La simbologia dello specchio

the aesthete combined in one man. This is perhaps linked to Robert Louis Stevenson’s Strange Case

of Dr Jeckill and Mr Hide, which Wilde admired. The division that was witnessed in Dr. Jekyll and

Mr. Hyde, although extreme, is evident in Dorian Gray, who attempts to contain the two divergent

parts of his personality, this is a recurring theme in many of the Gothic novels of which "The Picture

Of Dorian Gray" is one of the last.

Wilde put into his novel, the fullest literaly statement of his aesthetic doctrine: for Dorian, the

pursuit of pleasure and beauty was the true purpose of life, and “Life itself was the first, the greatest,

of the arts” – as we read in the passage. Dorian believes in the worship of the senses and in a new

Hedonism. The same philosophy is stated in the Preface to Dorian Gray, which contains some of

Wilde’s most famous and quoted statements, such as “There is no such thing as a moral or an

immoral book”, or the celebrated and rather snobbish ending: All art is quite useless”. Though it is

certainly an important document for both Dorian Gray and Wilde’s philosophy of life, there is the

risk of taking Wilde’s aphorisms at face value whereas their real value lies in the way they fit into

Wilde’s novel, or plays, or real conversation.

The Picture of Dorian Gray also contains an element of mystery that is essential to his success – the

novel, in fact, was commissioned together with one of Sherlock Homes stories by an American

publisher who wanted two mystery tales in his magazine. In this novel, the element of mystery is

visible throughout. The end of the book is in line with classic horror and crime stories, particulary

Stevenson’s The Strange Case of Dr Jeckyll and Mr Hyde, when there is also the element of duality,

as I wrote before.

• THE END OF THE PHYSICAL AND WICKED DORIAN GRAY

“…He took the lamp from the table and crept upstairs. As he unbarred the door, a smile of joy

flitted across his strangely young-looking face and lingered for a moment about his lips. Yes, he

would be good, and the hideous thing that he had hidden away would no longer be a terror to him.

He felt as if the load had been lifted from him already.

He went in quietly, locking the door behind him, as was his custom, and dragged the purple hanging

from the portrait. A cry of pain and indignation broke from him. He could see no change, save that

in the eyes there was a look of cunning and in the mouth the curved wrinkle of the hypocrite. The

thing was still loathsome -- more loathsome, if possible, than before -- and the scarlet dew that

10

spotted the hand seemed brighter, and more like blood newly spilled. Then he trembled. Had it been

merely vanity that had made him do his one good deed? Or the desire for a new sensation, as Lord

Henry had hinted, with his mocking laugh? Or that passion to act a part that sometimes makes us do

things finer than we are ourselves? Or, perhaps, all these? And why was the red stain larger than it

had been? It seemed to have crept like a horrible disease over the wrinkled fingers. There was blood

on the painted feet, as though the thing had dripped -- blood even on the hand that had not held the

knife. Confess? Did it mean that he was to confess? To give himself up and be put to death? He

laughed. He felt that the idea was monstrous. Besides, even if he did confess, who would believe

him? There was no trace of the murdered man anywhere. Everything belonging to him had been

destroyed. He himself had burned what had been below-stairs. The world would simply say that he

was mad. They would shut him up if he persisted in his story. . . . Yet it was his duty to confess, to

suffer public shame, and to make public atonement. There was a God who called upon men to tell

their sins to earth as well as to heaven. Nothing that he could do would cleanse him till he had told

his own sin. His sin? He shrugged his shoulders. The death of Basil Hallward seemed very little to

him. He was thinking of Hetty Merton. For it was an unjust mirror, this mirror of his soul that he

was looking at. Vanity? Curiosity? Hypocrisy? Had there been nothing more in his renunciation

than that? There had been something more. At least he thought so. But who could tell? . . . No.

There had been nothing more. Through vanity he had spared her. In hypocrisy he had worn the

mask of goodness. For curiosity'

s sake he had tried the denial of self. He recognized that now.

But this murder -- was it to dog him all his life? Was he always to be burdened by his past? Was he

really to confess? Never. There was only one bit of evidence left against him. The picture itself --

that was evidence. He would destroy it. Why had he kept it so long? Once it had given him pleasure

to watch it changing and growing old. Of late he had felt no such pleasure. It had kept him awake at

night. When he had been away, he had been filled with terror lest other eyes should look upon it. It

had brought melancholy across his passions. Its mere memory had marred many moments of joy. It

had been like conscience to him. Yes, it had been conscience. He would destroy it.

He looked round and saw the knife that had stabbed Basil Hallward. He had cleaned it many times,

till there was no stain left upon it. It was bright, and glistened. As it had killed the painter, so it

would kill the painter'

s work, and all that that meant. It would kill the past, and when that was dead,

he would be free. It would kill this monstrous soul-life, and without its hideous warnings, he would

be at peace. He seized the thing, and stabbed the picture with it. 11

There was a cry heard, and a crash. The cry was so horrible in its agony that the frightened servants

woke and crept out of their rooms. Two gentlemen, who were passing in the square below, stopped

and looked up at the great house. They walked on till they met a policeman and brought him back.

The man rang the bell several times, but there was no answer. Except for a light in one of the top

windows, the house was all dark. After a time, he went away and stood in an adjoining portico and

watched.

“Whose house is that, Constable?” asked the elder of the two gentlemen.

“Mr. Dorian Gray'

s, sir,” answered the policeman.

They looked at each other, as they walked away, and sneered. One of them was Sir Henry Ashton'

s

uncle.

Inside, in the servants'

part of the house, the half-clad domestics were talking in low whispers to

each other. Old Mrs. Leaf was crying and wringing her hands. Francis was as pale as death.

After about a quarter of an hour, he got the coachman and one of the footmen and crept upstairs.

They knocked, but there was no reply. They called out. Everything was still. Finally, after vainly

trying to force the door, they got on the roof and dropped down on to the balcony. The windows

yielded easily -- their bolts were old.

When they entered, they found hanging upon the wall a splendid portrait of their master as they had

last seen him, in all the wonder of his exquisite youth and beauty. Lying on the floor was a dead

man, in evening dress, with a knife in his heart. He was withered, wrinkled, and loathsome of

visage. It was not till they had examined the rings that they recognized who it was.”

TRANSLATION:

“…Prese la lampada dal tavolo e salì lentamente le scale. Mentre apriva la porta, un sorriso di gioia

passò rapidamente sul suo viso stranamente giovane e indugiò per un attimo sulle sue labbra. Sì,

sarebbe stato buono, e la cosa orrenda che aveva nascosto non lo avrebbe più spaventato. Gli

sembrò che il peso gli fosse stato già tolto.

Entrò quietamente, chiudendosi la porta dietro com’era sua abitudine, e rimosse il panno purpureo

dal ritratto. Un grido di dolore e di indignazione gli sfuggì. Non vedeva nessun cambiamento, se

12

non che negli occhi c’era uno sguardo di astuzia, e nella bocca la curva rugosa dell’ipocrisia. La

cosa era sempre spregevole, ancora più ripugnante di prima se possibile, e la riga scarlatta che

macchiava la mano sembrava più luccicante e più simile a del sangue appena sparso. Poi tremò. Era

stata soltanto la vanità che lo aveva spinto a compiere la sua buona azione? O il desiderio di una

nuova sensazione, come aveva suggerito Lord Henry con il suo riso beffardo? O quella passione di

recitare una parte che talvolta ci spinge ad azioni migliori di noi stessi? O forse tutto ciò? E perché

la macchia rossa era più estesa di prima? Sembrava essersi espansa sopra le dita rugose come

un’orribile malattia. C’era del sangue sul piede dipinto, come se la cosa ve lo avesse colato, c’era

del sangue perfino sulla mano che non aveva sorretto il pugnale. Confessare? Voleva dire che

doveva confessare? Consegnarsi alla polizia per essere condannato a morte? Rise. L’idea gli sembrò

mostruosa. Inoltre, anche se avesse confessato, chi gli avrebbe creduto? Non c’era traccia dell’uomo

assassinato da nessuna parte. Ogni cosa che gli apparteneva era stata distrutta. Egli stesso aveva

bruciato ciò che era rimasto da basso. Avrebbero soltanto detto che era pazzo. Lo avrebbero

rinchiuso se avesse insistito a raccontare la sua storia… Sì, era suo dovere confessare, affrontare la

vergogna pubblica, espiare davanti a tutti. C’era un Dio che richiedeva agli uomini di ammettere i

loro peccati in terra e in cielo. Niente di ciò che avrebbe fatto lo avrebbe lavato dei suoi peccati

finché non avesse confessato. I suoi peccati? Scrollò le spalle. La morte di Basil Hallward gli

importava ben poco. Pensava ad Hetty Merton. Era ingiusto questo specchio della sua anima che

egli stava rimirando? Vanità? Curiosità? Ipocrisia? Non c’era stato nulla di più di questo nella sua

rinuncia? C’era stato qualcosa di più. Almeno così pensava. Ma chi poteva dirlo?… No, non c’era

stato nulla di più. L’aveva risparmiata soltanto per vanità Aveva indossato ipocritamente la

maschera della bontà. Per curiosità aveva rinnegato se stesso. Ora se ne rendeva conto.

Ma questo delitto lo avrebbe perseguitato per sempre? Sarebbe stato sempre oppresso dal suo

passato? Doveva davvero confessare? Mai. C’era soltanto una minima prova contro di lui. Il ritratto

stesso era una prova. Lo avrebbe distrutto. Perché lo aveva conservato così a lungo? Un tempo gli

dava piacere guardarlo mutare e invecchiare. Ultimamente questo piacere era scomparso. Lo aveva

tenuto sveglio di notte. Se era lontano era terrorizzato all’idea che altri potessero vederlo. Aveva

arrecato malinconia alle sue passioni. La sua semplice memoria aveva sciupato molti momenti di

gioia. Era stato come la sua coscienza. Sì, era stato la sua coscienza. Lo avrebbe distrutto.

Si guardò intorno, e scorse il coltello con cui aveva colpito Basil Hallward. Lo aveva ripulito molte

volte, anche se non v’era rimasta alcuna macchia. Era lucido e scintillante. Come aveva ucciso il

pittore, così avrebbe ucciso la sua opera e tutto ciò che esso significava. Avrebbe ucciso il passato, e

13

allora sarebbe stato libero. Avrebbe ucciso quella mostruosa vita della sua anima, e, senza i suoi

infami moniti, sarebbe vissuto in pace. Lo afferrò, e colpì la tela.

Ci fu un grido ed un tonfo. Il grido fu così terribile nella sua agonia che i servi spaventati si

svegliarono e uscirono lentamente dalle loro stanze. Due signori che passavano nella piazza di sotto

si fermarono e guardarono in alto verso la grande casa. Camminarono finché incontrarono un

poliziotto, e lo riportarono indietro. Egli suonò il campanello parecchie volte, ma non ci fu risposta.

La casa era immersa nell’ombra, tranne che per una finestra illuminata all’ultimo piano. Dopo

qualche tempo se ne andò, si fermò sotto un portico lì vicino, e osservò.

- Di chi è questa casa, guardia? – chiese il più anziano dei due.

- Di Dorian Gray, signore, - rispose il poliziotto

I due si guardarono e si allontanarono con un sogghigno. Uno di loro era lo zio di sir Henry Ashton.

Dentro la casa, nei quartieri della servitù, i domestici mezzo vestiti parlavano tra di loro