leaned over the still pool of some greek woodland and seen in the waters silent silver the marvel of your own face。 and it had all been what art should be……unconscious； ideal； and remote。 one day； a fatal day i sometimes think； i determined to paint a wonderful portrait of you as you actually are； not in the costume of dead ages； but in your own dress and in your own time。 whether it was the realism of the method； or the mere wonder of your own personality； thus directly presented to me without mist or veil； i cannot tell。 but i know that as i worked at it； every flake and film of colour seemed to me to reveal my secret。 i grew afraid that others would know of my idolatry。 i felt； dorian； that i had told too much； that i had put too much of myself into it。 then it was that i resolved never to allow the picture to be exhibited。 you were a little annoyed； but then you did not realize all that it meant to me。 harry； to whom i talked about it； laughed at me。 but i did not mind that。 when the picture was finished； and i sat alone with it； i felt that i was right。。。。 well； after a few days the thing left my studio； and as soon as i had got rid of the intolerable fascination of its presence； it seemed to me that i had been foolish in imagining that i had seen anything in it； more than that you were extremely good…looking and that i could paint。 even now i cannot help feeling that it is a mistake to think that the passion one feels in creation is ever really shown in the work one creates。 art is always more abstract than we fancy。 form and colour tell us of form and colour……that is all。 it often seems to me that art conceals the artist far more pletely than it ever reveals him。 and so when i got this offer from paris； i determined to make your portrait the principal thing in my exhibition。 it never occurred to me that you would refuse。 i see now that you were right。 the picture cannot be shown。 you must not be angry with me； dorian； for what i have told you。 as i said to harry； once； you are made to be worshipped。〃
dorian gray drew a long breath。 the colour came back to his cheeks； and a smile played about his lips。 the peril was over。 he was safe for the time。 yet he could not help feeling infinite pity for the painter who had just made this strange confession to him； and wondered if he himself would ever be so dominated by the personality of a friend。 lord henry had the charm of being very dangerous。 but that was all。 he was too clever and too cynical to be really fond of。 would there ever be some one who would fill him with a strange idolatry？ was that one of the things that life had in store？
〃it is extraordinary to me； dorian；〃 said hallward； 〃that you should have seen this in the portrait。 did you really see it？〃
〃i saw something in it；〃 he answered； 〃something that seemed to me very curious。〃
〃well； you dont mind my looking at the thing now？〃
dorian shook his head。 〃you must not ask me that； basil。 i could not possibly let you stand in front of that picture。〃
〃you will some day； surely？〃
〃never。〃
〃well； perhaps you are right。 and now good…bye； dorian。 you have been the one person in my life who has really influenced my art。 whatever i have done that is good； i owe to you。 ah！ you dont know what it cost me to tell you all that i have told you。〃
〃my dear basil；〃 said dorian； 〃what have you told me？ simply that you felt that you admired me too much。 that is not even a pliment。〃
〃it was not intended as a pliment。 it was a confession。 now that i have made it； something seems to have gone out of me。 perhaps one should never put ones worship into words。〃
〃it was a very disappointing confession。〃
〃why； what did you expect； dorian？ you didnt see anything else in the picture； did you？ there was nothing else to see？〃
〃no； there was nothing else to see。 why do you ask？ but you mustnt talk about worship。 it is foolish。 you and i are friends； basil； and we must always remain so。〃
〃you have got harry；〃 said the painter sadly。
〃oh； harry！〃 cried the lad； with a ripple of laughter。 〃harry spends his days in saying what is incredible and his evenings in doing what is improbable。 just the sort of life i would like to lead。 but still i dont think i would go to harry if i were in trouble。 i would sooner go to you； basil。〃
〃you will sit to me again？〃
〃impossible！〃
〃you spoil my life as an artist by refusing； dorian。 no man es across two ideal things。 few e across one。〃
〃i cant explain it to you； basil； but i must never sit to you again。 there is something fatal about a portrait。 it has a life of its own。 i will e and have tea with you。 that will be just as pleasant。〃
〃pleasanter for you； i am afraid；〃 murmured hallward regretfully。 〃and now good…bye。 i am sorry you wont let me look at the picture once again。 but that cant be helped。 i quite understand what you feel about it。〃
as he left the room； dorian gray smiled to himself。 poor basil！ how little he knew of the true reason！ and how strange it was that； instead of having been forced to reveal his own secret； he had succeeded； almost by chance； in wresting a secret from his friend！ how much that strange confession explained to him！ the painters absurd fits of jealousy； his wild devotion； his extravagant panegyrics； his curious reticences…… he understood them all now； and he felt sorry。 there seemed to him to be something tragic in a friendship so coloured by romance。
he sighed and touched the bell。 the portrait must be hidden away at all costs。 he could not run such a risk of discovery again。 it had been mad of him to have allowed the thing to remain； even for an hour； in a room to which any of his friends had access。
/d/
Chapter 10
…。网
chapter 10
when his servant entered； be looked at him steadfastly and wondered if he had thought of peering behind the screen。 the man was quite impassive and waited for his orders。 dorian lit a cigarette and walked over to the glass and glanced into it。 he could see the reflection of victors face perfectly。 it was like a placid mask of servility。 there was nothing to be afraid of； there。 yet he thought it best to be on his guard。
speaking very slowly； he told him to tell the house…keeper that he wanted to see her； and then to go to the frame…maker and ask him to send two of his men round at once。 it seemed to him that as the man left the room his eyes wandered in the direction of the screen。 or was that merely his own fancy？
after a few moments； in her black silk dress； with old…fashioned thread mittens on her wrinkled hands； mrs。 leaf bustled into the library。 he asked her for the key of the schoolroom。
〃the old schoolroom； mr。 dorian？〃 she exclaimed。 〃why； it is full of dust。 i must get it arranged and put straight before you go into it。 it is not fit for you to see； sir。 it is not； indeed。〃
〃i dont want it put straight； leaf。 i only want the key。〃
〃well； sir； youll be covered with cobwebs if you go into it。 why； it hasnt been opened for nearly five years……not since his lordship died。〃
he winced at the mention of his grandfather。 he had hateful memories of him。 〃that does not matter；〃 he answered。 〃i simply want to see the place…… that is all。 give me the key。〃
〃and here is the key； sir；〃 said the old lady； going over the contents of her bunch with tremulously uncertain hands。 〃here is the key。 ill have it off the bunch in a moment。 but you dont think of living up there； sir； and you so fortable here？〃
〃no； no；〃 he cried petulantly。 〃thank you； leaf。 that will do。〃
she lingered for a few moments； and was garrulous over some detail of the household。 he sighed and told her to manage things as she thought best。 she left the room； wreathed in smiles。
as the door closed； dorian put the key in his pocket and looked round the room。 his eye fell on a large； purple satin coverlet heavily embroidered with gold； a splendid piece of late seventeenth…century venetian work that his grandfather had found in a convent near bologna。 yes； that would serve to wrap the dreadful thing in。 it had perhaps served often as a pall for the dead。 now it was to hide something that had a corruption of its own； worse than the corruption of death itself…… something that would breed horrors and yet would never die。 what the worm was to the corpse； his sins would be to the painted image on the canvas。 they would mar its beauty and eat away its grace。 they would defile it and make it shameful。 and yet the thing would still live on。 it would be always alive。
he shuddered； and for a moment he regretted that he had not told basil the true reason why he had wished to hide the picture away。 basil would have helped him to resist lord henrys influence； and the still more poisonous influences that came from his own temperament。 the love that he bore him……for it was really love…… had nothing in it that was not noble and intellectual。 it was not that mere physical admiration of beauty that is born of the senses and that dies when the senses tire。 it was such love as michelangelo had known； and montaigne； and winckelmann； and shakespeare himself。 yes； basil could have saved him。 but it was too late now。 the past could always be annihilated。 regret； denial； or forgetfulness could do that。 but the future wa