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 have 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 door. Yes, he would live a good life and he need not to be afraid anymore 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 could not sleep because of it. It had stolen every chance of peace or happiness from him. He must destroy it.
