English
Hepassedoutoftheroomandbegantheascent,BasilHallwardfollowingclosebehind.
Theywalkedsoftly,asmendoinstinctivelyatnight.
Thelampcastfantasticshadowsonthewallandstaircase.
Arisingwindmadesomeofthewindowsrattle.
Whentheyreachedthetoplanding,Doriansetthelampdownonthefloor,andtakingoutthekey,turneditinthelock.“Youinsistonknowing,Basil?”heaskedinalowvoice.
“Yes.”
“Iamdelighted,”heanswered,smiling.Thenheadded,somewhatharshly,“Youaretheonemanintheworldwhoisentitledtoknoweverythingaboutme.
Youhavehadmoretodowithmylifethanyouthink”;and,takingupthelamp,heopenedthedoorandwentin.
Acoldcurrentofairpassedthem,andthelightshotupforamomentinaflameofmurkyorange.Heshuddered.
“Shutthedoorbehindyou,”hewhispered,asheplacedthelamponthetable.
Hallwardglancedroundhimwithapuzzledexpression.
Theroomlookedasifithadnotbeenlivedinforyears.
AfadedFlemishtapestry,acurtainedpicture,anoldItaliancassone,andanalmostemptybook-case—thatwasallthatitseemedtocontain,besidesachairandatable.
AsDorianGraywaslightingahalf-burnedcandlethatwasstandingonthemantelshelf,hesawthatthewholeplacewascoveredwithdustandthatthecarpetwasinholes.
Amouseranscufflingbehindthewainscoting.Therewasadampodourofmildew.
“SoyouthinkthatitisonlyGodwhoseesthesoul,Basil?Drawthatcurtainback,andyouwillseemine.”
Thevoicethatspokewascoldandcruel.“Youaremad,Dorian,orplayingapart,”mutteredHallward,frowning.
“Youwon’t?ThenImustdoitmyself,”saidtheyoungman,andhetorethecurtainfromitsrodandflungitontheground.
Anexclamationofhorrorbrokefromthepainter’slipsashesawinthedimlightthehideousfaceonthecanvasgrinningathim.
Therewassomethinginitsexpressionthatfilledhimwithdisgustandloathing.Goodheavens!
itwasDorianGray’sownfacethathewaslookingat!
Thehorror,whateveritwas,hadnotyetentirelyspoiledthatmarvellousbeauty.
Therewasstillsomegoldinthethinninghairandsomescarletonthesensualmouth.
Thesoddeneyeshadkeptsomethingofthelovelinessoftheirblue,thenoblecurveshadnotyetcompletelypassedawayfromchisellednostrilsandfromplasticthroat.Yes,itwasDorianhimself.Butwhohaddoneit?
Heseemedtorecognizehisownbrushwork,andtheframewashisowndesign.
Theideawasmonstrous,yethefeltafraid.
Heseizedthelightedcandle,andheldittothepicture.
Intheleft-handcornerwashisownname,tracedinlonglettersofbrightvermilion.
Itwassomefoulparody,someinfamousignoblesatire.Hehadneverdonethat.Still,itwashisownpicture.
Heknewit,andhefeltasifhisbloodhadchangedinamomentfromfiretosluggishice.Hisownpicture!Whatdiditmean?Whyhaditaltered?
HeturnedandlookedatDorianGraywiththeeyesofasickman.
Hismouthtwitched,andhisparchedtongueseemedunabletoarticulate.Hepassedhishandacrosshisforehead.Itwasdankwithclammysweat.
Theyoungmanwasleaningagainstthemantelshelf,watchinghimwiththatstrangeexpressionthatoneseesonthefacesofthosewhoareabsorbedinaplaywhensomegreatartistisacting.
Therewasneitherrealsorrowinitnorrealjoy.
Therewassimplythepassionofthespectator,withperhapsaflickeroftriumphinhiseyes.
Hehadtakenthefloweroutofhiscoat,andwassmellingit,orpretendingtodoso.
“Whatdoesthismean?”criedHallward,atlast.Hisownvoicesoundedshrillandcuriousinhisears.
“Yearsago,whenIwasaboy,”saidDorianGray,crushingtheflowerinhishand,“youmetme,flatteredme,andtaughtmetobevainofmygoodlooks.
Onedayyouintroducedmetoafriendofyours,whoexplainedtomethewonderofyouth,andyoufinishedaportraitofmethatrevealedtomethewonderofbeauty.
Inamadmomentthat,evennow,Idon’tknowwhetherIregretornot,Imadeawish,perhapsyouwouldcallitaprayer....”
“Irememberit!Oh,howwellIrememberit!No!thethingisimpossible.Theroomisdamp.Mildewhasgotintothecanvas.
ThepaintsIusedhadsomewretchedmineralpoisoninthem.Itellyouthethingisimpossible.”
“Ah,whatisimpossible?”murmuredtheyoungman,goingovertothewindowandleaninghisforeheadagainstthecold,mist-stainedglass.
“Youtoldmeyouhaddestroyedit.”
“Iwaswrong.Ithasdestroyedme.”
“Idon’tbelieveitismypicture.”
“Can’tyouseeyouridealinit?”saidDorianbitterly.
“Myideal,asyoucallit...”
“Asyoucalledit.”
“Therewasnothingevilinit,nothingshameful.YouweretomesuchanidealasIshallnevermeetagain.Thisisthefaceofasatyr.”
“Itisthefaceofmysoul.”
“Christ!whatathingImusthaveworshipped!Ithastheeyesofadevil.”
“Eachofushasheavenandhellinhim,Basil,”criedDorianwithawildgestureofdespair.
Hallwardturnedagaintotheportraitandgazedatit.“MyGod!
Ifitistrue,”heexclaimed,“andthisiswhatyouhavedonewithyourlife,why,youmustbeworseeventhanthosewhotalkagainstyoufancyyoutobe!”
Heheldthelightupagaintothecanvasandexaminedit.
Thesurfaceseemedtobequiteundisturbedandashehadleftit.
Itwasfromwithin,apparently,thatthefoulnessandhorrorhadcome.
Throughsomestrangequickeningofinnerlifetheleprosiesofsinwereslowlyeatingthethingaway.
Therottingofacorpseinawaterygravewasnotsofearful.
Hishandshook,andthecandlefellfromitssocketonthefloorandlaytheresputtering.
Heplacedhisfootonitandputitout.
Thenheflunghimselfintothericketychairthatwasstandingbythetableandburiedhisfaceinhishands.
“GoodGod,Dorian,whatalesson!Whatanawfullesson!”
Therewasnoanswer,buthecouldheartheyoungmansobbingatthewindow.“Pray,Dorian,pray,”hemurmured.
“Whatisitthatonewastaughttosayinone’sboyhood?‘Leadusnotintotemptation.Forgiveusoursins.Washawayouriniquities.’Letussaythattogether.
Theprayerofyourpridehasbeenanswered.
Theprayerofyourrepentancewillbeansweredalso.Iworshippedyoutoomuch.Iampunishedforit.Youworshippedyourselftoomuch.Wearebothpunished.”
DorianGrayturnedslowlyaroundandlookedathimwithtear-dimmedeyes.“Itistoolate,Basil,”hefaltered.
“Itisnevertoolate,Dorian.Letuskneeldownandtryifwecannotrememberaprayer.Isn’tthereaversesomewhere,‘Thoughyoursinsbeasscarlet,yetIwillmakethemaswhiteassnow’?”
“Thosewordsmeannothingtomenow.”
“Hush!Don’tsaythat.Youhavedoneenoughevilinyourlife.MyGod!Don’tyouseethataccursedthingleeringatus?”
DorianGrayglancedatthepicture,andsuddenlyanuncontrollablefeelingofhatredforBasilHallwardcameoverhim,asthoughithadbeensuggestedtohimbytheimageonthecanvas,whisperedintohisearbythosegrinninglips.
Themadpassionsofahuntedanimalstirredwithinhim,andheloathedthemanwhowasseatedatthetable,morethaninhiswholelifehehadeverloathedanything.Heglancedwildlyaround.
Somethingglimmeredonthetopofthepaintedchestthatfacedhim.Hiseyefellonit.Heknewwhatitwas.
Itwasaknifethathehadbroughtup,somedaysbefore,tocutapieceofcord,andhadforgottentotakeawaywithhim.
Hemovedslowlytowardsit,passingHallwardashedidso.
Assoonashegotbehindhim,heseizeditandturnedround.
Hallwardstirredinhischairasifhewasgoingtorise.
Herushedathimanddugtheknifeintothegreatveinthatisbehindtheear,crushingtheman’sheaddownonthetableandstabbingagainandagain.
Therewasastifledgroanandthehorriblesoundofsomeonechokingwithblood.
Threetimestheoutstretchedarmsshotupconvulsively,wavinggrotesque,stiff-fingeredhandsintheair.
Hestabbedhimtwicemore,butthemandidnotmove.
Somethingbegantotrickleonthefloor.
Hewaitedforamoment,stillpressingtheheaddown.
Thenhethrewtheknifeonthetable,andlistened.
Hecouldhearnothing,butthedrip,driponthethreadbarecarpet.
Heopenedthedoorandwentoutonthelanding.Thehousewasabsolutelyquiet.Noonewasabout.
Forafewsecondshestoodbendingoverthebalustradeandpeeringdownintotheblackseethingwellofdarkness.
Thenhetookoutthekeyandreturnedtotheroom,lockinghimselfinashedidso.
Thethingwasstillseatedinthechair,strainingoverthetablewithbowedhead,andhumpedback,andlongfantasticarms.
Haditnotbeenfortheredjaggedtearintheneckandtheclottedblackpoolthatwasslowlywideningonthetable,onewouldhavesaidthatthemanwassimplyasleep.
Howquicklyithadallbeendone!Hefeltstrangelycalm,andwalkingovertothewindow,openeditandsteppedoutonthebalcony.
Thewindhadblownthefogaway,andtheskywaslikeamonstrouspeacock’stail,starredwithmyriadsofgoldeneyes.
Helookeddownandsawthepolicemangoinghisroundsandflashingthelongbeamofhislanternonthedoorsofthesilenthouses.
Thecrimsonspotofaprowlinghansomgleamedatthecornerandthenvanished.
Awomaninaflutteringshawlwascreepingslowlybytherailings,staggeringasshewent.
Nowandthenshestoppedandpeeredback.
Once,shebegantosinginahoarsevoice.
Thepolicemanstrolledoverandsaidsomethingtoher.Shestumbledaway,laughing.Abitterblastsweptacrossthesquare.
Thegas-lampsflickeredandbecameblue,andtheleaflesstreesshooktheirblackironbranchestoandfro.
Heshiveredandwentback,closingthewindowbehindhim.
Havingreachedthedoor,heturnedthekeyandopenedit.
Hedidnotevenglanceatthemurderedman.
Hefeltthatthesecretofthewholethingwasnottorealizethesituation.
Thefriendwhohadpaintedthefatalportraittowhichallhismiseryhadbeenduehadgoneoutofhislife.Thatwasenough.
Thenherememberedthelamp.ItwasarathercuriousoneofMoorishworkmanship,madeofdullsilverinlaidwitharabesquesofburnishedsteel,andstuddedwithcoarseturquoises.
Perhapsitmightbemissedbyhisservant,andquestionswouldbeasked.
Hehesitatedforamoment,thenheturnedbackandtookitfromthetable.
Hecouldnothelpseeingthedeadthing.Howstillitwas!
Howhorriblywhitethelonghandslooked!Itwaslikeadreadfulwaximage.
Havinglockedthedoorbehindhim,hecreptquietlydownstairs.
Thewoodworkcreakedandseemedtocryoutasifinpain.Hestoppedseveraltimesandwaited.No:everythingwasstill.
Itwasmerelythesoundofhisownfootsteps.
Whenhereachedthelibrary,hesawthebagandcoatinthecorner.Theymustbehiddenawaysomewhere.
Heunlockedasecretpressthatwasinthewainscoting,apressinwhichhekepthisowncuriousdisguises,andputthemintoit.Hecouldeasilyburnthemafterwards.Thenhepulledouthiswatch.Itwastwentyminutestotwo.
Hesatdownandbegantothink.Everyyear—everymonth,almost—menwerestrangledinEnglandforwhathehaddone.
Therehadbeenamadnessofmurderintheair.
Someredstarhadcometooclosetotheearth.
…Andyet,whatevidencewasthereagainsthim?
BasilHallwardhadleftthehouseateleven.Noonehadseenhimcomeinagain.
MostoftheservantswereatSelbyRoyal.Hisvalethadgonetobed....Paris!Yes.
ItwastoParisthatBasilhadgone,andbythemidnighttrain,ashehadintended.
Withhiscuriousreservedhabits,itwouldbemonthsbeforeanysuspicionswouldberoused.Months!
Everythingcouldbedestroyedlongbeforethen.
Asuddenthoughtstruckhim.Heputonhisfurcoatandhatandwentoutintothehall.
Therehepaused,hearingtheslowheavytreadofthepolicemanonthepavementoutsideandseeingtheflashofthebull’s-eyereflectedinthewindow.Hewaitedandheldhisbreath.
Afterafewmomentshedrewbackthelatchandslippedout,shuttingthedoorverygentlybehindhim.Thenhebeganringingthebell.
Inaboutfiveminuteshisvaletappeared,half-dressedandlookingverydrowsy.
“Iamsorrytohavehadtowakeyouup,Francis,”hesaid,steppingin;“butIhadforgottenmylatch-key.Whattimeisit?”
“Tenminutespasttwo,sir,”answeredtheman,lookingattheclockandblinking.
“Tenminutespasttwo?Howhorriblylate!Youmustwakemeatnineto-morrow.Ihavesomeworktodo.”
“Allright,sir.”
“Didanyonecallthisevening?”
“Mr.Hallward,sir.Hestayedheretilleleven,andthenhewentawaytocatchhistrain.”
“Oh!IamsorryIdidn’tseehim.Didheleaveanymessage?”
“No,sir,exceptthathewouldwritetoyoufromParis,ifhedidnotfindyouattheclub.”
“Thatwilldo,Francis.Don’tforgettocallmeatnineto-morrow.”
“No,sir.”
Themanshambleddownthepassageinhisslippers.
DorianGraythrewhishatandcoatuponthetableandpassedintothelibrary.
Foraquarterofanhourhewalkedupanddowntheroom,bitinghislipandthinking.
ThenhetookdowntheBlueBookfromoneoftheshelvesandbegantoturnovertheleaves.
“AlanCampbell,152,HertfordStreet,Mayfair.”Yes;thatwasthemanhewanted.
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