道林格雷的画像_奥斯卡·王尔德-第38章

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hidden　from　you。　and　it　has　all　been　to　you　no　more　than　the　sound　of　music。　it　has　not　marred　you。　you　are　still　the　same。〃

〃i　am　not　the　same；　harry。〃

〃yes；　you　are　the　same。　i　wonder　what　the　rest　of　your　life　will　be。　dont　spoil　it　by　renunciations。　at　present　you　are　a　perfect　type。　dont　make　yourself　inplete。　you　are　quite　flawless　now。　you　need　not　shake　your　head：　you　know　you　are。　besides；　dorian；　dont　deceive　yourself。　life　is　not　governed　by　will　or　intention。　life　is　a　question　of　nerves；　and　fibres；　and　slowly　built…up　cells　in　which　thought　hides　itself　and　passion　has　its　dreams。　you　may　fancy　yourself　safe　and　think　yourself　strong。　but　a　chance　tone　of　colour　in　a　room　or　a　morning　sky；　a　particular　perfume　that　you　had　once　loved　and　that　brings　subtle　memories　with　it；　a　line　from　a　forgotten　poem　that　you　had　e　across　again；　a　cadence　from　a　piece　of　music　that　you　had　ceased　to　play　i　tell　you；　dorian；　that　it　is　on　things　like　these　that　our　lives　depend。　browning　writes　about　that　somewhere；　but　our　own　senses　will　imagine　them　for　us。　there　are　moments　when　the　odour　of　lilas　blanc　passes　suddenly　across　me；　and　i　have　to　live　the　strangest　month　of　my　life　over　again。　i　wish　i　could　change　places　with　you；　dorian。　the　world　has　cried　out　against　us　both；　but　it　has　always　worshipped　you。　it　always　will　worship　you。　you　are　the　type　of　what　the　age　is　searching　for；　and　what　it　is　afraid　it　has　found。　i　am　so　glad　that　you　have　never　done　anything；　never　carved　a　statue；　or　painted　a　picture；　or　produced　anything　outside　of　yourself！　life　has　been　your　art。　you　have　set　yourself　to　music。　your　days　are　your　sonnets。〃

dorian　rose　up　from　the　piano　and　passed　his　hand　through　his　hair。　〃yes；　life　has　been　exquisite；〃　he　murmured；　〃but　i　am　not　going　to　have　the　same　life；　harry。　and　you　must　not　say　these　extravagant　things　to　me。　you　dont　know　everything　about　me。　i　think　that　if　you　did；　even　you　would　turn　from　me。　you　laugh。　dont　laugh。〃

〃why　have　you　stopped　playing；　dorian？　go　back　and　give　me　the　nocturne　over　again。　look　at　that　great；　honey…coloured　moon　that　hangs　in　the　dusky　air。　she　is　waiting　for　you　to　charm　her；　and　if　you　play　she　will　e　closer　to　the　earth。　you　wont？　let　us　go　to　the　club；　then。　it　has　been　a　charming　evening；　and　we　must　end　it　charmingly。　there　is　some　one　at　whites　who　wants　immensely　to　know　youyoung　lord　poole；　bournemouths　eldest　son。　he　has　already　copied　your　neckties；　and　has　begged　me　to　introduce　him　to　you。　he　is　quite　delightful　and　rather　reminds　me　of　you。〃

〃i　hope　not；〃　said　dorian　with　a　sad　look　in　his　eyes。　〃but　i　am　tired　to…night；　harry。　i　shant　go　to　the　club。　it　is　nearly　eleven；　and　i　want　to　go　to　bed　early。〃

〃do　stay。　you　have　never　played　so　well　as　to…night。　there　was　something　in　your　touch　that　was　wonderful。　it　had　more　expression　than　i　had　ever　heard　from　it　before。〃

〃it　is　because　i　am　going　to　be　good；〃　he　answered；　smiling。　〃i　am　a　little　changed　already。〃

〃you　cannot　change　to　me；　dorian；〃　said　lord　henry。　〃you　and　i　will　always　be　friends。〃

〃yet　you　poisoned　me　with　a　book　once。　i　should　not　forgive　that。　harry；　promise　me　that　you　will　never　lend　that　book　to　any　one。　it　does　harm。〃

〃my　dear　boy；　you　are　really　beginning　to　moralize。　you　will　soon　be　going　about　like　the　converted；　and　the　revivalist；　warning　people　against　all　the　sins　of　which　you　have　grown　tired。　you　are　much　too　delightful　to　do　that。　besides；　it　is　no　use。　you　and　i　are　what　we　are；　and　will　be　what　we　will　be。　as　for　being　poisoned　by　a　book；　there　is　no　such　thing　as　that。　art　has　no　influence　upon　action。　it　annihilates　the　desire　to　act。　it　is　superbly　sterile。　the　books　that　the　world　calls　immoral　are　books　that　show　the　world　its　own　shame。　that　is　all。　but　we　wont　discuss　literature。　e　round　to…morrow。　i　am　going　to　ride　at　eleven。　we　might　go　together；　and　i　will　take　you　to　lunch　afterwards　with　lady　branksome。　she　is　a　charming　woman；　and　wants　to　consult　you　about　some　tapestries　she　is　thinking　of　buying。　mind　you　e。　or　shall　we　lunch　with　our　little　duchess？　she　says　she　never　sees　you　now。　perhaps　you　are　tired　of　gladys？　i　thought　you　would　be。　her　clever　tongue　gets　on　ones　nerves。　well；　in　any　case；　be　here　at　eleven。〃

〃must　i　really　e；　harry？〃

〃certainly。　the　park　is　quite　lovely　now。　i　dont　think　there　have　been　such　lilacs　since　the　year　i　met　you。〃

〃very　well。　i　shall　be　here　at　eleven；〃　said　dorian。　〃good　night；　harry。〃　as　he　reached　the　door；　he　hesitated　for　a　moment；　as　if　he　had　something　more　to　say。　then　he　sighed　and　went　out。

xia锛�锛砲u锛痶x锛础ｏ迹om



Chapter　20

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chapter　20

it　was　a　lovely　night；　so　warm　that　he　threw　his　coat　over　his　arm　and　did　not　even　put　his　silk　scarf　round　his　throat。　as　he　strolled　home；　smoking　his　cigarette；　two　young　men　in　evening　dress　passed　him。　he　heard　one　of　them　whisper　to　the　other；　〃that　is　dorian　gray。〃　he　remembered　how　pleased　he　used　to　be　when　he　was　pointed　out；　or　stared　at；　or　talked　about。　he　was　tired　of　hearing　his　own　name　now。　half　the　charm　of　the　little　village　where　he　had　been　so　often　lately　was　that　no　one　knew　who　he　was。　he　had　often　told　the　girl　whom　he　had　lured　to　love　him　that　he　was　poor；　and　she　had　believed　him。　he　had　told　her　once　that　he　was　wicked；　and　she　had　laughed　at　him　and　answered　that　wicked　people　were　always　very　old　and　very　ugly。　what　a　laugh　she　had！just　like　a　thrush　singing。　and　how　pretty　she　had　been　in　her　cotton　dresses　and　her　large　hats！　she　knew　nothing；　but　she　had　everything　that　he　had　lost。

when　he　reached　home；　he　found　his　servant　waiting　up　for　him。　he　sent　him　to　bed；　and　threw　himself　down　on　the　sofa　in　the　library；　and　began　to　think　over　some　of　the　things　that　lord　henry　had　said　to　him。

was　it　really　true　that　one　could　never　change？　he　felt　a　wild　longing　for　the　unstained　purity　of　his　boyhood　his　rose…white　boyhood；　as　lord　henry　had　once　called　it。　he　knew　that　he　had　tarnished　himself；　filled　his　mind　with　corruption　and　given　horror　to　his　fancy；　that　he　had　been　an　evil　influence　to　others；　and　had　experienced　a　terrible　joy　in　being　so；　and　that　of　the　lives　that　had　crossed　his　own；　it　had　been　the　fairest　and　the　most　full　of　promise　that　he　had　brought　to　shame。　but　was　it　all　irretrievable？　was　there　no　hope　for　him？

ah！　in　what　a　monstrous　moment　of　pride　and　passion　he　had　prayed　that　the　portrait　should　bear　the　burden　of　his　days；　and　he　keep　the　unsullied　splendour　of　eternal　youth！　all　his　failure　had　been　due　to　that。　better　for　him　that　each　sin　of　his　life　had　brought　its　sure　swift　penalty　along　with　it。　there　was　purification　in　punishment。　not　〃forgive　us　our　sins〃　but　〃smite　us　for　our　iniquities〃　should　be　the　prayer　of　man　to　a　most　just　god。

the　curiously　carved　mirror　that　lord　henry　had　given　to　him；　so　many　years　ago　now；　was　standing　on　the　table；　and　the　white…limbed　cupids　laughed　round　it　as　of　old。　he　took　it　up；　as　he　had　done　on　that　night　of　horror　when　be　had　first　noted　the　change　in　the　fatal　picture；　and　with　wild；　tear…dimmed　eyes　looked　into　its　polished　shield。　once；　some　one　who　had　terribly　loved　him　had　written　to　him　a　mad　letter；　ending　with　these　idolatrous　words：　〃the　world　is　changed　because　you　are　made　of　ivory　and　gold。　the　curves　of　your　lips　rewrite　history。〃　the　phrases　came　back　to　his　memory；　and　he　repeated　them　over　and　over　to　himself。　then　he　loathed　his　own　beauty；　and　flinging　the　mirror　on　the　floor；　crushed　it　into　silver　splinters　beneath　his　heel。　it　was　his　beauty　that　had　ruined　him；　his　beauty　and　the　youth　that　he　had　prayed　for。　but　for　those　two　things；　his　life　might　have　been　free　from　stain。　his　beauty　had　been　to　him　but　a　mask；　his　youth　but　a　mockery。　what　was　youth　at　best？　a　green；　an　unripe　time；　a　time　of　shallow　moods；　and　sickly　thoughts。　why　had　he　worn　its　livery？　youth　had　spoiled　him。

it　was　better　not　to　think　of　the　past。　nothing　could　alter　that。　it　was　of　himself；　and　of　his　own　future；　that　he　had　to　think。　james　vane　was　hidden　in　a　nameless　grave　in　selby　churchyard。　alan　campbell　had　shot　himself　one　night　in　his　laboratory；　but　had　not　revealed　the　secret　that　he　had　been　forced　to　know。　the　excitement；　such　as　it　was；　over　basil　hallwards　disappearance　would　soon　pass　away。　it　was　already　waning。　he　was　perfectly　safe　there。　nor；　indeed；　was　it　the　death　of　basil　hallward　that　weighed　most　upon　his　mind。　it　was　the　living　death　of　his　own　soul　that　troubled　him。　basil　had　painted　the　portrait　that　had　marred　his　life。　he　could　not　forgive　him　that。　it　was　the　portrait　that　had　done　everything。　basil　had　said　things　to　him　that　were　unbearable；　and　that　he　had　yet　borne　with　patience。　the　murder　had　been　simply　the　madness　of　a　moment。　as　for　alan　campbell；　his　suicide　had　been　his　own　act。　he　had　chosen　to　do　it。　it　was　nothing　to　him。

a　new　life！　that　was　what　he　wanted。　that　was　what　he　was　waiting　for。　surely　he　had　begun　it　already。　he　had　spared　one　innocent　thing；　at　any　rate。　he　would　never　again　tempt　innocence。　he　would　be　good。

as　he　thought　of　hetty　merton；　he　began　to　wonder　if　the　portrait　in　the　locked　room　had　changed。　surely　it　was　not　still　so　horrible　as　it　had　been？　perhaps　if　his　life　became　pure；　he　would　be　able　to　expel　every　sign　of　evil　passion　from　the　face。　perhaps　the　signs　of　evil　had　already　gone　away。　he　would　go　and　look。

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　loathsomemore　loathsome；　if　possible；　than　beforeand　the　scarlet　dew　that　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　drippedblood　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