The Picture of Dorian Gray [52]
The painter felt strangely moved. The lad was infinitely dear to him, and his personality had been the great turning–point in his art. He could not bear the idea of reproaching him any more. After all, his indifference was probably merely a mood that would pass away. There was so much in him that was good, so much in him that was noble.
"Well, Dorian," he said, at length, with a sad smile, "I won’t speak to you again about this horrible thing, after to–day. I only trust your name won’t be mentioned in connection with it. The inquest is to take place this afternoon. Have they summoned you?"
Dorian shook his head and a look of annoyance passed over his face at the mention of the word "inquest." There was something so crude and vulgar about everything of the kind. "They don’t know my name," he answered.
"But surely she did?"
"Only my Christian name, and that I am quite sure she never mentioned to anyone. She told me once that they were all rather curious to learn who I was, and that she invariably told them my name was Prince Charming. It was pretty of her. You must do me a drawing of Sibyl, Basil. I should like to have something more of her than the memory of a few kisses and some broken pathetic words."
"I will try and do something, Dorian, if it would please you. But you must come and sit to me yourself again. I can’t get on without you."
"I can never sit to you again, Basil. It is impossible!" he exclaimed, starting back.
The painter stared at him. "My dear boy, what nonsense!" he cried. "Do you mean to say you don’t like what I did of you? Where is it? Why have you pulled the screen in front of it? Let me look at it. It is the best thing I have ever done. Do take the screen away, Dorian. It is simply disgraceful of your servant hiding my work like that. I felt the room looked different as I came in."
"My servant has nothing to do with it, Basil. You don’t imagine I let him arrange my room for me? He settles my flowers for me sometimes—that is all. No; I did it myself. The light was too strong on the portrait."
"Too strong! Surely not, my dear fellow? It is an admirable place for it. Let me see it." And Hallward walked towards the corner of the room.
A cry of terror broke from Dorian Gray’s lips, and he rushed between the painter and the screen. "Basil," he said, looking very pale, "you must not look at it. I don’t wish you to."
"Not look at my own work! you are not serious. Why shouldn’t I look at it?" exclaimed Hallward, laughing.
"If you try to look at it, Basil, on my word of honour I will never speak to you again as long as I live. I am quite serious. I don’t offer any explanation, and you are not to ask for any. But, remember, if you touch this screen, everything is over between us."
Hallward was thunderstruck. He looked at Dorian Gray in absolute amazement. He had never seen him like this before. The lad was actually pallid with rage. His hands were clenched, and the pupils of his eyes were like disks of blue fire. He was trembling all over.
"Dorian!"
"Don’t speak!"
"But what is the matter? Of course I won’t look at it if you don’t want me to," he said, rather coldly, turning on his heel, and going over towards the window. "But, really, it seems rather absurd that I shouldn’t see my own work, especially as I am going to exhibit it in Paris in the autumn. I shall probably have to give it another coat of varnish before that, so I must see it some day, and why not to–day?"
"To exhibit it? You want to exhibit it?" exclaimed Dorian Gray, a strange sense of terror creeping over him. Was the world going to be shown his secret? Were people to gape at the mystery of his life?