[ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]
“Monsieur has well slept this morning,” he said, smiling.
passed into the onyx-paved bathroom. The cool water re-
“What o’clock is it, Victor?” asked Dorian Gray drowsily.
freshed him after his long sleep. He seemed to have forgot-
“One hour and a quarter, Monsieur.”
ten all that he had gone through. A dim sense of having
How late it was! He sat up, and having sipped some tea,
taken part in some strange tragedy came to him once or twice,
turned over his letters. One of them was from Lord Henry,
but there was the unreality of a dream about it.
and had been brought by hand that morning. He hesitated
As soon as he was dressed, he went into the library and sat
for a moment, and then put it aside. The others he opened
down to a light French breakfast that had been laid out for
listlessly. They contained the usual collection of cards, invi-
him on a small round table close to the open window. It was
tations to dinner, tickets for private views, programmes of
an exquisite day. The warm air seemed laden with spices. A
charity concerts, and the like that are showered on fashion-
bee flew in and buzzed round the blue-dragon bowl that,
able young men every morning during the season. There was
filled with sulphur-yellow roses, stood before him. He felt
84
Oscar Wilde
perfectly happy.
to any one, Victor,” he said with a sigh. The man bowed and
Suddenly his eye fell on the screen that he had placed in
retired.
front of the portrait, and he started.
Then he rose from the table, lit a cigarette, and flung him-
“Too cold for Monsieur?” asked his valet, putting an om-
self down on a luxuriously cushioned couch that stood fac-
elette on the table. “I shut the window?”
ing the screen. The screen was an old one, of gilt Spanish
Dorian shook his head. “I am not cold,” he murmured.
leather, stamped and wrought with a rather florid Louis-
Was it all true? Had the portrait really changed? Or had it
Quatorze pattern. He scanned it curiously, wondering if ever
been simply his own imagination that had made him see a
before it had concealed the secret of a man’s life.
look of evil where there had been a look of joy? Surely a painted
Should he move it aside, after all? Why not let it stay there?
canvas could not alter? The thing was absurd. It would serve
What was the use of knowing? If the thing was true, it was
as a tale to tell Basil some day. It would make him smile.
terrible. If it was not true, why trouble about it? But what if,
And, yet, how vivid was his recollection of the whole thing!
by some fate or deadlier chance, eyes other than his spied
First in the dim twilight, and then in the bright dawn, he
behind and saw the horrible change? What should he do if
had seen the touch of cruelty round the warped lips. He
Basil Hallward came and asked to look at his own picture?
almost dreaded his valet leaving the room. He knew that
Basil would be sure to do that. No; the thing had to be ex-
when he was alone he would have to examine the portrait.
amined, and at once. Anything would be better than this
He was afraid of certainty. When the coffee and cigarettes
dreadful state of doubt.
had been brought and the man turned to go, he felt a wild
He got up and locked both doors. At least he would be
desire to tell him to remain. As the door was closing behind
alone when he looked upon the mask of his shame. Then he
him, he called him back. The man stood waiting for his or-
drew the screen aside and saw himself face to face. It was
ders. Dorian looked at him for a moment. “I am not at home
perfectly true. The portrait had altered.
85
The Picture of Dorian Gray
As he often remembered afterwards, and always with no
remorse, drugs that could lull the moral sense to sleep. But
small wonder, he found himself at first gazing at the portrait
here was a visible symbol of the degradation of sin. Here was
with a feeling of almost scientific interest. That such a change
an ever-present sign of the ruin men brought upon their souls.
should have taken place was incredible to him. And yet it
Three o’clock struck, and four, and the half-hour rang its
was a fact. Was there some subtle affinity between the chemi-
double chime, but Dorian Gray did not stir. He was trying
cal atoms that shaped themselves into form and colour on
to gather up the scarlet threads of life and to weave them
the canvas and the soul that was within him? Could it be
into a pattern; to find his way through the sanguine laby-
that what that soul thought, they realized?—that what it
rinth of passion through which he was wandering. He did
dreamed, they made true? Or was there some other, more
not know what to do, or what to think. Finally, he went over
terrible reason? He shuddered, and felt afraid, and, going
to the table and wrote a passionate letter to the girl he had
back to the couch, lay there, gazing at the picture in sick-
loved, imploring her forgiveness and accusing himself of
ened horror.
madness. He covered page after page with wild words of sor-
One thing, however, he felt that it had done for him. It
row and wilder words of pain. There is a luxury in self-re-
had made him conscious how unjust, how cruel, he had been
proach. When we blame ourselves, we feel that no one else
to Sibyl Vane. It was not too late to make reparation for that.
has a right to blame us. It is the confession, not the priest,
She could still be his wife. His unreal and selfish love would
that gives us absolution. When Dorian had finished the let-
yield to some higher influence, would be transformed into
ter, he felt that he had been forgiven.
some nobler passion, and the portrait that Basil Hallward
Suddenly there came a knock to the door, and he heard
[ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]