Disclaimer and warnings: You should know by now. If you don't see other chapters.

Author's Note: Many thanks to the people who reviewed (all two of you). I appreciate it very much and I hope you enjoy this chapter which is the longest in the story. I'd love to hear your thoughts.

Chapter four

Things Left Unsaid

The letter arrived on the day after the funeral and left Lord Henry staring disbelievingly at the neat delicate script. At first he thought it had to be a fake. But the handwriting was unmistakable and when he grabbed the morning edition of The Globe, the headline that stared at him from the front page erased his doubts. It read: MURDERER'S HOUSE ON FIRE

The article announced that Dorian Gray's house had been set on fire the previous night. The upper floors had been completely destroyed before the fire brigade had been able to do anything about it.

Lord Henry reread that article three times. Then he picked up the letter again. The thin, spider-web letters curled on the paper and seemed to speak with a voice like a whispered epitaph.

Dear Harry,

By the time you read this letter I will probably be gone from this world. Now that Basil is dead, I know it is only a matter of time before my picture is exposed to everyone. If you still don't know what I am talking about, I am certain that you shall find out very soon from Roderick.

I cannot bear the world to see the ugliness of my soul. I killed a man to prevent that from happening and I can never allow it. Some things are too personal. What is on that picture, be it holy or cursed, is mine and mine alone to behold. I should have never shown it to Basil and Roderick should have never seen it. There is only one way to make sure this never happens again. I have resolved to destroy my picture. And with it I am certain that I shall destroy myself, for one cannot live without a soul.

I am sorry for some of the things I did, not all. A lot of what you taught me, I still believe in.

But I am truly sorry for Basil.

If no one had found out, I could have pretended it was not my doing. But now that everyone knows, I am forced to face the horrible sin that I have committed. In the last few days I made a deal with God that if Basil survived, I would turn myself in and bear the consequences, try to atone for my sins. But God doesn't listen to our prayers as the Devil does. There is no such thing as redemption. Yes, I have nailed my soul to the Devil's altar and Hell shall welcome me with open arms.

Still, I want this curse to end with me and not spread among the people I have hurt. Everything I possess must go to the family of Sybil Vane. I have enclosed my will. You must see to it that it is fulfilled.

Goodbye, Harry, and I hope someday you will all forgive me.

Dorian Gray

The envelope did indeed contain the aforementioned will, along with other books necessary to its fulfillment. Lord Henry leafed through the legal papers which appeared to all be in order. Then he sat at his writing desk and, trying to be clinical, thought about the implications of this new development.

There were plenty.

First, a former close friend of his was dead.

After what had happened to Basil, he had thought that he would always hate Dorian Gray. But now that Basil was alive and recovering and it was Dorian who was dead, he could not deny he felt a pang of grief. Something was definitely lost. Perhaps it had been lost already, long before this day, and he had simply not noticed. He could see it now, albeit in retrospect – when the very thing which had mesmerized everyone when they had first met Dorian, his charming innocence, had withered away, so had the very essence of the man. Had it really been his work?

He had never dreamed that his words could bring about the ruin of someone's soul. He still did not believe it. There must have been something dark in Dorian to begin with. Still, Lord Henry now wished he had had nothing to do with it…

The second implication of the letter was that Basil did not have to pretend he was dead anymore. Rody's plan would not need to be fulfilled.

Although this could be considered good news, there was one thing that worried him. There was no telling just how distressed the painter would be over Dorian's death. Had he heard about the fire already? He must have. The doctor normally brought him a paper. Not to mention that the commotion might very well have been heard from just across the street. Should Harry even tell him about the letter? Chances were it would only upset him more… But then again, he would learn eventually, wouldn't he? They had to show the letter to the police. It was proof that the man they were trying to catch was dead. Or could they just let them continue the search for Dorian until they gave up? No, this was bordering on crime and Henry had always managed to steer clear of that. He left the matter undecided for the moment.

The third thing was Dorian's will.

He suppressed his first instinct to dismiss it as unreasonable, rash and overly romantic. His opinions would only matter if he could actually tell them to Dorian. As it was, he could only fulfill his wishes. He saw no reason not to. That probably meant that James Vane and his mother would suddenly find themselves very rich. Well, stranger things had happened…

He sent a telegram to his lawyer to find the family and take care of the details. He didn't want to have much to do with the affair. Then he spent the rest of his morning trying to figure out what to do about Basil.

Around noon Roderick Lewin was shown into his room. He looked quite upset.

"Dorian is dead," he announced as soon as he walked in.

"I know," Harry said, slightly surprised, "but how do you?"

Rody dropped into a chair.

"I went to Dorian's house as soon as I heard about the fire. I was there when they found the portrait among the rubble. Dorian's portrait, Harry, hardly a mark on it except for a tear in the heart of the figure! And it has been restored to its original condition. It's beautiful again."

"Incredible! How could it have survived the fire?"

"It couldn't have. It seems impossible. But I have witnessed enough strange things this past week to believe anything. Especially when I see it with my own eyes."

"Does Basil know?"

"Yes. I could not lie to him, he would have found out anyway. Harry, he thinks I did it! He doesn't say so but I can tell he thinks it. And he won't forgive me for it either! Just the way he looked at me this morning… How am I ever going to convince him I had nothing to do with it? I can't imagine what really happened there. I told Basil that we didn't know for sure if this meant Dorian was dead but… It… It wasn't you, was it?"

"Certainly not!" Henry exclaimed. "Can you honestly imagine me sneaking around at night to light a house on fire? And, as it happens, I know what really happened."

He produced the letter and handed it to Rody with an air of relief.

"You have just solved my own dilemma. I was debating whether I should show this to Basil but now I have no choice."

Rody took the piece of paper and his lips parted in surprise as he read it.

"Good God," he said finally.

"I know. Basil was right. I do pity Dorian now. But this at least concludes the story. We won't have to worry anymore."

"I'm afraid that, as far as I'm concerned, it concludes very little," Rody said with a sigh. "It's one more thing to weigh on Basil's mind. He didn't want this. And the way Dorian writes it, it sounds like he killed himself because he thought Basil was dead. I am afraid he will blame all three of us now for faking that."

"But that's ludicrous! We are no more responsible for Dorian's suicide than he was for Sybil's! I should say less! Either way, Basil can blame me for whatever he likes – I have grown quite accustomed to it and it's not like he has no reason. But you, dear boy, he should only thank! How horribly hypocritical good people are! They are ready to forgive every sinner but are often unforgiving to a saint!"

"I am hardly a saint, Harry."

"At least towards Basil, you have been! Why, you have been more reasonable and patient than I would have ever deemed possible from one as young as you!"

"Then you don't give young people enough credit."

"I give them a great deal more credit than I give old people. Old people are set in their ways. Young people can change, develop. And that, my friend, is what we exist for. Basil is a young man but he sometimes insists on acting as an old one. You are the only one who has ever managed to change that, to make him take risks. That portrait he painted of Sybil? That was all inspired by you."

"I have no wish to change Basil, Harry. I love him as he is."

"Oh, but it's not a matter of wishing. You will change him as sure as he will change you. At least if the two of you continue to spend long periods of time together. Now let's go and talk to him. This letter is proof that neither of us has broken our promise."

An hour later two men standing awkwardly in the middle of a room were watching a third with a mix of surprise and worry.

"What do you mean you don't want people to know you are alive?" Harry asked, frowning.

Basil's whole reaction was confusing him. He had expected everything from relief to tears but the painter had just stared at the letter for a time, after which he had announced that he wished to remain dead to the public eye for now.

"But there is no reason for you to hide!" Harry insisted. "Now that Dorian is… Now that there is no danger, as soon as you are well, we can just get on with our lives."

"I cannot just get on with my life, Harry."

It was a very quiet and calm statement. Harry hesitated.

"Well, maybe not right away but…"

"Yes, not right away. I need some time. Please, do that for me."

Harry spread his hands in a gesture of defeat.

"All right then. We'll keep up the charade for a while. But, Basil, don't think for a moment that you will be left alone. Solitude is only becoming to old people. Yes, aged, wrinkled novel writers at the end of their lives, who sit in dusty rooms in old houses and try to say everything about the world in one final masterpiece. They end up saying so much that no one wants to read it. Real people are the only thing that is truly inspiring."

"Inspiring for what, Harry?"

"For life, as well as art."

"I fear I may be done with art. As you yourself once said, it is quite useless."

"Life is quite useless as well, unless you turn it into art."

"That's a pretty paradox but it doesn't mean anything."

"Either way, my dear man, you are being quite silly. You are not done with art. You will get better and you will forget. We all will. The secret to happiness is simply good health and bad memory. After all, this is such a small part of our lives."

"More has happened in this small part of my life than during all the rest of it."

"Then you have to make sure even more happens in the future. Life is like a glass of wine. How can one get drunk if he doesn't constantly refill it?"

This got him a small chuckle from Basil.

"Oh, Harry..."

Rody's smile was hesitant and distracted.

His friendship with Basil had been tried before but it had seemed to effortlessly weave its way around all obstacles in the past. This time it would be harder. He could feel it.

Left alone in his room, Basil Hallward picked up Dorian's letter again. Harry had forgotten to take it back. Or maybe he had left it on purpose.

Basil had managed to stay composed while his friends had been there. The last thing he had wanted was to cry on Rody's shoulder again. These days he seemed to be dependent on the boy for the very oxygen he breathed. It scared him. His obsession with Dorian had started in a similar way. Such a thing could bring nothing good to him or Rody. For that reason, he had done his best to control his emotions during today's visit. But now he looked at the familiar writing and his vision blurred. Fragments of the letter repeated over and over in his mind.

'I cannot bear the world to see the ugliness of my soul…'

'I made a deal with God that if Basil survived…'

'But God doesn't listen to our prayers as the Devil does.'

'I hope someday you will all forgive me.'

'If only' were the cruelest words in the world, Basil thought. Yet his mind could not stop repeating them, despite the painful lump in his chest.

"Oh, Dorian…How many times can a heart break before it stays that way forever?"


With the help of Harry who now had control over his funds, Basil managed to compensate the doctor quite well for his troubles of keeping a permanent house-guest. He and his wife were a pleasant couple whose children had all left home by that time so they didn't seem to really mind having another person to converse with from time to time. With the addition of Harry's, Rody's and sometimes even Victoria's visits, Basil felt reasonably entertained while he was recovering. But a month and a half later the wound was completely healed and it was clear that he could not spend the rest of his life confined to a room.

For Rody the last month had been nerve-wrecking. He couldn't understand exactly what was going on. Basil seemed happy to see him as always. But when they talked, he seemed guarded and reluctant to share anything. In addition, Rody himself was increasingly aware that he was beginning to act like a petulant child. He was out of patience. He had earned Basil's attention, if nothing else, and this sudden distance between them was making him angry, as well as worried.

"You can't forgive me, can you?" he finally confronted Basil one evening.

This time he had been unable to ignore his friend's careful skirting of any topic that was remotely personal or emotional.

Basil had looked at him, startled.

"For the world of me, Rody, I have no idea what you are talking about."

"Dorian. I'm talking about Dorian, Basil! Don't look at me like that! He is dead and your world still revolves around him!"

At the mention of the name, Basil's expression had closed completely. Rody felt as if a door had been slammed in his face. But he wasn't about to stop now.

"It was my idea to say you were dead and you blame me for Dorian's suicide! Admit it!"

The lack of answer only served to propel him forward.

"It's not fair, Basil! I was only worried about you and you know that! You have no right to judge me harder than you judge the man who tried to kill you!"

Basil fixed him with a steady look.

"Rody, I am not judging you…"

"This past six weeks you have been acting like you don't care if I'm alive or dead!"

"You have it completely wrong!"

"I obviously have a lot of things completely wrong, Basil. Our whole friendship, for example."

"Rody, stop this!"

"Do you even want me here?"

"Rody, please..."

"Answer me!"

There was ringing silence as Rody waited for a response. After a few moments he nodded bitterly.

"I guess not then."

He picked his coat up and left the room.

He had failed to notice that Basil's knuckles were white from gripping the back of one of the chairs. If they hadn't stayed firmly there, he would have grabbed the other man and kissed him. And he would have regretted it later. More, he was sure, than he was now regretting not doing it.

Basil released the chair and rubbed his face with his hands. He could not continue like this.

The next morning both Rody and Harry received a telegram stating that Basil was preparing to leave for Paris in only a few days' time.

"And that, I'm afraid, is pretty much it," the storyteller concluded.

"Oh, no!" Lady Greenaway exclaimed. "What story ends like this?"

"I'm afraid this one does."

"Surely he didn't really leave for Paris!"

"He did."

"But… What happened to them after that?"

"Not much. The rest is not worth telling. At least not what I know of it."

"But did they ever see each other again?"

"They saw each other once, before Basil left. But that encounter is hardly worth describing as it didn't change anything… Although in a better world it should have."

"Oh, please, tell us about it!" Lady Greenaway begged.

"Yes, do tell," her husband joined in.

"After all," reasoned Lady Weatherby, "once you've started telling, you might as well tell us everything you know."

The storyteller shrugged.

"Very well then…"


It was already past midnight and Basil was still unable to fall asleep. He finally gave up and got dressed. He only had a couple of hours anyway. He was planning on taking a train very early in the morning. The chances that anyone he knew would be up and about at that time were slim and he was rather hoping to avoid any of his acquaintances screaming upon seeing him. They would probably think him a ghost.

He sat on the edge of the bed and stared at the hands of the clock. He had literally nothing to do. He had said his farewells to the doctor, his wife, Harry and Victoria.

Rody had not come since their last argument, which was probably for the best under the circumstances. Yet Basil could not help longing to see him one last time. He had spent hours debating if he should go and visit him but in the end, he hadn't. Now it was too late anyway.

Growing agitated, Basil decided to go to the station early. That would give him the added advantage of reaching it while it was still dark and minimizing the chance of unwanted encounters. Harry had sent his luggage the day before so he only had one bag with him.

When he reached the station, he was almost the only one there besides the Station Master and a few early passengers for the same train who were smoking some distance away.

He walked up and down the platform, trying to get rid of his anxiety. It would be all right once he got on the train, he told himself. It was the feeling that he could still turn back, that was making him feel like this.

The ninth time when he turned around to walk back along the tracks, there was a figure standing there, hands in his pockets, coat and hair blowing in the night wind.

Basil stopped in his tracks for a few moments. Then, with a resigned sigh, he walked to where the man was standing.

"Well… I'm glad you decided to come and say goodbye, Rody," he said. Although he wasn't sure he was really glad. This only made things harder.

"I didn't come to say goodbye," Rody objected but then paused.

Basil had never seen him look more boyish. Every few seconds the wind would blow strands of hair in his face and he would flick them back impatiently, fixing his gaze back on the painter. His lips were slightly parted and moved imperceptibly, as if there were unspoken words there trying to escape. His eyes conveyed a somewhat childish and strangely touching determination – the kind that most young boys showed when they were unhappy with the way the world was rolling and they swore to the stars to turn it around.

Rody usually depended on intelligence and reason to win his arguments. Seeing him stripped of his usual weapons and facing a battle with nothing but sheer hope was making Basil take small steps backwards. Facing him up close was too hard. He could counter arguments. He could even ignore reason. But one simple plea from those lips would cost him the world to say 'no' to.

"I came to apologize for the way I acted last time. Please, don't get on that train."

Basil sighed and looked away.

"Oh, Rody… Can't we just part as friends?"

"But you don't even treat me as a friend anymore! You don't tell me anything!"

"What is there to tell?"

"Why are you going to Paris?"

"Because I have to. I need to. Please, just let me go."

Rody stared at him for a long time, searching for answers that Basil didn't know how to give. Finally, he lowered his eyes.

"Very well, then," he said quietly.

Basil breathed a sigh of relief but there was a guilty feeling in his chest. He extended his hand. Rody took it and held on a little longer than necessary. Basil was involuntarily reminded of the time he himself had done the same. For an instant he wished he could go back to that moment and not let go at all.

"I will always be your friend, Rody," he said sincerely. "Wherever I am."

The other man managed a smile.

"I'm glad for that. You know what they say. Friendship lasts…"

"…longer than love," the storyteller finished.

"I disagree."

To everyone's surprise it was Lord Greenaway who had said this. He seemed now to be as entranced in the story as his wife, although he was still attempting not to show it too much.

"Friendship is the most important part of love," he continued, "but that does not mean that love in its entirety cannot last as well."

"It often doesn't, I'm afraid."

"But why do you say this?"

Instead of answering, the storyteller turned around to look at the two portraits.

"In a way, these two pictures represent Basil Hallward's two great obsessions. Dorian Gray and Roderick Lewin. Dorian's looks were the inspiration for the first. The second is a tribute to Sybil Vane's innocent life but it's also an attempt to capture Rody's character. Basil painted them both without really understanding what he was painting. It took him quite some time to realize how different they were from one another, to separate obsession from love.

Quite some time and it was too long.

When he was finally able to understand his own feelings, he returned to London. He could not find Rody in his home. He eventually travelled to his mother's country estate only to learn from Lady Meryl that her son had left for America just two days before. When Basil returned to his own house, he found a letter that had been sent on the very day he had left Paris. It had arrived at his quarters there and had been resent to the address he had given in England. It had travelled all the way to Paris and back before it had finally found him."

"What did the letter say?" Lady Greenaway asked almost in a whisper.

The storyteller hesitated. The rest of the gallery was drowning in chatter but their corner stayed strangely quiet and no other person had wandered this way since he had started talking. Perhaps some leftover magic in the pictures demanded for their full story to be told. Finally he took another sheet of paper from his pocket and read out loud:

'Dear Basil,

I hope this letter finds you happy and well.

I am writing to tell you that I have decided to go to America for an indefinite period of time. Harry says that people there know so little about any kind of art that I will be most appreciated.

This past year I have published a book of poetry and I am in the process of finishing my first novel. The poetry book you shall receive as a package. I hope you won't laugh at me too much.

There is something I want to say here because I don't know when we will come into contact again and I feel it is time to close a certain page.

On the day of your fabricated funeral you asked me what I had said about you and I didn't tell you the truth. You had no chance of hearing any flying rumors either. But what I really said is enclosed in this letter. It's something that belongs to you and always will. You can do with it whatever you want. It has never been published.

In conclusion, I want to repeat your own promise: you and I will always be friends.

As for love… Love should never be unhappy or alone.

So let us only love those who love us back. But let us never regret love that was given to someone who deserved it.

Your friend,

Roderick Lewin'

There seemed to be perfect silence as he finished reading. His listeners were throwing uncertain glances at each other. Finally, the gentleman with the sideburns, who had remained quietly disgusted for most of the story, spoke up in a loud, contemptuous voice.

"I have never heard such a despicable load of indecent fabrications! Even if such a story existed, there is no way you could know such details about it! Who are you, sir? Indeed, it is quite rude of you not to have introduced yourself! Before spinning such a tale, you should have told us your name."

The younger man gave him a level look and, instead of answering, removed his cravat and unbuttoned the top buttons of his collar.

There was a collective gasp. A jagged scar crossed his neck just behind his right ear.

"I can assure you I have my information from trustworthy sources, sir," said Basil Hallward.


End Note: Dun-dun-duuuun! Did you ever guess it was him? Please, leave a review! There is still another chapter to go and an epilogue so there's still reason to urge me to post ;P.