道林.格雷的画像 英文版 The Picture of Dorian Gray
奥斯卡.王尔德 Oscar Wilde
CHAPTER I Page 1
The studio was filled with the rich odor of roses, and when thelight summer wind stirred amidst the trees of the garden there camethrough the open door the heavy scent of the lilac, or the moredelicate perfume of the pink-flowering thorn.
From the corner of the divan of Persian saddle-bags on which he waslying, smoking, as usual, innumerable cigarettes, Lord Henry Wottoncould just catch the gleam of the honey-sweet and honey-coloredblossoms of the laburnum, whose tremulous branches seemed hardly ableto bear the burden of a beauty so flame-like as theirs; and now andthen the fantastic shadows of birds in flight flitted across the longtussore-silk curtains that were stretched in front of the hugewindow, producing a kind of momentary Japanese effect, and making himthink of those pallid jade-faced painters who, in an art that isnecessarily immobile, seek to convey the sense of swiftness andmotion. The sullen murmur of the bees shouldering their way throughthe long unmown grass, or circling with monotonous insistence roundthe black-crocketed spires of the early June hollyhocks, seemed tomake the stillness more oppressive, and the dim roar of London waslike the bourdon note of a distant organ.
In the centre of the room, clamped to an upright easel, stood thefull-length portrait of a young man of extraordinary personal beauty,and in front of it, some little distance away, was sitting the artisthimself, Basil Hallward, whose sudden disappearance some years agocaused, at the time, such public excitement, and gave rise to so manystrange conjectures.
As he looked at the gracious and comely form he had so skilfullymirrored in his art, a smile of pleasure passed across his face, andseemed about to linger there. But he suddenly started up, and,closing his eyes, placed his fingers upon the lids, as though hesought to imprison within his brain some curious dream from which hefeared he might awake.
"It is your best work, Basil, the best thing you have ever done, "said Lord Henry, languidly. "You must certainly send it next year tothe Grosvenor. The Academy is too large and too vulgar. TheGrosvenor is the only place. "
"I don't think I will send it anywhere, " he answered, tossing hishead back in that odd way that used to make his friends laugh at himat Oxford. "No: I won't send it anywhere. "
Lord Henry elevated his eyebrows, and looked at him in amazementthrough the thin blue wreaths of smoke that curled up in suchfanciful whorls from his heavy opium-tainted cigarette. "Not send itanywhere? My dear fellow, why? Have you any reason? What odd chapsyou painters are! You do anything in the world to gain a reputation.As soon as you have one, you seem to want to throw it away. It issilly of you, for there is only one thing in the world worse thanbeing talked about, and that is not being talked about. A portraitlike this would set you far above all the young men in England, andmake the old men quite jealous, if old men are ever capable of anyemotion. "
"I know you will laugh at me, " he replied, "but I really can'texhibit it. I have put too much of myself into it. "
Lord Henry stretched his long legs out on the divan and shook withlaughter.
"Yes, I knew you would laugh; but it is quite true, all the same. "
"Too much of yourself in it! Upon my word, Basil, I didn't know youwere so vain; and I really can't see any resemblance between you,with your rugged strong face and your coal-black hair, and this youngAdonis, who looks as if he was made of ivory and rose-leaves. Why,my dear Basil, he is a Narcissus, and you--well, of course you havean intellectual expression, and all that. But beauty, real beauty,ends where an intellectual expression begins. Intellect is in itselfan exaggeration, and destroys the harmony of any face. The momentone sits down to think, one becomes all nose, or all forehead, orsomething horrid. Look at the successful men in any of the learnedprofessions. How perfectly hideous they are! Except, of course, inthe Church. But then in the Church they don't think. A bishop keepson saying at the age of eighty what he was told to say when he was aboy of eighteen, and consequently he always looks absolutelydelightful. Your mysterious young friend, whose name you have nevertold me, but whose picture really fascinates me, never thinks. Ifeel quite sure of that. He is a brainless, beautiful thing, whoshould be always here in winter when we have no flowers to look at,and always here in summer when we want something to chill ourintelligence. Don't flatter yourself, Basil: you are not in theleast like him. "
"You don't understand me, Harry. Of course I am not like him. Iknow that perfectly well. Indeed, I should be sorry to look likehim. You shrug your shoulders? I am telling you the truth. Thereis a fatality about all physical and intellectual distinction, thesort of fatality that seems to dog through history the falteringsteps of kings. It is better not to be different from one's fellows.The ugly and the stupid have the best of it in this world. They cansit quietly and gape at the play. If they know nothing of victory,they are at least spared the knowledge of defeat. They live as weall should live, undisturbed, indifferent, and without disquiet.They neither bring ruin upon others nor ever receive it from alienhands. Your rank and wealth, Harry; my brains, such as they are, --myfame, whatever it may be worth; Dorian Gray's good looks, --we willall suffer for what the gods have given us, suffer terribly. "
"Dorian Gray? is that his name?" said Lord Henry, walking across thestudio towards Basil Hallward.
"Yes; that is his name. I didn't intend to tell it to you. "
"But why not?"
"Oh, I can't explain. When I like people immensely I never telltheir names to any one. It seems like surrendering a part of them.You know how I love secrecy. It is the only thing that can makemodern life wonderful or mysterious to us. The commonest thing isdelightful if one only hides it. When I leave town I never tell mypeople where I am going. If I did, I would lose all my pleasure. Itis a silly habit, I dare say, but somehow it seems to bring a greatdeal of romance into one's life. I suppose you think me awfullyfoolish about it?"
"Not at all, " answered Lord Henry, laying his hand upon his shoulder;"not at all, my dear Basil. You seem to forget that I am married,and the one charm of marriage is that it makes a life of deceptionnecessary for both parties. I never know where my wife is, and mywife never knows what I am doing. When we meet, --we do meetoccasionally, when we dine out together, or go down to the duke's, --we tell each other the most absurd stories with the most seriousfaces. My wife is very good at it, --much better, in fact, than I am.She never gets confused over her dates, and I always do. But whenshe does find me out, she makes no row at all. I sometimes wish shewould; but she merely laughs at me. "
"I hate the way you talk about your married life, Harry, " said BasilHallward, shaking his hand off, and strolling towards the door thatled into the garden. "I believe that you are really a very goodhusband, but that you are thoroughly ashamed of your own virtues.You are an extraordinary fellow. You never say a moral thing, andyou never do a wrong thing. Your cynicism is simply a pose. "
"Being natural is simply a pose, and the most irritating pose Iknow, " cried Lord Henry, laughing; and the two young men went outinto the garden together, and for a time they did not speak.
After a long pause Lord Henry pulled out his watch. "I am afraid Imust be going, Basil, " he murmured, "and before I go I insist on youranswering a question I put to you some time ago. "
"What is that?" asked Basil Hallward, keeping his eyes fixed on theground.
"You know quite well. "
"I do not, Harry. "
"Well, I will tell you what it is. "
"Please don't. "
"I must. I want you to explain to me why you won't exhibit DorianGray's picture. I want the real reason. "
"I told you the real reason. "
"No, you did not. You said it was because there was too much ofyourself in it. Now, that is childish. "
"Harry, " said Basil Hallward, looking him straight in the face,"every portrait that is painted with feeling is a portrait of theartist, not of the sitter. The sitter is merely the accident, theoccasion. It is not he who is revealed by the painter; it is ratherthe painter who, on the colored canvas, reveals himself. The reasonI will not exhibit this picture is that I am afraid that I have shownwith it the secret of my own soul. "
Lord Harry laughed. "And what is that?" he asked.
"I will tell you, " said Hallward; and an expression of perplexitycame over his face.
"I am all expectation, Basil, " murmured his companion, looking athim.
"Oh, there is really very little to tell, Harry, " answered the youngpainter; "and I am afraid you will hardly understand it. Perhaps youwill hardly believe it. "
Lord Henry smiled, and, leaning down, plucked a pink-petalled daisyfrom the grass, and examined it. "I am quite sure I shall understandit, " he replied, gazing intently at the little golden white-feathereddisk, "and I can believe anything, provided that it is incredible. "
The wind shook some blossoms from the trees, and the heavy lilacblooms, with their clustering stars, moved to and fro in the languidair. A grasshopper began to chirrup in the grass, and a long thindragon-fly floated by on its brown gauze wings. Lord Henry felt asif he could hear Basil Hallward's heart beating, and he wondered whatwas coming.
"Well, this is incredible, " repeated Hallward, rather bitterly, --"incredible to me at times. I don't know what it means. The storyis simply this. Two months ago I went to a crush at Lady Brandon's.You know we poor painters have to show ourselves in society from timeto time, just to remind the public that we are not savages. With anevening coat and a white tie, as you told me once, anybody, even astock-broker, can gain a reputation for being civilized. Well, afterI had been in the room about ten minutes, talking to huge overdresseddowagers and tedious Academicians, I suddenly became conscious thatsome one was looking at me. I turned half-way round, and saw DorianGray for the first time. When our eyes met, I felt that I wasgrowing pale. A curious instinct of terror came over me. I knewthat I had come face to face with some one whose mere personality wasso fascinating that, if I allowed it to do so, it would absorb mywhole nature, my whole soul, my very art itself. I did not want anyexternal influence in my life. You know yourself, Harry, howindependent I am by nature. My father destined me for the army. Iinsisted on going to Oxford. Then he made me enter my name atthe Middle Temple. Before I had eaten half a dozen dinners I gave upthe Bar, and announced my intention of becoming a painter. I havealways been my own master; had at least always been so, till I metDorian Gray. Then--But I don't know how to explain it to you.Something seemed to tell me that I was on the verge of a terriblecrisis in my life. I had a strange feeling that Fate had in storefor me exquisite joys and exquisite sorrows. I knew that if I spoketo Dorian I would become absolutely devoted to him, and that I oughtnot to speak to him. I grew afraid, and turned to quit the room. Itwas not conscience that made me do so: it was cowardice. I take nocredit to myself for trying to escape. "
"Conscience and cowardice are really the same things, Basil.Conscience is the trade-name of the firm. That is all. "
"I don't believe that, Harry. However, whatever was my motive, -- andit may have been pride, for I used to be very proud, --I certainlystruggled to the door. There, of course, I stumbled against LadyBrandon. 'You are not going to run away so soon, Mr. Hallward?' shescreamed out. You know her shrill horrid voice?"
"Yes; she is a peacock in everything but beauty, " said Lord Henry,pulling the daisy to bits with his long, nervous fingers.
"I could not get rid of her. She brought me up to Royalties, andpeople with Stars and Garters, and elderly ladies with gigantictiaras and hooked noses. She spoke of me as her dearest friend. Ihad only met her once before, but she took it into her head tolionize me. I believe some picture of mine had made a great successat the time, at least had been chattered about in the pennynewspapers, which is the nineteenth-century standard of immortality.Suddenly I found myself face to face with the young man whosepersonality had so strangely stirred me. We were quite close, almosttouching. Our eyes met again. It was mad of me, but I asked LadyBrandon to introduce me to him. Perhaps it was not so mad, afterall. It was simply inevitable. We would have spoken to each otherwithout any introduction. I am sure of that. Dorian told me soafterwards. He, too, felt that we were destined to know each other. "
"And how did Lady Brandon describe this wonderful young man? I knowshe goes in for giving a rapid précis of all her guests. I rememberher bringing me up to a most truculent and red-faced old gentlemancovered all over with orders and ribbons, and hissing into my ear, ina tragic whisper which must have been perfectly audible to everybodyin the room, something like 'Sir Humpty Dumpty--you know--Afghanfrontier--Russian intrigues: very successful man--wife killed by anelephant--quite inconsolable--wants to marry a beautiful Americanwidow--everybody does nowadays--hates Mr. Gladstone--but very muchinterested in beetles: ask him what he thinks of Schouvaloff. ' Isimply fled. I like to find out people for myself. But poor LadyBrandon treats her guests exactly as an auctioneer treats his goods.She either explains them entirely away, or tells one everything aboutthem except what one wants to know. But what did she say about Mr.Dorian Gray?"
"Oh, she murmured, 'Charming boy--poor dear mother and I quiteinseparable--engaged to be married to the same man--I mean married onthe same day--how very silly of me! Quite forget what he does--afraid he--doesn't do anything--oh, yes, plays the piano--or is itthe violin, dear Mr. Gray?' We could neither of us help laughing,and we became friends at once. "
Hallward buried his face in his hands. "You don't understand whatfriendship is, Harry, " he murmured, --"or what enmity is, for thatmatter. You like every one; that is to say, you are indifferent toevery one. "
"How horribly unjust of you!" cried Lord Henry, tilting his hat back,and looking up at the little clouds that were drifting across thehollowed turquoise of the summer sky, like ravelled skeins of glossywhite silk. "Yes; horribly unjust of you. I make a great differencebetween people. I choose my friends for their good looks, myacquaintances for their characters, and my enemies for their brains.A man can't be too careful in the choice of his enemies. I have notgot one who is a fool. They are all men of some intellectual power,and consequently they all appreciate me. Is that very vain of me? Ithink it is rather vain. "
"I should think it was, Harry. But according to your category I mustbe merely an acquaintance. "
"My dear old Basil, you are much more than an acquaintance. "
"And much less than a friend. A sort of brother, I suppose?"
"Oh, brothers! I don't care for brothers. My elder brother won'tdie, and my younger brothers seem never to do anything else. "
"Harry!"
"My dear fellow, I am not quite serious. But I can't help detestingmy relations. I suppose it comes from the fact that we can't standother people having the same faults as ourselves. I quite sympathizewith the rage of the English democracy against what they call thevices of the upper classes. They feel that drunkenness, stupidity,and immorality should be their own special property, and that if anyone of us makes an ass of himself he is poaching on their preserves.When poor Southwark got into the Divorce Court, their indignation wasquite magnificent. And yet I don't suppose that ten per cent of thelower orders live correctly. "
"I don't agree with a single word that you have said, and, what ismore, Harry, I don't believe you do either. "
Lord Henry stroked his pointed brown beard, and tapped the toe of hispatent-leather boot with a tasselled malacca cane. "How English youare, Basil! If one puts forward an idea to a real Englishman, --always a rash thing to do, --he never dreams of considering whetherthe idea is right or wrong. The only thing he considers of anyimportance is whether one believes it one's self. Now, the value ofan idea has nothing whatsoever to do with the sincerity of the manwho expresses it. Indeed, the probabilities are that the moreinsincere the man is, the more purely intellectual will the idea be,as in that case it will not be colored by either his wants, hisdesires, or his prejudices. However, I don't propose to discusspolitics, sociology, or metaphysics with you. I like persons betterthan principles. Tell me more about Dorian Gray. How often do yousee him?"
"Every day. I couldn't be happy if I didn't see him every day. Ofcourse sometimes it is only for a few minutes. But a few minuteswith somebody one worships mean a great deal. "
"But you don't really worship him?"
"I do. "
"How extraordinary! I thought you would never care for anything butyour painting, --your art, I should say. Art sounds better, doesn'tit?"
"He is all my art to me now. I sometimes think, Harry, that thereare only two eras of any importance in the history of the world. Thefirst is the appearance of a new medium for art, and the second isthe appearance of a new personality for art also. What the inventionof oil-painting was to the Venetians, the face of Antinoüs was tolate Greek sculpture, and the face of Dorian Gray will some day be tome. It is not merely that I paint from him, draw from him, modelfrom him. Of course I have done all that. He has stood as Paris indainty armor, and as Adonis with huntsman's cloak and polished boar-spear. Crowned with heavy lotus-blossoms, he has sat on the prow ofAdrian's barge, looking into the green, turbid Nile. He has leanedover the still pool of some Greek woodland, and seen in the water'ssilent silver the wonder of his own beauty. But he is much more tome than that. I won't tell you that I am dissatisfied with what Ihave done of him, or that his beauty is such that art cannot expressit. There is nothing that art cannot express, and I know that thework I have done since I met Dorian Gray is good work, is the bestwork of my life. But in some curious way--I wonder will youunderstand me?--his personality has suggested to me an entirely newmanner in art, an entirely new mode of style. I see thingsdifferently, I think of them differently. I can now re-create lifein a way that was hidden from me before. 'A dream of form in days ofthought, '--who is it who says that? I forget; but it is what DorianGray has been to me. The merely visible presence of this lad, --forhe seems to me little more than a lad, though he is really overtwenty, --his merely visible presence, --ah! I wonder can you realizeall that that means? Unconsciously he defines for me the lines of afresh school, a school that is to have in itself all the passion ofthe romantic spirit, all the perfection of the spirit that is Greek.The harmony of soul and body, --how much that is! We in our madnesshave separated the two, and have invented a realism that is bestial,an ideality that is void. Harry! Harry! if you only knew whatDorian Gray is to me! You remember that landscape of mine, for whichAgnew offered me such a huge price, but which I would not part with?It is one of the best things I have ever done. And why is it so?Because, while I was painting it, Dorian Gray sat beside me. "