“I shall come with you, Dorian, if you wish
it. I see I have missed my train. That
makes no matter. I can go to-morrow. But
don’t ask me to read anything to-night.
All I want is a plain answer to my question.”
“That shall be given to you upstairs.
I could not give it here. You will not have to
read long.”
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.
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 murky orange. 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.
“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.
“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 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.
