Chapter 13
He passed out of the room and began the ast, 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, Doriahe lamp down on the floor, and taking out the key, tur 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 opehe door a in. A cold current of air passed them, and the light shot up for a moment in a flame of murky e. He shuddered. "Shut the door behind you," he whispered, as he placed the lamp oable.
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 tain, besides a chair and a table. As Dorian Gray was lighting a half-burned dle 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 wainsg. 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 wont? Then I must do it myself," said the young man, aore the curtain from its rod and flung it on the ground.
An exclamation of horror broke from the painters lips as he saw in the dim light the hideous fa the vas grinning at him. There was something in its expression that filled him with disgust and loathing. Good heavens! it was Dorian Grays 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 ihinning 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 pletely passed away from chiselled nostrils and from plastic throat. Yes, it was Dorian himself. But who had do? He seemed tnize his own brushwork, and the frame was his own design. The idea was monstrous, yet he felt afraid. He seized the lighted dle, and held it to the picture. In the left-hand er was his own raced in loers ht vermilion.
It was some foul parody, some infamous igire. He had never dohat. Still, it was his own picture. He k, and he felt as if his blood had ged 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 uo articulate. He passed his hand across his forehead. It was dank with clammy sweat.
The young man was leaning against the mantelshelf, watg him with that strange expression that one sees on the faces of those who are absorbed in a play when some great artist is ag. There was her 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.