feat_summary_path: finished_summaries/gradesaver/The Picture of Dorian Gray/section_12_part_0.txt
feat_book_id: The Picture of Dorian Gray.chapter 19
feat_summary_id: chapter 19
feat_summary: {"name": "Chapter 19", "url": "https://web.archive.org/web/20210421171214/https://www.gradesaver.com/the-picture-of-dorian-gray/study-guide/summary-chapter-19", "summary": "Several months later, Dorian is back in London, conversing with Lord Henry at the older man's house. Dorian, it seems, has decided to change his ways. Henry tells him that he is perfect the way he is and that there's no use trying to change, but Dorian replies that \"I have done too many dreadful things in my life,\" and that \"I began my good actions yesterday.\" His so-called \"good action\" was his treatment of Hetty, a beautiful young peasant girl who reminded him of Sibyl Vane. She fell in love with Dorian, but instead of taking advantage of her and breaking her heart, as was his usual way, he \"determined to leave her as flower-like as had found her.\" Henry mocks him and asks whether he's sure that Hetty \"isn't floating at the present moment in some star-lit millpond...like Ophelia.\" This upsets Dorian, as he desperately wants to believe in the value of his good intentions. The conversation turns towards the whereabouts of Basil Hallward. The painter's disappearance, now six weeks old, is still the talk of the town, along with Henry's divorce and the suicide of Alan Campbell. Henry asks Dorian to play Chopin for him, because \"The man with whom my wife ran away played Chopin exquisitely.\" At the piano, Dorian nonchalantly asks what Henry would think if he told him that he had murdered Basil. \"I would say,\" he responds, \"that you were posing for a character that didn't suit you.\" Such crimes, Henry believes, are the specialty of the lower classes. Besides, Henry cannot imagine that Basil would have met such a romantic end, because his paintings had steadily declined in the years following his soiled friendship with Dorian. His painting of Dorian was, apparently, his final masterpiece. Henry believes that the painting was stolen a long time ago, and Dorian claims to have forgotten all about it. Henry catches Dorian off-guard by paraphrasing the Bible, asking him: \"what does it profit a man if he gain the whole world and lose...his soul?\" When Dorian is startled by this statement, Henry just laughs, telling him that he heard a preacher posing this quesiton to a crowd during a walk through the park on a rainy day. Henry describes his amusement at the spectacle of the somber crowd standing in the rain, listening to \"an uncouth Christian in a macintosh.\" He apparently wanted to tell the preacher that \"Art had a soul, but that man did not.\" Henry's light-heartedness offends Dorian, who says that \"The soul is a terrible reality...It can be poisoned or made perfect.\" He tells Henry that he is certain of this fact, to which Henry replies, \"then it must be an illusion. The things one feels absolutely certain about are never true.\" Dorian begins to play a nocturne by Chopin, which greatly affects Henry and prompts a rambling tirade on romance and how exquisite Dorian's life has been. Dorian agrees, but reminds Henry that he has turned over a new leaf, and that he will never forgive him for his corrupting influence. On his way out, Henry invites Dorian to lunch the next day, and Dorian reluctantly agrees to accompany the older man.", "analysis": "When telling Henry about Hetty, Dorian insists that she will \"live, like Perdita, in her garden,\" to which Henry asks \"how do you know that Hetty isn't floating...like Ophelia?\"  These are both Shakespearean characters  that Sibyl used to play on stage.  Dorian has already stated that Hetty reminds him of Sibyl, whom he loved because of all the characters she represented to him.  Dorian now seeks to make amends for his treatment of Sibyl vicariously, through Hetty; he thinks of her as Perdita, a character who meets a happy ending.  Lord Henry's allusion to the tragic character of Ophelia is unbearable to Dorian because it reminds him of the actual circumstances of Sibyl's death, and his callous decision to view it as a theatrical drama. Shakespeare is also evoked after Henry inquires about the state of Basil's painting.  While playing the piano, Dorian says that the picture reminded him of certain lines from Hamlet: \"Like the painting of a sorrow,/ A face without a heart.\"  This lines relate directly and poignantly to Dorian's condition.  They not only refer to the painting, but to Dorian himself, who now feels reduced to \"a face without a heart.\"  When Henry tires to coax Dorian out of his somber mood with the line \"If a man treats life artistically, his brain is his heart\", Dorian only repeats the quotation.  It is if Dorian is trying to obliquely communicate his true plight to Henry.  He has already attempted, albeit unsuccessfully, to confess to Basil's murder.  Dorian is hopelessly isolated even from his oldest remaining friend.  Before leaving to return home, Dorian hesitates at the door, \"as if he had something more to say,\" but says nothing, a further indication of his pathetic lonliness. Although Henry fancies himself to be Dorian's best friend, he tells Dorian that, after all their years together, \"you are still the same.\"  This reminds us that, for all of his seeming wisdom, Lord Henry can still only take things at face value; to him, looking the same and being the same are one and the same thing.  He has no clue as to the true degradation of Dorian's character. Henry's earlier comment that a man ought to \"treat life artistically,\" one of the major themes of the book, is best considered in conjunction with the closing remark of the preface, that \"All art is quite useless.\"  Considering that this is the opinion of the author, it is clear that trying to make a work of art out of one's life will not be very rewarding in Dorian Gray. Dorian remarks that Henry \"poisoned me with a book once,\" and tells his friend to \"promise me that you will never lend that book to anyone.  It does harm.\"  Dorian has done precisely what the preface warns against when it declares that \"All art is...surface,\" and that \"Those who go beneath the surface do so at their peril.\"  He has gone so deeply \"beneath the surface\" of the book that he has transformed it into a sort of outline for his own life. The corruption of his soul, and the ruin of his life, is what this \"peril\" has wrought on Dorian."}
text: 
  "There is no use your telling me that you are going to be good," cried
  Lord Henry, dipping his white fingers into a red copper bowl filled
  with rose-water. "You are quite perfect.  Pray, don't change."
  
  Dorian Gray shook his head.  "No, Harry, I have done too many dreadful
  things in my life.  I am not going to do any more.  I began my good
  actions yesterday."
  
  "Where were you yesterday?"
  
  "In the country, Harry.  I was staying at a little inn by myself."
  
  "My dear boy," said Lord Henry, smiling, "anybody can be good in the
  country.  There are no temptations there.  That is the reason why
  people who live out of town are so absolutely uncivilized.
  Civilization is not by any means an easy thing to attain to.  There are
  only two ways by which man can reach it.  One is by being cultured, the
  other by being corrupt.  Country people have no opportunity of being
  either, so they stagnate."
  
  "Culture and corruption," echoed Dorian.  "I have known something of
  both.  It seems terrible to me now that they should ever be found
  together.  For I have a new ideal, Harry.  I am going to alter.  I
  think I have altered."
  
  "You have not yet told me what your good action was.  Or did you say
  you had done more than one?" asked his companion as he spilled into his
  plate a little crimson pyramid of seeded strawberries and, through a
  perforated, shell-shaped spoon, snowed white sugar upon them.
  
  "I can tell you, Harry.  It is not a story I could tell to any one
  else.  I spared somebody.  It sounds vain, but you understand what I
  mean.  She was quite beautiful and wonderfully like Sibyl Vane.  I
  think it was that which first attracted me to her.  You remember Sibyl,
  don't you?  How long ago that seems!  Well, Hetty was not one of our
  own class, of course.  She was simply a girl in a village.  But I
  really loved her.  I am quite sure that I loved her.  All during this
  wonderful May that we have been having, I used to run down and see her
  two or three times a week.  Yesterday she met me in a little orchard.
  The apple-blossoms kept tumbling down on her hair, and she was
  laughing.  We were to have gone away together this morning at dawn.
  Suddenly I determined to leave her as flowerlike as I had found her."
  
  "I should think the novelty of the emotion must have given you a thrill
  of real pleasure, Dorian," interrupted Lord Henry.  "But I can finish
  your idyll for you.  You gave her good advice and broke her heart.
  That was the beginning of your reformation."
  
  "Harry, you are horrible!  You mustn't say these dreadful things.
  Hetty's heart is not broken.  Of course, she cried and all that.  But
  there is no disgrace upon her.  She can live, like Perdita, in her
  garden of mint and marigold."
  
  "And weep over a faithless Florizel," said Lord Henry, laughing, as he
  leaned back in his chair.  "My dear Dorian, you have the most curiously
  boyish moods.  Do you think this girl will ever be really content now
  with any one of her own rank?  I suppose she will be married some day
  to a rough carter or a grinning ploughman.  Well, the fact of having
  met you, and loved you, will teach her to despise her husband, and she
  will be wretched.  From a moral point of view, I cannot say that I
  think much of your great renunciation.  Even as a beginning, it is
  poor.  Besides, how do you know that Hetty isn't floating at the
  present moment in some starlit mill-pond, with lovely water-lilies
  round her, like Ophelia?"
  
  "I can't bear this, Harry!  You mock at everything, and then suggest
  the most serious tragedies.  I am sorry I told you now.  I don't care
  what you say to me.  I know I was right in acting as I did.  Poor
  Hetty!  As I rode past the farm this morning, I saw her white face at
  the window, like a spray of jasmine.  Don't let us talk about it any
  more, and don't try to persuade me that the first good action I have
  done for years, the first little bit of self-sacrifice I have ever
  known, is really a sort of sin.  I want to be better.  I am going to be
  better.  Tell me something about yourself.  What is going on in town?
  I have not been to the club for days."
  
  "The people are still discussing poor Basil's disappearance."
  
  "I should have thought they had got tired of that by this time," said
  Dorian, pouring himself out some wine and frowning slightly.
  
  "My dear boy, they have only been talking about it for six weeks, and
  the British public are really not equal to the mental strain of having
  more than one topic every three months.  They have been very fortunate
  lately, however.  They have had my own divorce-case and Alan Campbell's
  suicide.  Now they have got the mysterious disappearance of an artist.
  Scotland Yard still insists that the man in the grey ulster who left
  for Paris by the midnight train on the ninth of November was poor
  Basil, and the French police declare that Basil never arrived in Paris
  at all.  I suppose in about a fortnight we shall be told that he has
  been seen in San Francisco.  It is an odd thing, but every one who
  disappears is said to be seen at San Francisco.  It must be a
  delightful city, and possess all the attractions of the next world."
  
  "What do you think has happened to Basil?" asked Dorian, holding up his
  Burgundy against the light and wondering how it was that he could
  discuss the matter so calmly.
  
  "I have not the slightest idea.  If Basil chooses to hide himself, it
  is no business of mine.  If he is dead, I don't want to think about
  him.  Death is the only thing that ever terrifies me.  I hate it."
  
  "Why?" said the younger man wearily.
  
  "Because," said Lord Henry, passing beneath his nostrils the gilt
  trellis of an open vinaigrette box, "one can survive everything
  nowadays except that.  Death and vulgarity are the only two facts in
  the nineteenth century that one cannot explain away.  Let us have our
  coffee in the music-room, Dorian.  You must play Chopin to me.  The man
  with whom my wife ran away played Chopin exquisitely.  Poor Victoria!
  I was very fond of her.  The house is rather lonely without her.  Of
  course, married life is merely a habit, a bad habit.  But then one
  regrets the loss even of one's worst habits.  Perhaps one regrets them
  the most.  They are such an essential part of one's personality."
  
  Dorian said nothing, but rose from the table, and passing into the next
  room, sat down to the piano and let his fingers stray across the white
  and black ivory of the keys.  After the coffee had been brought in, he
  stopped, and looking over at Lord Henry, said, "Harry, did it ever
  occur to you that Basil was murdered?"
  
  Lord Henry yawned.  "Basil was very popular, and always wore a
  Waterbury watch.  Why should he have been murdered?  He was not clever
  enough to have enemies.  Of course, he had a wonderful genius for
  painting.  But a man can paint like Velasquez and yet be as dull as
  possible.  Basil was really rather dull.  He only interested me once,
  and that was when he told me, years ago, that he had a wild adoration
  for you and that you were the dominant motive of his art."
  
  "I was very fond of Basil," said Dorian with a note of sadness in his
  voice.  "But don't people say that he was murdered?"
  
  "Oh, some of the papers do.  It does not seem to me to be at all
  probable.  I know there are dreadful places in Paris, but Basil was not
  the sort of man to have gone to them.  He had no curiosity.  It was his
  chief defect."
  
  "What would you say, Harry, if I told you that I had murdered Basil?"
  said the younger man.  He watched him intently after he had spoken.
  
  "I would say, my dear fellow, that you were posing for a character that
  doesn't suit you.  All crime is vulgar, just as all vulgarity is crime.
  It is not in you, Dorian, to commit a murder.  I am sorry if I hurt
  your vanity by saying so, but I assure you it is true.  Crime belongs
  exclusively to the lower orders.  I don't blame them in the smallest
  degree.  I should fancy that crime was to them what art is to us,
  simply a method of procuring extraordinary sensations."
  
  "A method of procuring sensations?  Do you think, then, that a man who
  has once committed a murder could possibly do the same crime again?
  Don't tell me that."
  
  "Oh! anything becomes a pleasure if one does it too often," cried Lord
  Henry, laughing.  "That is one of the most important secrets of life.
  I should fancy, however, that murder is always a mistake.  One should
  never do anything that one cannot talk about after dinner.  But let us
  pass from poor Basil.  I wish I could believe that he had come to such
  a really romantic end as you suggest, but I can't. I dare say he fell
  into the Seine off an omnibus and that the conductor hushed up the
  scandal.  Yes:  I should fancy that was his end.  I see him lying now
  on his back under those dull-green waters, with the heavy barges
  floating over him and long weeds catching in his hair.  Do you know, I
  don't think he would have done much more good work.  During the last
  ten years his painting had gone off very much."
  
  Dorian heaved a sigh, and Lord Henry strolled across the room and began
  to stroke the head of a curious Java parrot, a large, grey-plumaged
  bird with pink crest and tail, that was balancing itself upon a bamboo
  perch.  As his pointed fingers touched it, it dropped the white scurf
  of crinkled lids over black, glasslike eyes and began to sway backwards
  and forwards.
  
  "Yes," he continued, turning round and taking his handkerchief out of
  his pocket; "his painting had quite gone off.  It seemed to me to have
  lost something.  It had lost an ideal.  When you and he ceased to be
  great friends, he ceased to be a great artist.  What was it separated
  you?  I suppose he bored you.  If so, he never forgave you.  It's a
  habit bores have.  By the way, what has become of that wonderful
  portrait he did of you?  I don't think I have ever seen it since he
  finished it.  Oh!  I remember your telling me years ago that you had
  sent it down to Selby, and that it had got mislaid or stolen on the
  way.  You never got it back?  What a pity! it was really a
  masterpiece.  I remember I wanted to buy it.  I wish I had now.  It
  belonged to Basil's best period.  Since then, his work was that curious
  mixture of bad painting and good intentions that always entitles a man
  to be called a representative British artist.  Did you advertise for
  it?  You should."
  
  "I forget," said Dorian.  "I suppose I did.  But I never really liked
  it.  I am sorry I sat for it.  The memory of the thing is hateful to
  me.  Why do you talk of it?  It used to remind me of those curious
  lines in some play--Hamlet, I think--how do they run?--
  
      "Like the painting of a sorrow,
       A face without a heart."
  
  Yes:  that is what it was like."
  
  Lord Henry laughed.  "If a man treats life artistically, his brain is
  his heart," he answered, sinking into an arm-chair.
  
  Dorian Gray shook his head and struck some soft chords on the piano.
  "'Like the painting of a sorrow,'" he repeated, "'a face without a
  heart.'"
  
  The elder man lay back and looked at him with half-closed eyes.  "By
  the way, Dorian," he said after a pause, "'what does it profit a man if
  he gain the whole world and lose--how does the quotation run?--his own
  soul'?"
  
  The music jarred, and Dorian Gray started and stared at his friend.
  "Why do you ask me that, Harry?"
  
  "My dear fellow," said Lord Henry, elevating his eyebrows in surprise,
  "I asked you because I thought you might be able to give me an answer.
  That is all.  I was going through the park last Sunday, and close by
  the Marble Arch there stood a little crowd of shabby-looking people
  listening to some vulgar street-preacher. As I passed by, I heard the
  man yelling out that question to his audience.  It struck me as being
  rather dramatic.  London is very rich in curious effects of that kind.
  A wet Sunday, an uncouth Christian in a mackintosh, a ring of sickly
  white faces under a broken roof of dripping umbrellas, and a wonderful
  phrase flung into the air by shrill hysterical lips--it was really very
  good in its way, quite a suggestion.  I thought of telling the prophet
  that art had a soul, but that man had not.  I am afraid, however, he
  would not have understood me."
  
  "Don't, Harry.  The soul is a terrible reality.  It can be bought, and
  sold, and bartered away.  It can be poisoned, or made perfect.  There
  is a soul in each one of us.  I know it."
  
  "Do you feel quite sure of that, Dorian?"
  
  "Quite sure."
  
  "Ah! then it must be an illusion.  The things one feels absolutely
  certain about are never true.  That is the fatality of faith, and the
  lesson of romance.  How grave you are!  Don't be so serious.  What have
  you or I to do with the superstitions of our age?  No:  we have given
  up our belief in the soul.  Play me something.  Play me a nocturne,
  Dorian, and, as you play, tell me, in a low voice, how you have kept
  your youth.  You must have some secret.  I am only ten years older than
  you are, and I am wrinkled, and worn, and yellow.  You are really
  wonderful, Dorian.  You have never looked more charming than you do
  to-night. You remind me of the day I saw you first.  You were rather
  cheeky, very shy, and absolutely extraordinary.  You have changed, of
  course, but not in appearance.  I wish you would tell me your secret.
  To get back my youth I would do anything in the world, except take
  exercise, get up early, or be respectable.  Youth!  There is nothing
  like it.  It's absurd to talk of the ignorance of youth.  The only
  people to whose opinions I listen now with any respect are people much
  younger than myself.  They seem in front of me.  Life has revealed to
  them her latest wonder.  As for the aged, I always contradict the aged.
  I do it on principle.  If you ask them their opinion on something that
  happened yesterday, they solemnly give you the opinions current in
  1820, when people wore high stocks, believed in everything, and knew
  absolutely nothing.  How lovely that thing you are playing is!  I
  wonder, did Chopin write it at Majorca, with the sea weeping round the
  villa and the salt spray dashing against the panes?  It is marvellously
  romantic.  What a blessing it is that there is one art left to us that
  is not imitative!  Don't stop.  I want music to-night. It seems to me
  that you are the young Apollo and that I am Marsyas listening to you.
  I have sorrows, Dorian, of my own, that even you know nothing of.  The
  tragedy of old age is not that one is old, but that one is young.  I am
  amazed sometimes at my own sincerity.  Ah, Dorian, how happy you are!
  What an exquisite life you have had!  You have drunk deeply of
  everything.  You have crushed the grapes against your palate.  Nothing
  has been hidden from you.  And it has all been to you no more than the
  sound of music.  It has not marred you.  You are still the same."
  
  "I am not the same, Harry."
  
  "Yes, you are the same.  I wonder what the rest of your life will be.
  Don't spoil it by renunciations.  At present you are a perfect type.
  Don't make yourself incomplete.  You are quite flawless now.  You need
  not shake your head:  you know you are.  Besides, Dorian, don't deceive
  yourself.  Life is not governed by will or intention.  Life is a
  question of nerves, and fibres, and slowly built-up cells in which
  thought hides itself and passion has its dreams.  You may fancy
  yourself safe and think yourself strong.  But a chance tone of colour
  in a room or a morning sky, a particular perfume that you had once
  loved and that brings subtle memories with it, a line from a forgotten
  poem that you had come across again, a cadence from a piece of music
  that you had ceased to play--I tell you, Dorian, that it is on things
  like these that our lives depend.  Browning writes about that
  somewhere; but our own senses will imagine them for us.  There are
  moments when the odour of _lilas blanc_ passes suddenly across me, and I
  have to live the strangest month of my life over again.  I wish I could
  change places with you, Dorian.  The world has cried out against us
  both, but it has always worshipped you.  It always will worship you.
  You are the type of what the age is searching for, and what it is
  afraid it has found.  I am so glad that you have never done anything,
  never carved a statue, or painted a picture, or produced anything
  outside of yourself!  Life has been your art.  You have set yourself to
  music.  Your days are your sonnets."
  
  Dorian rose up from the piano and passed his hand through his hair.
  "Yes, life has been exquisite," he murmured, "but I am not going to
  have the same life, Harry.  And you must not say these extravagant
  things to me.  You don't know everything about me.  I think that if you
  did, even you would turn from me.  You laugh.  Don't laugh."
  
  "Why have you stopped playing, Dorian?  Go back and give me the
  nocturne over again.  Look at that great, honey-coloured moon that
  hangs in the dusky air.  She is waiting for you to charm her, and if
  you play she will come closer to the earth.  You won't?  Let us go to
  the club, then.  It has been a charming evening, and we must end it
  charmingly.  There is some one at White's who wants immensely to know
  you--young Lord Poole, Bournemouth's eldest son.  He has already copied
  your neckties, and has begged me to introduce him to you.  He is quite
  delightful and rather reminds me of you."
  
  "I hope not," said Dorian with a sad look in his eyes.  "But I am tired
  to-night, Harry.  I shan't go to the club.  It is nearly eleven, and I
  want to go to bed early."
  
  "Do stay.  You have never played so well as to-night. There was
  something in your touch that was wonderful.  It had more expression
  than I had ever heard from it before."
  
  "It is because I am going to be good," he answered, smiling.  "I am a
  little changed already."
  
  "You cannot change to me, Dorian," said Lord Henry.  "You and I will
  always be friends."
  
  "Yet you poisoned me with a book once.  I should not forgive that.
  Harry, promise me that you will never lend that book to any one.  It
  does harm."
  
  "My dear boy, you are really beginning to moralize.  You will soon be
  going about like the converted, and the revivalist, warning people
  against all the sins of which you have grown tired.  You are much too
  delightful to do that.  Besides, it is no use.  You and I are what we
  are, and will be what we will be.  As for being poisoned by a book,
  there is no such thing as that.  Art has no influence upon action.  It
  annihilates the desire to act.  It is superbly sterile.  The books that
  the world calls immoral are books that show the world its own shame.
  That is all.  But we won't discuss literature.  Come round to-morrow. I
  am going to ride at eleven.  We might go together, and I will take you
  to lunch afterwards with Lady Branksome.  She is a charming woman, and
  wants to consult you about some tapestries she is thinking of buying.
  Mind you come.  Or shall we lunch with our little duchess?  She says
  she never sees you now.  Perhaps you are tired of Gladys?  I thought
  you would be.  Her clever tongue gets on one's nerves.  Well, in any
  case, be here at eleven."
  
  "Must I really come, Harry?"
  
  "Certainly.  The park is quite lovely now.  I don't think there have
  been such lilacs since the year I met you."
  
  "Very well.  I shall be here at eleven," said Dorian.  "Good night,
  Harry."  As he reached the door, he hesitated for a moment, as if he
  had something more to say.  Then he sighed and went out.
  
  
  
feat_summary_name: Chapter 19
target: Several months later, Dorian is back in London, conversing with Lord Henry at the older man's house. Dorian, it seems, has decided to change his ways. Henry tells him that he is perfect the way he is and that there's no use trying to change, but Dorian replies that "I have done too many dreadful things in my life," and that "I began my good actions yesterday." His so-called "good action" was his treatment of Hetty, a beautiful young peasant girl who reminded him of Sibyl Vane. She fell in love with Dorian, but instead of taking advantage of her and breaking her heart, as was his usual way, he "determined to leave her as flower-like as had found her." Henry mocks him and asks whether he's sure that Hetty "isn't floating at the present moment in some star-lit millpond...like Ophelia." This upsets Dorian, as he desperately wants to believe in the value of his good intentions. The conversation turns towards the whereabouts of Basil Hallward. The painter's disappearance, now six weeks old, is still the talk of the town, along with Henry's divorce and the suicide of Alan Campbell. Henry asks Dorian to play Chopin for him, because "The man with whom my wife ran away played Chopin exquisitely." At the piano, Dorian nonchalantly asks what Henry would think if he told him that he had murdered Basil. "I would say," he responds, "that you were posing for a character that didn't suit you." Such crimes, Henry believes, are the specialty of the lower classes. Besides, Henry cannot imagine that Basil would have met such a romantic end, because his paintings had steadily declined in the years following his soiled friendship with Dorian. His painting of Dorian was, apparently, his final masterpiece. Henry believes that the painting was stolen a long time ago, and Dorian claims to have forgotten all about it. Henry catches Dorian off-guard by paraphrasing the Bible, asking him: "what does it profit a man if he gain the whole world and lose...his soul?" When Dorian is startled by this statement, Henry just laughs, telling him that he heard a preacher posing this quesiton to a crowd during a walk through the park on a rainy day. Henry describes his amusement at the spectacle of the somber crowd standing in the rain, listening to "an uncouth Christian in a macintosh." He apparently wanted to tell the preacher that "Art had a soul, but that man did not." Henry's light-heartedness offends Dorian, who says that "The soul is a terrible reality...It can be poisoned or made perfect." He tells Henry that he is certain of this fact, to which Henry replies, "then it must be an illusion. The things one feels absolutely certain about are never true." Dorian begins to play a nocturne by Chopin, which greatly affects Henry and prompts a rambling tirade on romance and how exquisite Dorian's life has been. Dorian agrees, but reminds Henry that he has turned over a new leaf, and that he will never forgive him for his corrupting influence. On his way out, Henry invites Dorian to lunch the next day, and Dorian reluctantly agrees to accompany the older man.
feat_summary_analysis: When telling Henry about Hetty, Dorian insists that she will "live, like Perdita, in her garden," to which Henry asks "how do you know that Hetty isn't floating...like Ophelia?"  These are both Shakespearean characters  that Sibyl used to play on stage.  Dorian has already stated that Hetty reminds him of Sibyl, whom he loved because of all the characters she represented to him.  Dorian now seeks to make amends for his treatment of Sibyl vicariously, through Hetty; he thinks of her as Perdita, a character who meets a happy ending.  Lord Henry's allusion to the tragic character of Ophelia is unbearable to Dorian because it reminds him of the actual circumstances of Sibyl's death, and his callous decision to view it as a theatrical drama. Shakespeare is also evoked after Henry inquires about the state of Basil's painting.  While playing the piano, Dorian says that the picture reminded him of certain lines from Hamlet: "Like the painting of a sorrow,/ A face without a heart."  This lines relate directly and poignantly to Dorian's condition.  They not only refer to the painting, but to Dorian himself, who now feels reduced to "a face without a heart."  When Henry tires to coax Dorian out of his somber mood with the line "If a man treats life artistically, his brain is his heart", Dorian only repeats the quotation.  It is if Dorian is trying to obliquely communicate his true plight to Henry.  He has already attempted, albeit unsuccessfully, to confess to Basil's murder.  Dorian is hopelessly isolated even from his oldest remaining friend.  Before leaving to return home, Dorian hesitates at the door, "as if he had something more to say," but says nothing, a further indication of his pathetic lonliness. Although Henry fancies himself to be Dorian's best friend, he tells Dorian that, after all their years together, "you are still the same."  This reminds us that, for all of his seeming wisdom, Lord Henry can still only take things at face value; to him, looking the same and being the same are one and the same thing.  He has no clue as to the true degradation of Dorian's character. Henry's earlier comment that a man ought to "treat life artistically," one of the major themes of the book, is best considered in conjunction with the closing remark of the preface, that "All art is quite useless."  Considering that this is the opinion of the author, it is clear that trying to make a work of art out of one's life will not be very rewarding in Dorian Gray. Dorian remarks that Henry "poisoned me with a book once," and tells his friend to "promise me that you will never lend that book to anyone.  It does harm."  Dorian has done precisely what the preface warns against when it declares that "All art is...surface," and that "Those who go beneath the surface do so at their peril."  He has gone so deeply "beneath the surface" of the book that he has transformed it into a sort of outline for his own life. The corruption of his soul, and the ruin of his life, is what this "peril" has wrought on Dorian.