Oscar Wilde: The Picture of Dorian Gray, Chapter XIII (extract)
| He passed out of the room, and began the ascent, Basil | |
| Hallward following close behind. They walked softly, as | |
| men do instinctively at night. The lamp cast fantastic | |
| shadows on the wall and staircase. A rising wind made | |
| 5 | some of the windows rattle. |
| When they reached the top landing, Dorian set the | |
| lamp down on the floor, and taking out the key turned | |
| it in the lock. "You insist on knowing, Basil?" he asked, | |
| in a low voice. | |
| 10 | "Yes." |
| "I am delighted," he answered, smiling. Then he added, | |
| somewhat harshly, "You are the one man in the world | |
| who is entitled to know everything about me. You have | |
| had more to do with my life than you think:" and, tak- | |
| 15 | ing up the lamp, he opened the door and went in. A |
| cold current of air passed them, and the light shot up | |
| for a moment in a flame of murky orange. He shud- | |
| dered. "Shut the door behind you," he whispered, as he | |
| placed the lamp on the table. | |
| 20 | Hallward glanced round him, with a puzzled expression. |
| The room looked as if it had not been lived in for years. | |
| A faded Flemish tapestry, a curtained picture, an old | |
| Italian cassone1, and an almost empty bookcase – that | |
| was all that it seemed to contain, besides a chair and a | |
| 25 | table. As Dorian Gray was lighting a half-burned candle |
| that was standing on the mantel-shelf, he saw that the | |
| whole place was covered with dust, and that the carpet | |
| was in holes. A mouse ran scuffling behind the wains- | |
| coting2. There was a damp odour of mildew3. | |
| 30 | "So you think that it is only God who sees the soul, |
| Basil? Draw that curtain back, and you will see mine." | |
| The voice that spoke was cold and cruel. "You are mad, | |
| Dorian, or playing a part," muttered Hallward, frowning. | |
| 35 | "You won't? Then I must do it myself," said the young |
| man; and he tore the curtain from its rod, and flung it | |
| on the ground. | |
| An exclamation of horror broke from the painter's lips | |
| as he saw in the dim light the hideous face on the can- | |
| 40 | vas grinning at him. There was something in its expres- |
| sion that filled him with disgust and loathing. Good | |
| heavens! It was Dorian Gray's own face that he was | |
| looking at! The horror, whatever it was, had not yet | |
| entirely spoiled that marvellous4 beauty. There was still | |
| 45 | some gold in the thinning hair and some scarlet on the |
| sensual mouth. The sodden eyes had kept some-thing | |
| of the loveliness of their blue, the noble curves had not | |
| yet completely passed away from chiselled5 nostrils | |
| and from plastic throat. Yes, it was Dorian him-self. But | |
| 50 | who had done it? He seemed to recognise his own |
| brush-work, and the frame was his own design. The | |
| idea was monstrous, yet he felt afraid. He seized the | |
| lighted candle, and held it to the picture. In the left- | |
| hand corner was his own name, traced in long letters of | |
| 55 | bright vermilion6. |
| It was some foul parody, some infamous, ignoble sat | |
| ire. He had never done that. Still, it was his own pic | |
| ture. He knew it, and he felt as if his blood had changed | |
| in a moment from fire to sluggish ice. His own picture! | |
| 60 | What did it mean? Why had it altered? He turned, and |
| looked at Dorian Gray with the eyes of a sick man. His | |
| mouth twitched, and his parched tongue seemed un | |
| able to articulate. He passed his hand across his fore | |
| head. It was dank with clammy sweat. | |
| 65 | The young man was leaning against the mantel-shelf, |
| watching him with that strange expression that one | |
| sees on the faces of those who are absorbed in a play | |
| when some great artist is acting. There was neither real | |
| sorrow in it nor real joy. There was simply the passion | |
| 70 | of the spectator, with perhaps a flicker of triumph in his |
| eyes. He had taken the flower out of his coat, and was | |
| smelling it, or pretending to do so. | |
| "What does this mean?" cried Hallward, at last. His own | |
| voice sounded shrill and curious in his ears. | |
| 75 | "Years ago, when I was a boy," said Dorian Gray, crush |
| ing the flower in his hand, "you met me, flattered me, | |
| and taught me to be vain of my good looks. One day | |
| you introduced me to a friend of yours, who explained | |
| to me the wonder of youth, and you finished the por- | |
| 80 | trait of me that revealed to me the wonder of beauty. |
| In a mad moment, that, even now, I don't know | |
| whether I regret or not, I made a wish, perhaps you | |
| would call it a prayer..." | |
| "I remember it! Oh, how well I remember it! No! The | |
| 85 | thing is impossible. The room is damp. Mildew has got |
| into the canvas. The paints I used had some wretched | |
| mineral poison in them. I tell you the thing is impossible." | |
| "Ah, what is impossible?" murmured the young man, | |
| 90 | going over to the window, and leaning his forehead |
| against the cold, mist-stained glass. | |
| "You told me you had destroyed it." | |
| "I was wrong. It has destroyed me." | |
| "I don't believe it is my picture." | |
| 95 | "Can't you see your ideal in it?" said Dorian, bitterly. |
| "My ideal, as you call it...." | |
| "As you called it." | |
| "There was nothing evil in it, nothing shameful. You | |
| were to me such an ideal as I shall never meet again. | |
| 100 | This is the face of a satyr." |
| "It is the face of my soul." | |
| "Christ! What a thing I must have worshipped! It has | |
| the eyes of a devil." | |
| "Each of us has Heaven and Hell in him, Basil," cried | |
| 105 | Dorian, with a wild gesture of despair. |
Reference: Wilde Oscar (1891/1992): The picture of Dorian Gray. Ware: Wordsworth. P. 123–124.
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