English
Ashewassittingatbreakfastnextmorning,BasilHallwardwasshownintotheroom.
“IamsogladIhavefoundyou,Dorian,”hesaidgravely.
“Icalledlastnight,andtheytoldmeyouwereattheopera.Ofcourse,Iknewthatwasimpossible.
ButIwishyouhadleftwordwhereyouhadreallygoneto.
Ipassedadreadfulevening,halfafraidthatonetragedymightbefollowedbyanother.
Ithinkyoumighthavetelegraphedformewhenyouheardofitfirst.
IreadofitquitebychanceinalateeditionofTheGlobethatIpickedupattheclub.
Icamehereatonceandwasmiserableatnotfindingyou.
Ican’ttellyouhowheart-brokenIamaboutthewholething.Iknowwhatyoumustsuffer.Butwherewereyou?
Didyougodownandseethegirl’smother?
ForamomentIthoughtoffollowingyouthere.Theygavetheaddressinthepaper.SomewhereintheEustonRoad,isn’tit?
ButIwasafraidofintrudinguponasorrowthatIcouldnotlighten.Poorwoman!Whatastateshemustbein!Andheronlychild,too!Whatdidshesayaboutitall?”
“MydearBasil,howdoIknow?”murmuredDorianGray,sippingsomepale-yellowwinefromadelicate,gold-beadedbubbleofVenetianglassandlookingdreadfullybored.“Iwasattheopera.Youshouldhavecomeonthere.
ImetLadyGwendolen,Harry’ssister,forthefirsttime.Wewereinherbox.
Sheisperfectlycharming;andPattisangdivinely.Don’ttalkabouthorridsubjects.
Ifonedoesn’ttalkaboutathing,ithasneverhappened.
Itissimplyexpression,asHarrysays,thatgivesrealitytothings.
Imaymentionthatshewasnotthewoman’sonlychild.
Thereisason,acharmingfellow,Ibelieve.Butheisnotonthestage.Heisasailor,orsomething.
Andnow,tellmeaboutyourselfandwhatyouarepainting.”
“Youwenttotheopera?”saidHallward,speakingveryslowlyandwithastrainedtouchofpaininhisvoice.
“YouwenttotheoperawhileSibylVanewaslyingdeadinsomesordidlodging?
Youcantalktomeofotherwomenbeingcharming,andofPattisingingdivinely,beforethegirlyoulovedhaseventhequietofagravetosleepin?
Why,man,therearehorrorsinstoreforthatlittlewhitebodyofhers!”
“Stop,Basil!Iwon’thearit!”criedDorian,leapingtohisfeet.“Youmustnottellmeaboutthings.Whatisdoneisdone.Whatispastispast.”
“Youcallyesterdaythepast?”
“Whathastheactuallapseoftimegottodowithit?
Itisonlyshallowpeoplewhorequireyearstogetridofanemotion.
Amanwhoismasterofhimselfcanendasorrowaseasilyashecaninventapleasure.
Idon’twanttobeatthemercyofmyemotions.
Iwanttousethem,toenjoythem,andtodominatethem.”
“Dorian,thisishorrible!Somethinghaschangedyoucompletely.
Youlookexactlythesamewonderfulboywho,dayafterday,usedtocomedowntomystudiotositforhispicture.
Butyouweresimple,natural,andaffectionatethen.
Youwerethemostunspoiledcreatureinthewholeworld.
Now,Idon’tknowwhathascomeoveryou.
Youtalkasifyouhadnoheart,nopityinyou.ItisallHarry’sinfluence.Iseethat.”
Theladflushedupand,goingtothewindow,lookedoutforafewmomentsonthegreen,flickering,sun-lashedgarden.
“IoweagreatdealtoHarry,Basil,”hesaidatlast,“morethanIowetoyou.Youonlytaughtmetobevain.”
“Well,Iampunishedforthat,Dorian—orshallbesomeday.”
“Idon’tknowwhatyoumean,Basil,”heexclaimed,turninground.“Idon’tknowwhatyouwant.Whatdoyouwant?”
“IwanttheDorianGrayIusedtopaint,”saidtheartistsadly.
“Basil,”saidthelad,goingovertohimandputtinghishandonhisshoulder,“youhavecometoolate.Yesterday,whenIheardthatSibylVanehadkilledherself—”
“Killedherself!Goodheavens!istherenodoubtaboutthat?”criedHallward,lookingupathimwithanexpressionofhorror.
“MydearBasil!Surelyyoudon’tthinkitwasavulgaraccident?Ofcourseshekilledherself.”
Theeldermanburiedhisfaceinhishands.“Howfearful,”hemuttered,andashudderranthroughhim.
“No,”saidDorianGray,“thereisnothingfearfulaboutit.
Itisoneofthegreatromantictragediesoftheage.
Asarule,peoplewhoactleadthemostcommonplacelives.
Theyaregoodhusbands,orfaithfulwives,orsomethingtedious.
YouknowwhatImean—middle-classvirtueandallthatkindofthing.HowdifferentSibylwas!Shelivedherfinesttragedy.Shewasalwaysaheroine.
Thelastnightsheplayed—thenightyousawher—sheactedbadlybecauseshehadknowntherealityoflove.
Whensheknewitsunreality,shedied,asJulietmighthavedied.
Shepassedagainintothesphereofart.
Thereissomethingofthemartyrabouther.
Herdeathhasallthepatheticuselessnessofmartyrdom,allitswastedbeauty.
But,asIwassaying,youmustnotthinkIhavenotsuffered.
Ifyouhadcomeinyesterdayataparticularmoment—abouthalf-pastfive,perhaps,oraquartertosix—youwouldhavefoundmeintears.
EvenHarry,whowashere,whobroughtmethenews,infact,hadnoideawhatIwasgoingthrough.Isufferedimmensely.Thenitpassedaway.Icannotrepeatanemotion.Noonecan,exceptsentimentalists.Andyouareawfullyunjust,Basil.Youcomedownheretoconsoleme.Thatischarmingofyou.
Youfindmeconsoled,andyouarefurious.Howlikeasympatheticperson!
YouremindmeofastoryHarrytoldmeaboutacertainphilanthropistwhospenttwentyyearsofhislifeintryingtogetsomegrievanceredressed,orsomeunjustlawaltered—Iforgetexactlywhatitwas.
Finallyhesucceeded,andnothingcouldexceedhisdisappointment.
Hehadabsolutelynothingtodo,almostdiedofennui,andbecameaconfirmedmisanthrope.
Andbesides,mydearoldBasil,ifyoureallywanttoconsoleme,teachmerathertoforgetwhathashappened,ortoseeitfromaproperartisticpointofview.
WasitnotGautierwhousedtowriteaboutlaconsolationdesarts?
Irememberpickingupalittlevellum-coveredbookinyourstudioonedayandchancingonthatdelightfulphrase.
Well,IamnotlikethatyoungmanyoutoldmeofwhenweweredownatMarlowtogether,theyoungmanwhousedtosaythatyellowsatincouldconsoleoneforallthemiseriesoflife.
Ilovebeautifulthingsthatonecantouchandhandle.
Oldbrocades,greenbronzes,lacquer-work,carvedivories,exquisitesurroundings,luxury,pomp—thereismuchtobegotfromallthese.
Buttheartistictemperamentthattheycreate,oratanyratereveal,isstillmoretome.
Tobecomethespectatorofone’sownlife,asHarrysays,istoescapethesufferingoflife.
Iknowyouaresurprisedatmytalkingtoyoulikethis.
YouhavenotrealizedhowIhavedeveloped.Iwasaschoolboywhenyouknewme.Iamamannow.
Ihavenewpassions,newthoughts,newideas.
Iamdifferent,butyoumustnotlikemeless.
Iamchanged,butyoumustalwaysbemyfriend.Ofcourse,IamveryfondofHarry.
ButIknowthatyouarebetterthanheis.
Youarenotstronger—youaretoomuchafraidoflife—butyouarebetter.Andhowhappyweusedtobetogether!
Don’tleaveme,Basil,anddon’tquarrelwithme.IamwhatIam.Thereisnothingmoretobesaid.”
Thepainterfeltstrangelymoved.Theladwasinfinitelydeartohim,andhispersonalityhadbeenthegreatturningpointinhisart.
Hecouldnotbeartheideaofreproachinghimanymore.
Afterall,hisindifferencewasprobablymerelyamoodthatwouldpassaway.
Therewassomuchinhimthatwasgood,somuchinhimthatwasnoble.
“Well,Dorian,”hesaidatlength,withasadsmile,“Iwon’tspeaktoyouagainaboutthishorriblething,afterto-day.
Ionlytrustyournamewon’tbementionedinconnectionwithit.
Theinquestistotakeplacethisafternoon.Havetheysummonedyou?”
Dorianshookhishead,andalookofannoyancepassedoverhisfaceatthementionoftheword“inquest.”
Therewassomethingsocrudeandvulgarabouteverythingofthekind.“Theydon’tknowmyname,”heanswered.
“Butsurelyshedid?”
“OnlymyChristianname,andthatIamquitesureshenevermentionedtoanyone.
ShetoldmeoncethattheywereallrathercurioustolearnwhoIwas,andthatsheinvariablytoldthemmynamewasPrinceCharming.Itwasprettyofher.
YoumustdomeadrawingofSibyl,Basil.
Ishouldliketohavesomethingmoreofherthanthememoryofafewkissesandsomebrokenpatheticwords.”
“Iwilltryanddosomething,Dorian,ifitwouldpleaseyou.Butyoumustcomeandsittomeyourselfagain.Ican’tgetonwithoutyou.”
“Icanneversittoyouagain,Basil.Itisimpossible!”heexclaimed,startingback.
Thepainterstaredathim.“Mydearboy,whatnonsense!”hecried.
“Doyoumeantosayyoudon’tlikewhatIdidofyou?Whereisit?
Whyhaveyoupulledthescreeninfrontofit?Letmelookatit.ItisthebestthingIhaveeverdone.Dotakethescreenaway,Dorian.
Itissimplydisgracefulofyourservanthidingmyworklikethat.
IfelttheroomlookeddifferentasIcamein.”
“Myservanthasnothingtodowithit,Basil.
Youdon’timagineIlethimarrangemyroomforme?
Hesettlesmyflowersformesometimes—thatisall.No;Ididitmyself.
Thelightwastoostrongontheportrait.”
“Toostrong!Surelynot,mydearfellow?Itisanadmirableplaceforit.Letmeseeit.”AndHallwardwalkedtowardsthecorneroftheroom.
AcryofterrorbrokefromDorianGray’slips,andherushedbetweenthepainterandthescreen.“Basil,”hesaid,lookingverypale,“youmustnotlookatit.Idon’twishyouto.”
“Notlookatmyownwork!Youarenotserious.Whyshouldn’tIlookatit?”exclaimedHallward,laughing.
“Ifyoutrytolookatit,Basil,onmywordofhonourIwillneverspeaktoyouagainaslongasIlive.Iamquiteserious.
Idon’tofferanyexplanation,andyouarenottoaskforany.
But,remember,ifyoutouchthisscreen,everythingisoverbetweenus.”
Hallwardwasthunderstruck.HelookedatDorianGrayinabsoluteamazement.Hehadneverseenhimlikethisbefore.Theladwasactuallypallidwithrage.
Hishandswereclenched,andthepupilsofhiseyeswerelikedisksofbluefire.Hewastremblingallover.
“Dorian!”
“Don’tspeak!”
“Butwhatisthematter?OfcourseIwon’tlookatitifyoudon’twantmeto,”hesaid,rathercoldly,turningonhisheelandgoingovertowardsthewindow.
“But,really,itseemsratherabsurdthatIshouldn’tseemyownwork,especiallyasIamgoingtoexhibititinParisintheautumn.
Ishallprobablyhavetogiveitanothercoatofvarnishbeforethat,soImustseeitsomeday,andwhynotto-day?”
“Toexhibitit!Youwanttoexhibitit?”
exclaimedDorianGray,astrangesenseofterrorcreepingoverhim.
Wastheworldgoingtobeshownhissecret?
Werepeopletogapeatthemysteryofhislife?Thatwasimpossible.
Something—hedidnotknowwhat—hadtobedoneatonce.
“Yes;Idon’tsupposeyouwillobjecttothat.
GeorgesPetitisgoingtocollectallmybestpicturesforaspecialexhibitionintheRuedeSeze,whichwillopenthefirstweekinOctober.Theportraitwillonlybeawayamonth.
Ishouldthinkyoucouldeasilyspareitforthattime.
Infact,youaresuretobeoutoftown.
Andifyoukeepitalwaysbehindascreen,youcan’tcaremuchaboutit.”
DorianGraypassedhishandoverhisforehead.Therewerebeadsofperspirationthere.
Hefeltthathewasonthebrinkofahorribledanger.
“Youtoldmeamonthagothatyouwouldneverexhibitit,”hecried.“Whyhaveyouchangedyourmind?
Youpeoplewhogoinforbeingconsistenthavejustasmanymoodsasothershave.
Theonlydifferenceisthatyourmoodsarerathermeaningless.
Youcan’thaveforgottenthatyouassuredmemostsolemnlythatnothingintheworldwouldinduceyoutosendittoanyexhibition.YoutoldHarryexactlythesamething.”
Hestoppedsuddenly,andagleamoflightcameintohiseyes.
HerememberedthatLordHenryhadsaidtohimonce,halfseriouslyandhalfinjest,“Ifyouwanttohaveastrangequarterofanhour,getBasiltotellyouwhyhewon’texhibityourpicture.
Hetoldmewhyhewouldn’t,anditwasarevelationtome.”
Yes,perhapsBasil,too,hadhissecret.Hewouldaskhimandtry.
“Basil,”hesaid,comingoverquitecloseandlookinghimstraightintheface,“wehaveeachofusasecret.
Letmeknowyours,andIshalltellyoumine.
Whatwasyourreasonforrefusingtoexhibitmypicture?”
Thepaintershudderedinspiteofhimself.
“Dorian,ifItoldyou,youmightlikemelessthanyoudo,andyouwouldcertainlylaughatme.
Icouldnotbearyourdoingeitherofthosetwothings.
Ifyouwishmenevertolookatyourpictureagain,Iamcontent.Ihavealwaysyoutolookat.
IfyouwishthebestworkIhaveeverdonetobehiddenfromtheworld,Iamsatisfied.
Yourfriendshipisdearertomethananyfameorreputation.”
“No,Basil,youmusttellme,”insistedDorianGray.“IthinkIhavearighttoknow.”
Hisfeelingofterrorhadpassedaway,andcuriosityhadtakenitsplace.
HewasdeterminedtofindoutBasilHallward’smystery.
“Letussitdown,Dorian,”saidthepainter,lookingtroubled.“Letussitdown.Andjustanswermeonequestion.
Haveyounoticedinthepicturesomethingcurious?
—somethingthatprobablyatfirstdidnotstrikeyou,butthatrevealeditselftoyousuddenly?”
“Basil!”criedthelad,clutchingthearmsofhischairwithtremblinghandsandgazingathimwithwildstartledeyes.
“Iseeyoudid.Don’tspeak.WaittillyouhearwhatIhavetosay.
Dorian,fromthemomentImetyou,yourpersonalityhadthemostextraordinaryinfluenceoverme.
Iwasdominated,soul,brain,andpower,byyou.
Youbecametomethevisibleincarnationofthatunseenidealwhosememoryhauntsusartistslikeanexquisitedream.Iworshippedyou.
Igrewjealousofeveryonetowhomyouspoke.Iwantedtohaveyoualltomyself.IwasonlyhappywhenIwaswithyou.
Whenyouwereawayfromme,youwerestillpresentinmyart....Ofcourse,Ineverletyouknowanythingaboutthis.Itwouldhavebeenimpossible.Youwouldnothaveunderstoodit.Ihardlyunderstooditmyself.
IonlyknewthatIhadseenperfectionfacetoface,andthattheworldhadbecomewonderfultomyeyes—toowonderful,perhaps,forinsuchmadworshipsthereisperil,theperiloflosingthem,nolessthantheperilofkeepingthem....Weeksandweekswenton,andIgrewmoreandmoreabsorbedinyou.Thencameanewdevelopment.
IhaddrawnyouasParisindaintyarmour,andasAdoniswithhuntsman’scloakandpolishedboar-spear.
Crownedwithheavylotus-blossomsyouhadsatontheprowofAdrian’sbarge,gazingacrossthegreenturbidNile.
YouhadleanedoverthestillpoolofsomeGreekwoodlandandseeninthewater’ssilentsilverthemarvelofyourownface.
Andithadallbeenwhatartshouldbe—unconscious,ideal,andremote.
Oneday,afataldayIsometimesthink,Ideterminedtopaintawonderfulportraitofyouasyouactuallyare,notinthecostumeofdeadages,butinyourowndressandinyourowntime.
Whetheritwastherealismofthemethod,orthemerewonderofyourownpersonality,thusdirectlypresentedtomewithoutmistorveil,Icannottell.
ButIknowthatasIworkedatit,everyflakeandfilmofcolourseemedtometorevealmysecret.
Igrewafraidthatotherswouldknowofmyidolatry.
Ifelt,Dorian,thatIhadtoldtoomuch,thatIhadputtoomuchofmyselfintoit.
ThenitwasthatIresolvednevertoallowthepicturetobeexhibited.
Youwerealittleannoyed;butthenyoudidnotrealizeallthatitmeanttome.
Harry,towhomItalkedaboutit,laughedatme.ButIdidnotmindthat.
Whenthepicturewasfinished,andIsatalonewithit,IfeltthatIwasright....Well,afterafewdaysthethingleftmystudio,andassoonasIhadgotridoftheintolerablefascinationofitspresence,itseemedtomethatIhadbeenfoolishinimaginingthatIhadseenanythinginit,morethanthatyouwereextremelygood-lookingandthatIcouldpaint.
EvennowIcannothelpfeelingthatitisamistaketothinkthatthepassiononefeelsincreationiseverreallyshownintheworkonecreates.
Artisalwaysmoreabstractthanwefancy.
Formandcolourtellusofformandcolour—thatisall.
Itoftenseemstomethatartconcealstheartistfarmorecompletelythaniteverrevealshim.
AndsowhenIgotthisofferfromParis,Ideterminedtomakeyourportraittheprincipalthinginmyexhibition.
Itneveroccurredtomethatyouwouldrefuse.Iseenowthatyouwereright.Thepicturecannotbeshown.
Youmustnotbeangrywithme,Dorian,forwhatIhavetoldyou.
AsIsaidtoHarry,once,youaremadetobeworshipped.”
DorianGraydrewalongbreath.Thecolourcamebacktohischeeks,andasmileplayedabouthislips.Theperilwasover.Hewassafeforthetime.
Yethecouldnothelpfeelinginfinitepityforthepainterwhohadjustmadethisstrangeconfessiontohim,andwonderedifhehimselfwouldeverbesodominatedbythepersonalityofafriend.
LordHenryhadthecharmofbeingverydangerous.Butthatwasall.
Hewastoocleverandtoocynicaltobereallyfondof.
Wouldthereeverbesomeonewhowouldfillhimwithastrangeidolatry?
Wasthatoneofthethingsthatlifehadinstore?
“Itisextraordinarytome,Dorian,”saidHallward,“thatyoushouldhaveseenthisintheportrait.Didyoureallyseeit?”
“Isawsomethinginit,”heanswered,“somethingthatseemedtomeverycurious.”
“Well,youdon’tmindmylookingatthethingnow?”
Dorianshookhishead.“Youmustnotaskmethat,Basil.Icouldnotpossiblyletyoustandinfrontofthatpicture.”
“Youwillsomeday,surely?”
“Never.”
“Well,perhapsyouareright.Andnowgood-bye,Dorian.
Youhavebeentheonepersoninmylifewhohasreallyinfluencedmyart.
WhateverIhavedonethatisgood,Iowetoyou.Ah!
youdon’tknowwhatitcostmetotellyouallthatIhavetoldyou.”
“MydearBasil,”saidDorian,“whathaveyoutoldme?Simplythatyoufeltthatyouadmiredmetoomuch.Thatisnotevenacompliment.”
“Itwasnotintendedasacompliment.Itwasaconfession.NowthatIhavemadeit,somethingseemstohavegoneoutofme.Perhapsoneshouldneverputone’sworshipintowords.”
“Itwasaverydisappointingconfession.”
“Why,whatdidyouexpect,Dorian?Youdidn’tseeanythingelseinthepicture,didyou?Therewasnothingelsetosee?”
“No;therewasnothingelsetosee.Whydoyouask?Butyoumustn’ttalkaboutworship.Itisfoolish.YouandIarefriends,Basil,andwemustalwaysremainso.”
“YouhavegotHarry,”saidthepaintersadly.
“Oh,Harry!”criedthelad,witharippleoflaughter.
“Harryspendshisdaysinsayingwhatisincredibleandhiseveningsindoingwhatisimprobable.
JustthesortoflifeIwouldliketolead.
ButstillIdon’tthinkIwouldgotoHarryifIwereintrouble.Iwouldsoonergotoyou,Basil.”
“Youwillsittomeagain?”
“Impossible!”
“Youspoilmylifeasanartistbyrefusing,Dorian.Nomancomesacrosstwoidealthings.Fewcomeacrossone.”
“Ican’texplainittoyou,Basil,butImustneversittoyouagain.
Thereissomethingfatalaboutaportrait.Ithasalifeofitsown.Iwillcomeandhaveteawithyou.Thatwillbejustaspleasant.”
“Pleasanterforyou,Iamafraid,”murmuredHallwardregretfully.“Andnowgood-bye.
Iamsorryyouwon’tletmelookatthepictureonceagain.Butthatcan’tbehelped.
Iquiteunderstandwhatyoufeelaboutit.”
Ashelefttheroom,DorianGraysmiledtohimself.PoorBasil!Howlittleheknewofthetruereason!
Andhowstrangeitwasthat,insteadofhavingbeenforcedtorevealhisownsecret,hehadsucceeded,almostbychance,inwrestingasecretfromhisfriend!
Howmuchthatstrangeconfessionexplainedtohim!
Thepainter’sabsurdfitsofjealousy,hiswilddevotion,hisextravagantpanegyrics,hiscuriousreticences—heunderstoodthemallnow,andhefeltsorry.
Thereseemedtohimtobesomethingtragicinafriendshipsocolouredbyromance.
Hesighedandtouchedthebell.Theportraitmustbehiddenawayatallcosts.
Hecouldnotrunsuchariskofdiscoveryagain.
Ithadbeenmadofhimtohaveallowedthethingtoremain,evenforanhour,inaroomtowhichanyofhisfriendshadaccess.
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