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.
Diese Seite zum Drucken (pdf)
This file was last modified: July 27 2023 14:27