CHAPTER IX.
關燈
小
中
大
rtconcealstheartistfarmorecompletelythaniteverrevealshim.AndsowhenIgotthisofferfromParis,Ideterminedtomakeyourportraittheprincipalthinginmyexhibition.Itneveroccurredtomethatyouwouldrefuse.Iseenowthatyouwereright.Thepicturecannotbeshown.Youmustnotbeangrywithme,Dorian,forwhatIhavetoldyou.AsIsaidtoHarry,once,youaremadetobeworshipped.”
DorianGraydrewalongbreath.Thecolourcamebacktohischeeks,andasmileplayedabouthislips.Theperilwasover.Hewassafeforthetime.Yethecouldnothelpfeelinginfinitepityforthepainterwhohadjustmadethisstrangeconfessiontohim,andwonderedifhehimselfwouldeverbesodominatedbythepersonalityofafriend.LordHenryhadthecharmofbeingverydangerous.Butthatwasall.Hewastoocleverandtoocynicaltobereallyfondof.Wouldthereeverbesomeonewhowouldfillhimwithastrangeidolatry?Wasthatoneofthethingsthatlifehadinstore?
“Itisextraordinarytome,Dorian,”saidHallward,“thatyoushouldhaveseenthisintheportrait.Didyoureallyseeit?”
“Isawsomethinginit,”heanswered,“somethingthatseemedtomeverycurious.”
“Well,youdon’tmindmylookingatthethingnow?”
Dorianshookhishead.“Youmustnotaskmethat,Basil.Icouldnotpossiblyletyoustandinfrontofthatpicture.”
“Youwillsomeday,surely?”
“Never.”
“Well,perhapsyouareright.Andnowgood-bye,Dorian.Youhavebeentheonepersoninmylifewhohasreallyinfluencedmyart.WhateverIhavedonethatisgood,Iowetoyou.Ah!youdon’tknowwhatitcostmetotellyouallthatIhavetoldyou.”
“MydearBasil,”saidDorian,“whathaveyoutoldme?Simplythatyoufeltthatyouadmiredmetoomuch.Thatisnotevenacompliment.”
“Itwasnotintendedasacompliment.Itwasaconfession.NowthatIhavemadeit,somethingseemstohavegoneoutofme.Perhapsoneshouldneverputone’sworshipintowords.”
“Itwasaverydisappointingconfession.”
“Why,whatdidyouexpect,Dorian?Youdidn’tseeanythingelseinthepicture,didyou?Therewasnothingelsetosee?”
“Notherewasnothingelsetosee.Whydoyouask?Butyoumustn’ttalkaboutworship.Itisfoolish.YouandIarefriends,Basil,andwemustalwaysremainso.”
“YouhavegotHarry,”saidthepaintersadly.
“Oh,Harry!”criedthelad,witharippleoflaughter.“Harryspendshisdaysinsayingwhatisincredibleandhiseveningsindoingwhatisimprobable.JustthesortoflifeIwouldliketolead.ButstillIdon’tthinkIwouldgotoHarryifIwereintrouble.Iwouldsoonergotoyou,Basil.”
“Youwillsittomeagain?”
“Impossible!”
“Youspoilmylifeasanartistbyrefusing,Dorian.Nomancomesacrosstwoidealthings.Fewcomeacrossone.”
“Ican’texplainittoyou,Basil,butImustneversittoyouagain.Thereissomethingfatalaboutaportrait.Ithasalifeofitsown.Iwillcomeandhaveteawithyou.Thatwillbejustaspleasant.”
“Pleasanterforyou,Iamafraid,”murmuredHallwardregretfully.“Andnowgood-bye.Iamsorryyouwon’tletmelookatthepictureonceagain.Butthatcan’tbehelped.Iquiteunderstandwhatyoufeelaboutit.”
Ashelefttheroom,DorianGraysmiledtohimself.PoorBasil!Howlittleheknewofthetruereason!Andhowstrangeitwasthat,insteadofhavingbeenforcedtorevealhisownsecret,hehadsucceeded,almostbychance,inwrestingasecretfromhisfriend!Howmuchthatstrangeconfessionexplainedtohim!Thepainter’sabsurdfitsofjealousy,hiswilddevotion,hisextravagantpanegyrics,hiscuriousreticences—heunderstoodthemallnow,andhefeltsorry.Thereseemedtohimtobesomethingtragicinafriendshipsocolouredbyromance.
Hesighedandtouchedthebell.Theportraitmustbehiddenawayatallcosts.Hecouldnotrunsuchariskofdiscoveryagain.Ithadbeenmadofhimtohaveallowedthethingtoremain,evenforanhour,inaroomtowhichanyofhisfriendshadaccess.
