“I am jealous of my portrait. It mocks me, Basil. I hate it! Why did you paint it?” With that, he flung himself onto the studio sofa and burst into tears.
“This is your doing, Harry.” Said the painter bitterly.
Lord Wotton shrugged his shoulders. “It is the real Dorian Gray. That is all.”
JOHN GRAVAGLIA
• 17 •
Dorian barely heard Basil’s charge against Lord Wotton. He watched as the artist reached for a knife to rip the painting to shreds.
With a stifled sob Dorian leaped from the couch, and rushed over to Basil, tore the knife out of his hand and flung it to the end of the studio.
“Don’t Basil!” Cried Dorian. “It would be murder!”
“I am glad you finally appreciate my work.” Basil said coldly.
“Appreciate it? I am in love with it, Basil. It is a part of myself. I feel that.” Dorian explained. “I didn’t mean I wished you hadn’t painted it.”
“Well, as soon as it dries, it will be framed and sent to you.” Basil said more gently.
Finally, Dorian calmed down. He couldn’t keep his eyes off the portrait.
“I wish the picture would age for me.” Dorian said with desperation in his voice.
“Remain as you are?” Lord Wotton said, arching an eyebrow and then smiling. “A fair trade.”
“How about another gin?” Offered Basil, sauntering over to the bar, preparing a glass.
“All that hocus-pocus, endless conjurations, books bound in infant skin, pentacles of fire, and drinking blood of virgins.” Lord Wotton prattled on, watching Basil refilling his glass. “Dorian wouldn’t really barter his soul. Would you, Dorian?”
Dorian turned away from the painting. He stood there silent before Lord Wotton who was expecting on what the lad would
DORIAN GRAY
• 18 •
say. A perplexed look stretched across Dorian’s innocent and youthful façade.
“Would you?” Lord Wotton repeated the question, lighting a cigarette.
After what it seemed like forever Dorian finally answered. “Yes.”
Basil shook his head. “You can’t possibly mean that, Dorian.”
Dorian raised his hand as if he were saluting. “With this, I nail my soul on the devil’s altar.”
After much chitchat, Dorian made plans to dine with Lord Wotton. Basil begged him not to go, fearing that the older man’s encouragement would destroy his all-to-trusting friend.
“Don’t go to the theatre tonight, Dorian,” pleaded Basil. “Stop and dine with me.”
“I can’t, Basil!” Dorian replied, straightening his tie.
“Why?”
“Because I have promised Lord Wotton to go with him.”
“He won’t like you the better for keeping your promises. He always breaks his own. I beg you not to go.”
Dorian laughed and shook his head.
“I entreat you.”
The boy hesitated, and looked over to Lord Wotton, who was watching them with an amused smile.
“I must go, Basil,” Dorian answered.
“Very well,” Basil said, in defeat. “It is rather late, and, as you have to dress, you had better lose no time. Good-bye, Harry. Good-bye, Dorian. Come and see me soon. Perhaps tomorrow.”
JOHN GRAVAGLIA
• 19 •
“Certainly,” Dorian replied, walking out of the studio.
“You won’t forget?”
“No, of course not.”
Basil paused for a moment. “And…Harry?”
“Yes, Basil?” Answered Lord Wotton, donning his jacket.
“Remember what I asked you when we were in the garden this morning.”
“I have forgotten it.”
“I trust you.”
“I wish I could trust myself,” said Lord Wotton, laughing. “Come, Mr. Gray, my hansom is outside, and I can drop you at your own place. Good-bye, Basil. It has been a most interesting afternoon.”
But Dorian did not heed his warning. And his life would never be the same. As the door closed behind them, the painter threw himself on the sofa, and a look of pain came into his face.
Basil licked his lips, ran his tongue along his teeth. He felt as if something had crawled into his mouth and died. And then, somewhere, far in the distance, he heard a faint cackling.
He quickly got out of the couch and looked around in confusion. Where the hell had that come from? Feeling vaguely uneasy, he wandered across the foyer.
The cackling continued as Basil drew closer to what seemed to be the source: the picture of Dorian Gray. But as he approached it, he only got within just a couple of feet, the laughter abruptly stopped. It was as if there was
DORIAN GRAY
• 20 •
an intruder who suspected he’d been discovered and was trying to avoid detection.
“Somebody there?” Basil said, looking behind the painting and then around the room. “Parker, is that you?”
He should just be calling for assistance, but something stopped him. It wasn’t just that the laughter had ceased. There was a palpable sense of emptiness.
He peered around the corner cautiously, aware that there could be some lunatic standing to the side, ready to stab him in the back.
But there was no one. The room was empty. The only thing staring back at him were the various paintings, and they obviously weren’t posing any threat.
Basil took a deep breath, walked over to the bar and poured himself a drink. He was alarmed by how much his hands were shaking.
“You really care about that boy, don’t you?”
Basil whirled, the sudden realization that he wasn’t alone. Sweat was rolling off him in buckets. The glass was wobbling in his hand, the brandy slopping over the edges.
The voice was mirthful and otherworldly, and it chilled high
