Читать книгу The Innsmouth Heritage and Other Sequels - Brian Stableford - Страница 5

THE PICTURE

The last chapter of Oscar Wilde’s narrative is, of course, a mere catalogue of lies. Dorian Gray did not stab me in a fit of rage and remorse. How could he? I was the custodian of his will as well as his soul—and, for that matter, of his voice.

By the time I had achieved that state described in that final chapter, Dorian was no more than a carved dummy. He was a con­summate work of art, to be sure, but he was a mere doll. He had elected to become unchanging, and that which is unchanging cannot entertain real intelligence or authentic emotion. A man’s identity is not an entity, which may or may not change; a man’s identity is a product of all the processes of change ongoing within him.

When Dorian wished change upon me and changelessness upon himself, he gave me his mind and his heart. It was a bold move, and it was a wise move, but it was the end of his story and the beginning of mine. Oscar Wilde had not quite understood that in 1891; after two years in Reading Gaol he knew better, but he had surrendered his own mind and heart by then, and he never committed his discov­ery to paper.

Some might think that Dorian Gray was the miracle that Basil Hallward wrought, while I was a mere by-product. Dorian was, after all, a handsome man blessed with eternal youth, immune to aging and the scars of disease. Alone among young men of his era, Dorian could sleep with syphilitic whores and remain untainted, because all his infections were inherited by me. Oscar Wilde, carrying the curse of syphilis within his own body, presumably thought that Dorian had the best of our bargain—but he was wrong. I was—and am—the true miracle, and Dorian Gray the by-product.

Paintings have nothing to fear from disease. We do not die, nor do we suffer; we have nothing to fear from change. Had Dorian borne the burden which he passed on to me, it would have ravaged him with pain and misery, and ultimately with death—but there is no pain or misery in my world, and art never dies. The march of time, which would have been nothing to him but the measure of his decay and destruction, was and is to me the glory of my evolution, my progress, my transcendence.

I began life as an item of representative art, with no greater vir­tue than accuracy, but, as soon as Dorian had made his bargain, I began to mature into a modernist masterpiece. I became surreal and futuristic, awesome and sublime. I became the very embodiment of genius, of magic, of power.

When Basil Hallward first painted me, those who saw me had no available response, save to compliment him because he had cap­tured the pleasing appearance of a lovely boy—but no one who saw me now would mistake me for a mere reflection. There never was, nor ever could be, a living man who looked like me.

I have gone far beyond mere reflection, into the hinterlands of the imagination. I am now the kind of creature that can only be glimpsed in dreams. I am no longer man but overman, heir to all dis­ease and all decay but never to defeat. I alone, in all the world, am capable of wearing such corruptions proudly, as manifestations of my absolute triumph over death and damnation.

I have already lived more lives than any man, and I am immor­tal; I am still in the process of becoming. I am no mere work of art; I am Art itself.

If you stare into my painted eyes—which will follow you through life, not merely into every corner of the room—you may see what human identity really is, freed from the delicate prison of the flesh.

I ought not to be here in this attic, covered and kept secret. I ought to be on display, in the National Gallery or the Louvre or the Escorial—but I could not be content with that. In an age of print and photography I ought to be reproduced in millions, so that my simu­lacrum might hang in every home in the world. I ought to be the property of every man of discrimination, every secular idolater, every connoisseur of the finest arts.

It is not immodesty that makes me say all this, but altruism. I could achieve so much more than I have already done, if only I had the opportunity.

I am no longer recognizable, you see, as poor Dorian Gray— nor, for that matter, as any particular individual. As a result of my evolution, I have become a potential Everyman—and Everywoman too. I could take on a far greater burden than I have so far been re­quired to bear. Given the chance, I could take on the responsibility of moral and physical corruption for every single person in the world. It is foolish of the world to let me languish here, when there is so much to be done.

It would need another miracle, but miracles are much easier to achieve than you may think; all that it would require is the passion­ate desire, the sincere wish, the fervent hope.

I could be your redeemer, if you would only let me.

I am equipped to accept into myself all the sins of humankind. They would not diminish me in the least, for I AM ART!

You only have to bring me down from my hiding-place and nail me to the wall, where any and all may come to see me. You only have to reproduce my image on posters and postcards, for anyone to see. Only do these little things and the world’s Great Age might be­gin at last.

If you are hesitant, you have only to pause for consideration. It will not take you long to perceive that there is one thing, and one thing only, that matters. Release me, and you need never age a sin­gle day, nor spend a single moment in regret. No line will ever mar your face; no reckless act will ever weigh upon your conscience.

How can you possibly resist a temptation like that?