Il ritratto di Dorian Gray , l'opera di
Oscar Wilde.
L'ultimo atto: Dorian’s Death
...La morte di Basil Hallward gli era di poco peso. Pensava a Hetty Merton. Era uno specchio malvagio, quello specchio dell'anima sua che stava guardando. Vanità? Curiosità? Ipocrisia? Non c'era nient'altro nella sua rinuncia? C'era stato qualcosa di più. Almeno lo aveva creduto. Ma chi l'avrebbe mai potuto dire?... No. Non c'era stato niente altro. L'aveva risparmiata per vanità. Per ipocrisia s'era coperto di una maschera di bontà. Per curiosità aveva cercato il sacrificio. Ora se ne accorgeva.
Ma quel delitto l'avrebbe perseguitato per tutta la vita? Sempre oppresso dal passato? Avrebbe veramente dovuto confessare? Mai. Non restava che una sola piccola prova contro di lui. Il quadro: ecco la prova. L'avrebbe distrutto. Perché l'aveva conservato cosi a lungo? Una volta gli faceva piacere guardarlo mutare e invecchiare. Da qualche tempo non provava più questo piacere. Gli aveva tolto il sonno. Quando era stato lontano aveva tremato per la paura che altri occhi potessero guardarlo. Aveva aggiunto una malinconia alle sue passioni. Era per lui come la sua coscienza. Si, era ormai una coscienza. L'avrebbe distrutta.
Si guardò attorno, e vide il coltello che aveva colpito Basil Hallward. Lo aveva pulito molte volte. e non c'erano macchie. Era lucido, e scintillava. Come aveva ucciso il pittore, cosi voleva uccidere anche l'opera del pittore e tutto quel che racchiudeva. Cosi avrebbe ucciso il passato, e una volta morto il passato, sarebbe stato libero. Avrebbe ucciso la mostruosa anima vivente, senza i suoi odiosi rimproveri, avrebbe finalmente potuto godere la pace.
Prese l'arma, e con quella colpi il ritratto.
S'udì un grido e un tonfo. Il grido fu così dolorosamente tremendo che i servi spaventati si svegliarono e uscirono dalle camere. Due uomini che passavano nella piazza si fermarono. e guardarono in su, il palazzo. Andarono a chiamare un poliziotto, e lo condussero là davanti. Il campanello fu suonato parecchie volte, ma nessuno rispose. Tranne una finestra alta illuminata, la casa era tutta buia. Poi si allontanarono, e si misero sotto un portico li vicino ad aspettare.
«Di chi è la casa?» chiese il più anziano dei due signori.
«Del nobile Dorian Gray, signore» rispose il poliziotto.
Si guardarono e se ne andarono sorridendo. Uno dei due era lo zio di Sir Henry Ashton.
Dentro, nell'ala di servizio, i domestici semivestiti bisbigliavano tra loro. La vecchia signora Leaf piangeva, e si torceva le mani. Francis era pallido come un morto.
Dopo un quarto d'ora egli riuscì a persuadere il cocchiere e uno dei servi, e andò di sopra con loro. Bussarono, ma nessuno rispose.. Chiamarono; tutto rimase silenzioso. Finalmente, dopo aver tentato invano di forzare la porta, andarono sul tetto e scesero sul balcone. Le finestre cedettero facilmente. Le serrature erano vecchie.
Entrati, videro appeso al muro uno splendido ritratto del loro padrone, quale l'avevano visto l'ultima volta in tutta la magnificenza della sua meravigliosa bellezza e gioventù. Per terra giaceva un uomo, morto, con un coltello piantato nel cuore. Aveva i capelli bianchi, il viso raggrinzito e ripugnante. Soltanto esaminando gli anelli riuscirono a riconoscerlo.
"Dorian’s Death"
VERSIONE INGLESE
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. 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 older 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.
traduzioni inglese-italiano
scudellari francis
