by Oscar Wilde
CHAPTER XI
[...81] He passed out of the room, and began the ascent, Basil Hallwardfollowing close behind. They walked softly, as men instinctively do atnight. The lamp cast fantastic shadows on the wall and staircase. Arising wind made some of the windows rattle.
When they reached the top landing, Dorian set the lamp down on thefloor, and taking out the key turned it in the lock. "You insist onknowing, Basil?" he asked, in a low voice.
"Yes."
"I am delighted," he murmured, smiling. Then he added, somewhatbitterly, "You are the one man in the world who is entitled to knoweverything about me. You have had more to do with my life than youthink." And, taking up the lamp, he opened the door and went in. Acold current of air passed them, and the light shot up for a moment ina flame of murky orange. He shuddered. "Shut the door behind you," hesaid, as he placed the lamp on the table.
[82] Hallward glanced round him, with a puzzled expression. The roomlooked as if it had not been lived in for years. A faded Flemishtapestry, a curtained picture, an old Italian cassone, and an almostempty bookcase,--that was all that it seemed to contain, besides achair and a table. As Dorian Gray was lighting a half-burned candlethat was standing on the mantel-shelf, he saw that the whole place wascovered with dust, and that the carpet was in holes. A mouse ranscuffling behind the wainscoting. There was a damp odor of mildew.
"So you think that it is only God who sees the soul, Basil? Draw thatcurtain back, and you will see mine."
The voice that spoke was cold and cruel. "You are mad, Dorian, orplaying a part," muttered Hallward, frowning.
"You won't? Then I must do it myself," said the young man; and he torethe curtain from its rod, and flung it on the ground.
An exclamation of horror broke from Hallward's lips as he saw in thedim light the hideous thing on the canvas leering at him. There wassomething in its expression 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 marred thatmarvellous beauty. There was still some gold in the thinning hair andsome scarlet on the sensual lips. The sodden eyes had kept somethingof the loveliness of their blue, the noble curves had not yet passedentirely away from chiselled nostrils and from plastic throat. Yes, itwas Dorian himself. But who had done it? He seemed to recognize hisown brush-work, and the frame was his own design. The idea wasmonstrous, yet he felt afraid. He seized the lighted candle, and heldit to the picture. In the left-hand corner was his own name, traced inlong letters of bright vermilion.
It was some foul parody, some infamous, ignoble satire. He had neverdone that. Still, it was his own picture. He knew it, and he felt asif his blood had changed from fire to sluggish ice in a moment. His ownpicture! What did it mean? Why had it altered? He turned, and lookedat Dorian Gray with the eyes of a sick man. His mouth twitched, andhis parched tongue seemed unable to articulate. He passed his handacross his forehead. It was dank with clammy sweat.
The young man was leaning against the mantel-shelf, watching him withthat strange expression that is on the faces of those who are absorbedin a play when a great artist is acting. There was neither real sorrowin it nor real joy. There was simply the passion of the spectator,with perhaps a flicker of triumph in the eyes. He had taken the flowerout of his coat, and was smelling it, or pretending to do so.
"What does this mean?" cried Hallward, at last. His own voice soundedshrill and curious in his ears.
"Years ago, when I was a boy," said Dorian Gray, "you met me, devotedyourself to me, flattered me, and taught me to be vain of my goodlooks. One day you introduced me to a friend of yours, who explainedto me the wonder of youth, and you finished a portrait of me thatrevealed to me the wonder of beauty. In a mad moment, that [83] Idon't know, even now, whether I regret or not, I made a wish. Perhapsyou would call it a prayer . . . ."
"I remember it! Oh, how well I remember it! No! the thing isimpossible. The room is damp. The mildew has got into the canvas. Thepaints I used had some wretched mineral poison in them. I tell you thething is impossible."
"Ah, what is impossible?" murmured the young man, going over to thewindow, 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."
"Can't you see your romance in it?" said Dorian, bitterly.
"My romance, as you call it . . ."
"As you called it."
"There was nothing evil in it, nothing shameful. This is the face of asatyr."
"It is the face of my soul."
"God! what a thing I must have worshipped! This has the eyes of adevil."
"Each of us has Heaven and Hell in him, Basil," cried Dorian, with awild gesture of despair.
Hallward turned again to the portrait, and gazed at it. "My God! if itis true," he exclaimed, "and this is what you have done with your life,why, you must be worse even than those who talk against you fancy youto be!" He held the light up again to the canvas, and examined it.The surface seemed to be quite undisturbed, and as he had left it. Itwas from within, apparently, that the foulness and horror had come.Through some strange quickening of inner life the leprosies of sin wereslowly eating the thing away. The rotting of a corpse in a waterygrave was not so fearful.
His hand shook, and the candle fell from its socket on the floor, andlay there sputtering. He placed his foot on it and put it out. Thenhe flung himself into the rickety chair that was standing by the tableand buried his face in his hands.
"Good God, Dorian, what a lesson! what an awful lesson!" There was noanswer, but he could hear the young man sobbing at the window.
"Pray, Dorian, pray," he murmured. "What is it that one was taught tosay in one's boyhood? 'Lead us not into temptation. Forgive us oursins. Wash away our iniquities.' Let us say that together. Theprayer of your pride has been answered. The prayer of your repentancewill be answered also. I worshipped you too much. I am punished forit. You worshipped yourself too much. We are both punished."
Dorian Gray turned slowly around, and looked at him with tear-dimmedeyes. "It is too late, Basil," he murmured.
"It is never too late, Dorian. Let us kneel down and try if we canremember a prayer. Isn't there a verse somewhere, 'Though your sins beas scarlet, yet I will make them as white as snow'?"
[84] "Those words mean nothing to me now."
"Hush! don't say that. You have done enough evil in your life. MyGod! don't you see that accursed thing leering at us?"
Dorian Gray glanced at the picture, and suddenly an uncontrollablefeeling of hatred for Basil Hallward came over him. The mad passionsof a hunted animal stirred within him, and he loathed the man who wasseated at the table, more than he had ever loathed anything in hiswhole life. He glanced wildly around. Something glimmered on the topof the painted chest that faced him. His eye fell on it. He knew whatit was. It was a knife that he had brought up, some days before, tocut a piece of cord, and had forgotten to take away with him. He movedslowly towards it, passing Hallward as he did so. As soon as he gotbehind him, he seized it, and turned round. Hallward moved in hischair as if he was going to rise. He rushed at him, and dug the knifeinto the great vein that is behind the ear, crushing the man's headdown on the table, and stabbing again and again.
There was a stifled groan, and the horrible sound of some one chokingwith blood. The outstretched arms shot up convulsively three times,waving grotesque stiff-fingered hands in the air. He stabbed him oncemore, but the man did not move. Something began to trickle on thefloor. He waited for a moment, still pressing the head down. Then hethrew the knife on the table, and listened.
He could hear nothing, but the drip, drip on the threadbare carpet. Heopened the door, and went out on the landing. The house was quitequiet. No one was stirring.
He took out the key, and returned to the room
, locking himself in as hedid so.
The thing was still seated in the chair, straining over the table withbowed head, and humped back, and long fantastic arms. Had it not beenfor the red jagged tear in the neck, and the clotted black pool thatslowly widened on the table, one would have said that the man wassimply asleep.
How quickly it had all been done! He felt strangely calm, and, walkingover to the window, opened it, and stepped out on the balcony. Thewind had blown the fog away, and the sky was like a monstrous peacock'stail, starred with myriads of golden eyes. He looked down, and saw thepoliceman going his rounds and flashing a bull's-eye lantern on thedoors of the silent houses. The crimson spot of a prowling hansomgleamed at the corner, and then vanished. A woman in a ragged shawl wascreeping round by the railings, staggering as she went. Now and thenshe stopped, and peered back. Once, she began to sing in a hoarsevoice. The policeman strolled over and said something to her. Shestumbled away, laughing. A bitter blast swept across the Square. Thegas-lamps flickered, and became blue, and the leafless trees shooktheir black iron branches as if in pain. He shivered, and went back,closing the window behind him.
He passed to the door, turned the key, and opened it. He did not evenglance at the murdered man. He felt that the secret of the whole thingwas not to realize the situation. The friend who had painted [85] thefatal portrait, the portrait to which all his misery had been due, hadgone out of his life. That was enough.
Then he remembered the lamp. It was a rather curious one of Moorishworkmanship, made of dull silver inlaid with arabesques of burnishedsteel. Perhaps it might be missed by his servant, and questions wouldbe asked. He turned back, and took it from the table. How still theman was! How horribly white the long hands looked! He was like adreadful wax image.
He locked the door behind him, and crept quietly down-stairs. Thewood-work creaked, and seemed to cry out as if in pain. He stoppedseveral times, and waited. No: everything was still. It was merelythe sound of his own footsteps.
When he reached the library, he saw the bag and coat in the corner.They must be hidden away somewhere. He unlocked a secret press thatwas in the wainscoting, and put them into it. He could easily burnthem afterwards. Then he pulled out his watch. It was twenty minutesto two.
He sat down, and began to think. Every year--every month, almost--menwere strangled in England for what he had done. There had been amadness of murder in the air. Some red star had come too close to theearth.
Evidence? What evidence was there against him? Basil Hallward hadleft the house at eleven. No one had seen him come in again. Most ofthe servants were at Selby Royal. His valet had gone to bed.
Paris! Yes. It was to Paris that Basil had gone, by the midnighttrain, as he had intended. With his curious reserved habits, it wouldbe months before any suspicions would be aroused. Months? Everythingcould be destroyed long before then.
A sudden thought struck him. He put on his fur coat and hat, and wentout into the hall. There he paused, hearing the slow heavy tread ofthe policeman outside on the pavement, and seeing the flash of thelantern reflected in the window. He waited, holding his breath.
After a few moments he opened the front door, and slipped out, shuttingit very gently behind him. Then he began ringing the bell. In aboutten minutes his valet appeared, half dressed, and looking very drowsy.
"I am sorry to have had to wake you up, Francis," he said, stepping in;"but I had forgotten my latch-key. What time is it?"
"Five minutes past two, sir," answered the man, looking at the clockand yawning.
"Five minutes past two? How horribly late! You must wake me at nineto-morrow. I have some work to do."
"All right, sir."
"Did any one call this evening?"
"Mr. Hallward, sir. He stayed here till eleven, and then he went awayto catch his train."
"Oh! I am sorry I didn't see him. Did he leave any message?"
"No, sir, except that he would write to you."
[86] "That will do, Francis. Don't forget to call me at nine tomorrow."
"No, sir."
The man shambled down the passage in his slippers.
Dorian Gray threw his hat and coat upon the yellow marble table, andpassed into the library. He walked up and down the room for a quarterof an hour, biting his lip, and thinking. Then he took the Blue Bookdown from one of the shelves, and began to turn over the leaves. "AlanCampbell, 152, Hertford Street, Mayfair." Yes; that was the man hewanted.