He passed out of the room and began the ascent1, Basil Hallward following close behind. They walked softly, as men do instinctively2 at night. The lamp cast fantastic shadows on the wall and staircase. A rising wind made some of the windows rattle3.
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.
"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, taking 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 murky4 orange. He shuddered5. "Shut the door behind you," he whispered, as he placed the lamp on the table.
Hallward glanced round him with a puzzled expression. The room looked as if it had not been lived in for years. A faded Flemish tapestry6, a curtained picture, an old Italian cassone, and an almost empty book-case--that was all that it seemed to contain, besides a chair and a table. As Dorian Gray was lighting7 a half-burned candle that was standing8 on the mantelshelf, he saw that the whole place was covered with dust and that the carpet was in holes. A mouse ran scuffling behind the wainscoting. There was a damp odour of mildew9.
"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 spoke10 was cold and cruel. "You are mad, Dorian, or playing a part," muttered Hallward, frowning.
"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 exclamation11 of horror broke from the painter's lips as he saw in the dim light the hideous12 face on the canvas grinning at him. There was something in its expression that filled him with disgust and loathing13. Good heavens! it was Dorian Gray's own face that he was looking at! The horror, whatever it was, had not yet entirely14 spoiled that marvellous beauty. There was still some gold in the thinning hair and some scarlet15 on the sensual mouth. The sodden16 eyes had kept something of the loveliness of their blue, the noble curves had not yet completely passed away from chiselled17 nostrils18 and from plastic throat. Yes, it was Dorian himself. But who had done it? He seemed to recognize his own brushwork, and the frame was his own design. The idea was monstrous19, 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 bright vermilion.
It was some foul20 parody21, some infamous22 ignoble23 satire24. He had never done that. Still, it was his own picture. He knew it, and he felt as if his blood had changed in a moment from fire to sluggish25 ice. His own picture! What did it mean? Why had it altered? He turned and looked at Dorian Gray with the eyes of a sick man. His mouth twitched26, and his parched27 tongue seemed unable to articulate. He passed his hand across his forehead. It was dank with clammy sweat.
The young man was leaning against the mantelshelf, 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 acting28. There was neither real sorrow in it nor real joy. There was simply the passion of the spectator, with perhaps a flicker29 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 shrill30 and curious in his ears.
"Years ago, when I was a boy," said Dorian Gray, crushing 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 a portrait 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 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, 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."
"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 shameful31. You were to me such an ideal as I shall never meet again. 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 Dorian with a wild gesture of despair.
Hallward turned again to the portrait and gazed at it. "My God! If it is 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 you to 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. It was from within, apparently32, that the foulness33 and horror had come. Through some strange quickening of inner life the leprosies of sin were slowly eating the thing away. The rotting of a corpse34 in a watery35 grave was not so fearful.
His hand shook, and the candle fell from its socket36 on the floor and lay there sputtering37. He placed his foot on it and put it out. Then he flung himself into the rickety chair that was standing by the table and buried his face in his hands.
"Good God, Dorian, what a lesson! What an awful lesson!" There was no answer, but he could hear the young man sobbing38 at the window. "Pray, Dorian, pray," he murmured. "What is it that one was taught to say in one's boyhood? 'Lead us not into temptation. Forgive us our sins. Wash away our iniquities39.' Let us say that together. The prayer of your pride has been answered. The prayer of your repentance40 will be answered also. I worshipped you too much. I am punished for it. You worshipped yourself too much. We are both punished."
Dorian Gray turned slowly around and looked at him with tear-dimmed eyes. "It is too late, Basil," he faltered41.
"It is never too late, Dorian. Let us kneel down and try if we cannot remember a prayer. Isn't there a verse somewhere, 'Though your sins be as scarlet, yet I will make them as white as snow'?"
"Those words mean nothing to me now."
"Hush42! Don't say that. You have done enough evil in your life. My God! Don't you see that accursed thing leering at us?"
Dorian Gray glanced at the picture, and suddenly an uncontrollable feeling of hatred43 for Basil Hallward came over him, as though it had been suggested to him by the image on the canvas, whispered into his ear by those grinning lips. The mad passions of a hunted animal stirred within him, and he loathed44 the man who was seated at the table, more than in his whole life he had ever loathed anything. He glanced wildly around. Something glimmered45 on the top of the painted chest that faced him. His eye fell on it. He knew what it was. It was a knife that he had brought up, some days before, to cut a piece of cord, and had forgotten to take away with him. He moved slowly towards it, passing Hallward as he did so. As soon as he got behind him, he seized it and turned round. Hallward stirred in his chair as if he was going to rise. He rushed at him and dug the knife into the great vein46 that is behind the ear, crushing the man's head down on the table and stabbing again and again.
There was a stifled47 groan48 and the horrible sound of some one choking with blood. Three times the outstretched arms shot up convulsively, waving grotesque49, stiff-fingered hands in the air. He stabbed him twice more, but the man did not move. Something began to trickle50 on the floor. He waited for a moment, still pressing the head down. Then he threw the knife on the table, and listened.
He could hear nothing, but the drip, drip on the threadbare carpet. He opened the door and went out on the landing. The house was absolutely quiet. No one was about. For a few seconds he stood bending over the balustrade and peering down into the black seething51 well of darkness. Then he took out the key and returned to the room, locking himself in as he did so.
The thing was still seated in the chair, straining over the table with bowed head, and humped back, and long fantastic arms. Had it not been for the red jagged tear in the neck and the clotted52 black pool that was slowly widening on the table, one would have said that the man was simply asleep.
How quickly it had all been done! He felt strangely calm, and walking over to the window, opened it and stepped out on the balcony. The wind had blown the fog away, and the sky was like a monstrous peacock's tail, starred with myriads53 of golden eyes. He looked down and saw the policeman going his rounds and flashing the long beam of his lantern on the doors of the silent houses. The crimson54 spot of a prowling hansom gleamed at the corner and then vanished. A woman in a fluttering shawl was creeping slowly by the railings, staggering as she went. Now and then she stopped and peered back. Once, she began to sing in a hoarse55 voice. The policeman strolled over and said something to her. She stumbled away, laughing. A bitter blast swept across the square. The gas-lamps flickered56 and became blue, and the leafless trees shook their black iron branches to and fro. He shivered and went back, closing the window behind him.
Having reached the door, he turned the key and opened it. He did not even glance at the murdered man. He felt that the secret of the whole thing was not to realize the situation. The friend who had painted the fatal portrait to which all his misery57 had been due had gone out of his life. That was enough.
Then he remembered the lamp. It was a rather curious one of Moorish58 workmanship, made of dull silver inlaid with arabesques59 of burnished60 steel, and studded with coarse turquoises61. Perhaps it might be missed by his servant, and questions would be asked. He hesitated for a moment, then he turned back and took it from the table. He could not help seeing the dead thing. How still it was! How horribly white the long hands looked! It was like a dreadful wax image.
Having locked the door behind him, he crept quietly downstairs. The woodwork creaked and seemed to cry out as if in pain. He stopped several times and waited. No: everything was still. It was merely the 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 that was in the wainscoting, a press in which he kept his own curious disguises, and put them into it. He could easily burn them afterwards. Then he pulled out his watch. It was twenty minutes to two.
He sat down and began to think. Every year--every month, almost-- men were strangled in England for what he had done. There had been a madness of murder in the air. Some red star had come too close to the earth. . . . And yet, what evidence was there against him? Basil Hallward had left the house at eleven. No one had seen him come in again. Most of the servants were at Selby Royal. His valet had gone to bed.... Paris! Yes. It was to Paris that Basil had gone, and by the midnight train, as he had intended. With his curious reserved habits, it would be months before any suspicions would be roused. Months! Everything could be destroyed long before then.
A sudden thought struck him. He put on his fur coat and hat and went out into the hall. There he paused, hearing the slow heavy tread of the policeman on the pavement outside and seeing the flash of the bull's-eye reflected in the window. He waited and held his breath.
After a few moments he drew back the latch62 and slipped out, shutting the door very gently behind him. Then he began ringing the bell. In about five minutes his valet appeared, half-dressed and looking very drowsy63.
"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?"
"Ten minutes past two, sir," answered the man, looking at the clock and blinking.
"Ten minutes past two? How horribly late! You must wake me at nine to-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 be went away to 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 from Paris, if he did not find you at the club."
"That will do, Francis. Don't forget to call me at nine to-morrow."
"No, sir."
The man shambled down the passage in his slippers64.
Dorian Gray threw his hat and coat upon the table and passed into the library. For a quarter of an hour he walked up and down the room, biting his lip and thinking. Then he took down the Blue Book from one of the shelves and began to turn over the leaves. "Alan Campbell, 152, Hertford Street, Mayfair." Yes; that was the man he wanted.
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1
ascent
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| n.(声望或地位)提高；上升，升高；登高 | |
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instinctively
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| adv.本能地 | |
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rattle
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| v.飞奔，碰响；激怒；n.碰撞声；拨浪鼓 | |
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murky
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| adj.黑暗的，朦胧的；adv.阴暗地，混浊地；n.阴暗；昏暗 | |
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shuddered
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| v.战栗( shudder的过去式和过去分词 )；发抖；（机器、车辆等）突然震动；颤动 | |
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tapestry
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| n.挂毯，丰富多采的画面 | |
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lighting
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| n.照明，光线的明暗，舞台灯光 | |
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standing
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| n.持续，地位；adj.永久的，不动的，直立的，不流动的 | |
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mildew
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| n.发霉；v.（使）发霉 | |
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spoke
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| n.（车轮的）辐条；轮辐；破坏某人的计划；阻挠某人的行动 v.讲，谈（speak的过去式）；说；演说；从某种观点来说 | |
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exclamation
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| n.感叹号，惊呼，惊叹词 | |
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hideous
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| adj.丑陋的，可憎的，可怕的，恐怖的 | |
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loathing
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| n.厌恶，憎恨v.憎恨，厌恶( loathe的现在分词)；极不喜欢 | |
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entirely
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| ad.全部地，完整地；完全地，彻底地 | |
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scarlet
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| n.深红色，绯红色，红衣；adj.绯红色的 | |
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sodden
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| adj.浑身湿透的；v.使浸透；使呆头呆脑 | |
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chiselled
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| adj.凿过的，凿光的； （文章等）精心雕琢的v.凿，雕，镌( chisel的过去式 ) | |
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nostrils
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| 鼻孔( nostril的名词复数 ) | |
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monstrous
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| adj.巨大的；恐怖的；可耻的，丢脸的 | |
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foul
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| adj.污秽的；邪恶的；v.弄脏；妨害；犯规；n.犯规 | |
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21
parody
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| n.打油诗文，诙谐的改编诗文，拙劣的模仿；v.拙劣模仿，作模仿诗文 | |
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infamous
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| adj.声名狼藉的，臭名昭著的，邪恶的 | |
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ignoble
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| adj.不光彩的，卑鄙的；可耻的 | |
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satire
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| n.讽刺，讽刺文学，讽刺作品 | |
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sluggish
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| adj.懒惰的，迟钝的，无精打采的 | |
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twitched
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| vt.& vi.（使）抽动，（使）颤动（twitch的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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parched
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| adj.焦干的；极渴的；v.（使）焦干 | |
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acting
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| n.演戏，行为，假装；adj.代理的，临时的，演出用的 | |
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flicker
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| vi./n.闪烁，摇曳，闪现 | |
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shrill
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| adj.尖声的；刺耳的；v尖叫 | |
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shameful
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| adj.可耻的，不道德的 | |
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apparently
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| adv.显然地；表面上，似乎 | |
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foulness
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| n. 纠缠, 卑鄙 | |
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corpse
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| n.尸体，死尸 | |
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watery
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| adj.有水的，水汪汪的；湿的，湿润的 | |
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socket
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| n.窝，穴，孔，插座，插口 | |
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sputtering
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| n.反应溅射法；飞溅；阴极真空喷镀；喷射v.唾沫飞溅( sputter的现在分词 )；发劈啪声；喷出；飞溅出 | |
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38
sobbing
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| <主方>Ⅰ adj.湿透的 | |
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iniquities
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| n.邪恶( iniquity的名词复数 )；极不公正 | |
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repentance
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| n.懊悔 | |
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41
faltered
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| （嗓音）颤抖( falter的过去式和过去分词 )； 支吾其词； 蹒跚； 摇晃 | |
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42
hush
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| int.嘘，别出声；n.沉默，静寂；v.使安静 | |
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43
hatred
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| n.憎恶，憎恨，仇恨 | |
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loathed
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| v.憎恨，厌恶( loathe的过去式和过去分词 )；极不喜欢 | |
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45
glimmered
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| v.发闪光，发微光( glimmer的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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46
vein
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| n.血管，静脉；叶脉，纹理；情绪；vt.使成脉络 | |
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47
stifled
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| （使）窒息， （使）窒闷( stifle的过去式和过去分词 )； 镇压，遏制； 堵 | |
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48
groan
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| vi./n.呻吟，抱怨；(发出)呻吟般的声音 | |
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49
grotesque
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| adj.怪诞的，丑陋的；n.怪诞的图案，怪人（物） | |
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50
trickle
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| vi.淌，滴，流出，慢慢移动，逐渐消散 | |
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51
seething
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| 沸腾的，火热的 | |
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52
clotted
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| adj.凝结的v.凝固( clot的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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53
myriads
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| n.无数，极大数量( myriad的名词复数 ) | |
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54
crimson
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| n./adj.深(绯)红色(的)；vi.脸变绯红色 | |
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55
hoarse
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| adj.嘶哑的，沙哑的 | |
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56
flickered
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| （通常指灯光）闪烁，摇曳( flicker的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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57
misery
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| n.痛苦，苦恼，苦难；悲惨的境遇，贫苦 | |
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moorish
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| adj.沼地的，荒野的，生[住]在沼地的 | |
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arabesques
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| n.阿拉伯式花饰( arabesque的名词复数 )；错综图饰；阿拉伯图案；阿拉贝斯克芭蕾舞姿（独脚站立，手前伸，另一脚一手向后伸） | |
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60
burnished
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| adj.抛光的，光亮的v.擦亮（金属等），磨光( burnish的过去式和过去分词 )；被擦亮，磨光 | |
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61
turquoises
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| n.绿松石( turquoise的名词复数 )；青绿色 | |
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62
latch
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| n.门闩，窗闩；弹簧锁 | |
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63
drowsy
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| adj.昏昏欲睡的，令人发困的 | |
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64
slippers
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| n. 拖鞋 | |
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