English
Whenhisservantentered,helookedathimsteadfastlyandwonderedifhehadthoughtofpeeringbehindthescreen.
Themanwasquiteimpassiveandwaitedforhisorders.
Dorianlitacigaretteandwalkedovertotheglassandglancedintoit.
HecouldseethereflectionofVictor’sfaceperfectly.Itwaslikeaplacidmaskofservility.
Therewasnothingtobeafraidof,there.
Yethethoughtitbesttobeonhisguard.
Speakingveryslowly,hetoldhimtotellthehouse-keeperthathewantedtoseeher,andthentogototheframe-makerandaskhimtosendtwoofhismenroundatonce.
Itseemedtohimthatasthemanlefttheroomhiseyeswanderedinthedirectionofthescreen.Orwasthatmerelyhisownfancy?
Afterafewmoments,inherblacksilkdress,withold-fashionedthreadmittensonherwrinkledhands,Mrs.Leafbustledintothelibrary.Heaskedherforthekeyoftheschoolroom.
“Theoldschoolroom,Mr.Dorian?”sheexclaimed.“Why,itisfullofdust.Imustgetitarrangedandputstraightbeforeyougointoit.Itisnotfitforyoutosee,sir.Itisnot,indeed.”
“Idon’twantitputstraight,Leaf.Ionlywantthekey.”
“Well,sir,you’llbecoveredwithcobwebsifyougointoit.Why,ithasn’tbeenopenedfornearlyfiveyears—notsincehislordshipdied.”
Hewincedatthementionofhisgrandfather.Hehadhatefulmemoriesofhim.“Thatdoesnotmatter,”heanswered.“Isimplywanttoseetheplace—thatisall.Givemethekey.”
“Andhereisthekey,sir,”saidtheoldlady,goingoverthecontentsofherbunchwithtremulouslyuncertainhands.“Hereisthekey.I’llhaveitoffthebunchinamoment.
Butyoudon’tthinkoflivingupthere,sir,andyousocomfortablehere?”
“No,no,”hecriedpetulantly.“Thankyou,Leaf.Thatwilldo.”
Shelingeredforafewmoments,andwasgarrulousoversomedetailofthehousehold.Hesighedandtoldhertomanagethingsasshethoughtbest.Shelefttheroom,wreathedinsmiles.
Asthedoorclosed,Dorianputthekeyinhispocketandlookedroundtheroom.
Hiseyefellonalarge,purplesatincoverletheavilyembroideredwithgold,asplendidpieceoflateseventeenth-centuryVenetianworkthathisgrandfatherhadfoundinaconventnearBologna.
Yes,thatwouldservetowrapthedreadfulthingin.
Ithadperhapsservedoftenasapallforthedead.
Nowitwastohidesomethingthathadacorruptionofitsown,worsethanthecorruptionofdeathitself—somethingthatwouldbreedhorrorsandyetwouldneverdie.
Whatthewormwastothecorpse,hissinswouldbetothepaintedimageonthecanvas.
Theywouldmaritsbeautyandeatawayitsgrace.
Theywoulddefileitandmakeitshameful.Andyetthethingwouldstillliveon.Itwouldbealwaysalive.
Heshuddered,andforamomentheregrettedthathehadnottoldBasilthetruereasonwhyhehadwishedtohidethepictureaway.
BasilwouldhavehelpedhimtoresistLordHenry’sinfluence,andthestillmorepoisonousinfluencesthatcamefromhisowntemperament.
Thelovethatheborehim—foritwasreallylove—hadnothinginitthatwasnotnobleandintellectual.
Itwasnotthatmerephysicaladmirationofbeautythatisbornofthesensesandthatdieswhenthesensestire.
ItwassuchloveasMichelangelohadknown,andMontaigne,andWinckelmann,andShakespearehimself.Yes,Basilcouldhavesavedhim.Butitwastoolatenow.Thepastcouldalwaysbeannihilated.
Regret,denial,orforgetfulnesscoulddothat.Butthefuturewasinevitable.
Therewerepassionsinhimthatwouldfindtheirterribleoutlet,dreamsthatwouldmaketheshadowoftheirevilreal.
Hetookupfromthecouchthegreatpurple-and-goldtexturethatcoveredit,and,holdingitinhishands,passedbehindthescreen.
Wasthefaceonthecanvasvilerthanbefore?
Itseemedtohimthatitwasunchanged,andyethisloathingofitwasintensified.
Goldhair,blueeyes,androse-redlips—theyallwerethere.
Itwassimplytheexpressionthathadaltered.Thatwashorribleinitscruelty.
Comparedtowhathesawinitofcensureorrebuke,howshallowBasil’sreproachesaboutSibylVanehadbeen!
—howshallow,andofwhatlittleaccount!
Hisownsoulwaslookingoutathimfromthecanvasandcallinghimtojudgement.
Alookofpaincameacrosshim,andheflungtherichpalloverthepicture.Ashedidso,aknockcametothedoor.Hepassedoutashisservantentered.
“Thepersonsarehere,Monsieur.”
Hefeltthatthemanmustbegotridofatonce.
Hemustnotbeallowedtoknowwherethepicturewasbeingtakento.
Therewassomethingslyabouthim,andhehadthoughtful,treacherouseyes.
Sittingdownatthewriting-tablehescribbledanotetoLordHenry,askinghimtosendhimroundsomethingtoreadandremindinghimthattheyweretomeetateight-fifteenthatevening.
“Waitforananswer,”hesaid,handingittohim,“andshowthemeninhere.”
Intwoorthreeminutestherewasanotherknock,andMr.Hubbardhimself,thecelebratedframe-makerofSouthAudleyStreet,cameinwithasomewhatrough-lookingyoungassistant.
Mr.Hubbardwasaflorid,red-whiskeredlittleman,whoseadmirationforartwasconsiderablytemperedbytheinveterateimpecuniosityofmostoftheartistswhodealtwithhim.Asarule,heneverlefthisshop.Hewaitedforpeopletocometohim.
ButhealwaysmadeanexceptioninfavourofDorianGray.
TherewassomethingaboutDorianthatcharmedeverybody.Itwasapleasureeventoseehim.
“WhatcanIdoforyou,Mr.Gray?”hesaid,rubbinghisfatfreckledhands.
“IthoughtIwoulddomyselfthehonourofcomingroundinperson.
Ihavejustgotabeautyofaframe,sir.Pickeditupatasale.OldFlorentine.CamefromFonthill,Ibelieve.
Admirablysuitedforareligioussubject,Mr.Gray.”
“Iamsosorryyouhavegivenyourselfthetroubleofcominground,Mr.Hubbard.
Ishallcertainlydropinandlookattheframe—thoughIdon’tgoinmuchatpresentforreligiousart—butto-dayIonlywantapicturecarriedtothetopofthehouseforme.
Itisratherheavy,soIthoughtIwouldaskyoutolendmeacoupleofyourmen.”
“Notroubleatall,Mr.Gray.Iamdelightedtobeofanyservicetoyou.Whichistheworkofart,sir?”
“This,”repliedDorian,movingthescreenback.“Canyoumoveit,coveringandall,justasitis?Idon’twantittogetscratchedgoingupstairs.”
“Therewillbenodifficulty,sir,”saidthegenialframe-maker,beginning,withtheaidofhisassistant,tounhookthepicturefromthelongbrasschainsbywhichitwassuspended.
“And,now,whereshallwecarryitto,Mr.Gray?”
“Iwillshowyoutheway,Mr.Hubbard,ifyouwillkindlyfollowme.Orperhapsyouhadbettergoinfront.
Iamafraiditisrightatthetopofthehouse.
Wewillgoupbythefrontstaircase,asitiswider.”
Heheldthedooropenforthem,andtheypassedoutintothehallandbegantheascent.
Theelaboratecharacteroftheframehadmadethepictureextremelybulky,andnowandthen,inspiteoftheobsequiousprotestsofMr.Hubbard,whohadthetruetradesman’sspiriteddislikeofseeingagentlemandoinganythinguseful,Dorianputhishandtoitsoastohelpthem.
“Somethingofaloadtocarry,sir,”gaspedthelittlemanwhentheyreachedthetoplanding.Andhewipedhisshinyforehead.
“Iamafraiditisratherheavy,”murmuredDorianasheunlockedthedoorthatopenedintotheroomthatwastokeepforhimthecurioussecretofhislifeandhidehissoulfromtheeyesofmen.
Hehadnotenteredtheplaceformorethanfouryears—not,indeed,sincehehaduseditfirstasaplay-roomwhenhewasachild,andthenasastudywhenhegrewsomewhatolder.
Itwasalarge,well-proportionedroom,whichhadbeenspeciallybuiltbythelastLordKelsofortheuseofthelittlegrandsonwhom,forhisstrangelikenesstohismother,andalsoforotherreasons,hehadalwayshatedanddesiredtokeepatadistance.
ItappearedtoDoriantohavebutlittlechanged.
TherewasthehugeItaliancassone,withitsfantasticallypaintedpanelsanditstarnishedgiltmouldings,inwhichhehadsooftenhiddenhimselfasaboy.
Therethesatinwoodbook-casefilledwithhisdog-earedschoolbooks.
OnthewallbehinditwashangingthesameraggedFlemishtapestrywhereafadedkingandqueenwereplayingchessinagarden,whileacompanyofhawkersrodeby,carryinghoodedbirdsontheirgauntletedwrists.Howwellheremembereditall!
Everymomentofhislonelychildhoodcamebacktohimashelookedround.
Herecalledthestainlesspurityofhisboyishlife,anditseemedhorribletohimthatitwasherethefatalportraitwastobehiddenaway.
Howlittlehehadthought,inthosedeaddays,ofallthatwasinstoreforhim!
Buttherewasnootherplaceinthehousesosecurefrompryingeyesasthis.
Hehadthekey,andnooneelsecouldenterit.
Beneathitspurplepall,thefacepaintedonthecanvascouldgrowbestial,sodden,andunclean.Whatdiditmatter?Noonecouldseeit.Hehimselfwouldnotseeit.
Whyshouldhewatchthehideouscorruptionofhissoul?Hekepthisyouth—thatwasenough.
And,besides,mightnothisnaturegrowfiner,afterall?
Therewasnoreasonthatthefutureshouldbesofullofshame.
Somelovemightcomeacrosshislife,andpurifyhim,andshieldhimfromthosesinsthatseemedtobealreadystirringinspiritandinflesh—thosecuriousunpicturedsinswhoseverymysterylentthemtheirsubtletyandtheircharm.
Perhaps,someday,thecruellookwouldhavepassedawayfromthescarletsensitivemouth,andhemightshowtotheworldBasilHallward’smasterpiece.
No;thatwasimpossible.Hourbyhour,andweekbyweek,thethinguponthecanvaswasgrowingold.
Itmightescapethehideousnessofsin,butthehideousnessofagewasinstoreforit.
Thecheekswouldbecomeholloworflaccid.
Yellowcrow’sfeetwouldcreeproundthefadingeyesandmakethemhorrible.
Thehairwouldloseitsbrightness,themouthwouldgapeordroop,wouldbefoolishorgross,asthemouthsofoldmenare.
Therewouldbethewrinkledthroat,thecold,blue-veinedhands,thetwistedbody,thatherememberedinthegrandfatherwhohadbeensosterntohiminhisboyhood.Thepicturehadtobeconcealed.Therewasnohelpforit.
“Bringitin,Mr.Hubbard,please,”hesaid,wearily,turninground.“IamsorryIkeptyousolong.Iwasthinkingofsomethingelse.”
“Alwaysgladtohavearest,Mr.Gray,”answeredtheframe-maker,whowasstillgaspingforbreath.“Whereshallweputit,sir?”
“Oh,anywhere.Here:thiswilldo.Idon’twanttohaveithungup.Justleanitagainstthewall.Thanks.”
“Mightonelookattheworkofart,sir?”
Dorianstarted.“Itwouldnotinterestyou,Mr.Hubbard,”hesaid,keepinghiseyeontheman.
Hefeltreadytoleapuponhimandflinghimtothegroundifhedaredtoliftthegorgeoushangingthatconcealedthesecretofhislife.“Ishan’ttroubleyouanymorenow.
Iammuchobligedforyourkindnessincominground.”
“Notatall,notatall,Mr.Gray.Everreadytodoanythingforyou,sir.”
AndMr.Hubbardtrampeddownstairs,followedbytheassistant,whoglancedbackatDorianwithalookofshywonderinhisroughuncomelyface.
Hehadneverseenanyonesomarvellous.
Whenthesoundoftheirfootstepshaddiedaway,Dorianlockedthedoorandputthekeyinhispocket.Hefeltsafenow.
Noonewouldeverlookuponthehorriblething.
Noeyebuthiswouldeverseehisshame.
Onreachingthelibrary,hefoundthatitwasjustafterfiveo’clockandthattheteahadbeenalreadybroughtup.
Onalittletableofdarkperfumedwoodthicklyincrustedwithnacre,apresentfromLadyRadley,hisguardian’swife,aprettyprofessionalinvalidwhohadspenttheprecedingwinterinCairo,waslyinganotefromLordHenry,andbesideitwasabookboundinyellowpaper,thecoverslightlytornandtheedgessoiled.
AcopyofthethirdeditionofTheSt.James’sGazettehadbeenplacedonthetea-tray.
ItwasevidentthatVictorhadreturned.
Hewonderedifhehadmetthemeninthehallastheywereleavingthehouseandhadwormedoutofthemwhattheyhadbeendoing.
Hewouldbesuretomissthepicture—hadnodoubtmisseditalready,whilehehadbeenlayingthetea-things.
Thescreenhadnotbeensetback,andablankspacewasvisibleonthewall.
Perhapssomenighthemightfindhimcreepingupstairsandtryingtoforcethedooroftheroom.
Itwasahorriblethingtohaveaspyinone’shouse.
Hehadheardofrichmenwhohadbeenblackmailedalltheirlivesbysomeservantwhohadreadaletter,oroverheardaconversation,orpickedupacardwithanaddress,orfoundbeneathapillowawitheredflowerorashredofcrumpledlace.
Hesighed,andhavingpouredhimselfoutsometea,openedLordHenry’snote.
Itwassimplytosaythathesenthimroundtheeveningpaper,andabookthatmightinteresthim,andthathewouldbeattheclubateight-fifteen.
HeopenedTheSt.James’slanguidly,andlookedthroughit.
Aredpencil-markonthefifthpagecaughthiseye.
Itdrewattentiontothefollowingparagraph:
INQUESTONANACTRESS.—AninquestwasheldthismorningattheBellTavern,HoxtonRoad,byMr.Danby,theDistrictCoroner,onthebodyofSibylVane,ayoungactressrecentlyengagedattheRoyalTheatre,Holborn.
Averdictofdeathbymisadventurewasreturned.
Considerablesympathywasexpressedforthemotherofthedeceased,whowasgreatlyaffectedduringthegivingofherownevidence,andthatofDr.Birrell,whohadmadethepost-mortemexaminationofthedeceased.
Hefrowned,andtearingthepaperintwo,wentacrosstheroomandflungthepiecesaway.Howuglyitallwas!
Andhowhorriblyrealuglinessmadethings!
HefeltalittleannoyedwithLordHenryforhavingsenthimthereport.
Anditwascertainlystupidofhimtohavemarkeditwithredpencil.Victormighthavereadit.
ThemanknewmorethanenoughEnglishforthat.
Perhapshehadreaditandhadbeguntosuspectsomething.And,yet,whatdiditmatter?WhathadDorianGraytodowithSibylVane’sdeath?Therewasnothingtofear.DorianGrayhadnotkilledher.
HiseyefellontheyellowbookthatLordHenryhadsenthim.Whatwasit,hewondered.
Hewenttowardsthelittle,pearl-colouredoctagonalstandthathadalwayslookedtohimliketheworkofsomestrangeEgyptianbeesthatwroughtinsilver,andtakingupthevolume,flunghimselfintoanarm-chairandbegantoturnovertheleaves.Afterafewminuteshebecameabsorbed.
Itwasthestrangestbookthathehadeverread.
Itseemedtohimthatinexquisiteraiment,andtothedelicatesoundofflutes,thesinsoftheworldwerepassingindumbshowbeforehim.
Thingsthathehaddimlydreamedofweresuddenlymaderealtohim.
Thingsofwhichhehadneverdreamedweregraduallyrevealed.
Itwasanovelwithoutaplotandwithonlyonecharacter,being,indeed,simplyapsychologicalstudyofacertainyoungParisianwhospenthislifetryingtorealizeinthenineteenthcenturyallthepassionsandmodesofthoughtthatbelongedtoeverycenturyexcepthisown,andtosumup,asitwere,inhimselfthevariousmoodsthroughwhichtheworld-spirithadeverpassed,lovingfortheirmereartificialitythoserenunciationsthatmenhaveunwiselycalledvirtue,asmuchasthosenaturalrebellionsthatwisemenstillcallsin.
Thestyleinwhichitwaswrittenwasthatcuriousjewelledstyle,vividandobscureatonce,fullofargotandofarchaisms,oftechnicalexpressionsandofelaborateparaphrases,thatcharacterizestheworkofsomeofthefinestartistsoftheFrenchschoolofSymbolistes.
Therewereinitmetaphorsasmonstrousasorchidsandassubtleincolour.
Thelifeofthesenseswasdescribedinthetermsofmysticalphilosophy.
Onehardlyknewattimeswhetheronewasreadingthespiritualecstasiesofsomemediaevalsaintorthemorbidconfessionsofamodernsinner.Itwasapoisonousbook.
Theheavyodourofincenseseemedtoclingaboutitspagesandtotroublethebrain.
Themerecadenceofthesentences,thesubtlemonotonyoftheirmusic,sofullasitwasofcomplexrefrainsandmovementselaboratelyrepeated,producedinthemindofthelad,ashepassedfromchaptertochapter,aformofreverie,amaladyofdreaming,thatmadehimunconsciousofthefallingdayandcreepingshadows.
Cloudless,andpiercedbyonesolitarystar,acopper-greenskygleamedthroughthewindows.
Hereadonbyitswanlighttillhecouldreadnomore.
Then,afterhisvalethadremindedhimseveraltimesofthelatenessofthehour,hegotup,andgoingintothenextroom,placedthebookonthelittleFlorentinetablethatalwaysstoodathisbedsideandbegantodressfordinner.
Itwasalmostnineo’clockbeforehereachedtheclub,wherehefoundLordHenrysittingalone,inthemorning-room,lookingverymuchbored.
“Iamsosorry,Harry,”hecried,“butreallyitisentirelyyourfault.ThatbookyousentmesofascinatedmethatIforgothowthetimewasgoing.”
“Yes,Ithoughtyouwouldlikeit,”repliedhishost,risingfromhischair.
“Ididn’tsayIlikedit,Harry.Isaiditfascinatedme.Thereisagreatdifference.”
“Ah,youhavediscoveredthat?”murmuredLordHenry.Andtheypassedintothedining-room.
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