The Picture Of Dorian Gray - Chapter 13

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Episode Transcript

(00:00):
Chapter thirteen of the Picture of Dorryand Gray by Oscar Wild, read by
Bob Nuffeld. He passed out ofthe room and began the ascent, Basil
Howard following close behind. They walkedsoftly, as men do instinctively at night.

(00:20):
The lamp cast fantastic shadows on thewall and staircase. A rising wind
made some of the windows rattle whenthey reached the top, landing Dorry and
set the lap down on the floor, and taking out the key, turned
it in the lock. You insiston knowing, Basil, he asked in

(00:42):
a low voice. Yes, Iam delighted, he answered, smiling.
Then he added, somewhat harshly,you are the one man in the world
who is entitled to know everything aboutme. You have had more to do
with my life than you. Andtaking up the lamp, he opened the

(01:03):
door and went in. A coldcurrent of air passed them, and the
light shot up for a moment ina flame of murky orange. He shuddered.
Shut the door behind you, hewhispered, as he placed the lamp
on the table. Holward glanced roundhim with a puzzled expression. The room

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looked as if it had not beenlived in for years, a faded Flemish
tapestry, a curtained picture, anold Italian cassone, and an almost empty
bookcase that was all that it seemedto contain, besides a chair and a
table. As Dorian Gray was lightinga half burnt candle that was standing on

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the mantel shelf, he saw thatthe whole place was covered with dust,
and that the carpet was in holes. A mouse ran scuffling behind the wainscoting.
There was a damp odor of mildew. So you think that it is
only God who sees the soul ofbasle. Draw that curtain back and you

(02:07):
will see mine. The voice thatspoke was cold and cruel. You are
mad, Dorian, or playing apart, muttered Howard, frowning. You
won't, then I must do itmyself, said the young man, and
he tore the curtain from its rodand flung it on the ground. An

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exclamation of horror broke from the painter'slips as he saw in the dim light
the hideous face on the canvas grinningat him. There was something in its
expression that filled him with disgust andloathing. Good Heavens, it was Dorian
Gray's own face that he was lookingat. The horror, whatever it was,

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had not yet entirely spoiled that marvelousbeauty. There was still some goal
in the thinning hair, and somescarlet on the sensual mouth. The soden
eyes had kept something of the lovelinessof their blue. The noble curves had
not yet completely passed away from chiselednostrils and from plastic throat. Yes,

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it was Dorry and himself. Butwho had done it? He seemed to
recognize his own brushwork, and theframe was his own design. The idea
was monstrous, yet he felt afraid. He seized the lighted candle and held
it to the picture. In theleft hand corner was his own name,

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traced in long letters of bright vermilion. It was some foul parody, some
infamous, ignoble satire. He hadnever done that. Still, it was
his own picture. He knew it, and he felt as if his blood
had changed in a moment, fromfire to sluggish ice. His own picture.

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What did it mean? Why hadit altered? He turned and looked
at Dorian Gray with the eyes ofa sick man. His mouth twitched and
his parched tongue seemed unable to articulate. He passed his hand across his forehead.

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It was dank with clammy sweat.The young man was leaning against the
mantelshelf, watching him with that strangeexpression that one sees on the face of
those who are absorbed in a playwhen some great artist is acting. There
is neither real sorrow in it,nor real joy. There was simply the

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passion of the spectator, with perhapsa flicker of triumph in his eyes.
He had taken the flower out ofhis coat and was smelling it, or
pretending to do so. What doesthis mean? Cried Howard. At last,
his own voice sounded shrill and curiousin his ears. Years ago,

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when I was a boy, saidDorian Gray, crushing the flower in his
hand, you met me, flatteredme, taught me to be vain of
my good looks. One day youintroduced me to a friend of yours will
explained to me the wonder of youth. And you finished a portrait of me

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that revealed to me the wonder ofbeauty. In a mad moment that even
now I don't know whether I regretor 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 rue miss

(06:00):
damp, mildew has got into thecanvas. The pains I used had some
wretched mineral poison in them. Itell you, the thing is impossible.
Ah, what is impossible? Murmuredthe young man, going over to the
window and leaning his forehead against thecold, miststained glass. You told me

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you had destroyed it. I waswrong. It has destroyed me. I
don't believe it is my picture.Can't you see your ideal in it?
Said Dorian bitterly, My ideal asyou call it. As you called it,

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there was nothing evil in it,nothing shameful. You were to me,
such an ideal as I shall nevermeet again. This is the face
of a satyr. It is theface of my soul Christ. What a
thing I must have worshiped. Ithas the eyes of a devil. Each

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of us has Heaven and Hell inhim, Basil, cried Dorian, with
a wild gesture of despair. Albertturned again to the portrait and gazed at
it. My God, if itis true, he exclaimed, And this
is what you have done with yourlife, why you must be worse even

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than those who talk against you fancyyou to be. He held the light
up again to the canvas and examinedit. The surface seemed to be quite
undisturbed, and as he had leftit, it was from within, apparently
that the foulness and horror had comethrough some strange quickening of inner life.

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The leproses of sin were slowly eatingthe thing away, the rotting of a
corpse and a watery grave was notso fearful. His hand shook, and
the candle fell from its socket onthe floor and lay there, sputtering.
He placed his foot on it andput it out. Then he flung himself

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into the rickety chair that was standingby 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

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is it that one was taught tosay 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 yourpride has been answered. The prayer of
your repentance will be answered, also, I worshiped you too much. I

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am punished for it. You worshipedyourself too much. We are both punished.
Dorian Gray turned slowly around and lookedat him with tear dimmed eyes.
It is too late, Basil,he faltered. It is never too late,
Dorian. Let us kneel down andtry if we cannot remember a prayer.

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Isn't there a verse somewhere? Thoughyour sins be as scarlets, yet
I will make them white as snow. Those words mean nothing to me.
Now, hush, don't say thatyou have done enough evil in your life,
my God. Don't you see thataccursed thing leering at us? Dorry

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and Gray glanced at the picture,and suddenly an uncontrollable feeling of hatred for
Basil Hallward came over him, asthough it had been suggested to him by
the image the canvas whispered into hisear by those grinning lips. The mad
passions of a hunted animal stirred withinhim, and he loathed the man who

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was seated at the table more thanin 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 eyefell on it. He knew what it
was. It was a knife thathe had brought up some days before to

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cut a piece of cord, andhad forgotten to take away with him.
He moved slowly towards it, passinghollward as he did. As soon as
he got behind him, he seizedit and turned round while words stirred in
his chair as if he was goingto rise. He rushed at him and

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dug the knife into the great veinthat is behind the ear, crushing the
man's head down on the table andstabbing again and again, And there was
a stifled groan and the horrible soundof someone choking with blood. Three times.
The outstretched arms shot up convulsively,waving grotesque, stiff fingered hands in

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the air. He stabbed him twicemore, but the man did not move.
Something began to trickle on the floor. He waited for a moment,
still pressing the head down. Thenhe threw the knife on the table and
listened. He could hear nothing butthe drip drip on the threadbare carpet.

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He opened the door and went outon the landing. The house was absolutely
quiet. No one was about fora few seconds he stood, bending over
the balustrade and peering down into theblack, seething well of darkness. Then
he took out the key and returnedto the room, locking himself in as

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he did so. The thing wasstill seated in the chair, straining over
the table with bowed head and humpedback in long, fantastic arms. Had
it not been for the red,jagged tear in the neck and the clotted
blackpool that was slowly widening on thetable, one would have said that the

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man was simply asleep. How quicklyit had all been done, he felt
strangely calm, and, walking overto the window, opened it and stepped
out on the balcony. The windhad blown the fog away, and the
sky was like a monstrous peacock's tail, starred with myriads of golden eyes.

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He looked down and saw the policemangoing his rounds and flashing the long beam
of his lantern on the doors ofthe silent houses. The crimson spot of
a prowling hansom gleamed at the cornerand then vanished. A woman in a
fluttering shawl was creeping slowly by therailings, staggering as she went now,
and then she stopped and peered back. Once she began to sing in a

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hoarse voice. The policeman strode overand said something to her. She stumbled
away, laughing. A bitter blastswept across the square. The gas lamps
flickered and became blue, and theleafless trees shook their black iron branches to
and fro. He shivered and wentback, closing the window behind him.

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Having reached the door, he turnedthe 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 thesituation. The friend who had painted the
fatal portrait to which all his miseryhad been due had gone out of his

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life. That was enough. Thenhe 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 coarseturquoises. Perhaps it might be missed by
his servants, and questions would beasked. He hesitated for a moment,

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then he turned back and took itfrom the table. He could not help
seeing the dead thing, how stillit was how horribly white the long hands
looked. It was like a dreadfulwax image. Having locked the door behind
him, he crept quietly downstairs.The woodwork creaked and seemed to cry out,

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as if in pain. He stoppedseveral times and waited. No,
everything was still. It was merelythe sound of his own footsteps. When
he reached the library, he sawthe bag and coat the corner. They
must be hidden away somewhere. Heunlocked a secret press that was in the

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wainscoting, a press in which hekept his own curious disguises, and put
them into it. He could easilyburn them afterwards. Then he pulled out
his watch. It was twenty minutesto two. He sat down and began
to think. Every year, everymonth, almost men were strangled in England

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for what he had done. Therehad been a madness of murder in the
air. Some red star had cometoo close to the earth. And yet
what evidence was there against him?Basil Horwood had left the house at eleven.
No one had seen him come inagain. Most of his servants were
at Selby Royal. His valet hadgone to bed. Paris. Yes,

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it was to Paris that Basil hadgone and by the midnight train. As
he had intended with his curious reservedhabits, it would be months before any
suspicions would be aroused. Months everythingcould be destroyed long before then, A
sudden thought struck him. He puton his fur coat and hat and went

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out into the hall. There hepaused, 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. Hewaited and held his breath. After a
few moments, he drew back thelatch and slipped out, shutting the door
very gently behind him. Then hebegan ringing the bell. In about five

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minutes, his valet appeared, halfdressed and looking very drowsy. I am
sorry to have had to wake youup, Francis, he said, stepping
in, But I had forgotten mylatch key. What time is it?
Ten minutes past two, sir,answered the man, looking at theo and
blinking. Ten minutes passed two?How horribly late. You must wake me

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at nine tomorrow. I have somework to do, all right, sir?
Did anyone call this evening? Mister? Hall word, sir? He
stayed here till eleven, and thenhe went away to catch his train.
Oh, I am sorry, Ididn't see him. Did he leave any
message, No, sir, exceptthat he would write to you from Paris

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if he did not find you atthe club. That will do, Francis,
don't forget to call me at ninetomorrow, now, sir. The
man shambled down the passage in hisslippers. Dorrian Gray threw his hat and
coat upon the table and passed intothe library. For a quarter of an
hour, he walked up and downthe room, biting his lip and thinking.

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Then he took down the blue Bookfrom one of the shelves and began
to turn over the leaves. AlanCampbell, one fifty two Hertford Street,
Mayfair. Yes, that was theman he wanted. End of Chapter thirteen.