12 
　  
　　It was the ninth of November， the evening before his thirty-eighth birthday． Dorian Gray was walking home from Lord Henry's house when he saw Basil Hallward．He felt strangely afraid and tried to pretend that he had not seen him，but Basil hurried after him． 
　　'Dorian！'he called．'What extraordinary luck！I'm catching the midnight train to Paris and I wanted to see you before I left．I'll be away from England for six months．'He put his hand on Dorian's arm．'Look，we're near your house．May I come in for a moment？ I have something to say to you．' 
　　'Of course．But won't you miss your train？'asked Dorian lazily，as he walked up the steps to his door． 
　　'I have plenty of time．It's only eleven o'clock．' 
　　They went in and sat down by the fire． 
　　'Now，my dear Dorian，I want to speak to you seriously，'Basil began．'I must tell you that people in London are saying the most terrible things about you．' 
　　Dorian lit a cigarette and looked bored．'I don't want to know anything about it．It doesn't interest me．' 
　　'But it must interest you，Dorian，'said Basil．'Every gentleman is interested in his good name．Of course，when I look at you， I know that these stories can't be true．A man's face shows if his life is good or bad． But why does Lord Berwick leave the room when you enter it？ Why does Lord Staveley say that no honest woman is safe with you？ That young soldier， who was your friend—why did he kill himself？There was Sir Henry Ashton， who had to leave England with a bad name． And what about Lord Kent's son？ What kind of life does he have now？' 
　　'Stop，Basil．You don't know what you're talking about，'said Dorian coldly．'Did I teach these people how to live their lives？ And the people who tell these stories—are their lives any better than mine？' 
　　'And there are other stories too，'continued Basil．'Are they true？ Can your life really be so bad，so evil？ You were a fine young man once，but now，when I hear these stories，I wonder…Do I know you at all？ What has happened to the real Dorian Gray？ I think I would have to see your soul before I could answer those questions．' 
　　'The real Dorian Gray？'asked Dorian quietly， his face white with fear． 
　　'Yes，'said the artist sadly．'But only God can see your soul．' 
　　A terrible laugh came from the younger man．'Come，Basil，'he cried．'Come with me！I will show you what only God can see． Why not？It's your own work． You've talked enough about evil．Now you must look at it．' 
　　He took Basil upstairs to the locked room．Inside，he turned to the artist，with smiling lips and cold， hard eyes．'You're the one man in the world who should know my secret．Are you sure that you want to？' 
　　'Yes．' 
　　'Then uncover that picture， Basil，and you will see my soul．' 
　　A cry of horror came from the artist when he saw the terrible face in the portrait． How could that evil and unlovely face be Dorian Gray's？But yes，it was．He went nearer to the picture．It could not be the portrait that he had painted．But yes， there was his name written in the corner． He turned and looked at Dorian Gray with the eyes of a sick man． 
　　'What does this mean？'he asked at last． 
　　'When you finished the portrait，'replied Dorian，'I made a wish…' 
　　'I remember，yes，'said Basil．'You wished that the picture could become old，and that you could stay young．But this…'He stared again at the picture．'This is impossible．And you told me that you'd destroyed the picture．' 
　　'I was wrong．It has destroyed me．' 
　　'My God，Dorian！'cried the artist．'If this is true…If this is the face of your soul， then you are more evil than the worst of the stories about you．'He sat down at the table and put his face in his hands．'You must ask God for his help．' 
　　'It's too late， Basil．' 
　　'It's never too late， Dorian．Look at that terrible face．Look at it！' 
　　Dorian turned and stared at the face in the picture， and suddenly he hated Basil more than he had ever hated anyone in his life．Basil now knew his secret， and had seen the real Dorian Gray．Violent feelings burned inside Dorian．He picked up a knife from the table． Then the hate inside him exploded，and like a wild animal， he ran towards Basil，and dug the knife into the artist's neck，again and again and again．The murdered man's head fell forwards， and the blood ran slowly across the table，and down onto the floor． 
　　Dorian stood and listened． He could hear nothing—only the drip， drip of blood onto the floor． He went to the window and looked down into the street． He felt strangely calm． The friend who had painted his portrait had gone out of his life．That was all． 
　　He locked the door behind him and went quietly downstairs．His servants were all in bed．He sat down and began to think．No one had seen Basil in Dorian's house tonight．Paris．Yes！Basil had gone to Paris， of course， so it would be six months before people asked where he was． Six months！That was more than enough time． 
　　Dorian walked up and down the room． Then he took out a book from his desk and began to search for a name． Alan Campbell．Yes，that was the name that he wanted．  
　  
杀人者的手 
　  
　　“掀开那幅画像，你会看见我的灵魂。”  
12  
　　11月9日，也就是他38岁生日的前一天晚上，多里安·格雷正从亨利勋爵家朝自己家走时看见了巴兹尔·霍尔沃德。他奇怪地觉得害怕，就假装没看见他。但是巴兹尔在后面紧追。 
　　“多里安！”他叫道，“太幸运了！我要乘午夜的火车去巴黎，走之前我想见你。我要离开英格兰半年。”他把手放在多里安的胳膊上。“瞧，我们离你家不远了，我可以进去一会儿吗？我有话对你说。” 
　　“当然可以。你不会误车吗？”多里安顺着台阶朝房门口走，他懒洋洋地问。 
　　“我有足够的时间，现在刚11点。” 
　　他们进屋，坐在炉火旁。 
　　“亲爱的多里安，我现在想认真地对你说一说。”巴兹尔开口了，“我必须告诉你伦敦的人正在谈论有关你的最可怕的事情。” 
　　多里安点燃一支烟，显得不耐烦。“我不想知道这些事，没意思。” 
　　“但是你应该关注这些事，多里安。”巴兹尔说，“每位绅士都关心他的好名声。当然，我看你时，我就知道这些传说都不是真的。一个人的脸能显示他的生活是好还是坏。可为什么你进房间后贝里克勋爵要离开？为什么斯特夫利勋爵说没有一个诚实的女人会安全地和你在一起？那个年轻士兵，你的朋友——他为什么自杀了？亨利·阿什顿声名狼藉地离开了英格兰。还有肯特勋爵的儿子？他现在过着怎样的生活？” 
　　“住嘴，巴兹尔，你不知道你在说些什么。”多里安冷冷地说，“我教这些人如何生活了吗？讲这些事情的人——他们的生活比我的好吗？” 
　　“还有其它故事。”巴兹尔继续说，“都是真的吗？你的生活真的会这么坏，这么邪恶？你曾是个很好的年轻人，可是现在，我听见这些故事时，我想……我了解你吗？真正的多里安·格雷发生了什么事？我想我只有看见你的灵魂后才能回答那些问题。” 
　　“真正的多里安·格雷？”多里安轻声地问，他的脸已吓得发白。 
　　“是的。”画家痛苦地说，“可只有上帝才能看见你的灵魂。” 
　　年轻点的人发出了可怕的笑声。“来吧，巴兹尔。”他高声说，“跟我来！我要带你看只有上帝才能看见的东西。为什么不呢？那是你自己的作品。邪恶你讲得够多了，现在你必须看一看。” 
　　他带着巴兹尔上楼来到锁着的房间。进屋后，他转向画家，嘴唇带着笑容，眼神冷漠、严厉。“你是世界上应该知道我的秘密的人。你确信想知道吗？” 
　　“是的。” 
　　“那么掀开画像，巴兹尔，你会看见我的灵魂。” 
　　画家看见画像可怕的脸时发出了恐怖的喊叫。那张邪恶可憎的脸怎么可能是多里安·格雷的？可真是的，它是。他又走近画像，这不可能是他画的那幅。然而的确是他画的，画像的一角写有他的名字。他转身用病人似的眼神看着多里安·格雷。 
　　“这是怎么回事？”他最后问。 
　　“你完成画像时，”多里安答道，“我许了一个愿……” 
　　“我记起来了。”巴兹尔说。“你希望画像会变老，你会永远年轻。可是这……”他又盯着画像：“这是不可能的，而且你告诉我你已经把画像毁了。” 
　　“我错了，是画像毁了我。” 
　　“上帝，多里安！”画家喊着，“如果这是真的……如果这是你灵魂的脸，那么你比关于你的最坏的传说还要邪恶。”他坐在桌旁，手捂住脸。“你必须向上帝乞求帮助。” 
　　“太迟了，巴兹尔。” 
　　“还不晚，多里安。看那张可怕的脸，看啊！” 
　　多里安转身凝视着画像中的脸，突然他比一生中恨其他的人更恨巴兹尔。巴兹尔现在知道了他的秘密，也看见了真正的多里安·格雷。强烈的情感在多里安心中燃烧，他从桌上拿起了一把刀。心中的仇恨爆发了，他像一只野兽冲向巴兹尔，用刀刺进了画家的脖子，一刀又一刀。被杀人的头朝前耷拉下来，鲜血慢慢流到桌子上，又流到地板上。 
　　多里安站着听听动静，他听不见任何声音——只有鲜血流到地板上的嘀嗒声。他走到窗边，向下看着街道。他很平静，这有点奇怪。给他画像的朋友已经从他的生活里消失了，仅此而已。 
　　他锁上身后的门，轻轻走下楼。仆人都在睡觉。他坐下开始思考。今晚没人看见巴兹尔在多里安家。巴黎，是的！巴兹尔当然去了巴黎。因此半年后人们才会问起巴兹尔在哪儿。半年！时间足够了。 
　　多里安在屋里踱步。然后他从书桌里取出一本书，开始找一个名字。艾伦·坎贝尔，是的，这就是他想找的名字。 
　　　    


 