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"I see you did. Don't speak. Wait till you hear what I have to say. It is quite true that I have worshipped you with far more romance of feeling than a man usually gives to a friend. Somehow, I had never loved a woman. I suppose I never had time. Perhaps, as Harry says, a really 'grande passion' is the privilege of those who have nothing to do, and that is the use of the idle classes in a country. Well, from the moment I met you, your personality had the most extraordinary influence over me. I quite admit that I adored you madly, extravagantly, absurdly. I was jealous of everyone to whom you spoke. I wanted to have you all to myself. I was only happy when I was with you. When I was away from you, you were still present in my art. It was all wrong and foolish. It is all wrong and foolish still. 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 absorbed in you. Then came a new development. I had drawn you as Paris in dainty armour, and as Adonis in 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 leant over the still pool of some Greek woodland and had 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 the world 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 at me, Dorian, for what I have told you. As I said to Harry, once, you are made to be worshipped.”
"It is extraordinary to me, Dorian," said Hallward, "that you should have seen this in the picture. Did you really see it?"
"Of course I did."
"Well, you don't mind my looking at it 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 someday, surely?"
"Never."
"Well, perhaps you are right. And now good-by, Dorian. You have been the one person in my life of whom I have been really fond. I don't suppose I shall often see you again. You don't know what it cost me to tell you all that I have told you."
"My dear Basil," cried Dorian. “It would do you no good to leave now. You and I are friends, Basil. I need you. A man does not leave his friend when he needs him.”
“I suppose you are right, Dorian.” Basil murmured, confused by Dorian’s curious change of mood.
“That was a most intriguing confession, Basil,” Dorian continued, the corner of his mouth curling slightly. “I must confess that it has changed the way I see you.”
“Has it really?” Basil asked. He sounded credulous, although he could not help feeling sceptical of Dorian. This could all easily be some kind of joke – the lad had been spending far more time with Lord Henry than could possibly be good for him.
“Completely and utterly.” Dorian looked at Basil with a face that was so earnest the artist could not help but trust him.
“In what way has it changed your opinion of me?” Basil asked, his eyebrows knotting together in a manner that suggested how seriously he viewed the subject.
Dorian laughed. “I never knew you could be so romantic, Basil.” He paused, thoughtfully chewing on his lip. “Do you really love me, Basil?”
Basil stared at Dorian. How could he have asked such a question? And how was he to answer it? He knew he would have to tell the truth – Dorian would know if he lied – but what would the consequences of telling the truth be? They were unthinkable. “Completely and utterly.” He said eventually.
Dorian said nothing; his face betrayed no emotions. Basil began to fear that he had said the wrong thing, and yet he could not find it in himself to attempt a denial. “I suppose I had better leave now.” Basil said, when he could no longer bear the silence.
“Not at all,” Dorian replied, moving between Basil and the door. “I would much rather you stayed.”
Basil remained immobile, his feet rooted to the spot, as Dorian walked closer and closer to him; soon, he was so close that he could feel his warm breath on his face, and his blond eyelashes, which were normally invisible, seemed to glow gold in the gentle light. Basil had never had the chance to view Dorian’s countenance from this proximity before, and he found his beauty to be almost breath-taking. There was a still moment as they stood, not quite touching, Dorian staring earnestly at Basil while Basil took the opportunity to admire Dorian’s beauty but avoiding his gaze. Then Dorian closed the gap, bringing his lips to Basil’s in a gentle kiss. Basil couldn’t help but kiss back for a few moments before his mind awakened and he backed away.
“Why have you rejected me in this way?” Dorian asked. “I thought you loved me.”
“I do not want your pity.” Basil replied coldly, his cheeks tinged with pink.
“I did not kiss you because I pitied you,” Dorian cried, laughing slightly. “That would be absurd. What kind of a man kisses people because he pities them?”
“Why else would you kiss me?” Basil could not hide the note of hope that crept into his voice.
Dorian laughed. “You said that you loved me. Nothing is more irresistible than hearing a man say that he loves me.”
“Are you quite certain that that is your reason?”
Dorian laughed again. “You are having a hard time trusting me, Basil. I have not quite spent so much time with Henry that I have forgotten how to tell the truth. You can believe me that I am in earnest on this matter.”
“So you do not pity me?”
“Not at all.” Dorian took a step towards Basil and gently brushed his cheek with his hand. Basil closed his eyes, leaning his head into Dorian’s soft palms. Dorian brought his face towards Basil and kissed him and this time Basil did not move away.