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S01E01 This World Our Hell 此间地狱




校对:@两斤硫酸铜 @Eudossia @戚润薇 @哈姆林的透明子



Paris, 1900. One of DorianGray's oldest friends is on his deathbed, locked away in a room at thenotorious Hotel D'Alsace, where he is fighting a duel to the death. And whenDorian comes to visit him one last time, both men realise they may never beallowed to check out…


Note: The Confessions of Dorian Graycontains adult material and is not suitable for younger listeners.


Written By: David Llewellyn


Directed By: Scott Handcock



Alexander Vlahos (Dorian Gray)


Steffan Rhodri (Oscar Wilde)


Marilyn Le Conte (Genevieve Moreau)


David Blackwell (Robert Ross)


Sophie Melville (Isabelle)



道连·格雷 Dorian Gray

巴黎。1900年十一月。而今我们管那个年代叫Belle Époque,美好时代。表面尽管美好,我却一直觉得此地别有一番丑陋。

Paris.November 1900. Nowadays we call it the BelleÉpoque, the Beautiful Era. But for all its surface beauty I always thoughtthere was something uniquely ugly about the place.


Everycity’s built on top of bones but I can’t think of any other place where youfeel it quite like Paris, as if you’re perpetually crossing over someone’s grave. 


Iwas there to visit an old friend. News had reached London – he was dying. Theysay he had days left at best. So I travelled through the night. Minight trainout of Waterloo, night crossing from Dover. Got to Paris around midday. I foundmy friend staying in the Latin Quarter at the Hotel d'Alsace.


Oh…theHotel d’Alsace. He’d had what you might call a…reputation. It was where peoplewent to disappear. Oh I know, Paris was full of exiles back then. But when youwere too scandalous even for Paris, you headed straight for the Hotel d’Alsace.


Themanageress was this widow, Genevieve Moreau. Her husband, the late GastonMoreau was a notorious anarchist who danced with the Madame Guillotine in 1892.And there were all sorts of rumours about his wife. My favourite was the one inwhich she kept his mummified head on top of her wardrobe in an old hat box, asyou do.


热娜维耶芙·莫罗Genevieve Moreau


Yes,may I help you?




Bonjour. I believe a friend of mine isstaying here. I was hoping to visit him.


Genevieve Moreau


Whois your friend?




Wilde.Oscar Wilde.


Genevieve Moreau


We have no one of that name staying here.




Really? How about  Sebastian Melmoth?


Genevieve Moreau






Yes, Sebastian.


Genevieve Moreau


Onemoment. Hmm…Melmoth, Sebastian. Oui,he is staying with us, but Monsieur Melmoth is most unwell.




SoI’ve been told.


Well, that’s why I’m here. Perhaps I can speak with his friend, Monsieur Ross?


Genevieve Moreau


Monsieur Ross is away, in Nice.




Ah, well, in that  case, I’m sure MonsieurMelmoth would love the company. Would you be so kind as to take me to hisrooms?



Begrudgingly,she took me up five flights of stairs, right to the top of the hotel, and intothe attic room, where my old friend was residing.


God... his room. There’s no smell quite like wilting roses. No other flower that smells sohorrible when it’s dying. And the air, the air was stale. It had this citrusytang of old sweat so the room already smelled of death.


And it was so small, that room. All the funny angles, the cobwebs in the cornersand the tiny, grubby little windows.


Hisdoctor gave me a look over the top of his glasses, all raised eyebrows andflared nostrils. But when I told him I’d come all the way from London, heagreed to leave us alone, if only for a few minutes.


Evenwhen the news of Oscar’s condition had been so bleak, I hadn’t expected to seehim like this. In a room like this,so thin and gaunt. I barely recognised him.


奥斯卡·王尔德 Oscar Wilde


Dorian?Is it you?




Yes,Oscar, it’s me.


Oscar Wilde


Myboy! I haven’t…h…I thought you were…

Please,sit down.




So…Still travelling as Sebastian Melmoth, I see?


Oscar Wilde


Oh,another of my masks. Even in exile. There are too many English journalists inParis, and as you know, they’ll print anything. And what name is on yourpassport these days?




John.John Gray.


Oscar Wilde


Wonderful!You kept your surname, your rather apt surname.






Oscar Wilde


Gray.The ambiguity of it. Neither wholly black nor white. You should use your truename. More so, hide in plain sight.




Asyou do, you mean?


Oscar Wilde


I am not a work of fiction, Dorian. People know that I am real. Oh, they may notwish to believe it but they know. I still can’t believe you’re here. My fever,I imagine things. Tell me you’re not a hallucination.



I’m not.


Oscar Wilde


Oh my boy! My beautiful Dorian! I’m so sorry for you to see me like this, in thisplace.




It seems pleasant enough.


Oscar Wilde


Don’tpatronise me. The sad truth is, even in this squalor, I am dying beyond mymeans.




Dying, oh come now, Oscar. You have a fever. I’m sure given plenty of rest-


Oscar Wilde


I told you not to patronise me.



Oscar Wilde


How many years is it, since we last met?




Hmm…Nine? Maybe ten?


Oscar Wilde


Adecade. And look at me. Forty two years of age and I look like an old man, but you-




Oscar.You’re forty six.


Oscar Wilde


Ah…I never could fool you. You know, I got that from my mother. She always liedabout her age, so fond of deceptions, of masks. She passed away, you know?




Hmm…I know.


Oscar Wilde


While I was in that red Hell. When they buried her it was in common ground. I couldn't even afford a headstone. Andthere were so many deaths. My mother. My brother. Aubrey. Constance. My poor,poor Constance. I am surrounded by death. But you, look at you, as handsome andyouthful as the day we met. Do you remember?




As if it were yesterday.


Oscar Wilde

“那会康斯坦斯和我正在度蜜月。弗朗切斯卡在但丁的作品里是怎么说的来着?Nessun maggior dolore. Che ricordarsi del tempo felice. Nella miseria. (但丁原文) 没什么比在潦倒时想起幸福时光更痛苦的事。”

Constance and I were on our honeymoon. What is it Francesca says in Dante? Nessun maggior dolore. Che ricordarsi deltempo felice. Nella miseria. There is nothing worse than remembering happytimes, when one is wretched.


I’dstepped out for a morning stroll and stumbled quite by accident upon thatcharming little bookshop, not far from here, on the RueIsard. And youwere there, thumbing through the pages of a book bound in yellow paper.



À Rebours.


Oscar Wilde


À Rebours. The most beautiful and poisonousbook I ever read. You recommended it to me, do you remember? I was looking for Le Père Goriot, and you suggested that Itry something a little more… What was it you said?




Hmm…Well, I asked if you had read de Balzac, you told me you had. And so I said,well then, perhaps you should try something new.


Oscar Wilde


Something new. Yes, something new. That moment changed my life. In so many ways.




For better or worse?


Oscar Wilde


For better and worse.




Mine, too.


Oscar Wilde


I know, and I am sorry.






Oscar Wilde


Your notoriety.




Anotorious name, Oscar, that’s all you gave me. Do you really think Londonsociety would believe your novel could be based upon a true story?


Oscar Wilde


Isuppose you’re right. To have written such a book was nothing…to convince theworld it was a work of fiction was a triumph. Do you remember what the DailyChronicle said of it?




Wordfor word. ‘…A tale spawned from the leprous literature of the French Décadents- a poisonous book, the atmosphere of which is heavy with the mephitic odoursof moral and spiritual putrefaction.’


Oscar Wilde


‘Themephitic odours of moral and spiritual putrefaction.’ Oh I did enjoy that. Butthey were wrong, Dorian. I realise now, that my novel, my book was one ofabsolute morality. It is the story of redemption.






Oscar Wilde


Yes.You see, the kindest thing I ever did was to have Dorian, the Dorian in mybook, drive a dagger through the canvas.




Therebykilling himself.


Oscar Wilde






Soyou think I’d be better off dead?


Oscar Wilde


Notat all. But I do worry for you.






Oscar Wilde


Well,I am only forty four years of age-






Oscar Wilde


Verywell, but I have so many regrets. And I wonder, if you cannot age, and youcannot die, how many regrets you will gather about you?




Weknow what happens to my regrets, Oscar. They are etched onto a painting,gathering dust in a locked room, a great many miles from here.


Oscar Wilde


OhDorian. Those aren’t your regrets. They’re your sins. Your digressions. Unlessyour portrait grants you amnesia as well as youth, your regrets linger. We are each our own devil. And we make thisworld our Hell.




One should absorb the colour oflife, but one should never remember its details.


Oscar Wilde


That’sone of mine.






Oscar Wilde


Butyou can’t possibly still believe that.




SometimesI can. Sometimes I think I have to.



Oscar Wilde


OhDorian, the boy without a soul, and there’s nothing more precious than thehuman soul. Nor any earthly thing that can be weighed with it. But you haveyour beauty, and you shall have it forever, and you shall still be alive whenthe world has quite forgotten Oscar Wilde.




Theworld shall never forget Oscar Wilde.


Oscar Wilde


Iwish I shared your confidence. You know, as a young man, I visited the UnitedStates of America. Wonderfully awful place. And while travelling west westopped in a town of Saint Joseph, Missouri. Only a few days earlier JesseJames had been gunned down in his own sitting room, right there in the town.For a few cents, one could buy a photograph of him ensconced in his coffin. Fora dollar, one could have blood-stained wood shaving from the floor of the veryroom where he was killed. And the people there, they treated him, thisvagabond, this murderer, as a folk hero, a veritable Robin Hood.




Allthe world loves a rogue.


Oscar Wilde


Doesn’tit? And yet, when they were taking me to the ruddy jail, we stopped at ClaphamJunction, and for thirty minutes I was jeered at by the crowds there as if Iwere the very worst villain to draw breath. The world, Dorian, is selective inthe rogues it chooses to love, and those it chooses to remember. They havedeclared my words immoral. My plays are no longer performed in the West End. Myworks go unread. I will be forgotten. Look around you. Is this the deathbed ofa great man?




Youseem to be very certain that you’re dying.


Oscar Wilde


Thisroom is cursed. The air in here is stagnant. The ceiling is riddled with damp.And my wallpaper and I are fighting aduel to the death. One of us has to go.




Oh Oscar, ever the esthete.


Oscar Wilde


I’mserious. They tell me I’m seeing things. That I’m hallucinating. That it’s myfever but at night, in its patterns-




What?What do you see?


Oscar Wilde


Haveyou ever visited Algiers?




Yes,a long time ago.


Oscar Wilde

“自然。从前日子过得更安乐,离天降之灾还很远的时候,波西和我去过那里。好一个辉煌的城市。环着海港的房屋被刷得粉白,空气中弥漫大麻的芳香,宣礼人以高歌召唤信众。那里有个市集,是在老城区内的一个露天市场,摆摊卖蔬果、毛毯和各种各样的饰品、雕塑,在某一摊位上我们看到了一个小塑像。极可怕的玩意。我问那是什么,店主是个没牙的老头,他一点英语都不会,但以法语回答,“Démon de Babylone.”巴比伦的恶魔。不知道它为何选择出现在阿尔及利亚。总之波西想要我买下它,但那东西,那丑陋的造物让我毛骨悚然。我们火速离开了。”

Ofcourse. Well, in happier days, long before things turned so terribly bad, Bosieand I were there. Such a dazzling city. White-washed houses around the harbour,the scent of Hashish, the muezzin singing the call to prayer. And there was amarketplace, a sook in the older part of town, stalls selling fruit andvegetables and rugs and all manners of ornaments and carvings, and on one ofthese stalls we saw a figurine. The most ghastly looking thing. I asked what itwas and the stall holder, this toothless old man, he had no English but inFrench he replied, ‘Démon de Babylone.’ ABabylonian demon. No idea what it was doing in Algeria of all places.Anyway Bosie wanted me to buy it but that thing, that hideous creature made myflesh crawl. We moved on, briskily.




Andwhat does that have to do with your wallpaper?


Oscar Wilde


Inits pattern I see that face. The same snarling face I saw it in the sook ofAlgiers. And not one but hundreds of them. Hundreds of faces.




Faces?I’m afraid I don’t see them. I only see the pattern.


Oscar Wilde


Not now. At night. The faces only appear at night. When I’m alone.




Well then perhaps they’re right. Your friends, the doctor. Perhaps it is the fever.


Oscar Wilde


No,Dorian, these are not visions. I see their faces and I hear them. They… tell methings.




What?What do they tell you?


Oscar Wilde


Theyare with the dead. They are surrounded by the dead. By the people I’ve loved.And sometimes I hear them screamingmy name.




Yes,what is it?


Genevieve Moreau


Themaid, monsieur, she has come to clean your room. Alors vas-y, et dépêche-toi.




Excuse-moi, monsieur, désolé.Excuse-moi.


Oscar Wilde


C'est pas grave, ne t’inquiète pas.




Iwas wondering, Madame Moreau?


Genevieve Moreau






Wouldyou happen to have a spare room? You see, I’ve decided to stay in Paris, for atleast a few days.


Genevieve Moreau


Andyou wish to stay here?






Genevieve Moreau


Ibelieve we have a room for you. Your belongings?




I’llhave them sent.


Genevieve Moreau


Verywell. Isabelle, ça suffit. Viens.




Oui, Madame.






Oscar Wilde






Doesthe manageress always follow the maid around like that?


Oscar Wilde


Always.A stickler for detail, I believe.




Hmm…I’ll say.


Oscar Wilde


So…We shall be neighbours then.






Oscar Wilde


Thisis excellent news. I’ve been so terribly alone. With Robbie in Nice, and I findmyself with so few friends these days. Those who aren’t dead act as if I am.Sorrow is my new world, Dorian. Sorrow, and all it teaches us.




Now,anyone else might have been more skeptical and dismissed Oscar’s story as anightmare brought on by his fever. But even though he was ill he was stilllucid. Whatever the truth was, Oscar genuinely believed he had seen something inthat room.




Andso, that evening, as Oscar got some rest I wandered the streets of Paris. Youcould overhear conversations in almost every language. Old men, talkingCantonese and playing Mahjong. Russian anarchist and dissident singing drinkingsongs. Moroccans and Algerians peddling jewelry. 


Atthe CabaretI drank absinthe, watched some dancing girls, and in the show’s interval I gotchatting to some of the locals, asked them what they knew about the Hoteld’Alsace. Most of them refused to speak to me at all, shooing me away withtheir Foutre le camp. But those whodid, answered enigmatically. The d’Alsace was, they said, a place where menvanish.


Youmean they run away? Catch the first train out of Paris and disappear?


No,no, they said, they vanish, as if into thin air. They mentioned names, the provincial doctor who murdered his wife, thesolicitor from Toulouse, wanted for larceny, checked in and never seen again.There were others, too. People from every walk of life. 


I’dheard enough. In the cold November air, butwarmed a little by the absinthe, I climbed the hill to where the unfinished Basilica de Sacre Coeur stood, clad inscaffolding. And I looked out over the city at night. To the south was theEiffel Tower, lit up with a thousand bulbs, but ugly. All dark metal girdersand rivets beneath the lights.


Maybeit was Oscar’s story about the gruesome little figurine in the market, but,looking at the Eiffel Tower that night, I saw the Tower of Babel, and it filledme with an immense sensation of dread.


Andwhat happened next, in the shadows around the unfinished Basilica, well, let’s just say, even on sacred ground, one’sappetites can only be satisfied by the generosity of strangers. 


Iwas late getting back to the Hotel, Madam Moreau was waiting for me at thedoor, as if she’d been stood there waiting for me all night. As I approached, Iwas reminded of all the whispers I’d heard earlier. All the talk of mysteriousdisappearances, or that head that she kept in that hat box. And to see her facein that moment, I could believe every story imaginable. She was not happy.


Genevieve Moreau


Youare lucky we do not have a curfew here at the Hotel d’Alsace. Il est très tard-




Yeah,I know, and my most sincere apologies, Madame. It shan’t happen again? 


Genevieve Moreau


Non. It shall not.




Aloneat last. The night’s exploits had been a welcomed distraction, but now, back inthe hotel, I felt it again. That same sensation I’ve had before. An… unease?Something in the air had made me feel sick. In Oscar’s room, I’d mistaken itfor the presence of a dying man. But now I was alone and I still felt it. Idrew the curtains, turned out the lights and for what felt like hours, laidthere in darkness staring up at the ceiling.


Thatsound. I will never forget that sound.



IfI’d heard it any other night, or in any other room. It wouldn’t have meant athing. Just mice scuttling behind the skirting boards, the wallpaper curlingwith damp. Not here. Not in the d’Alsace.


Hello?Hello? Who is there? Who is that?


Thisisn’t funny, if this is somebody’s idea of a joke.


Igot out of the bed and lit the oil lamp. And who was that sound coming from? 


Nosooner had I followed it to its source, then it came again. From another cornerof the room.


Whois that? Where are you? Answer me!


ThenI saw it. A movement. A trick of the light?


Well,it had to be. Shadows dancing on the patterns in the wallpaper.


Istood perfectly still. Placed the lamp down on my bedside table. The flameinside instantly settled, and the shadows around stopped moving.


Thepattern, however, did not.


Impossible.That’s impossible.


Slowly,the patterns came together, all those arabesque fronds and ferns merging toform a face. No, not one face, but many gargoyles that snarled and gnashedtheir teeth. The most hideous things I’ve ever seen.


Ohno, no, no. No, what are you? What are you?


Whenthey spoke it wasn’t in words, but thoughts. Visions that they put in front ofme. The faces of those I’ve loved and lost, faces of those who died. I couldn’tstay there a second longer.


Thedoor was locked. I was trapped. No matter where I went, no matter where Ilooked, they were there, right in front of me, dancing in the air like smokeand the smell…


OhI don’t know what I thought it should smell like, sulfur perhaps orphosphorous, but it wasn’t that. Whatever they were, they stank, rotting fleshand blood, like the gutters outside of an abattoir.


No,no. No, not now. This wasn’t the deal. I wanted life, not this.


Ithought I’d reached the day when my death would be repaid, that thesecreatures, these demons, were there to collect the fee for my painting.


OhI was wrong. One by one they showed me every terrible thing I’ve ever done,everything I’ve done to corrupt my soul. Every slight. Every insult. Everycallous love affair. Every act of violence.


Makeit stop. Please. Please. Make it stop.


Andfrom somewhere beyond that room, somewhere far beyond its walls, I heardscreaming. A wail. The sound a desperate widow makes when she’s beside herhusband’s grave. And not one voice, but millions. Millions of people grieving,as if they all knew something I didn’t, some secret that would tear the worldapart if the living were ever to learn it.


Genevieve Moreau


Isabelle.Chambre seize.




Oui, Madame.


Genevieve Moreau






Oui, Madame.


Genevieve Moreau


MonsieurGray? Monsieur Gray!




Youseem surprised to see me.


Genevieve Moreau


Isabelle. Viens ici.




Oui, Madame.




Ohthat won’t be necessary.


Isabelle,excuse us a moment.


Genevieve Moreau


MonsieurGray? What is the meaning of this?




I think that’s the question I should be asking you.


Genevieve Moreau


I do not understand.




OhI think you know what it is I’m talking about.


Genevieve Moreau


MonsieurGray, I must ask, did you have…company with you last night?




Company?You let me in, woman, you know as well as I did that I was quite alone.


Genevieve Moreau






So…that’sit. If you’re alone in the room, that’s when it happens.


Genevieve Moreau


Openthe door, Monsieur Gray.




Andthat’s why you follow her, the maid, from room to room. You won’t allow her tobe alone in the room.


Genevieve Moreau


MonsieurGray, open the door this instant!




Whatare they, those…things in the wallpaper?


Genevieve Moreau


MonsieurGray, you are making no sense!




MadameMoreau, I’ve met many liars and confidence tricksters in my life and they wereall more convincing than you. The disappearances. The guests who simply vanish.It’s those creatures that take them, isn’t it? Isn’t it?


Genevieve Moreau


Ican’t breathe.




MadameMoreau, let me assure you, I have killed before, and I will do so again. So tellme, what are they?


Genevieve Moreau


Youdo not know what you are meddling with.






Genevieve Moreau


Theyare more powerful than anything you can imagine.




Butwhat are they?


Genevieve Moreau


Les galeux. Older than the world, older thantime. They’re from the other side. They have taken countless souls into the underworld since the daysof Babylon before.




Babylon.Babylon? No, no, this is, this is-


We’rein Paris. What are they doing in Paris?


Genevieve Moreau


Lookaround you, Monsieur Gray. What is Paris if it is not Babylon? A den of sin,corruption, vanity. What better place for them now?




Corruption?And when the guests have gone. When they’ve vanished, been taken, what then?What happens to their belongings? Do you steal what’s left behind?


Genevieve Moreau


MonsieurGray, I am a poor widow, and these are difficult times.




Oh,I feel sick. That sound-


Genevieve Moreau


Don’task me to have sympathy for those who are taken, Monsieur Gray. They havesealed their own fates before they even stepped across the threshold.




Shhh-Don’t you hear it?


Genevieve Moreau


Non. That is impossible. There are twoof us here.




Twoof us, yes. In a manner of speaking. Those things came for my soul, didn’tthey? But it was neither theirs to take nor mine to give. I sold my soul a verylong time ago, Madam Moreau, to a higher bidder.


Genevieve Moreau


But,that means-




Exactly.Right now, you are to all intents and purposes, alone. There isn’t another soulhere.


Genevieve Moreau


No!Isabelle! Let me out of here!




You’regoing nowhere. 


Genevieve Moreau


No!Isabelle! Isabelle! Aide-moi! Cherchezquelqu'un! Vite!




Whathappened next, well, it was like every nightmare I’ve ever had rolled into one.The paper, it came alive, as it had the night before. But this time, this timeit was different. In the night when I was alone, they came and they taunted me,showed me things I didn’t want to see. But there, with Madam Moreau, it waslike they could smell blood, and they came out of the paper like a swarm oflocusts.


Andsuddenly, I was alone. Not another single soul.




MadameMoreau? Où est Madame Moreau?




MadamMoreau isn’t here. Madam Moreau has gone. Contact the proprietor-


Contacter les...propriétairede...hôtel-

(Contactez le propriétaire de l'hôtel. 联系旅店的老板。)


Tellthem they need a new manager at the Hotel d’Alsace.








Laterthat afternoon, Oscar’s friend Robert Ross returned from Nice. We’d met before, years ago. When he must have been…onlytwenty? He was surprised to see me.


罗伯特·罗斯 Robert Ross


MisterGray? We’ve met before, haven’t we?




Wehave. Charles Hirsch’s bookshop in London.


Robert Ross


Ithought as much, but that was years ago.






Robert Ross


Buthow- ? You don’t look any older. How on earth are you s-




Nowis not the time for questions, Robert, Oscar is very ill. You should go to him.


Robert Ross


Ofcourse, but you-


You’releaving us?


Youhave your luggage-




Aflying visit, I’m afraid. But before I go, I must urge you, you must find apriest for Oscar.


Robert Ross






Priest,Rabbi, Shaman, anyone.


Robert Ross


What’sthe meaning of this? I’m a Roman Catholic, Mister Gray. If this is your idea ofwit-




I am not a religious man by any stretch of the imagination, Robert, but there aresomethings that should be done. For Oscar. He’s…He’s too ill to be moved fromhere but the one thing that you can do is to find him a priest. Give him thelast rites. Protect his soul. You understand me?


Robert Ross


Yes,I…I think so.




Good.Then make sure that it is done.


Robert Ross


Mister Gray?




Goodbye,Mister Ross.


Robert Ross


Mister Gray?




FromThe Times, Saturday, December 1st,1900. A Reuter telegram from Paris states that Oscar Wilde died there yesterdayafternoon from meningitis. ‘The melancholy end to a career which once promisedso well  is stated to have come in anobscure hotel of the Latin Quarter. Here the once brilliant man of letters wasliving, exiled from his country and the society of his countrymen.’ 


Iknow Robert Ross found a priest. I know the priest gave Oscar the lastsacrament.


Ihope Oscar was saved. 


Oscar Wilde



The soul is a terrible reality. It can be bought, and sold, andbartered away. It can be poisoned, or made perfect. There is a soul in each oneof us. I know it.

The Picture of DorianGray

=the end=

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