道林.格雷的画像 英文版 The Picture of Dorian Gray
奥斯卡.王尔德 Oscar Wilde
CHAPTER VI Page 2
"I was terribly cruel to her. You forget that. "
"I believe that women appreciate cruelty more than anything else.They have wonderfully primitive instincts. We have emancipated them,but they remain slaves looking for their masters, all the same. Theylove being dominated. I am sure you were splendid. I have neverseen you angry, but I can fancy how delightful you looked. And,after all, you said something to me the day before yesterday thatseemed to me at the time to be merely fanciful, but that I see nowwas absolutely true, and it explains everything. "
"What was that, Harry?"
"You said to me that Sibyl Vane represented to you all the heroinesof romance--that she was Desdemona one night, and Ophelia the other;that if she died as Juliet, she came to life as Imogen. "
"She will never come to life again now, " murmured the lad, buryinghis face in his hands.
"No, she will never come to life. She has played her last part. Butyou must think of that lonely death in the tawdry dressing-roomsimply as a strange lurid fragment from some Jacobean tragedy, as awonderful scene from Webster, or Ford, or Cyril Tourneur. The girlnever really lived, and so she has never really died. To you atleast she was always a dream, a phantom that flitted throughShakespeare's plays and left them lovelier for its presence, a reedthrough which Shakespeare's music sounded richer and more full ofjoy. The moment she touched actual life, she marred it, and itmarred her, and so she passed away. Mourn for Ophelia, if you like.Put ashes on your head because Cordelia was strangled. Cry outagainst Heaven because the daughter of Brabantio died. But don'twaste your tears over Sibyl Vane. She was less real than they are. "
There was a silence. The evening darkened in the room. Noiselessly,and with silver feet, the shadows crept in from the garden. Thecolors faded wearily out of things.
atom, in secretlove or strange affinity? But the reason was of no importance. Hewould never again.
After some time Dorian Gray looked up. "You have explained me tomyself, Harry, " he murmured, with something of a sigh of relief. "Ifelt all that you have said, but somehow I was afraid of it, and Icould not express it to myself. How well you know me! But we willnot talk again of what has happened. It has been a marvellousexperience. That is all. I wonder if life has still in store for meanything as marvellous. "
"Life has everything in store for you, Dorian. There is nothing thatyou, with your extraordinary good looks, will not be able to do. "
"But suppose, Harry, I became haggard, and gray, and wrinkled? Whatthen?"
"Ah, then, " said Lord Henry, rising to go, --"then, my dear Dorian,you would have to fight for your victories. As it is, they arebrought to you. No, you must keep your good looks. We live in anage that reads too much to be wise, and that thinks too much to bebeautiful. We cannot spare you. And now you had better dress, anddrive down to the club. We are rather late, as it is. "
"I think I shall join you at the Opera, Harry. I feel too tired toeat anything. What is the number of your sister's box?"
"Twenty-seven, I believe. It is on the grand tier. You will see hername on the door. But I am sorry you won't come and dine. "
"I don't feel up to it, " said Dorian, wearily. "But I am awfullyobliged to you for all that you have said to me. You are certainlymy best friend. No one has ever understood me as you have. "
"We are only at the beginning of our friendship, Dorian, " answeredLord Henry, shaking him by the hand. "Good-by. I shall see youbefore nine-thirty, I hope. Remember, Patti is singing. "
As he closed the door behind him, Dorian Gray touched the bell,and in a few minutes Victor appeared with the lamps and drew theblinds down. He waited impatiently for him to go. The man seemed totake an interminable time about everything.
As soon as he had left, he rushed to the screen, and drew it back.No; there was no further change in the picture. It had received thenews of Sibyl Vane's death before he had known of it himself. It wasconscious of the events of life as they occurred. The viciouscruelty that marred the fine lines of the mouth had, no doubt,appeared at the very moment that the girl had drunk the poison,whatever it was. Or was it indifferent to results? Did it merelytake cognizance of what passed within the soul? he wondered, andhoped that some day he would see the change taking place before hisvery eyes, shuddering as he hoped it.
Poor Sibyl! what a romance it had all been! She had often mimickeddeath on the stage, and at last Death himself had touched her, andbrought her with him. How had she played that dreadful scene? Hadshe cursed him, as she died? No; she had died for love of him, andlove would always be a sacrament to him now. She had atoned foreverything, by the sacrifice she had made of her life. He would notthink any more of what she had made him go through, that horriblenight at the theatre. When he thought of her, it would be as awonderful tragic figure to show Love had been a great reality. Awonderful tragic figure? Tears came to his eyes as he remembered herchild-like look and winsome fanciful ways and shy tremulous grace.He wiped them away hastily, and looked again at the picture.
He felt that the time had really come for making his choice. Or hadhis choice already been made? Yes, life had decided that for him, --life, and his own infinite curiosity about life. Eternal youth,infinite passion, pleasures subtle and secret, wild joys and wildersins, --he was to have all these things. The portrait was to bear theburden of his shame: that was all.
A feeling of pain came over him as he thought of the desecration thatwas in store for the fair face on the canvas. Once, in boyishmockery of Narcissus, he had kissed, or feigned to kiss, thosepainted lips that now smiled so cruelly at him. Morning aftermorning he had sat before the portrait wondering at its beauty,almost enamoured of it, as it seemed to him at times. Was it toalter now with every mood to which he yielded? Was it to become ahideous and loathsome thing, to be hidden away in a locked room, tobe shut out from the sunlight that had so often touched to brightergold the waving wonder of the hair? The pity of it! the pity of it!
For a moment he thought of praying that the horrible sympathy thatexisted between him and the picture might cease. It had changed inanswer to a prayer; perhaps in answer to a prayer it might remainunchanged. And, yet, who, that knew anything about Life, wouldsurrender the chance of remaining always young, however fantasticthat chance might be, or with what fateful consequences it might befraught? Besides, was it really under his control? Had it indeedbeen prayer that had produced the substitution? Might there not besome curious scientific reason for it all? If thought could exerciseits influence upon a living organism, might not thought exercisean influence upon dead and inorganic things? Nay, without thought orconscious desire, might not things external to ourselves vibrate inunison with our moods and passions, atom calling to atom, in secretlove or strange affinity? But the reason was of no importance. Hewould never again tempt by a prayer any terrible power. If thepicture was to alter, it was to alter. That was all. Why inquiretoo closely into it?
For there would be a real pleasure in watching it. He would be ableto follow his mind into its secret places. This portrait would be tohim the most magical of mirrors. As it had revealed to him his ownbody, so it would reveal to him his own soul. And when winter cameupon it, he would still be standing where spring trembles on theverge of summer. When the blood crept from its face, and left behinda pallid mask of chalk with leaden eyes, he would keep the glamour ofboyhood. Not one blossom of his loveliness would ever fade. Not onepulse of his life would ever weaken. Like the gods of the Greeks, hewould be strong, and fleet, and joyous. What did it matter whathappened to the colored image on the canvas? He would be safe. Thatwas everything.
He drew the screen back into its former place in front of thepicture, smiling as he did so, and passed into his bedroom, where hisvalet was already waiting for him. An hour later he was at theOpera, and Lord Henry was leaning over his chair.