道林格雷的画像_奥斯卡·王尔德-第19章

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eyes；　shuddering　as　he　hoped　it。

poor　sibyl！　what　a　romance　it　had　all　been！　she　had　often　mimicked　death　on　the　stage。　then　death　himself　had　touched　her　and　taken　her　with　him。　how　had　she　played　that　dreadful　last　scene？　had　she　cursed　him；　as　she　died？　no；　she　had　died　for　love　of　him；　and　love　would　always　be　a　sacrament　to　him　now。　she　had　atoned　for　everything　by　the　sacrifice　she　had　made　of　her　life。　he　would　not　think　any　more　of　what　she　had　made　him　go　through；　on　that　horrible　night　at　the　theatre。　when　he　thought　of　her；　it　would　be　as　a　wonderful　tragic　figure　sent　on　to　the　worlds　stage　to　show　the　supreme　reality　of　love。　a　wonderful　tragic　figure？　tears　came　to　his　eyes　as　he　remembered　her　childlike　look；　and　winsome　fanciful　ways；　and　shy　tremulous　grace。　he　brushed　them　away　hastily　and　looked　again　at　the　picture。

he　felt　that　the　time　had　really　e　for　making　his　choice。　or　had　his　choice　already　been　made？　yes；　life　had　decided　that　for　himlife；　and　his　own　infinite　curiosity　about　life。　eternal　youth；　infinite　passion；　pleasures　subtle　and　secret；　wild　joys　and　wilder　sinshe　was　to　have　all　these　things。　the　portrait　was　to　bear　the　burden　of　his　shame：　that　was　all。

a　feeling　of　pain　crept　over　him　as　he　thought　of　the　desecration　that　was　in　store　for　the　fair　face　on　the　canvas。　once；　in　boyish　mockery　of　narcissus；　he　had　kissed；　or　feigned　to　kiss；　those　painted　lips　that　now　smiled　so　cruelly　at　him。　morning　after　morning　he　had　sat　before　the　portrait　wondering　at　its　beauty；　almost　enamoured　of　it；　as　it　seemed　to　him　at　times。　was　it　to　alter　now　with　every　mood　to　which　he　yielded？　was　it　to　bee　a　monstrous　and　loathsome　thing；　to　be　hidden　away　in　a　locked　room；　to　be　shut　out　from　the　sunlight　that　had　so　often　touched　to　brighter　gold　the　waving　wonder　of　its　hair？　the　pity　of　it！　the　pity　of　it！

for　a　moment；　he　thought　of　praying　that　the　horrible　sympathy　that　existed　between　him　and　the　picture　might　cease。　it　had　changed　in　answer　to　a　prayer；　perhaps　in　answer　to　a　prayer　it　might　remain　unchanged。　and　yet；　who；　that　knew　anything　about　life；　would　surrender　the　chance　of　remaining　always　young；　however　fantastic　that　chance　might　be；　or　with　what　fateful　consequences　it　might　be　fraught？　besides；　was　it　really　under　his　control？　had　it　indeed　been　prayer　that　had　produced　the　substitution？　might　there　not　be　some　curious　scientific　reason　for　it　all？　if　thought　could　exercise　its　influence　upon　a　living　organism；　might　not　thought　exercise　an　influence　upon　dead　and　inorganic　things？　nay；　without　thought　or　conscious　desire；　might　not　things　external　to　ourselves　vibrate　in　unison　with　our　moods　and　passions；　atom　calling　to　atom　in　secret　love　or　strange　affinity？　but　the　reason　was　of　no　importance。　he　would　never　again　tempt　by　a　prayer　any　terrible　power。　if　the　picture　was　to　alter；　it　was　to　alter。　that　was　all。　why　inquire　too　closely　into　it？

for　there　would　be　a　real　pleasure　in　watching　it。　he　would　be　able　to　follow　his　mind　into　its　secret　places。　this　portrait　would　be　to　him　the　most　magical　of　mirrors。　as　it　had　revealed　to　him　his　own　body；　so　it　would　reveal　to　him　his　own　soul。　and　when　winter　came　upon　it；　he　would　still　be　standing　where　spring　trembles　on　the　verge　of　summer。　when　the　blood　crept　from　its　face；　and　left　behind　a　pallid　mask　of　chalk　with　leaden　eyes；　he　would　keep　the　glamour　of　boyhood。　not　one　blossom　of　his　loveliness　would　ever　fade。　not　one　pulse　of　his　life　would　ever　weaken。　like　the　gods　of　the　greeks；　he　would　be　strong；　and　fleet；　and　joyous。　what　did　it　matter　what　happened　to　the　coloured　image　on　the　canvas？　he　would　be　safe。　that　was　everything。

he　drew　the　screen　back　into　its　former　place　in　front　of　the　picture；　smiling　as　he　did　so；　and　passed　into　his　bedroom；　where　his　valet　was　already　waiting　for　him。　an　hour　later　he　was　at　the　opera；　and　lord　henry　was　leaning　over　his　chair。　

　



Chapter　9

锝炲皬锛滆�磘　xt锛嬶紜澶╋紴鍫�
chapter　9

as　he　was　sitting　at　breakfast　next　morning；　basil　hallward　was　shown　into　the　room。

〃i　am　so　glad　i　have　found　you；　dorian；〃　he　said　gravely。　〃i　called　last　night；　and　they　told　me　you　were　at　the　opera。　of　course；　i　knew　that　was　impossible。　but　i　wish　you　had　left　word　where　you　had　really　gone　to。　i　passed　a　dreadful　evening；　half　afraid　that　one　tragedy　might　be　followed　by　another。　i　think　you　might　have　telegraphed　for　me　when　you　heard　of　it　first。　i　read　of　it　quite　by　chance　in　a　late　edition　of　the　globe　that　i　picked　up　at　the　club。　i　came　here　at　once　and　was　miserable　at　not　finding　you。　i　cant　tell　you　how　heart…broken　i　am　about　the　whole　thing。　i　know　what　you　must　suffer。　but　where　were　you？　did　you　go　down　and　see　the　girls　mother？　for　a　moment　i　thought　of　following　you　there。　they　gave　the　address　in　the　paper。　somewhere　in　the　euston　road；　isnt　it？　but　i　was　afraid　of　intruding　upon　a　sorrow　that　i　could　not　lighten。　poor　woman！　what　a　state　she　must　be　in！　and　her　only　child；　too！　what　did　she　say　about　it　all？〃

〃my　dear　basil；　how　do　i　know？〃　murmured　dorian　gray；　sipping　some　pale…yellow　wine　from　a　delicate；　gold…beaded　bubble　of　venetian　glass　and　looking　dreadfully　bored。　〃i　was　at　the　opera。　you　should　have　e　on　there。　i　met　lady　gwendolen；　harrys　sister；　for　the　first　time。　we　were　in　her　box。　she　is　perfectly　charming；　and　patti　sang　divinely。　dont　talk　about　horrid　subjects。　if　one　doesnt　talk　about　a　thing；　it　has　never　happened。　it　is　simply　expression；　as　harry　says；　that　gives　reality　to　things。　i　may　mention　that　she　was　not　the　womans　only　child。　there　is　a　son；　a　charming　fellow；　i　believe。　but　he　is　not　on　the　stage。　he　is　a　sailor；　or　something。　and　now；　tell　me　about　yourself　and　what　you　are　painting。〃

〃you　went　to　the　opera？〃　said　hallward；　speaking　very　slowly　and　with　a　strained　touch　of　pain　in　his　voice。　〃you　went　to　the　opera　while　sibyl　vane　was　lying　dead　in　some　sordid　lodging？　you　can　talk　to　me　of　other　women　being　charming；　and　of　patti　singing　divinely；　before　the　girl　you　loved　has　even　the　quiet　of　a　grave　to　sleep　in？　why；　man；　there　are　horrors　in　store　for　that　little　white　body　of　hers！〃

〃stop；　basil！　i　wont　hear　it！〃　cried　dorian；　leaping　to　his　feet。　〃you　must　not　tell　me　about　things。　what　is　done　is　done。　what　is　past　is　past。〃

〃you　call　yesterday　the　past？〃

〃what　has　the　actual　lapse　of　time　got　to　do　with　it？　it　is　only　shallow　people　who　require　years　to　get　rid　of　an　emotion。　a　man　who　is　master　of　himself　can　end　a　sorrow　as　easily　as　he　can　invent　a　pleasure。　i　dont　want　to　be　at　the　mercy　of　my　emotions。　i　want　to　use　them；　to　enjoy　them；　and　to　dominate　them。〃

〃dorian；　this　is　horrible！　something　has　changed　you　pletely。　you　look　exactly　the　same　wonderful　boy　who；　day　after　day；　used　to　e　down　to　my　studio　to　sit　for　his　picture。　but　you　were　simple；　natural；　and　affectionate　then。　you　were　the　most　unspoiled　creature　in　the　whole　world。　now；　i　dont　know　what　has　e　over　you。　you　talk　as　if　you　had　no　heart；　no　pity　in　you。　it　is　all　harrys　influence。　i　see　that。〃

the　lad　flushed　up　and；　going　to　the　window；　looked　out　for　a　few　moments　on　the　green；　flickering；　sun…lashed　garden。　〃i　owe　a　great　deal　to　harry；　basil；〃　he　said　at　last；　〃more　than　i　owe　to　you。　you　only　taught　me　to　be　vain。〃

〃well；　i　am　punished　for　that；　dorianor　shall　be　some　day。〃

〃i　dont　know　what　you　mean；　basil；〃　he　exclaimed；　turning　round。　〃i　dont　know　what　you　want。　what　do　you　want？〃

〃i　want　the　dorian　gray　i　used　to　paint；〃　said　the　artist　sadly。

〃basil；〃　said　the　lad；　going　over　to　him　and　putting　his　hand　on　his　shoulder；　〃you　have　e　too　late。　yesterday；　when　i　heard　that　sibyl　vane　had　killed　herself〃

〃killed　herself！　good　heavens！　is　there　no　doubt　about　that？〃　cried　hallward；　looking　up　at　him　with　an　expression　of　horror。

〃my　dear　basil！　surely　you　dont　think　it　was　a　vulgar　accident？　of　course　she　killed　herself。〃

the　elder　man　buried　his　face　in　his　hands。　〃how　fearful；〃　he　muttered；　and　a　shudder　ran　through　him。

〃no；〃　said　dorian　gray；　〃there　is　nothing　fearful　about　it。　it　is　one　of　the　great　romantic　tragedies　of　the　age。　as　a　rule；　people　who　act　lead　the　most　monplace　lives。　they　are　good　husbands；　or　faithful　wives；　or　something　tedious。　you　know　what　i　meanmiddle…class　virtue　and　all　that　kind　of　thing。　how　different　sibyl　was！　she　lived　her　finest　tragedy。　she　was　always　a　heroine。　the　last　night　she　played　the　night　you　saw　hershe　acted　badly　because　she　had　known　the　reality　of　love。　when　she　knew　its　unreality；　she　died；　as　juliet　might　have　died。　she　passed　again　into　the　sphere　of　art。　there　is　something　of　the　martyr　about　her。　her　death　has　all　the　pathetic　uselessness　of　martyrdom；　all　its　wasted　beauty。　but；　as　i　was　saying；　you　must　not　think　i　have　not　suffered。　if　you　had　e　in　yesterday　at　a　particular　moment　about　half…past　five；　perhaps；　or　a　quarter　to　six　you　would　have　found　me　in　tears。　even　harry；　who　was　here；　who　brought　me　the　news；　in　fact；　had　no　idea　what　i　was　going　through。　i　suffered　immensely。　then　it　passed　away。　i　cannot　repeat　an　emotion。　no　one　can；　except　sentimentalists。　and　you　are　awfully　unjust；　basil。　you　e　down　here　to　console　me。　that　is　charming　of　you。　you　find　me　consoled；　and　you　are　furious。　how　like　a　sympathetic　person！　you　remind　me　of　a　story　harry　told　me　about　a　certain　philanthropist　who　spent　twenty　years　of　his　life　in　trying　to　get　some　grievance　redressed；　or　some　unjust　law　alteredi　forget　exactly　what　it　was。　finally　he　succeeded；　and　nothing　could　exceed　his　disappointment。　he　had　absolutely　nothing　to　do；　almost　died　of　ennui；　and　became　a　confirmed　misanthrope。　and　besides；　my　dear　old　basil；　if　you　really　want　to　console　me；　teach　me　rather　to　forget　what　has　happened；　or　to　see　it　from　a　proper　artistic　point　of　view。　was　it　not　gautier　who　used　to　write　about　la　consolation　des　arts？　i　remember　picking　up　a　little　vellum…covered　book　in　your　studio　one　day　and　chancing　on　that　delightful　phrase。　well；　i　am　not　like　that　young　man　you　told　me　of　when　we　were　down　at　marlow　together；　the　young　man　who　used　to　say　that　yellow　satin　could　console　one　for　all　the　miseries　of　life。　i　love　beautiful　things　that　one　can　touch　and　handle。　old　brocades；　green　bronzes；　lacquer…work；　carved　ivories；　exquisite　surroundings；　luxury；　pompthere　is　much　to　be　got　from　all　these。　but　the　artistic　temperament　that　they　create；　or　at　any　rate　reveal；　is　still　more　to　me。　to　bee　the　spectator　of　ones　own　life；　as　harry　says；　is　to　escape　the　suffering　of　life。　i　know　you　are　surprised　at　my　talking　to　you　like　this。　you　have　not　realized　how　i　have　developed。　i　was　a　schoolboy　when　you　knew　me。　i　am　a　man　now。　i　have　new　passions；　new　thoughts；　new　ideas。　i　am　different；　but　you　must　not　like　me　less。　i　am　changed；　but　you　must　always　be　my　friend。　of　course；　i　am　very　fond　of　harry。　but　i　know　that　you　are　better　than　he　is。　you　are　not　stronger　you　are　too　much　afraid　of　lifebut　you　are　better。　and　how　happy　we　used　to　be　together！　dont　leave　me；　basil；　and　dont　quarrel　with　me。　i　am　what　i　am。　there　is　nothing　more　to　be　said。〃

the　painter　felt　strangely　moved。　the　lad　was　infinitely　dear　to　him；　and　his　personality　had