as there is nothing that can cure the senses but the soul.
Turn your head a little more to the left, Dorian.
The gods have been good to you, Mr. Gray.
Why do you say that?
You have the most marvelous youth...
- ...and youth is the one thing worth having. - I don't feel that, Lord Henry.
You don't feel it now, but some day you'll feel it terribly.
What the gods give, they quickly take away.
Time is jealous of you, Mr. Gray.
Don't squander the gold of your days. Live. Let nothing be lost upon you.
Be afraid of nothing.
There is such a little time that your youth will last...
and you can never get it back.
As we grow older, our memories are haunted...
by the exquisite temptations we hadn't the courage to yield to.
The world is yours for a season.
It would be tragic if you realized too late...
as so many others do...
that there is only one thing in the world worth having, and that is youth.
Dorian Gray had never heard the praise of folly so eloquently expressed.
The creed of pleasure soared into a philosophy of life...
while Dorian stood as if he were under a spell.
He felt afraid of Lord Henry's ideas and ashamed of himself for being afraid.
It was as if he were learning to know himself for the first time...
as if a stranger had revealed his own most secret thoughts to him.
For the first time he became conscious of his youth...
and conscious of the fact that one day he would lose it.
My visit hasn't been wasted.
I've found a rare and beautiful butterfly, Euvanesse antiope.
It's very unusual in England. Don't you think it's beautiful, Mr. Gray?
- Yes, Lord Henry, very beautiful. - You may sit down now, Dorian.
I'm glad you met Lord Henry.
- Are you glad, Mr. Gray? - I'm glad now.
- I wonder if I shall always be glad. - "Always"?
That's a dreadful word. It makes me shudder to hear it.
Women are so fond of using it.
They spoil every romance by trying to make it last forever.
The only difference between a caprice and a life-long passion is...
the caprice lasts a little longer.
But I believe our hostess has appeared.
You're just in time, darling...
to witness my signature to Dorian's painting.
Could I sign it too?
Well, I think you're entitled to. Since you haven't missed a sitting.
Here.
G for Gladys.
Which do you prefer, Gladys, Dorian Gray or his picture?
I like Dorian best.
Heh. You prefer him today, but when you are a young lady...
and are turning all the heads in London, you may prefer the portrait.
For it will look just as it does today, but we shall all be changed.
And not for the better. Your uncle and I and even Dorian.
Dorian won't change.
Dorian will stay just as he is until I'm grown.
Won't you, Dorian?
Of course I shall, darling.
You may say goodbye now, precious. Nanny's waiting. Come along. Hurry.
- On your way. - What about me, young lady?
Has Dorian Gray stolen you from me completely?
- Goodbye, Lord Henry. - Heh.
When this is known, I shall be torn to shreds in every drawing room in London.
Don't you think a gentleman should remove his hat...
in the presence of a lady, Parker?
I never take off my hat except when I'm out of doors.
She'll be as lovely as your sister was, Basil.
Yes.
But I'm afraid Dorian has stolen her heart from me too.
I must congratulate you, Basil. Look at yourself, Mr. Gray.
As I grow old, this picture will remain always young.
If it were only the other way.
If it were I who was always to be young and the picture that was to grow old.
You would hardly care for such an arrangement, Basil.
- It would be hard lines on your work. - I should object strongly.
You oughtn't to express such a wish in the presence of that cat, Dorian.
It's one of the 73 great gods of Egypt and is quite capable of granting your wish.
Lord Henry is right.
I know now that when one loses one's youth, one loses everything.
Perhaps a cup of tea will bring you around. You'll have some, too, won't you, Harry?
Or do you object to such simple pleasures?
I adore simple pleasures. They're the last refuge of the complex.
It's more than a painting. It's part of myself.
As soon as you're varnished and framed, Dorian, you will be sent home.
You can do whatever you like with yourself.
Better send along the Egyptian cat. The god and the picture shouldn't be separated.
I will, if Dorian wants it.
If only the picture could change, and I could be always what I am now.
For that I would give everything.
Yes, there's nothing in the whole world I would not give.
I would give my soul for that.
Dorian began to venture alone on warm summer evenings...
into surroundings which were strange to him.
Filled with curiosity about places and people remote from his own experience...
he wandered to the half-world of London...
the words of Lord Henry vibrating in his mind.
"Live. Let nothing be lost upon you. Be afraid of nothing."
The Two Turtles is honored by the visit of a gentleman.
If you please, sir.
I give you the sweetheart of the Two Turtles.
Our own Sibyl Vane!
Snow was very plentiful And crumbs were very few
When a weather-beaten sparrow
Through a mansion window flew
Her eye fell on a golden cage
A sweet love song she heard
Sung by a pet canary there
A handsome yellow bird
He said to her, "Miss Sparrow I've been struck by Cupid's arrow
Will you share my cage with me?"
She looked up at his castle
With its ribbon and its tassel
And in plaintive tones said she
"Goodbye, little yellow bird
I'd rather brave the cold
On a leafless tree
Than a prisoner be
In a cage of gold"
I'd gladly introduce you, sir, but she's proud.
She won't meet anybody.
Come, my delightful dove.
Descend and make a pilgrimage with me among these mortals.
The spoiled and petted yellow bird
Could scarce believe it true
That a common sparrow should refuse
A bird with blood so blue
He told her the advantages Of riches and of gold
She answered that her liberty
For gold could not be sold
She said, "I must be going" But he cried, "No, no, it's snowing
And the wintry winds so blow
Stay with me, my little dearie
For without you, it would be dreary"
But she only sighed, "Ah, no"
"Goodbye, little yellow bird
I'd gladly mate with you
I love you, little yellow bird
But I love my freedom too
So goodbye, little yellow bird
I'd rather brave the cold
On a leafless tree
Than a prisoner be
In a cage
Of gold"
She's taken with you, sir. Say the word and I'll take you backstage.
Thank you, no.
Night after night Dorian went to the Two Turtles to watch Sibyl Vane.
A patron of the arts, Mrs. Vane.
He's come to the Two Turtles each evening for a fortnight.
He wants to tell you how much he admires your daughter.
If you will permit me, I have a request to make.
You're very kind, sir.
Miss Vane, will you sing "The Little Yellow Bird" for me now?
She will, sir, gladly.
But there's no one to play for me. Everyone's gone.
I think I might manage the accompaniment.
You will, won't you, dearie?
Yes.
On one condition.
Please.
I apologize for my daughter.
So goodbye, little yellow bird
I'd rather brave the cold
On a leafless tree
Than a prisoner be
In a cage of gold
It's wonderful. Did...? Did you write it?
Frederic Chopin wrote it for a woman he loved.
Her name was George Sand. Someday I'll tell you about them.
I should like that.
What did the music mean to you?
I don't know. It is full of emotion.
But it's not happy.
No, it's not happy.
Why was he unhappy?
Perhaps because he felt his youth slipping away from him.
- What an odd thing for you to say. - Why?
- You are so young. - Yes.
And you also.
What is the music called? Has it a name?
A kind of name. It is called "Prelude."
- Is this the way you watch Sibyl, Mother? - You don't understand, James.
I wish I wasn't going to Australia.
I'd cancel it if my articles hadn't been signed.
I want Sibyl to make a brilliant marriage. Actresses marry into the upper classes.
- I almost did myself. - Who is this young dandy? What's his name?
Oh, I don't know his name, but he's rich.
What's his name, Sibyl? How often has he been here?
- What are his intentions? - I don't know.
But I do know his name. It is Sir Tristan.
You don't know his name and yet you permitted him to...
Your brother's right, Sibyl, you ought not to have permitted such familiarity.
He is good. I know it. There is no evil in him.
- Did you see his face? - No, but I wish I had.
If he ever does you any wrong, I'll track him down and kill him.
Jim! You're foolish, Jim. Utterly foolish.
You talk like one of the melodramas Mother used to act in.
That was when acting was understood. I received a lot of attention in those days.
All I say is watch over Sibyl, Mother. Watch over her while I'm gone.
Jim.
You're going away tonight.
The ship will take you far away over the dark waters.
Don't let me remember you angry and troubled.
That's better.
Can't you read what people are in their faces?
You think I'm silly when I call him Sir Tristan.
But to me he's like one of King Arthur's knights...
that we used to read about when we were children...
who took the vow of chivalry to battle against all evil-doers.
To defend the right to protect all women.
To be true in friendship and faithful in love.
You can't go wrong with this one, sir. I've never heard a sweeter warbler.
Little yellow bird.
- Late as usual, Harry. - Please forgive me, Aunt Agatha.
Punctuality is the thief of time, Harry says.
Victoria, darling, how nice.
I love coming to your house, Aunt Agatha.
It's one of the few places I'm likely to meet my husband.
Oh, I'm always dropping it.
Mr. Gray has something terribly important to tell you, Harry.
We're all dying to learn what it is.
I imagine it can wait until luncheon is over.
I'm vexed with you, Harry.
Why do you try to persuade Mr. Gray to give up the East End?
He's a wonderful musician, and they love his playing.
The East End is a very important problem.
Quite so. It's the problem of slavery, and we try to solve it by amusing the slaves.
I suspect we're interested in the poor...
in order to amuse ourselves.
Especially as we grow older and are unfit for other amusements.
Lord Henry, I wish you would tell me how to become young again.
Can you remember any great errors that you committed in your early days?
- A great many, I fear. - Then commit them over again.
To regain one's youth, one has merely to repeat one's follies.
A delightful theory.
- A dangerous theory. - One of the great secrets of life.
Most people die of a creeping common sense...
and discover too late that the only things one never regrets are one's mistakes.
But surely if one lives for oneself, one pays a terrible price for doing so.
Yes, we are overcharged for everything now.
- One has to pay in other ways than money. - What sort of ways, Sir Thomas?
I should fancy in remorse, in suffering, in... Well, in the consciousness of degradation.
No civilized man ever regrets a pleasure...
and no uncivilized man ever knows what a pleasure is.
I know what pleasure is. It's to adore someone.
In that case, I think I can guess what it is you have to tell me.
But adoring someone is better than being adored.
Being adored is a nuisance. You will discover...
that women treat us just as humanity treats its gods.
They worship us and keep bothering us to do something for them.
Harry, you're incorrigible.
You must admit that women give men the very gold of their lives.
But they invariably want it back in such small change.
Women, as a witty Frenchman put it...
inspire us with the desire to do masterpieces and prevent us from carrying them out.
I don't understand you.
You seem to know us women awfully well, Lord Henry.
I am analyzing women at present.
The subject is less difficult than I was led to believe.
Women represent the triumph of matter over mind...
just as men represent the triumph of mind over morals.
These views are horrifying, Lady Agatha.
I did not expect to hear the devil's advocate at your table.
I apologize for the intelligence of my remarks, Sir Thomas.
I'd forgotten that you were a member of parliament.
You will forgive me, Lady Agatha, if I leave at once.
Before the quail, Sir Thomas? The first quail of the season?
I ordered them especially for you.
No, surely not before the quail, Sir Thomas.
Think with the Liberals and eat with the Tories. Isn't that the rule?
How men argue. I can never make out what they're talking about.
Do sit down, Sir Thomas.
Lord Henry's ideas are demoralizing and delightful.
They're not to be taken seriously.
I confess, I never could resist Lady Agatha's quail.
Well, Dorian, what have you to tell me that is so important?
From what you said at luncheon, my guess is that you've fallen in love.
I'm engaged to be married.
Now that we're on our way, perhaps you'll tell me where we're going.
- Grosvenor Square, Number Seven. - It's Dorian we're going to see?
We're going to pick him up and then see the young woman he's engaged to marry.
- Dorian engaged? To whom, Harry? - To an actress in a cheap vaudeville.
An actress. With dyed hair and a painted face?
Don't run down dyed hair and painted faces.
- There's an extraordinary charm in them. - But surely you can't be serious.
- I hope I shall never be more serious. - You don't approve.
- You can't possibly. - I never approve or disapprove of anything.
Dorian falls in love with a beautiful girl and proposes to marry her. Why not?
Every experience is of value.
Whatever can be said against marriage, it's certainly an experience.
Dorian will make this girl his wife.
Six months later, he'll become infatuated with someone else.
- You think he could be so unfaithful? - Faithfulness is merely laziness.
Number Seven, sir.
I've been watching for you.
Go to Lower Euston Road, Number 22.
Lower Euston Road, sir?
- Lower Euston Road. - Yes, sir.
They're always surprised when I give them that address. Hurry.
I want you to get there in time to meet her before she sings.
I hope you'll always be as happy as you are at this moment, Dorian.
Thank you, Basil. Our engagement is still a dead secret.
- She's not even told her mother. - What will your guardian say?
Lord Radley will be furious. But there's nothing he can do.
May I ask you a question?
At what particular point did you mention marriage?
I didn't make any formal proposal, Harry.
I told her I loved her, and she said she was not worthy to be my wife.
- "Not worthy." - Women are wonderfully practical.
In situations of that kind, we often forget to say anything about marriage and they remind us.
Sibyl has made me forget your poisonous theories.
- Which theories? - Your theories about life, about pleasure.
Pleasure is the only thing worth having a theory about.
It's nature's sign of approval.
When we're happy, we're always good. When we're good, we're not always happy.
Sibyl is the answer to all your cynicism, Harry.
I believe you'll understand that when you see her.
So goodbye, little yellow bird
I'd rather brave the cold
On a leafless tree
Than a prisoner be
In a cage of gold
This marriage is quite right. I didn't think so at first...
but the moment we met her, I was convinced.
She's charming and innocent, transparently so.
- I knew you would say that. - She's all that you say, but I don't agree.
I believe she loves you so much, you have no need to marry her.
What wickedness are you contemplating now?
I ought to be angry with you, Harry, but I'm much too happy.
All I know is that Sibyl is sacred to me.
It's only the sacred things that are worth touching.
I begin to find you disgusting. Don't listen to him, Dorian.
Don't worry, Basil. I'm immune to his ideas now.
In that case, I needn't tell you how I should proceed if I were in your place.
What would you do? I'm curious to know.
Well, I should invite her to come to my house to see Basil's portrait.
When she said it was time for her to go, I should ask her not to leave.
She'd be shocked, of course. I'd pretend to be disappointed in her.
If she still wished to go, I'd become cold and indifferent.
I'd, ask her to let herself out...
saying that I couldn't bear sad farewells.
But if she left, then I'd believe her to be as good as she is beautiful...
and I'd beg her forgiveness and marry her.
I've always thought your wickedness a pose.
I know better now. You're an unmitigated cad.
Will you try my experiment, Dorian?
Miss Vane. Miss Vane, has Sir Tristan, as you have so charmingly called him...
ever invited you to see the wonderful portrait that Basil Hallward has made of him?
No, he hasn't. I should love to see it. May I?
Of course you may, darling. Tonight, if you wish.
I shall always remember this room, just as it is now.
The lamplight, you at the piano, my own happiness.
Your clock thinks it's time for me to go home.
Clocks can't help being disagreeable.
They think it's their duty.
It's that cat.
I thought I saw its eyes move.
Perhaps you did.
Lord Henry says it's one of the 73 great gods of Egypt.
- Doesn't it frighten you? - It does a little. Listen to this.
Dawn follows Dawn, and Nights grow old And all the while this curious cat
Lies couching on the Chinese mat With eyes of satin rimmed with gold.
Get hence, you loathsome mystery! Hideous animal, get hence!
You wake in me each bestial sense You make me what I would not be.
You make my creed a barren sham
You wake foul dreams of sensual life
What a strange poem. Who wrote it?
A brilliant young Irishman out of Oxford.
His name is Oscar Wilde.
Why do you look at me so strangely?
What would you do, Sibyl, if I should say to you...
"Don't leave me now, don't go home"?
What would you do, Sibyl?
I suppose I should have expected a conventional reaction.
Good night, then.
Good night.
You don't mind letting yourself out, do you? I can't bear sad farewells.
A wise friend warned me that your innocence...
upon which I would have staked my life...
would fail to meet the test I set before you.
I called his wisdom cynicism, but now I know better.
You have killed my love.
You have been false, not to me...
but to the ideal I had formed of you.
You used to stir my imagination. Now you are nothing to me.
I will never see you again. I will never mention your name.
I will never think of you. Henceforth, I shall live only for pleasure.
Everything else is meaningless.
And if this leads me to the destruction of my soul...
then it is only you who are responsible.
Do not try to see me.
I shall leave England and not return for a long time.
I am sending with this letter a gift of money...
which will compensate you for any disappointment you may feel.
I have been living in a land of illusions.
Now, I shall make an end of dreams.
My real life begins.
My own life, in which you cannot possibly have any part.
Five minutes, Miss Vane.
In spite of himself, Dorian was troubled by what he had done.
His uneasy conscience made him avoid those he knew...
and all night he had wandered alone through the dimly lit streets...
and evil-looking houses of the London half-world.
When at last he returned to his silent, shuttered house in Mayfair...
he could not overcome a sense of something ominous impending.
His eye fell on the portrait Basil Hallward had painted of him.
In the dim, shaded light...
the face appeared to him to be a little changed.
The expression looked somehow different.
One would have said that there was a touch of cruelty in the mouth.
It was very strange.
There was no doubt that the whole expression had altered.
The lines of cruelty about the mouth were unmistakable.
There was no such expression on his face.
If only the picture could change, and I could be always as I am now.
For that I would give everything.
Yes, there is nothing in the whole world I would not give.
I would give my soul for that.
But, surely, his wish had not been fulfilled.
Such things were impossible. It was monstrous even to think of it.
What if someone else observed the horrible change, his valet, perhaps?
What if Basil Hallward came and asked to look at his own picture?
But he was being ridiculous. This was a mere hallucination.
An illusion brought on by his troubled senses.
The picture had not changed. He was mad to think so.
A painted canvas could not alter.
He would look at it again after he had slept, when he was calmer...
and he would laugh at this fantastic idea.
But in the afternoon when he returned to examine the portrait again...
fantastic as the idea was...
his memory of that cruel look was disturbingly vivid.
It was true. The expression had altered.
There was no doubt of it. It was incredible, and yet it was a fact.
Was this portrait to become for him the emblem of his own conscience?
Would it teach him to loathe his own soul?
But if this painting was to be his conscience made visible...
then he would let it instruct him.
He would give it no reason to reproach him.
He would live purely and nobly.
He had been cruel to Sibyl Vane. But it was not too late to make that right.
She could still be his wife.
He would marry her. They could be happy together.
He implored her forgiveness. He blamed himself.
He gave way to the luxury of self-reproach.
When he finished the letter, he felt that he had been forgiven.
Dorian, let me in. I must see you.
Open the door, Dorian. I'll not go away until I see you.
Dorian, let me in.
You shouldn't lock yourself in like this, Dorian. I'm sorry for it all, dreadfully sorry.
- You mean about Sibyl Vane? - Yes, of course.
It's all right now. I'm actually grateful to you.
I've learned to know myself better.
I know you will sneer at me, but from now on, I'm going to do as my conscience bids me.
- What on earth are you talking about? - About Sibyl Vane. I'm going to marry her.
- Marry her? - I know what you're going to say.
Something cynical about marriage. Don't say it.
Two weeks ago, I asked Sibyl to marry me. I'm not going to break my word to her.
- Then you don't know. - Know what?
- Haven't you read the morning papers? - No, I haven't.
What is it, Harry? What's happened?
Sibyl Vane is dead.
That's why I hurried here. I didn't want you to see anyone until I came.
When I found you'd locked yourself in, I assumed you knew about it.
There'll be an inquest. You mustn't get involved.
They don't know your name at the theater, I suppose, so it's all right.
Did Sibyl?
- Tell me everything, Harry. - It was obviously not an accident.
Though I suppose it must be put that way to the public.
Half past 12 or so, she was leaving the theater with her mother...
when she said she'd forgotten something and went back to her dressing room.
She didn't come down again. They found her on the floor.
She'd swallowed something. By mistake, they say.
She died instantaneously.
It's tragic, but you mustn't let yourself brood over it.
You must learn to see it in its proper perspective.
You must put it out of your mind. Come and dine with me.
Afterwards, we'll look in at the opera. Don Giovanni.
Everybody'll be there, and you can come to my sister's box.
So I have murdered Sibyl Vane...
- ...as surely as if I'd cut her throat. - I can't see why you should blame yourself.
I suppose she foolishly thought she'd lost you.
But no woman destroys herself who isn't already unbalanced...
Where do you keep your sherry?
If you'd married this girl, you would've been wretched,
and so in time would she have been.
I assure you, the whole thing would have been an absolute failure.
I remember your saying there's a fatality about good resolutions.
They're always made too late.
- Mine certainly were. - You should look upon this tragedy...
as an episode in the wonderful spectacle of life.
What is it that has really happened? Someone has killed herself for love of you.
I wish that I'd had such an experience.
The women who have admired me... There have been some.
- have insisted on living on long after I have ceased to care for them...
or they to care for me. They've become stout and tedious.
When I meet them, they go in for reminiscences.
That awful memory of woman. Drink, it'll make you feel better.
I found myself sitting next to such a woman the other night.
She once proposed to sacrifice the whole world for me.
Always a dreadful moment. It fills one with the terror of eternity.
It happened years ago, but she dragged the whole thing out again...
and she assured me that I'd spoiled her life. However, she ate an enormous dinner.
Not one of the women I've known would have done for me what Sibyl Vane did for you.
But you haven't told me yet if you will dine with me.
I don't feel up to it, Harry.
Then perhaps you'll join me later at the opera.
My sister's box number is 27. It's on the Grand Tier.
You'll see her name on the door. I hope to see you before half past 9.
I don't want you to miss de Reszke in the duet.
I'm sorry, Mr. Hallward. Mr. Gray isn't in. He's gone to the opera.
- To the opera? - Yes, sir. Is there any message, sir?
No. No, I'll come by in the morning.
But in the morning...
Dorian no longer wanted the consolation of his friend...
nor his reproaches.
His pride and his sense of guilt prompted him...
to assume an air of indifference.
Hello, Basil. Sorry to keep you.
- Have you had breakfast? - Yes, I have, thank you.
I'm famished. You don't mind if I have a bite while we talk?
Of course not.
You went to the opera while Sibyl Vane was lying dead in some sordid lodging?
- What is past is past. - You call yesterday the past?
It's 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, enjoy them, and dominate them.
Something has changed you completely, Dorian.
You look exactly the same.
You talk as if you had no heart, no pity in you.
You've come too late.
If you had come in yesterday at a particular moment...
about half past 5 or a quarter to 6...
you would've seen how deeply I was affected.
Even Harry, who brought me the news, had no idea what I was going through.
I suffered immensely. Then it passed away.
I cannot repeat an emotion. No one can.
This isn't you talking, Dorian. These are Harry's ideas.
It has nothing to do with Harry.
I suppose Harry didn't give you that yellow book I saw on your table.
- What's wrong with it? - Everything.
It's vile, evil, corrupt, decadent. I detest it.
What would you like me to read, Basil?
Since you asked me.
- "The Light of Asia." - I'm never without it.
- The story of Buddha, isn't it? - The story of Buddha, a good man.
- Promise me you'll read it, Dorian. - I promise.
You've done a sketch of Sibyl. It's charming. May I have it?
Of course. I must go now, Dorian.
I'm relieved to find you in such good spirits, in spite of what has happened.
Thank you, Basil. It's good of you to be so concerned.
Before I go, I'd like to look at the painting I did of you.
There's a screen in front of it.
I thought the room looked different when I came in.
The light was too strong on the portrait.
Surely not.
It's an admirable place for it.
Wait.
You must not look at it.
Not look at my own work? You're not serious.
- Why shouldn't I look at it? - I don't offer any explanation...
and you're not to ask for any, but if you try to look at that picture...
on my word of honor, I will never speak to you again.
What on earth is the matter with you? I'm planning to exhibit it next month.
- That's why I wanted to look at it. - Exhibit it?
But you told me a month ago, you would never exhibit it.
You told Harry the same thing.
At that time the painting had a strange fascination for me.
It seemed almost to have a life of its own.
It affected me so much, I felt I couldn't let it be seen publicly.
Perhaps you've seen the same mysterious quality in it, Dorian?
Have you noticed something curious in the painting?
Something that at first did not strike you, but that revealed itself to you suddenly?
- I see you did. - I saw something in it.
Something that seemed to be very curious.
You were right.
There can be something fatal about a portrait.
I think I understand what you feel about it.
And I respect your wishes.
Perhaps someday you'll recover from it, as I did.
At any rate, I'll certainly not let it destroy our friendship.
I'm glad of that.
Goodbye, Dorian.
Goodbye, Basil.
It had been mad of him to allow the thing to remain, even for an hour...
in a room to which any of his friends had access.
Henceforth, he must be on his guard against everyone.
At the top of the house was his old schoolroom...
which had not been used for years.
No one ever entered it.
Nothing was in it but his old school books and his toys...
gathering dust and cobwebs.
The picture could be safely hidden away there.
He could lock it up. He himself would keep the key.
There was no need for the servants ever to enter the room.
He would have to let Victor go, and the others.
He must bring new servants into the house.
In this room, every moment of his childhood...
and its stainless purity came back to him.
Here among the innocent souvenirs of his childhood...
the hideous portrait would be forever hidden away.
The face painted in the canvas could grow bestial, sodden and unclean.
No one would ever see it. No one, except himself.
He was to have eternal youth...
while the portrait bore the burden of his shame.
He was caught in an evil destiny.
As the years passed, the miracle of Dorian's changeless youth...
caused wonder but rarely suspicion.
Even those who had heard the most evil things against him...
the strange rumors about his mode of life...
which spread through London and became the chatter of the clubs...
could not believe anything to his dishonor when they saw him.
He had always the look of one...
who had kept himself unspotted from the world.
But while he fascinated many, there were not a few who distrusted him.
Curious stories were current about him.
It was rumored that he had been seen in a low den...
in the distant parts of Whitechapel.
His extraordinary absences became notorious...
and when he reappeared again in society, men would whisper to each other...
in corners, or pass him with a sneer, or look at him with cold, searching eyes.
Some of those who had been most intimate with him...
appeared after a time to shun him.
Women who, for his sake, had set convention at defiance...
were seen to grow pale if Dorian Gray entered the room.
He could not endure to be long out of England...
or to be separated from the picture, it was such a part of his life.
He was afraid that during his absence...
someone might gain access to the room where it was hidden.
Then, suddenly, some night he would go down...
to dreadful places near Bluegate Fields, and stay there, day after day.
When he had recovered from these visits to the abyss...
he would stand in front of the picture, sometimes loathing it and himself...
but filled at other times with that pride of individualism...
that is half the fascination of evil.
He would examine with minute care the hideous lines...
that scarred the wrinkling forehead...
or crawled around the heavy sensual mouth...
wondering which were more horrible, the signs of sin or the signs of age.
He found reasons to justify his actions.
He told himself that man was a being with myriad lives and myriad sensations.
To live a simple, sincere, honest life was hardly to live at all.
Was insincerity such a terrible thing? Dorian thought not.
It was merely a method by which we could multiply our personalities.
Yet, there was one person towards whom he found it difficult to be insincere.
It was Basil Hallward's niece, Gladys, who had loved him since she was a child.
Goodbye, little yellow bird
I'd rather brave the cold
On a leafless tree
Than a prisoner be
In a cage of gold
I was close by and came in for a moment. I found this old song in your piano bench.
It's charming.
So is the face that my uncle sketched on it.
He did do it, didn't he? I know his style so well.
Did she sing this song?
Who is she? Do tell me about her.
She died many years ago, when you were only a little girl.
Did you love her very much, Dorian?
Yes.
Goodbye, Dorian. I'm looking forward to your party tonight.
I'm sure it will be wonderful. Your parties always are.
I'm not really as lovely as that picture, am I, darling?
Of course not.
I think I've discovered why Dorian hasn't proposed to me.
And I've decided what to do about it.
And what have you decided to do about it?
I'm going to ask him to marry me, tonight, perhaps.
What about David Stone?
You think he'd take you to Dorian's party...
- ...if he knew your intentions? - Of course he would.
Nothing petty about David, but I don't intend to tell him.
- No, don't tell David. - David, you cad.
I never thought you'd be an eavesdropper.
Don't be alarmed about Dorian Gray. I'm the one Gladys will marry.
Of course, I have nothing to say about it.
- I wouldn't let you marry that devil. - I'll not have you say anything against him.
I don't have to. There are plenty of others to say it.
Lies and jealousy. There's no evil in Dorian. Anybody can see that by looking at him.
He hasn't asked you yet.
You heard what I said. I'm going to ask him myself.
- In front of all those people, I suppose. - I'll get him alone. It's a big house.
- Good night, sir. - Good night, David.
What's wrong, Dorian? Why don't you answer me?
Is there something else? Something I don't know about?
You must have heard the stories they tell of me.
- Don't they frighten you? - I don't believe them.
- Suppose I were to tell you that they're true. - I will never believe anything evil of you.
What do you know of evil?
I only know there is none in you.
If you had some great trouble, Dorian, I would want to share it.
If I were to marry you, it would be an incredible wickedness.
Is that a way of saying you don't love me?
If you like.
It's very beautiful, Dorian. Thank you.
Would you find David for me?
I must go now.
I've been exploring your house, Dorian.
You don't mind, do you? It's better than a museum.
I see.
You must have some priceless possessions in that room if you keep them locked up.
May I see them sometime?
What rare things have you stored away there, Dorian?
Skeletons of inquisitive guests.
- I suspected as much. - I want to leave now, David.
- Of course. - Good night, Dorian.
- Good night. - Good night.
Good night.
It was the ninth of November, the eve of his own 38th birthday...
as Dorian often remembered afterwards.
He was walking home about 11:00 from Lord Henry's...
where he had been dining.
A strange sense of fear for which he could not account...
came over him at the sight of Basil Hallward...
and prevented him from making any sign of recognition.
Dorian.
I thought it was you or your fur coat, but I wasn't sure.
- Didn't you recognize me? - In this fog?
I can't even recognize Grosvenor Square.
My house is somewhere about here, but I'm not certain of it.
I've been waiting for you in your library ever since 9:00.
Finally, I took pity on your man and told him to go to bed.
I'm off to Paris on the midnight train, and I wanted to see you before I left.
It's luck running into you like this.
I haven't seen you in ages. I suppose you'll be back soon.
No. I shall be out of England for several months.
I'm going to take a studio in Paris and shut myself up...
until I finish a picture I have in my head.
Gladys is coming over to join me later on. May I come in for a moment?
Won't you miss your train?
It doesn't leave until 12:15, and it's only just 11.
I was on my way to the club to look for you. There won't be any delay about my luggage...
as I've sent on my heavy things. All I have with me is in this bag.
Come in, or the fog will get into the house.
I hope you're not going to talk about anything serious.
Nothing is serious nowadays. At least nothing should be.
What I have to say to you is serious, Dorian.
Don't frown like that. You make it so much more difficult for me.
I hope it's not about myself.
I'm tired of myself.
It is about yourself and I must say it to you.
- I'll only keep you half an hour. - You sound terrifying, Basil.
It's for your sake I'm speaking.
I think you should know the things that are being said against you in London.
I don't want to know them. I love scandals about other people...
but scandals about myself don't interest me. They lack novelty.
You must be interested in your own reputation.
Mind you, I don't believe these rumors. I can't believe them when I see you.
There aren't any secret vices.
Such things write themselves across a man's face.
You, with your untroubled youth...
I find it hard to credit anything against you.
When I hear all these hideous things that people whisper about you...
I don't know what to say.
I absolve you from the necessity of defending me.
You can't dismiss these charges so lightly.
Why does a man like the Duke of Harwick leave the room of a club when you enter it?
Not because he knows anything about my life, but because I know everything about his.
But why are your friendships so fatal to people?
There was that wretched boy in the Guards who committed suicide.
What about Adrian Singleton and Lord Wayne's son?
What gentleman will be seen with either of them?
The boy in the Guards was so in love with a woman...
he felt he couldn't live without her. Am I to blame for that?
Wayne's silly son marries a woman no one will receive. Is that my fault?
Adrian Singleton writes his friend's name across a bill.
Am I his keeper?
Still, one has a right to judge a man by the effect he has on his friends.
Yours seem filled with an insatiable madness for pleasure.
And when I think of how fond Gladys is of you.
- What has Gladys to do with this? - Nothing, I hope.
And nothing in the future, if I can prevent it.
I'm told things it seems impossible to doubt.
Lord Wallace was one of my greatest friends at Oxford.
He showed me a letter that his wife had written when she was dying in her villa at Montone.
Your name was implicated in the most terrible confession I ever read.
I told him it was absurd...
that I knew you, and that you were incapable of anything of the kind.
"Know." Do I know you?
Before I could answer that, I should have to see your soul.
- To see my soul? - Yes. To see your soul.
But only God can do that.
You shall see it yourself, tonight.
Why shouldn't you look at it? It's your own handiwork.
You can tell the world afterward if you like.
No one will believe you. You've chatted enough about corruption.
Now you'll look at it.
I'll show you my soul.
I can make no sense out of what you're saying, Dorian.
I only ask you to give me some answer to the charges that are made against you.
Tell me they aren't true, and I'll believe you.
Come upstairs, Basil. I keep a diary of my life from day to day.
It never leaves the room in which it is written.
I'll show it to you.
I don't want to read anything. All I want is a plain answer to my question.
You'll find that upstairs. You won't have to read long.
You're the one man in the world who's entitled to know everything about me.
You've had more to do with my life than you think.
You think it's only God who sees the soul.
In spite of the indescribable corruption of the portrait...
Basil was still able to recognize his painting of Dorian.
It was from within apparently that the foulness and horror came.
It was as if some moral leprosy were eating the thing away.
He could not believe that he had made this portrait...
yet there was his own name, just as he had painted it.
But this is monstrous. It's beyond nature, beyond reason.
What does it mean?
On the day you finished this painting, I made a wish.
Perhaps you would call it a prayer.
My wish was granted.
But you told me you had destroyed my painting.
- I was wrong. It has destroyed me. - It has the eyes of a devil.
Each of us has heaven and hell in him.
But if this is true, if this is what you have done with your life...
it is far worse than anything that's been said of you.
Do you know how to pray, Dorian?
What is it we were taught to say in our boyhood?
Lead us not into temptation. Forgive us our sins.
Wash away our iniquities. Let us say them together.
- It's too late, Basil. - The prayer of your pride was answered.
The prayer of your repentance may be answered also.
Do you think I haven't tried? I tell you, it's no use.
Isn't there a verse somewhere?
Though your sins be as scarlet, yet I will make them white as snow.
Only last week, Gladys recalled the day this painting was finished.
She remembered putting her initial under my signature.
There it is, just as she made it.
If she could see it now.
I can still pray, Dorian, if you can't.
Gladys must never know.
Yet sometime, somehow, Basil might reveal his secret to her.
The one person in the world whose good opinion was indispensable to him.
An uncontrollable feeling of hatred for Basil came over him...
together with a terror of the knowledge he had given him...
and the use he might make of it.
Panic seized him. He felt like a hunted animal, cornered, desperate.
It was as if the painting had sweated a dew of blood.
He felt that he had struck a mortal blow, not only at his friend but at himself.
It seemed to him unbearable...
that what he had done could never be undone.
Basil was dead.
Men were strangled in England for what he had done.
And yet what evidence was there against him?
Basil had left the house at 11. No one had seen him come in again.
Most of the servants were at Selby. His valet had gone to bed.
Paris.
It was to Paris that Basil had gone by the midnight train as he had intended.
I'm sorry to wake you, Francis. I forgot my latchkey.
What time is it?
- Half past 12, sir. - Half past 12.
You must wake me at 9 in the morning. I have some work to do.
Yes, sir.
Did anyone call this evening?
Mr. Hallward, sir. He stayed till 11 and then he went to catch his train.
He said he was leaving for Paris.
I'm sorry I didn't see him. Did he leave any message?
He said he would write you from Paris if he didn't find you at your club.
- Thank you, Francis. - Is there anything more, sir?
I'm going to write a letter. I'd like you to deliver it early in the morning.
Mr. Allen Campbell. You'll find the address on the envelope.
Yes, sir. Good night, sir.
In the morning, when Allen Campbell received his letter, he would come.
He would come at once.
Allen would help him. He was the only one who could help him now.
But what if Allen Campbell should be out of England?
Days would pass before he could come back.
Perhaps he would refuse to come.
Mr. Allen Campbell, sir.
This is kind of you, Allen.
You said it was a matter of life and death.
Listen to this.
I sent my Soul through the Invisible
Some letter of that After-life to spell:
And by and by my Soul return'd to me
And answer'd "I Myself am Heav'n and Hell:"
That's quite good, don't you think?
I didn't come here to discuss the verses of Omar Khayyam.
No, of course not. Please sit down, Allen. I'll tell you why I sent for you.
Allen, in a locked room at the top of this house...
a room to which no one but myself has access...
a dead man is lying across a table.
He's been dead for 10 hours.
Who he is, why he died, how he died, are matters that do not concern you.
- What you must do is... - There's no need for you to go on.
Your horrible secrets don't interest me.
They'll have to interest you.
You are the one man who is able to save me.
You are scientific, Allen.
I have seen your name in scientific reviews in connection with certain experiments.
What has that to do with you?
What you have got to do is to destroy the thing that is upstairs.
Destroy it so that not a vestige is left.
Nobody saw this person come into the house. He is supposed to be in Paris.
When he is missed, not a trace of him must be found here.
You must change him and everything that belongs to him...
including his coat and his traveling bag, which I have locked up in this room...
into a handful of ashes.
You must be insane to suppose I'd lift a finger to help you.
- It was suicide, Allen. - What drove him to it?
You won't do this for me?
How can you ask me, of all men, to mix myself up in this horror?
Allen, it was murder. I killed him.
He was responsible for the ruin of my life.
He didn't intend it, but the result was the same.
You are certain to be caught.
No man commits a crime without doing something stupid.
- I'll have no part of it. - We were friends once, Allen.
I regret that.
Don't you understand that if you don't help me, I'm lost?
- They will hang me for what I have done. - Let them.
- You refuse? - Yes.
- I entreat you. - It's useless.
I'm sorry, Allen. You leave me no alternative.
I've written a letter. Here it is.
You see the address.
If you don't help me, I must send it. If you don't help me, I will send it.
You know what the result will be.
The thing is quite simple, Allen.
It would kill her.
I didn't think you would want her name involved in such a scandal.
I cannot do it.
You have no choice.
I shall have to go home and get some things from the laboratory.
You've saved my life.
Dorian dined that evening with Lady Narborough...
who had what Lord Henry described as...
the remains of a really remarkable ugliness.
You left early last night, Dorian.
Did you go straight home, or did you go to the club?
Why are you so inquisitive, Harry? I came in at half past 12.
If you want any corroborative evidence, you can ask my man.
- Remember your promise, Lord Henry. - There are two hours unaccounted for...
I suspect will bear investigation. Or perhaps they will not.
You've hardly touched my beautiful dinner, Lord Henry.
I believe you're in love.
I haven't been in love. Not since Madame de Farrol left.
- Madame de Farrol? - She's a wonderful woman.
When her third husband died, her hair turned quite gold from grief.
What's her fourth husband like?
Husbands of beautiful women belong to the criminal classes.
I'm not surprised that the world says you're wicked.
What world says that, Lady Narborough? It can only be the next world.
This world and Harry are on excellent terms.
Everyone I know says he's wicked.
It's monstrous the way people go about nowadays...
saying things behind one's back that are absolutely and entirely true.
Women love us for our defects.
If we have enough of them, they'll forgive us anything, even our intellects.
At any rate, no one'll ever persuade me that Mr. Gray is wicked.
And I shall never forgive him for remaining a bachelor.
Don't you think we ought to find a wife for Mr. Gray?
I'm always telling him so.
I shall go through Debrett tonight...
and draw out a list of all the eligible young ladies.
- With their ages? - Only slightly edited.
I want it to be a suitable alliance. I want you both to be happy.
I shall save you the trouble of looking.
I have already chosen her, if she will have me.
I don't believe it.
Gladys, darling. Will you marry me?
Of course I will, darling.
This is the only marriage I've ever approved of.
- How exciting. - That is a stunner.
- I'm so happy for you. - I congratulate you both.
For months, the mysterious disappearance of Basil Hallward...
was the sensation of London.
You don't mind if I go on with my work while we talk?
- Not at all. - It's a matter of some urgency.
- Tell me what you discovered in France. - We discovered nothing, nothing at all.
We hunted up everyone even remotely acquainted with my uncle...
but not one had seen him or heard from him.
The Paris police don't believe he ever arrived in France.
And here, at Scotland Yard, we're equally convinced he did leave London.
The man in the gray ulster who boarded the train at Victoria Station...
was undoubtedly Basil Hallward.
What are we to do now?
You're both young. I understand you're engaged to marry.
Go on with your own lives peacefully. Believe me, that's the best course.
I promise you, Scotland Yard will not forget Basil Hallward.
I thought it might be good for Gladys to go away for a while.
It would be.
I'm going to Selby tomorrow.
I've persuaded Gladys to join me with some friends on Thursday.
Others are coming for the pheasant shooting. We'd be delighted if you'd join us.
Oh, I'm afraid I can't get away. But I'm glad you're going.
The diversion will do you good.
Thank you, Sir Robert. You've been very kind.
Not at all.
Mr. Gray?
Are you acquainted with a young man named Allen Campbell?
Why, yes. At one time we were great friends.
It's been a long time since I've seen him. Why do you ask?
I've just received a very tragic notice.
This morning, Allen Campbell died by his own hand.
- Why on earth should Allen Campbell? - Why, indeed.
I thought you might give me a clue. He had everything to live for.
He was just beginning to achieve a name for himself in science.
He left no note or letter, no explanation of any sort?
None. Whatever drove him to it, he took the secret with him.
How little we really know of what goes on inside a man.
Yes.
You've been sad all evening. Is it Allen Campbell?
- Perhaps. - I'm sorry.
Let's be married soon, in a fortnight.
A simple wedding with only our closest friends.
A fortnight? You call that soon?
Good night, darling.
I'll come to Selby on Thursday afternoon with Janet.
I'll be at the station.
Allen Campbell.
Would Allen's blood be on the painting now?
There were other roads to forgetfulness than the one that Allen took.
- Where to, sir? - Bluegate Fields.
Yes, sir.
One day we shall be awakened with suffering and dismay...
to the realization that the soul is not a superstition.
Nor the spirit of man, a material substance that can be viewed under a microscope.
The eternal words are as true today as when he uttered them.
What shall it profit a man if he gain the whole world...
and lose his soul?
The soul is not an illusion.
It is a terrible reality.
It can be bought and sold and bartered away.
It can be poisoned or made perfect.
That man, rich or poor, who has the light of faith and charity within himself...
even though he were plunged into the very pit of darkness...
would still enjoy the clear light of day.
But the wretched creature whose soul is filled with dark thoughts...
and foul deeds must dwell in darkness.
Even though he walk under the noonday sun...
he must carry his own vile dungeon round with him.
What's that you're playing?
It has a name, hasn't it?
A kind of name.
It's called "Prelude."
Play something else.
Why you do not like that music?
I heard someone play that piece before.
- Eighteen years ago. - A woman?
Every time I get back to London, I look for him.
"Sir Tristan," my sister called him. Because he was like a knight.
If he was in Rangoon or Valparaiso, I'd find him.
But in London, it's like looking for a needle in a haystack.
I don't know his real name.
I don't even know what he looks like.
And when you find him, what will you do?
Maybe he's dead already. Did you think of that?
I'll keep on looking.
You're not English.
What is English?
There are men and there are women.
This is Sir Tristan, Kate darling.
I've asked you not to call me that, Adrian.
I heard Lord Henry call you Sir Tristan, and at the time I thought it fit.
- Why do we never see you? - I have all I need here.
Drink and drugs and no friends.
I've had too many friends.
Oh, he's drawing a picture of you, sir. Come and look at it.
What would you like? A song, a poem, a painting?
I do all three surpassingly well.
It seems to me there's something lacking.
I have it.
But grim to see
Is the gallows-tree
Goodbye, Adrian.
And, green or dry, a man must die Before it bears its fruit!
Goodbye, Sir Tristan.
What did you call him?
Sit down.
I'll draw your picture for the price of three drinks.
- Four drinks. - Sir Tristan, you said.
And Sir Tristan rode forth into the forest, seeking his only love.
He has gone to kill your friend.
Justice has come to England...
without wig or gown.
Come on, Kate.
- If it's money you want... - I'm Sibyl Vane's brother.
- Does that mean anything to you? - No, nothing.
Why are you called Sir Tristan?
It happens to be my name.
You're lying. Eighteen years I've been looking for you.
How old do you think I am?
Why didn't you murder him? They could only have hanged you for it.
He's not the man I'm looking for. He's too young.
- How old do you think he is? - Twenty-two, I'd say.
What are you laughing at?
Dorian Gray has looked 22 for the last 20 years.
What did you say his name was?
When a man says he's exhausted life, you may be sure that life has exhausted him.
But in your case, this strange impulse to be good...
is the effect of your approaching marriage.
It will wear off in time. Do you mind pulling down that blind?
Not at all. The truth is I want to be better. I'm determined to be better.
At least it will be a novel sensation, and needn't become a habit.
Marriage itself is merely a habit, a very bad habit.
I trust it won't make you a hopelessly reformed character.
Harry, I've been away so long. What are people talking about in London?
They were talking about Basil's disappearance.
But now they are completely taken up with Allen Campbell's suicide.
- What do you think happened to Basil? - I haven't the slightest.
I suppose in a fortnight, we shall be told that he's been seen in San Francisco.
Everyone who disappears is said to be seen in San Francisco.
It must be a delightful city and possess the attractions of the next world.
He was a fine painter. I'm certain of that.
The best thing that Basil ever did was that wonderful portrait of you.
I remember you told me it was stolen or destroyed or something.
What is your secret?
You don't look a day older than you did when that portrait was painted.
Perhaps I'll tell you some day.
To get back my youth, I'd do anything in the world...
except get up early, take exercise or be respectable.
I sometimes think I'd give anything if I could change and grow old like other people.
My good resolutions may have come too late.
Though Dorian placed guards about the estate...
the consciousness of being hunted, snared, tracked down...
began to dominate him.
In the small hours of the night...
when every sound is seized upon by the distraught imagination...
remorse and terror laid hold of him.
Each detail of his crimes came back to him in nightmares with added horror...
haunting him relentlessly with the living death of his soul.
With the day came the cruel necessity to dissemble to Gladys and to his guests.
- Have you had good sport, Geoffrey? - Not very good.
I think most of the birds have gone to the open.
It may be better after lunch, when we get to new ground.
- Don't shoot it, Geoffrey. - Nonsense!
Good heavens, I've hit a beater.
What an idiot the man was to get in front of the gun.
Stop shooting there. A man's hurt.
Where sir? Where is he?
Here. Why on earth don't you keep your men back?
Spoiled my shooting for the day.
The shooting's stopped for today. It wouldn't look well to go on.
- Is the man? - Yes, he's dead.
He received a full charge in his chest.
Thornton, come in.
I suppose you've come about the unfortunate accident this morning.
Was he married? Did he have any dependents? I'll write them any sum you think necessary.
We don't know who he is, sir. That's why I took the liberty of coming to you.
- Wasn't he one of your men? - No, sir. Never saw him before.
Seems like a sailor.
- A sailor. - Looks as if he'd been a sort of sailor.
Tattooed on both arms and that kind of thing.
Wasn't anything found on him? Anything that would tell his name?
Some money, not much, and a six-shooter.
No name of any kind.
Decent-looking man, sir. But rough-like. A sort of sailor, we think.
- Where is the body? - In an empty stable at the home farm, sir.
Show me his face.
Come in.
What is it, Dorian?
Oh, but you haven't changed. You'll be late for dinner.
I wanted to look at you.
I know, darling. I've felt that way so often about you.
- Goodbye, Gladys. - Goodbye? Until half past 8.
Until half past 8.
Go on.
- Shall I go on, sir? - Yes.
Dorian.
Dorian!
David. What brings you to Selby? Have you seen Dorian?
Well, what is it? What's happened?
Dorian's gone to London. Didn't you know?
David passed him on his way from the station.
- It's strange, his rushing away. - He looked black as thunder.
I thought he'd found out what I've been up to.
What have you been up to, David?
You'll put it down to jealousy. I don't deny jealousy's mixed up in it.
I had a dreadful presentiment about you.
And when you announced the date of your marriage, I...
I grew desperate. I wanted to do anything to try and stop it.
What is it you've done, David?
There is a locked room at the top of Dorian's house.
I didn't think it was important at first.
He could have locked up anything he wanted to keep safe...
from the servants even.
But then one of Dorian's valets came to see me about a position.
It struck me how often Dorian changed his servants.
This one told me that Dorian would go into that room at all hours and lock himself in.
One night he heard a noise and went to investigate. It was 4:00 in the morning.
Dorian came out of the room and looked at him in the strangest way.
As if he could kill him, he said.
Then he accused him of spying and sacked him.
I began to feel that if I could get into that room...
I might find something that would put a stop to this marriage.
And did you get in?
I bribed one of his servants to get me an impression of the lock.
Here's the key.
I waited until Dorian came down here to Selby and then I let myself in.
I know you'll despise me for stooping to such measures, but I'm not important.
It doesn't matter what happens to me or even what you think of me...
- ...if I can stop you from marrying him. - What did you find in the room?
Nothing to help me, really. It's just an old schoolroom.
And there's a huge portrait with a covering over it.
- A portrait? Of whom? - I don't know.
The original must be a monstrous person, if an original exists.
It has a vague family resemblance to Dorian. A sort of middle-aged, mad, gruesome uncle...
with a debauched face and blood all over him.
It was painted by your uncle.
- My uncle never painted such a picture. - He signed it.
I'd been counting so much on finding something...
that I decided it was just jealousy on my part...
and I'd been doing Dorian a great injustice.
I had an impulse to come down here and make a clean breast of it to both of you.
Give you my blessing and ask your forgiveness.
Can you describe the portrait in greater detail?
There's a curious cat in it. Like the one in Dorian's drawing room.
Only in the portrait the eyes shine in an evil way that's indescribable.
Did you notice anything unusual about the signature?
No, I don't think so.
Now that I see you, Gladys. I can't say what I intended to.
I'd be lying if I did.
I know this marriage is wrong. You can't go through with it.
There's something strange and evil in Dorian.
Was there a letter G under the signature on that painting, David?
Like this?
I believe there was. How did you know?
- Yes, Gibson? - I beg your pardon, miss.
But Mr. Gray asked me to bring you this letter when I got back from the station.
- He said I must give it to you in person. - Thank you.
Once I said that if I were to marry you...
it would be an incredible wickedness.
You thought it was a way of saying that I didn't love you.
You must know that I do love you, more than anything in the world.
But I can only bring disaster on those who love me.
If you knew how I've already wronged you, you would turn from me in horror.
You will never see me again.
Try to remember me, dear Gladys, without bitterness.
This is the only good thing I have ever done.
Won't you tell us what it is, Gladys? Perhaps we can help you.
We must go to London at once.
Was it true that one could never change?
He longed for the unstained purity of his youth...
before he had prayed in a monstrous moment of pride and passion...
that the painting should bear the burden of the years and of his corruption.
Sibyl Vane was dead.
And now her brother would be hidden in a nameless grave.
Allen Campbell had shot himself.
And Basil...
Nothing could alter that.
It was of the future that he must think.
He had spared Gladys.
Would there be any sign of his one good deed in the portrait?
It was there, almost imperceptible, but surely it was there in the eyes...
struggling through the horror and the loathsomeness.
There was hope for him, then.
He would go away, leave England forever, live obscurely in a distant country...
find peace in a life of humility and self-denial.
He would expel every sign of evil from the painted face.
He would watch the hideousness fade and change.
But the painting would always be there to tempt his weakness.
Better to destroy it...
to grow old inevitably as all men grow old.
If he fell into evil ways, to be punished as all men are punished.
Better if each sin of his life were to bring its sure, swift penalty.
The knife that had killed Basil Hallward would kill his portrait also...
and free him at a stroke from the evil enchantment of the past.
But when the knife pierced the heart of the portrait...
an extraordinary thing happened.
Pray, Father, forgive me. Pray, Father, forgive me for I have sinned.
Pray, Father, forgive me for I have sinned.
Through my fault, through my most grievous faults.
Heaven forgive me.
Take Gladys home, David.