English
Itwaslongpastnoonwhenheawoke.Hisvalethadcreptseveraltimesontiptoeintotheroomtoseeifhewasstirring,andhadwonderedwhatmadehisyoungmastersleepsolate.
Finallyhisbellsounded,andVictorcameinsoftlywithacupoftea,andapileofletters,onasmalltrayofoldSevreschina,anddrewbacktheolive-satincurtains,withtheirshimmeringbluelining,thathunginfrontofthethreetallwindows.
“Monsieurhaswellsleptthismorning,”hesaid,smiling.
“Whato’clockisit,Victor?”askedDorianGraydrowsily.
“Onehourandaquarter,Monsieur.”
Howlateitwas!Hesatup,andhavingsippedsometea,turnedoverhisletters.
OneofthemwasfromLordHenry,andhadbeenbroughtbyhandthatmorning.
Hehesitatedforamoment,andthenputitaside.Theothersheopenedlistlessly.
Theycontainedtheusualcollectionofcards,invitationstodinner,ticketsforprivateviews,programmesofcharityconcerts,andthelikethatareshoweredonfashionableyoungmeneverymorningduringtheseason.
TherewasaratherheavybillforachasedsilverLouis-Quinzetoilet-setthathehadnotyethadthecouragetosendontohisguardians,whowereextremelyold-fashionedpeopleanddidnotrealizethatweliveinanagewhenunnecessarythingsareouronlynecessities;andtherewereseveralverycourteouslywordedcommunicationsfromJermynStreetmoney-lendersofferingtoadvanceanysumofmoneyatamoment’snoticeandatthemostreasonableratesofinterest.
Afterabouttenminuteshegotup,andthrowingonanelaboratedressing-gownofsilk-embroideredcashmerewool,passedintotheonyx-pavedbathroom.
Thecoolwaterrefreshedhimafterhislongsleep.
Heseemedtohaveforgottenallthathehadgonethrough.
Adimsenseofhavingtakenpartinsomestrangetragedycametohimonceortwice,buttherewastheunrealityofadreamaboutit.
Assoonashewasdressed,hewentintothelibraryandsatdowntoalightFrenchbreakfastthathadbeenlaidoutforhimonasmallroundtableclosetotheopenwindow.Itwasanexquisiteday.Thewarmairseemedladenwithspices.
Abeeflewinandbuzzedroundtheblue-dragonbowlthat,filledwithsulphur-yellowroses,stoodbeforehim.Hefeltperfectlyhappy.
Suddenlyhiseyefellonthescreenthathehadplacedinfrontoftheportrait,andhestarted.
“ToocoldforMonsieur?”askedhisvalet,puttinganomeletteonthetable.“Ishutthewindow?”
Dorianshookhishead.“Iamnotcold,”hemurmured.
Wasitalltrue?Hadtheportraitreallychanged?
Orhaditbeensimplyhisownimaginationthathadmadehimseealookofevilwheretherehadbeenalookofjoy?
Surelyapaintedcanvascouldnotalter?Thethingwasabsurd.
ItwouldserveasataletotellBasilsomeday.Itwouldmakehimsmile.
And,yet,howvividwashisrecollectionofthewholething!
Firstinthedimtwilight,andtheninthebrightdawn,hehadseenthetouchofcrueltyroundthewarpedlips.
Healmostdreadedhisvaletleavingtheroom.
Heknewthatwhenhewasalonehewouldhavetoexaminetheportrait.Hewasafraidofcertainty.
Whenthecoffeeandcigaretteshadbeenbroughtandthemanturnedtogo,hefeltawilddesiretotellhimtoremain.
Asthedoorwasclosingbehindhim,hecalledhimback.Themanstoodwaitingforhisorders.Dorianlookedathimforamoment.
“Iamnotathometoanyone,Victor,”hesaidwithasigh.Themanbowedandretired.
Thenherosefromthetable,litacigarette,andflunghimselfdownonaluxuriouslycushionedcouchthatstoodfacingthescreen.
Thescreenwasanoldone,ofgiltSpanishleather,stampedandwroughtwitharatherfloridLouis-Quatorzepattern.
Hescanneditcuriously,wonderingifeverbeforeithadconcealedthesecretofaman’slife.
Shouldhemoveitaside,afterall?Whynotletitstaythere?Whatwastheuseofknowing?Ifthethingwastrue,itwasterrible.
Ifitwasnottrue,whytroubleaboutit?
Butwhatif,bysomefateordeadlierchance,eyesotherthanhisspiedbehindandsawthehorriblechange?
WhatshouldhedoifBasilHallwardcameandaskedtolookathisownpicture?Basilwouldbesuretodothat.
No;thethinghadtobeexamined,andatonce.
Anythingwouldbebetterthanthisdreadfulstateofdoubt.
Hegotupandlockedbothdoors.Atleasthewouldbealonewhenhelookeduponthemaskofhisshame.
Thenhedrewthescreenasideandsawhimselffacetoface.Itwasperfectlytrue.Theportraithadaltered.
Asheoftenrememberedafterwards,andalwayswithnosmallwonder,hefoundhimselfatfirstgazingattheportraitwithafeelingofalmostscientificinterest.
Thatsuchachangeshouldhavetakenplacewasincredibletohim.Andyetitwasafact.
Wastheresomesubtleaffinitybetweenthechemicalatomsthatshapedthemselvesintoformandcolouronthecanvasandthesoulthatwaswithinhim?
Coulditbethatwhatthatsoulthought,theyrealized?—thatwhatitdreamed,theymadetrue?
Orwastheresomeother,moreterriblereason?
Heshuddered,andfeltafraid,and,goingbacktothecouch,laythere,gazingatthepictureinsickenedhorror.
Onething,however,hefeltthatithaddoneforhim.
Ithadmadehimconscioushowunjust,howcruel,hehadbeentoSibylVane.
Itwasnottoolatetomakereparationforthat.Shecouldstillbehiswife.
Hisunrealandselfishlovewouldyieldtosomehigherinfluence,wouldbetransformedintosomenoblerpassion,andtheportraitthatBasilHallwardhadpaintedofhimwouldbeaguidetohimthroughlife,wouldbetohimwhatholinessistosome,andconsciencetoothers,andthefearofGodtousall.
Therewereopiatesforremorse,drugsthatcouldlullthemoralsensetosleep.
Butherewasavisiblesymbolofthedegradationofsin.
Herewasanever-presentsignoftheruinmenbroughtupontheirsouls.
Threeo’clockstruck,andfour,andthehalf-hourrangitsdoublechime,butDorianGraydidnotstir.
Hewastryingtogatherupthescarletthreadsoflifeandtoweavethemintoapattern;tofindhiswaythroughthesanguinelabyrinthofpassionthroughwhichhewaswandering.
Hedidnotknowwhattodo,orwhattothink.
Finally,hewentovertothetableandwroteapassionatelettertothegirlhehadloved,imploringherforgivenessandaccusinghimselfofmadness.
Hecoveredpageafterpagewithwildwordsofsorrowandwilderwordsofpain.Thereisaluxuryinself-reproach.
Whenweblameourselves,wefeelthatnooneelsehasarighttoblameus.
Itistheconfession,notthepriest,thatgivesusabsolution.
WhenDorianhadfinishedtheletter,hefeltthathehadbeenforgiven.
Suddenlytherecameaknocktothedoor,andheheardLordHenry’svoiceoutside.“Mydearboy,Imustseeyou.Letmeinatonce.Ican’tbearyourshuttingyourselfuplikethis.”
Hemadenoansweratfirst,butremainedquitestill.
Theknockingstillcontinuedandgrewlouder.
Yes,itwasbettertoletLordHenryin,andtoexplaintohimthenewlifehewasgoingtolead,toquarrelwithhimifitbecamenecessarytoquarrel,topartifpartingwasinevitable.
Hejumpedup,drewthescreenhastilyacrossthepicture,andunlockedthedoor.
“Iamsosorryforitall,Dorian,”saidLordHenryasheentered.“Butyoumustnotthinktoomuchaboutit.”
“DoyoumeanaboutSibylVane?”askedthelad.
“Yes,ofcourse,”answeredLordHenry,sinkingintoachairandslowlypullingoffhisyellowgloves.
“Itisdreadful,fromonepointofview,butitwasnotyourfault.
Tellme,didyougobehindandseeher,aftertheplaywasover?”
“Yes.”
“Ifeltsureyouhad.Didyoumakeascenewithher?”
“Iwasbrutal,Harry—perfectlybrutal.Butitisallrightnow.Iamnotsorryforanythingthathashappened.Ithastaughtmetoknowmyselfbetter.”
“Ah,Dorian,Iamsogladyoutakeitinthatway!IwasafraidIwouldfindyouplungedinremorseandtearingthatnicecurlyhairofyours.”
“Ihavegotthroughallthat,”saidDorian,shakinghisheadandsmiling.“Iamperfectlyhappynow.
Iknowwhatconscienceis,tobeginwith.Itisnotwhatyoutoldmeitwas.Itisthedivinestthinginus.
Don’tsneeratit,Harry,anymore—atleastnotbeforeme.Iwanttobegood.
Ican’tbeartheideaofmysoulbeinghideous.”
“Averycharmingartisticbasisforethics,Dorian!Icongratulateyouonit.Buthowareyougoingtobegin?”
“BymarryingSibylVane.”
“MarryingSibylVane!”criedLordHenry,standingupandlookingathiminperplexedamazement.“But,mydearDorian—”
“Yes,Harry,Iknowwhatyouaregoingtosay.Somethingdreadfulaboutmarriage.Don’tsayit.
Don’teversaythingsofthatkindtomeagain.TwodaysagoIaskedSibyltomarryme.Iamnotgoingtobreakmywordtoher.Sheistobemywife.”
“Yourwife!Dorian!...Didn’tyougetmyletter?Iwrotetoyouthismorning,andsentthenotedownbymyownman.”
“Yourletter?Oh,yes,Iremember.Ihavenotreadityet,Harry.IwasafraidtheremightbesomethinginitthatIwouldn’tlike.Youcutlifetopieceswithyourepigrams.”
“Youknownothingthen?”
“Whatdoyoumean?”
LordHenrywalkedacrosstheroom,andsittingdownbyDorianGray,tookbothhishandsinhisownandheldthemtightly.
“Dorian,”hesaid,“myletter—don’tbefrightened—wastotellyouthatSibylVaneisdead.”
Acryofpainbrokefromthelad’slips,andheleapedtohisfeet,tearinghishandsawayfromLordHenry’sgrasp.“Dead!Sibyldead!Itisnottrue!Itisahorriblelie!Howdareyousayit?”
“Itisquitetrue,Dorian,”saidLordHenry,gravely.“Itisinallthemorningpapers.
IwrotedowntoyoutoaskyounottoseeanyonetillIcame.
Therewillhavetobeaninquest,ofcourse,andyoumustnotbemixedupinit.
ThingslikethatmakeamanfashionableinParis.ButinLondonpeoplearesoprejudiced.
Here,oneshouldnevermakeone’sdebutwithascandal.
Oneshouldreservethattogiveaninteresttoone’soldage.
Isupposetheydon’tknowyournameatthetheatre?Iftheydon’t,itisallright.
Didanyoneseeyougoingroundtoherroom?Thatisanimportantpoint.”
Doriandidnotanswerforafewmoments.Hewasdazedwithhorror.
Finallyhestammered,inastifledvoice,“Harry,didyousayaninquest?Whatdidyoumeanbythat?DidSibyl—?Oh,Harry,Ican’tbearit!Butbequick.Tellmeeverythingatonce.”
“Ihavenodoubtitwasnotanaccident,Dorian,thoughitmustbeputinthatwaytothepublic.
Itseemsthatasshewasleavingthetheatrewithhermother,abouthalf-pasttwelveorso,shesaidshehadforgottensomethingupstairs.
Theywaitedsometimeforher,butshedidnotcomedownagain.
Theyultimatelyfoundherlyingdeadonthefloorofherdressing-room.
Shehadswallowedsomethingbymistake,somedreadfulthingtheyuseattheatres.
Idon’tknowwhatitwas,butithadeitherprussicacidorwhiteleadinit.
Ishouldfancyitwasprussicacid,assheseemstohavediedinstantaneously.”
“Harry,Harry,itisterrible!”criedthelad.
“Yes;itisverytragic,ofcourse,butyoumustnotgetyourselfmixedupinit.
IseebyTheStandardthatshewasseventeen.
Ishouldhavethoughtshewasalmostyoungerthanthat.
Shelookedsuchachild,andseemedtoknowsolittleaboutacting.
Dorian,youmustn’tletthisthinggetonyournerves.
Youmustcomeanddinewithme,andafterwardswewilllookinattheopera.
ItisaPattinight,andeverybodywillbethere.Youcancometomysister’sbox.Shehasgotsomesmartwomenwithher.”
“SoIhavemurderedSibylVane,”saidDorianGray,halftohimself,“murderedherassurelyasifIhadcutherlittlethroatwithaknife.
Yettherosesarenotlesslovelyforallthat.
Thebirdssingjustashappilyinmygarden.
Andto-nightIamtodinewithyou,andthengoontotheopera,andsupsomewhere,Isuppose,afterwards.Howextraordinarilydramaticlifeis!
IfIhadreadallthisinabook,Harry,IthinkIwouldhaveweptoverit.
Somehow,nowthatithashappenedactually,andtome,itseemsfartoowonderfulfortears.
Hereisthefirstpassionatelove-letterIhaveeverwritteninmylife.
Strange,thatmyfirstpassionatelove-lettershouldhavebeenaddressedtoadeadgirl.
Cantheyfeel,Iwonder,thosewhitesilentpeoplewecallthedead?Sibyl!Canshefeel,orknow,orlisten?Oh,Harry,howIlovedheronce!Itseemsyearsagotomenow.Shewaseverythingtome.
Thencamethatdreadfulnight—wasitreallyonlylastnight?
—whensheplayedsobadly,andmyheartalmostbroke.Sheexplaineditalltome.Itwasterriblypathetic.ButIwasnotmovedabit.Ithoughthershallow.
Suddenlysomethinghappenedthatmademeafraid.
Ican’ttellyouwhatitwas,butitwasterrible.IsaidIwouldgobacktoher.IfeltIhaddonewrong.Andnowsheisdead.MyGod!MyGod!Harry,whatshallIdo?
Youdon’tknowthedangerIamin,andthereisnothingtokeepmestraight.Shewouldhavedonethatforme.Shehadnorighttokillherself.Itwasselfishofher.”
“MydearDorian,”answeredLordHenry,takingacigarettefromhiscaseandproducingagold-lattenmatchbox,“theonlywayawomancaneverreformamanisbyboringhimsocompletelythathelosesallpossibleinterestinlife.
Ifyouhadmarriedthisgirl,youwouldhavebeenwretched.
Ofcourse,youwouldhavetreatedherkindly.
Onecanalwaysbekindtopeopleaboutwhomonecaresnothing.
Butshewouldhavesoonfoundoutthatyouwereabsolutelyindifferenttoher.
Andwhenawomanfindsthatoutaboutherhusband,sheeitherbecomesdreadfullydowdy,orwearsverysmartbonnetsthatsomeotherwoman’shusbandhastopayfor.
Isaynothingaboutthesocialmistake,whichwouldhavebeenabject—which,ofcourse,Iwouldnothaveallowed—butIassureyouthatinanycasethewholethingwouldhavebeenanabsolutefailure.”
“Isupposeitwould,”mutteredthelad,walkingupanddowntheroomandlookinghorriblypale.“ButIthoughtitwasmyduty.
Itisnotmyfaultthatthisterribletragedyhaspreventedmydoingwhatwasright.
Irememberyoursayingoncethatthereisafatalityaboutgoodresolutions—thattheyarealwaysmadetoolate.Minecertainlywere.”
“Goodresolutionsareuselessattemptstointerferewithscientificlaws.Theiroriginispurevanity.Theirresultisabsolutelynil.
Theygiveus,nowandthen,someofthoseluxurioussterileemotionsthathaveacertaincharmfortheweak.Thatisallthatcanbesaidforthem.
Theyaresimplychequesthatmendrawonabankwheretheyhavenoaccount.”
“Harry,”criedDorianGray,comingoverandsittingdownbesidehim,“whyisitthatIcannotfeelthistragedyasmuchasIwantto?Idon’tthinkIamheartless.Doyou?”
“Youhavedonetoomanyfoolishthingsduringthelastfortnighttobeentitledtogiveyourselfthatname,Dorian,”answeredLordHenrywithhissweetmelancholysmile.
Theladfrowned.“Idon’tlikethatexplanation,Harry,”herejoined,“butIamgladyoudon’tthinkIamheartless.Iamnothingofthekind.IknowIamnot.
AndyetImustadmitthatthisthingthathashappeneddoesnotaffectmeasitshould.
Itseemstometobesimplylikeawonderfulendingtoawonderfulplay.
IthasalltheterriblebeautyofaGreektragedy,atragedyinwhichItookagreatpart,butbywhichIhavenotbeenwounded.”
“Itisaninterestingquestion,”saidLordHenry,whofoundanexquisitepleasureinplayingonthelad’sunconsciousegotism,“anextremelyinterestingquestion.
Ifancythatthetrueexplanationisthis:Itoftenhappensthattherealtragediesoflifeoccurinsuchaninartisticmannerthattheyhurtusbytheircrudeviolence,theirabsoluteincoherence,theirabsurdwantofmeaning,theirentirelackofstyle.
Theyaffectusjustasvulgarityaffectsus.
Theygiveusanimpressionofsheerbruteforce,andwerevoltagainstthat.
Sometimes,however,atragedythatpossessesartisticelementsofbeautycrossesourlives.
Iftheseelementsofbeautyarereal,thewholethingsimplyappealstooursenseofdramaticeffect.
Suddenlywefindthatwearenolongertheactors,butthespectatorsoftheplay.Orratherweareboth.
Wewatchourselves,andthemerewonderofthespectacleenthrallsus.
Inthepresentcase,whatisitthathasreallyhappened?
Someonehaskilledherselfforloveofyou.
IwishthatIhadeverhadsuchanexperience.
Itwouldhavemademeinlovewithlovefortherestofmylife.
Thepeoplewhohaveadoredme—therehavenotbeenverymany,buttherehavebeensome—havealwaysinsistedonlivingon,longafterIhadceasedtocareforthem,ortheytocareforme.
Theyhavebecomestoutandtedious,andwhenImeetthem,theygoinatonceforreminiscences.Thatawfulmemoryofwoman!Whatafearfulthingitis!
Andwhatanutterintellectualstagnationitreveals!
Oneshouldabsorbthecolouroflife,butoneshouldneverrememberitsdetails.Detailsarealwaysvulgar.”
“Imustsowpoppiesinmygarden,”sighedDorian.
“Thereisnonecessity,”rejoinedhiscompanion.“Lifehasalwayspoppiesinherhands.Ofcourse,nowandthenthingslinger.
Ionceworenothingbutvioletsallthroughoneseason,asaformofartisticmourningforaromancethatwouldnotdie.Ultimately,however,itdiddie.Iforgetwhatkilledit.
Ithinkitwasherproposingtosacrificethewholeworldforme.Thatisalwaysadreadfulmoment.
Itfillsonewiththeterrorofeternity.Well—wouldyoubelieveit?
—aweekago,atLadyHampshire’s,Ifoundmyselfseatedatdinnernexttheladyinquestion,andsheinsistedongoingoverthewholethingagain,anddiggingupthepast,andrakingupthefuture.
Ihadburiedmyromanceinabedofasphodel.
ShedraggeditoutagainandassuredmethatIhadspoiledherlife.
Iamboundtostatethatsheateanenormousdinner,soIdidnotfeelanyanxiety.Butwhatalackoftastesheshowed!
Theonecharmofthepastisthatitisthepast.
Butwomenneverknowwhenthecurtainhasfallen.
Theyalwayswantasixthact,andassoonastheinterestoftheplayisentirelyover,theyproposetocontinueit.
Iftheywereallowedtheirownway,everycomedywouldhaveatragicending,andeverytragedywouldculminateinafarce.
Theyarecharminglyartificial,buttheyhavenosenseofart.YouaremorefortunatethanIam.
Iassureyou,Dorian,thatnotoneofthewomenIhaveknownwouldhavedoneformewhatSibylVanedidforyou.
Ordinarywomenalwaysconsolethemselves.
Someofthemdoitbygoinginforsentimentalcolours.
Nevertrustawomanwhowearsmauve,whateverheragemaybe,orawomanoverthirty-fivewhoisfondofpinkribbons.
Italwaysmeansthattheyhaveahistory.
Othersfindagreatconsolationinsuddenlydiscoveringthegoodqualitiesoftheirhusbands.
Theyflaunttheirconjugalfelicityinone’sface,asifitwerethemostfascinatingofsins.Religionconsolessome.
Itsmysterieshaveallthecharmofaflirtation,awomanoncetoldme,andIcanquiteunderstandit.
Besides,nothingmakesonesovainasbeingtoldthatoneisasinner.Consciencemakesegotistsofusall.
Yes;thereisreallynoendtotheconsolationsthatwomenfindinmodernlife.
Indeed,Ihavenotmentionedthemostimportantone.”
“Whatisthat,Harry?”saidtheladlistlessly.
“Oh,theobviousconsolation.Takingsomeoneelse’sadmirerwhenonelosesone’sown.
Ingoodsocietythatalwayswhitewashesawoman.
Butreally,Dorian,howdifferentSibylVanemusthavebeenfromallthewomenonemeets!
Thereissomethingtomequitebeautifulaboutherdeath.
IamgladIamlivinginacenturywhensuchwondershappen.
Theymakeonebelieveintherealityofthethingsweallplaywith,suchasromance,passion,andlove.”
“Iwasterriblycrueltoher.Youforgetthat.”
“Iamafraidthatwomenappreciatecruelty,downrightcruelty,morethananythingelse.
Theyhavewonderfullyprimitiveinstincts.
Wehaveemancipatedthem,buttheyremainslaveslookingfortheirmasters,allthesame.Theylovebeingdominated.Iamsureyouweresplendid.
Ihaveneverseenyoureallyandabsolutelyangry,butIcanfancyhowdelightfulyoulooked.
And,afterall,yousaidsomethingtomethedaybeforeyesterdaythatseemedtomeatthetimetobemerelyfanciful,butthatIseenowwasabsolutelytrue,anditholdsthekeytoeverything.”
“Whatwasthat,Harry?”
“YousaidtomethatSibylVanerepresentedtoyoualltheheroinesofromance—thatshewasDesdemonaonenight,andOpheliatheother;thatifshediedasJuliet,shecametolifeasImogen.”
“Shewillnevercometolifeagainnow,”mutteredthelad,buryinghisfaceinhishands.
“No,shewillnevercometolife.Shehasplayedherlastpart.
Butyoumustthinkofthatlonelydeathinthetawdrydressing-roomsimplyasastrangeluridfragmentfromsomeJacobeantragedy,asawonderfulscenefromWebster,orFord,orCyrilTourneur.
Thegirlneverreallylived,andsoshehasneverreallydied.
Toyouatleastshewasalwaysadream,aphantomthatflittedthroughShakespeare’splaysandleftthemlovelierforitspresence,areedthroughwhichShakespeare’smusicsoundedricherandmorefullofjoy.
Themomentshetouchedactuallife,shemarredit,anditmarredher,andsoshepassedaway.MournforOphelia,ifyoulike.
PutashesonyourheadbecauseCordeliawasstrangled.
CryoutagainstHeavenbecausethedaughterofBrabantiodied.
Butdon’twasteyourtearsoverSibylVane.Shewaslessrealthantheyare.”
Therewasasilence.Theeveningdarkenedintheroom.Noiselessly,andwithsilverfeet,theshadowscreptinfromthegarden.Thecoloursfadedwearilyoutofthings.
AftersometimeDorianGraylookedup.“Youhaveexplainedmetomyself,Harry,”hemurmuredwithsomethingofasighofrelief.
“Ifeltallthatyouhavesaid,butsomehowIwasafraidofit,andIcouldnotexpressittomyself.Howwellyouknowme!
Butwewillnottalkagainofwhathashappened.Ithasbeenamarvellousexperience.Thatisall.
Iwonderiflifehasstillinstoreformeanythingasmarvellous.”
“Lifehaseverythinginstoreforyou,Dorian.Thereisnothingthatyou,withyourextraordinarygoodlooks,willnotbeabletodo.”
“Butsuppose,Harry,Ibecamehaggard,andold,andwrinkled?Whatthen?”
“Ah,then,”saidLordHenry,risingtogo,“then,mydearDorian,youwouldhavetofightforyourvictories.Asitis,theyarebroughttoyou.No,youmustkeepyourgoodlooks.
Weliveinanagethatreadstoomuchtobewise,andthatthinkstoomuchtobebeautiful.Wecannotspareyou.
Andnowyouhadbetterdressanddrivedowntotheclub.Weareratherlate,asitis.”
“IthinkIshalljoinyouattheopera,Harry.Ifeeltootiredtoeatanything.Whatisthenumberofyoursister’sbox?”
“Twenty-seven,Ibelieve.Itisonthegrandtier.Youwillseehernameonthedoor.ButIamsorryyouwon’tcomeanddine.”
“Idon’tfeeluptoit,”saidDorianlistlessly.“ButIamawfullyobligedtoyouforallthatyouhavesaidtome.Youarecertainlymybestfriend.Noonehaseverunderstoodmeasyouhave.”
“Weareonlyatthebeginningofourfriendship,Dorian,”answeredLordHenry,shakinghimbythehand.“Good-bye.Ishallseeyoubeforenine-thirty,Ihope.Remember,Pattiissinging.”
Asheclosedthedoorbehindhim,DorianGraytouchedthebell,andinafewminutesVictorappearedwiththelampsanddrewtheblindsdown.Hewaitedimpatientlyforhimtogo.
Themanseemedtotakeaninterminabletimeovereverything.
Assoonashehadleft,herushedtothescreenanddrewitback.
No;therewasnofurtherchangeinthepicture.
IthadreceivedthenewsofSibylVane’sdeathbeforehehadknownofithimself.
Itwasconsciousoftheeventsoflifeastheyoccurred.
Theviciouscrueltythatmarredthefinelinesofthemouthhad,nodoubt,appearedattheverymomentthatthegirlhaddrunkthepoison,whateveritwas.Orwasitindifferenttoresults?
Diditmerelytakecognizanceofwhatpassedwithinthesoul?
Hewondered,andhopedthatsomedayhewouldseethechangetakingplacebeforehisveryeyes,shudderingashehopedit.
PoorSibyl!Whataromanceithadallbeen!
Shehadoftenmimickeddeathonthestage.
ThenDeathhimselfhadtouchedherandtakenherwithhim.
Howhadsheplayedthatdreadfullastscene?Hadshecursedhim,asshedied?
No;shehaddiedforloveofhim,andlovewouldalwaysbeasacramenttohimnow.
Shehadatonedforeverythingbythesacrificeshehadmadeofherlife.
Hewouldnotthinkanymoreofwhatshehadmadehimgothrough,onthathorriblenightatthetheatre.
Whenhethoughtofher,itwouldbeasawonderfultragicfiguresentontotheworld’sstagetoshowthesupremerealityoflove.Awonderfultragicfigure?
Tearscametohiseyesasherememberedherchildlikelook,andwinsomefancifulways,andshytremulousgrace.
Hebrushedthemawayhastilyandlookedagainatthepicture.
Hefeltthatthetimehadreallycomeformakinghischoice.Orhadhischoicealreadybeenmade?
Yes,lifehaddecidedthatforhim—life,andhisowninfinitecuriosityaboutlife.
Eternalyouth,infinitepassion,pleasuressubtleandsecret,wildjoysandwildersins—hewastohaveallthesethings.
Theportraitwastobeartheburdenofhisshame:thatwasall.
Afeelingofpaincreptoverhimashethoughtofthedesecrationthatwasinstoreforthefairfaceonthecanvas.
Once,inboyishmockeryofNarcissus,hehadkissed,orfeignedtokiss,thosepaintedlipsthatnowsmiledsocruellyathim.
Morningaftermorninghehadsatbeforetheportraitwonderingatitsbeauty,almostenamouredofit,asitseemedtohimattimes.
Wasittoalternowwitheverymoodtowhichheyielded?
Wasittobecomeamonstrousandloathsomething,tobehiddenawayinalockedroom,tobeshutoutfromthesunlightthathadsooftentouchedtobrightergoldthewavingwonderofitshair?Thepityofit!thepityofit!
Foramoment,hethoughtofprayingthatthehorriblesympathythatexistedbetweenhimandthepicturemightcease.
Ithadchangedinanswertoaprayer;perhapsinanswertoaprayeritmightremainunchanged.
Andyet,who,thatknewanythingaboutlife,wouldsurrenderthechanceofremainingalwaysyoung,howeverfantasticthatchancemightbe,orwithwhatfatefulconsequencesitmightbefraught?
Besides,wasitreallyunderhiscontrol?
Haditindeedbeenprayerthathadproducedthesubstitution?
Mighttherenotbesomecuriousscientificreasonforitall?
Ifthoughtcouldexerciseitsinfluenceuponalivingorganism,mightnotthoughtexerciseaninfluenceupondeadandinorganicthings?
Nay,withoutthoughtorconsciousdesire,mightnotthingsexternaltoourselvesvibrateinunisonwithourmoodsandpassions,atomcallingtoatominsecretloveorstrangeaffinity?Butthereasonwasofnoimportance.
Hewouldneveragaintemptbyaprayeranyterriblepower.
Ifthepicturewastoalter,itwastoalter.Thatwasall.Whyinquiretoocloselyintoit?
Fortherewouldbearealpleasureinwatchingit.
Hewouldbeabletofollowhismindintoitssecretplaces.
Thisportraitwouldbetohimthemostmagicalofmirrors.
Asithadrevealedtohimhisownbody,soitwouldrevealtohimhisownsoul.
Andwhenwintercameuponit,hewouldstillbestandingwherespringtremblesonthevergeofsummer.
Whenthebloodcreptfromitsface,andleftbehindapallidmaskofchalkwithleadeneyes,hewouldkeeptheglamourofboyhood.
Notoneblossomofhislovelinesswouldeverfade.
Notonepulseofhislifewouldeverweaken.
LikethegodsoftheGreeks,hewouldbestrong,andfleet,andjoyous.
Whatdiditmatterwhathappenedtothecolouredimageonthecanvas?Hewouldbesafe.Thatwaseverything.
Hedrewthescreenbackintoitsformerplaceinfrontofthepicture,smilingashedidso,andpassedintohisbedroom,wherehisvaletwasalreadywaitingforhim.
Anhourlaterhewasattheopera,andLordHenrywasleaningoverhischair.
Share this article to
FINISH