He passed out of the room and climbed upstairs, 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 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.
“I am delighted,” he answered, smiling. Then he added, somewhat harshly(1), “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. “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. The whole place was covered with dust and the carpet was in holes.
“So you think that it is only God who sees the soul, Basil?” 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 canvas grinning at him. There was something 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 spoiled that marvellous beauty. There was still some gold in the thinning hair and some scarlet on the sensual mouth. The sodden eyes had kept something of the loveliness of their blue, the noble curves had not yet completely passed away from chiselled(2) nostrils 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 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 bright vermilion(3).
It was some foul parody(4), some infamous ignoble satire(5). 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 sluggish 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 twitched, and his parched tongue seemed unable to articulate. He passed his hand across his forehead. It was dank(6) with clammy(7) sweat.
Meanwhile, the young man was leaning against the mantelshelf(8), smelling a dainty flower.
“What does this mean?” cried Hallward, at last. His own voice sounded shrill 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(9) 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(10) 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?”
“You were to me such an ideal as I shall never meet again. This is the face of a satyr(11).”
“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, apparently, that the foulness and horror had come. Through some strange quickening of inner life the leprosies(12) of sin were slowly eating the thing away. The rotting of a corpse in a watery grave was not so fearful.
His hand shook, and the candle fell from its socket on the floor and lay there sputtering(13). 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 sobbing 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 iniquities(14).’ Let us say that together. The prayer of your pride has been answered. The prayer of your repentance 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 faltered(15).
As he said so, Dorian Gray glanced at the picture, and suddenly an uncontrollable feeling of hatred 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 loathed the man who was seated at the table, more than in his whole life he had ever loathed anything. He glanced wildly around. Something glimmered 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 vein that is behind the ear, crushing the man’s head down on the table and stabbing again and again.
There was a stifled groan and the horrible sound of some one choking with blood. Three times the outstretched arms shot up convulsively(16), waving grotesque, stiff-fingered hands in the air. He stabbed him twice more, but the man did not move. Something began to trickle on the floor. He waited for a moment, still pressing the head down. Then he threw the knife on the table.
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 myriads(17)of golden eyes.
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. 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.
After a few moments he drew back the latch 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 drowsy(18).
“I am sorry to have had to wake you up, Francis. 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 he 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.”
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(19) from one of the shelves and began to turn over the pages. “Alan Campbell, 152, Hertford Street, Mayfair.” Yes; that was the man he wanted.
1/harshly(Adv) – harsh (Adj): roughly, strictly, sternly
2/chiseled(Adj): shaped/ cut with chisel ( a tool with a cutting edge and a plain handle used to cut wood)
3/vermilion(n):a brilliant red pigment made from mercury sulfide/ a brilliant red color.
4/parody(n): an imitation of the style of a particular writer, artist, or genre with deliberate exaggeration for comic effect
5/satire(n): the use of jokes or exaggerations to show people’s stupidity or vices
6/dank(Adj): damp and cold
7/clammy(Adj): damp and sticky to touch
8/mantelshelf(n): a shelf above a fireplace
9/flatter(v): heap insincere praise and compliments upon (someone), especially to further one’s own interests
10/mildew(n): any of various fungi that form a whitish layer on plants
11/satyr(n): a Greecian creature who was part man and part goat. Satyrs were famous for being constantly drunk and for chasing nymphs (a beautiful maiden-fairy inhabiting rivers, woods, or other locations). By extension, a profligate male
12/leprosy(n): a contagious disease that affects the skin, mucous membranes, and nerves, causing discoloration and lumps on the skin and, in severe cases, disfigurement and deformities
13/sputter(v):make a series of soft explosive sounds, typically when being heated or as a symptom of a fault.
14/iniquity(n): immoral or grossly unfair behavior
15/falter(v): start to lose strength or momentum/ speak in a hesitant or unsteady voice
16/convulsively (Adv) – convulsive (adj) – convulsion (n) : spontaneously, resembling a convulsion (a sudden, violent, irregular movement of a limb or of the body, caused by involuntary contraction of muscles and associated especially with brain disorders) in being violent, sudden, frantic
17/myriad(n): a countless or extremely great number
19/Blue Book: an official book listing government officials