Chapter 13

11 min

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 some of the windows rattle.

He left the room and began to climb the stairs, with Basil Hallward close behind. They walked softly, as men instinctively do at night. The lamp cast strange shadows on the wall and stairs. The wind was picking up, making 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.

When they reached the top landing, Dorian put the lamp on the floor. He took out the key and turned it in the lock. “Do you insist on knowing, Basil?” he asked quietly.

“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 murky orange. He shuddered. “Shut the door behind you,” he whispered, as he placed the lamp on the table.

“I’m delighted,” he replied, smiling. Then he added rather harshly, “You are the one man in the world who has the right to know everything about me. You’ve had more influence on my life than you think.” He picked up the lamp, opened the door, and went in. A cold draft passed them, and the light flared up for a moment in a murky orange flame. He shuddered. “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 tapestry, 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 lighting a half-burned candle that was standing 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 mildew.

Hallward looked around with a puzzled expression. The room looked as if no one had lived in it for years. It seemed to contain only a faded Flemish tapestry, a covered picture, an old Italian cassone, an almost empty bookcase, a chair, and a table. As Dorian Gray lit a half-burned candle on the mantel, he saw that the whole room was covered in dust. The carpet had holes in it. A mouse scurried behind the wood paneling. The room smelled damp and musty.

“So you think that it is only God who sees the soul, Basil? Draw that curtain back, and you will see mine.”

“So you think only God can see the soul, Basil? Pull back that curtain, and you will see mine.”

The voice that spoke was cold and cruel. “You are mad, Dorian, or playing a part,” muttered Hallward, frowning.

The voice was cold and cruel. “You’re mad, Dorian, or you’re pretending,” Hallward muttered, 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.

“You won’t? Then I’ll do it myself,” said the young man. He tore the curtain from its rod and threw 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 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.

A cry of horror escaped the painter as he saw the hideous face on the canvas grinning at him in the dim light. Something in its expression filled him with disgust and loathing. Good heavens! It was Dorian Gray’s own face! Whatever the horror was, it had not yet entirely spoiled that marvelous beauty. Some gold remained in the thinning hair and some scarlet on the sensual mouth. The sodden eyes had kept some of their lovely blue. The graceful curves had not yet completely disappeared from the sculpted nostrils and shapely throat. Yes, it was Dorian himself. But who had painted it? The painter seemed to recognize his own brushwork, and he had designed the frame himself. The idea was monstrous, yet he felt afraid. He seized the lighted candle and held it up to the picture. In the left-hand corner was his own name, written in long, bright red letters.

It was some foul parody, some infamous ignoble satire. 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 with clammy sweat.

It was some foul parody, some shameful, degrading mockery. He had never painted it like that. Yet it was his own picture. He knew it, and he felt as if his blood had turned in an instant from fire to slow-moving ice. His own picture! What did it mean? Why had it changed? He turned and looked at Dorian Gray with the eyes of a sick man. His mouth twitched, and his dry tongue seemed unable to form words. He passed his hand over his forehead. It was damp 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 acting. There was neither real sorrow in it nor real joy. There was simply the passion 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.

The young man leaned against the mantel, watching him with a strange expression. It was the look of someone absorbed in a play when a great artist is performing. His expression showed neither real sorrow nor real joy. It showed only a spectator’s passion, with perhaps a flicker of triumph in his eyes. He had taken the flower from his coat and was smelling it, or pretending to.

“What does this mean?” cried Hallward, at last. His own voice sounded shrill and curious in his ears.

“What does this mean?” Hallward cried at last. His own voice sounded shrill and strange to him.

“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....”

“Years ago, when I was a boy,” said Dorian Gray, crushing the flower in his hand, “you met me and flattered me. You taught me to be proud of my good looks. One day you introduced me to a friend of yours, who explained the wonder of youth to me. You also finished a portrait of me that showed me the wonder of beauty. In a moment of madness, I made a wish. Even now, I don’t know whether I regret it or not. 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.”

“I remember it! Oh, how well I remember it! No! It's impossible. The room is damp. Mildew has gotten into the canvas. The paints I used had some awful mineral poison in them. I tell you, it's impossible.”

“Ah, what is impossible?” murmured the young man, going over to the window and leaning his forehead against the cold, mist-stained glass.

“Ah, what is impossible?” the young man murmured. He went to the window and leaned his forehead against the cold, misted glass.

“You told me you had destroyed it.”

“I was wrong. It has destroyed me.”

“I don’t believe it is my picture.”

“I don’t believe it’s my picture.”

“Can’t you see your ideal in it?” said Dorian bitterly.

“Can’t you see your ideal in it?” Dorian said 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. This is the face of a satyr.”

“There was nothing evil or shameful in it. To me, you were an ideal I will never find 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.”

“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.

“Each of us has heaven and hell inside us, Basil,” Dorian cried, making 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 of sin were slowly eating the thing away. The rotting of a corpse in a watery grave was not so fearful.

Hallward turned back to the portrait and stared at it. “My God! If it is true,” he exclaimed, “and this is what you have done with your life, you must be even worse than your critics imagine!” He held the light up to the canvas again and examined it. The surface seemed untouched, just as he had left it. The ugliness and horror seemed to have come from within. Some strange stirring of life inside the painting was making the diseases of sin slowly eat it away. Even a corpse rotting in a watery grave was not so frightening.

His hand shook, and the candle fell from its socket on the floor and lay there sputtering. 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.

His hand shook, and the candle fell from its holder onto the floor, where it sputtered. He stepped on the candle and put it out. Then he threw himself into the shaky chair 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.’ 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.”

“Good God, Dorian, what a lesson! What a terrible lesson!” Dorian did not answer, but he could hear the young man sobbing at the window. “Please, Dorian, pray,” he murmured. “What were we taught to say as boys? ‘Lead us not into temptation. Forgive us our sins. Wash away our wrongs.’ Let us say that together. Your prayer of pride has been answered. Your prayer of repentance will be answered too. I worshipped you too much. I am being punished for it. You worshipped yourself too much. We are both being punished.”

Dorian Gray turned slowly around and looked at him with tear-dimmed eyes. “It is too late, Basil,” he faltered.

Dorian Gray turned around slowly and looked at him through tears. “It’s too late, Basil,” he said, his voice unsteady.

“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’?”

“It’s never too late, Dorian. Let’s kneel down and see if we can remember a prayer. Isn’t there a verse somewhere that says, ‘Though your sins are scarlet, I will make them as white as snow’?”

“Those words mean nothing to me now.”

“Hush! Don’t say that. You have done enough evil in your life. My God! Don’t you see that accursed thing leering at us?”

“Be quiet! Don’t say that. You have done enough evil in your life. My God! Don’t you see that cursed thing staring at us?”

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.

Dorian Gray glanced at the picture. Suddenly, he felt an uncontrollable hatred for Basil Hallward. It was as if the image on the canvas had suggested it, whispering it into his ear through those grinning lips. The frenzied passions of a hunted animal stirred within him. He hated the man sitting at the table more than he had ever hated anything in his life. He looked wildly around. Something glimmered on top of the painted chest in front of him. His eyes fell on it, and he knew what it was. It was a knife he had brought upstairs a few days earlier to cut a piece of cord. He had forgotten to take it away. He moved slowly toward the knife, passing Hallward on the way. As soon as he was behind Hallward, he grabbed the knife and turned around. Hallward moved in his chair as if he were about to stand. Dorian rushed at him and drove the knife into the large vein behind his ear. He forced Hallward’s head down onto the table and stabbed him 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, 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, and listened.

There was a muffled groan and the horrible sound of someone choking on blood. Three times the outstretched arms jerked upward, waving grotesque, stiff-fingered hands in the air. He stabbed him twice more, but the man did not move. Something began to trickle onto the floor. He waited a moment, still pressing the head down. Then he threw the knife onto 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 seething well of darkness. Then he took out the key and returned to the room, locking himself in as he did so.

He could hear nothing but the drip, drip on the worn carpet. He opened the door and stepped onto the landing. The house was completely quiet. No one was around. For a few seconds, he leaned over the railing and peered down into the black, churning well of darkness. Then he took out the key and returned to the room, locking himself in as he entered.

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 clotted black pool that was slowly widening on the table, one would have said that the man was simply asleep.

The thing was still sitting in the chair, hunched over the table. Its head was bowed, its back was bent, and its arms were long and strange. If not for the jagged red tear in its neck and the clotted black pool slowly spreading across the table, one would have thought 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 myriads 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 crimson 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 hoarse voice. The policeman strolled over and said something to her. She stumbled away, laughing. A bitter blast swept across the square. The gas-lamps flickered 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.

How quickly it had all been done! He felt strangely calm. He walked to the window, opened it, and stepped onto the balcony. The wind had blown the fog away. The sky looked like an enormous peacock’s tail, covered with countless golden eyes. He looked down and saw the policeman making his rounds, shining his lantern’s long beam on the silent houses’ doors. The red light of a passing horse-drawn cab glowed at the corner, then disappeared. A woman in a fluttering shawl crept slowly along the railings, staggering as she went. Now and then she stopped and looked back. Once, she began to sing in a hoarse voice. The policeman walked over and said something to her. She stumbled away, laughing. A bitter gust swept across the square. The gas lamps flickered and turned blue, and the leafless trees shook their black, ironlike branches back and forth. He shivered and went back inside, 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 misery had been due had gone out of his life. That was enough.

When he reached the door, he turned the key and opened it. He did not even glance at the murdered man. He felt that the secret to handling the whole thing was not to acknowledge what had happened. The friend who had painted the fatal portrait was gone from his life. The portrait had caused all his misery. That was enough.

Then he remembered the lamp. It was a rather curious one of Moorish workmanship, made of dull silver inlaid with arabesques of burnished steel, and studded with coarse turquoises. 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.

Then he remembered the lamp. It was an unusual piece of Moorish craftsmanship, made of dull silver. It was inlaid with polished steel arabesques and set with rough turquoises. Perhaps his servant would notice the lamp was missing and ask questions. He hesitated for a moment, then went back and took it from the table. He could not help seeing the dead thing. How still it was! How horribly white its long hands looked! It was like a dreadful wax figure.

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.

He locked the door behind him and crept quietly downstairs. The wood creaked and seemed to cry out as if in pain. He stopped several times and waited. No, everything was still. He had only heard 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.

When he reached the library, he saw the bag and coat in the corner. He had to hide them somewhere. He unlocked a secret cupboard in the wood paneling. He kept his own strange disguises there, and he put the bag and coat inside. He could easily burn them later. 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.

He sat down and began to think. Every year, almost every month, men were hanged in England for what he had done. A madness for murder had been 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. Basil had gone to Paris on the midnight train, as he had intended. With his unusual, reserved habits, it would be months before anyone became suspicious. 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.

A sudden thought came to him. He put on his fur coat and hat and went out into the hall. There he paused. He heard the slow, heavy footsteps of the policeman on the pavement outside. He saw the flash of the policeman’s lantern reflected in the window. He waited and held his breath.

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.

After a few moments, he opened the latch and slipped out, closing the door very gently behind him. Then he began ringing the bell. About five minutes later, his valet appeared, half-dressed and looking very sleepy.

“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?”

“I’m sorry I had to wake you, Francis,” he said as he stepped inside. “But I forgot my key. What time is it?”

“Ten minutes past two, sir,” answered the man, looking at the clock and blinking.

“It's ten past two, sir,” the man replied, 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.”

“Ten past two? That's terribly late! You must wake me at nine tomorrow. I have some work to do.”

“All right, sir.”

“Did any one call this evening?”

“Did anyone call this evening?”

“Mr. Hallward, sir. He stayed here till eleven, and then he went away to catch his train.”

“Mr. Hallward, sir. He stayed here until eleven, then left to catch his train.”

“Oh! I am sorry I didn’t see him. Did he leave any message?”

“Oh! I’m sorry I missed him. Did he leave a message?”

“No, sir, except that he would write to you from Paris, if he did not find you at the club.”

“No, sir, except that he said he would write to you from Paris if he didn’t find you at the club.”

“That will do, Francis. Don’t forget to call me at nine to-morrow.”

“That will be all, Francis. Don’t forget to wake me at nine tomorrow.”

“No, sir.”

The man shambled down the passage in his slippers.

The man shuffled down the hallway in his slippers.

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.

Dorian Gray threw his hat and coat on the table and went into the library. For fifteen minutes, he paced the room, biting his lip and thinking. Then he took the Blue Book from a shelf and flipped through its pages. “Alan Campbell, 152, Hertford Street, Mayfair.” Yes, Alan Campbell was the man he wanted.