道林.格雷的画像 英文版 The Picture of Dorian Gray
奥斯卡.王尔德 Oscar Wilde
CHAPTER V
For some reason or other, the house was crowded that night,and the fat Jew manager who met them at the door was beaming from earto ear with an oily, tremulous smile. He escorted them to their boxwith a sort of pompous humility, waving his fat jewelled hands, andtalking at the top of his voice. Dorian Gray loathed him more thanever. He felt as if he had come to look for Miranda and had been metby Caliban. Lord Henry, upon the other hand, rather liked him. Atleast he declared he did, and insisted on shaking him by the hand,and assured him that he was proud to meet a man who had discovered areal genius and gone bankrupt over Shakespeare. Hallward amusedhimself with watching the faces in the pit. The heat was terriblyoppressive, and the huge sunlight flamed like a monstrous dahlia withpetals of fire. The youths in the gallery had taken off their coatsand waistcoats and hung them over the side. They talked to eachother across the theatre, and shared their oranges with the tawdrypainted girls who sat by them. Some women were laughing in the pit;their voices were horribly shrill and discordant. The sound of thepopping of corks came from the bar.
"What a place to find one's divinity in!" said Lord Henry.
"Yes!" answered Dorian Gray. "It was here I found her, and she isdivine beyond all living things. When she acts you will forgeteverything. These common people here, with their coarse faces andbrutal gestures, become quite different when she is on the stage.They sit silently and watch her. They weep and laugh as she willsthem to do. She makes them as responsive as a violin. Shespiritualizes them, and one feels that they are of the same flesh andblood as one's self. "
"Oh, I hope not!" murmured Lord Henry, who was scanning the occupantsof the gallery through his opera-glass.
"Don't pay any attention to him, Dorian, " said Hallward. "Iunderstand what you mean, and I believe in this girl. Any one youlove must be marvellous, and any girl that has the effect youdescribe must be fine and noble. To spiritualize one's age, --that issomething worth doing. If this girl can give a soul to those whohave lived without one, if she can create the sense of beauty inpeople whose lives have been sordid and ugly, if she can strip themof their selfishness and lend them tears for sorrows that are nottheir own, she is worthy of all your adoration, worthy of theadoration of the world. This marriage is quite right. I did notthink so at first, but I admit it now. God made Sibyl Vane for you.Without her you would have been incomplete. "
"Thanks, Basil, " answered Dorian Gray, pressing his hand. "Iknew that you would understand me. Harry is so cynical, he terrifiesme. But here is the orchestra. It is quite dreadful, but it onlylasts for about five minutes. Then the curtain rises, and you willsee the girl to whom I am going to give all my life, to whom I havegiven everything that is good in me. "
A quarter of an hour afterwards, amidst an extraordinary turmoil ofapplause, Sibyl Vane stepped on to the stage. Yes, she was certainlylovely to look at, --one of the loveliest creatures, Lord Henrythought, that he had ever seen. There was something of the fawn inher shy grace and startled eyes. A faint blush, like the shadow of arose in a mirror of silver, came to her cheeks as she glanced at thecrowded, enthusiastic house. She stepped back a few paces, and herlips seemed to tremble. Basil Hallward leaped to his feet and beganto applaud. Dorian Gray sat motionless, gazing on her, like a man ina dream. Lord Henry peered through his opera-glass, murmuring,"Charming! charming!"
The scene was the hall of Capulet's house, and Romeo in his pilgrim'sdress had entered with Mercutio and his friends. The band, such asit was, struck up a few bars of music, and the dance began. Throughthe crowd of ungainly, shabbily-dressed actors, Sibyl Vane moved likea creature from a finer world. Her body swayed, as she danced, as aplant sways in the water. The curves of her throat were like thecurves of a white lily. Her hands seemed to be made of cool ivory.
Yet she was curiously listless. She showed no sign of joy when hereyes rested on Romeo. The few lines she had to speak, --
Good pilgrim, you do wrong your hand too much,Which mannerly devotion shows in this;For saints have hands that pilgrims' hands do touch,And palm to palm is holy palmers' kiss, --
with the brief dialogue that follows, were spoken in a thoroughlyartificial manner. The voice was exquisite, but from the point ofview of tone it was absolutely false. It was wrong in color. Ittook away all the life from the verse. It made the passion unreal.
Dorian Gray grew pale as he watched her. Neither of his friendsdared to say anything to him. She seemed to them to be absolutelyincompetent. They were horribly disappointed.
Yet they felt that the true test of any Juliet is the balcony sceneof the second act. They waited for that. If she failed there, therewas nothing in her.
She looked charming as she came out in the moonlight. That could notbe denied. But the staginess of her acting was unbearable, and grewworse as she went on. Her gestures became absurdly artificial. Sheover-emphasized everything that she had to say. The beautifulpassage, --
Thou knowest the mask of night is on my face,Else would a maiden blush bepaint my cheekFor that which thou hast heard me speak to-night, --
was declaimed with the painful precision of a school-girl whohas been taught to recite by some second-rate professor of elocution.When she leaned over the balcony and came to those wonderful lines, --
Although I joy in thee,I have no joy of this contract to-night:It is too rash, too unadvised, too sudden;Too like the lightning, which doth cease to beEre one can say, "It lightens. " Sweet, good-night!This bud of love by summer's ripening breathMay prove a beauteous flower when next we meet, --
she spoke the words as if they conveyed no meaning to her. It wasnot nervousness. Indeed, so far from being nervous, she seemedabsolutely self-contained. It was simply bad art. She was acomplete failure.
Even the common uneducated audience of the pit and gallery lost theirinterest in the play. They got restless, and began to talk loudlyand to whistle. The Jew manager, who was standing at the back of thedress-circle, stamped and swore with rage. The only person unmovedwas the girl herself.
When the second act was over there came a storm of hisses, and LordHenry got up from his chair and put on his coat. "She is quitebeautiful, Dorian, " he said, "but she can't act. Let us go. "
"I am going to see the play through, " answered the lad, in a hard,bitter voice. "I am awfully sorry that I have made you waste anevening, Harry. I apologize to both of you. "
"My dear Dorian, I should think Miss Vane was ill, " interruptedHallward. "We will come some other night. "
"I wish she was ill, " he rejoined. "But she seems to me to be simplycallous and cold. She has entirely altered. Last night she was agreat artist. To-night she is merely a commonplace, mediocreactress. "
"Don't talk like that about any one you love, Dorian. Love is a morewonderful thing than art. "
"They are both simply forms of imitation, " murmured Lord Henry. "Butdo let us go. Dorian, you must not stay here any longer. It is notgood for one's morals to see bad acting. Besides, I don't supposeyou will want your wife to act. So what does it matter if she playsJuliet like a wooden doll? She is very lovely, and if she knows aslittle about life as she does about acting, she will be a delightfulexperience. There are only two kinds of people who are reallyfascinating, --people who know absolutely everything, and people whoknow absolutely nothing. Good heavens, my dear boy, don't look sotragic! The secret of remaining young is never to have an emotionthat is unbecoming. Come to the club with Basil and myself. We willsmoke cigarettes and drink to the beauty of Sibyl Vane. She isbeautiful. What more can you want?"
"Please go away, Harry, " cried the lad. "I really want to be alone. --Basil, you don't mind my asking you to go? Ah! can't you see thatmy heart is breaking?" The hot tears came to his eyes. Hislips trembled, and, rushing to the back of the box, he leaned upagainst the wall, hiding his face in his hands.
"Let us go, Basil, " said Lord Henry, with a strange tenderness in hisvoice; and the two young men passed out together.
A few moments afterwards the footlights flared up, and the curtainrose on the third act. Dorian Gray went back to his seat. He lookedpale, and proud, and indifferent. The play dragged on, and seemedinterminable. Half of the audience went out, tramping in heavyboots, and laughing. The whole thing was a fiasco. The last act wasplayed to almost empty benches.
As soon as it was over, Dorian Gray rushed behind the scenes into thegreenroom. The girl was standing alone there, with a look of triumphon her face. Her eyes were lit with an exquisite fire. There was aradiance about her. Her parted lips were smiling over some secret oftheir own.
When he entered, she looked at him, and an expression of infinite joycame over her. "How badly I acted to-night, Dorian!" she cried.
"Horribly!" he answered, gazing at her in amazement, --"horribly! Itwas dreadful. Are you ill? You have no idea what it was. You haveno idea what I suffered. "
The girl smiled. "Dorian, " she answered, lingering over his namewith long-drawn music in her voice, as though it were sweeter thanhoney to the red petals of her lips, --"Dorian, you should haveunderstood. But you understand now, don't you?"
"Understand what?" he asked, angrily.
"Why I was so bad to-night. Why I shall always be bad. Why I shallnever act well again. "
He shrugged his shoulders. "You are ill, I suppose. When you areill you shouldn't act. You make yourself ridiculous. My friendswere bored. I was bored. "
She seemed not to listen to him. She was transfigured with joy. Anecstasy of happiness dominated her.
"Dorian, Dorian, " she cried, "before I knew you, acting was the onereality of my life. It was only in the theatre that I lived. Ithought that it was all true. I was Rosalind one night, and Portiathe other. The joy of Beatrice was my joy, and the sorrows ofCordelia were mine also. I believed in everything. The commonpeople who acted with me seemed to me to be godlike. The paintedscenes were my world. I knew nothing but shadows, and I thought themreal. You came, --oh, my beautiful love!--and you freed my soul fromprison. You taught me what reality really is. To-night, for thefirst time in my life, I saw through the hollowness, the sham, thesilliness, of the empty pageant in which I had always played. To-night, for the first time, I became conscious that the Romeo washideous, and old, and painted, that the moonlight in the orchard wasfalse, that the scenery was vulgar, and that the words I had to speakwere unreal, were not my words, not what I wanted to say. You hadbrought me something higher, something of which all art is but areflection. You have made me understand what love really is. Mylove! my love! I am sick of shadows. You are more to me thanall art can ever be. What have I to do with the puppets of a play?When I came on to-night, I could not understand how it was thateverything had gone from me. Suddenly it dawned on my soul what itall meant. The knowledge was exquisite to me. I heard them hissing,and I smiled. What should they know of love? Take me away, Dorian--take me away with you, where we can be quite alone. I hate thestage. I might mimic a passion that I do not feel, but I cannotmimic one that burns me like fire. Oh, Dorian, Dorian, youunderstand now what it all means? Even if I could do it, it would beprofanation for me to play at being in love. You have made me seethat. "
He flung himself down on the sofa, and turned away his face. "Youhave killed my love, " he muttered.
She looked at him in wonder, and laughed. He made no answer. Shecame across to him, and stroked his hair with her little fingers.She knelt down and pressed his hands to her lips. He drew them away,and a shudder ran through him.
Then he leaped up, and went to the door. "Yes, " he cried, "you havekilled my love. You used to stir my imagination. Now you don't evenstir my curiosity. You simply produce no effect. I loved youbecause you were wonderful, because you had genius and intellect,because you realized the dreams of great poets and gave shape andsubstance to the shadows of art. You have thrown it all away. Youare shallow and stupid. My God! how mad I was to love you! What afool I have been! You are nothing to me now. I will never see youagain. I will never think of you. I will never mention your name.You don't know what you were to me, once. Why, once . . . . Oh, Ican't bear to think of it! I wish I had never laid eyes upon you!You have spoiled the romance of my life. How little you can know oflove, if you say it mars your art! What are you without your art?Nothing. I would have made you famous, splendid, magnificent. Theworld would have worshipped you, and you would have belonged to me.What are you now? A third-rate actress with a pretty face. "
The girl grew white, and trembled. She clinched her hands together,and her voice seemed to catch in her throat. "You are not serious,Dorian?" she murmured. "You are acting. "
"Acting! I leave that to you. You do it so well, " he answered,bitterly.
She rose from her knees, and, with a piteous expression of pain inher face, came across the room to him. She put her hand upon hisarm, and looked into his eyes. He thrust her back. "Don't touchme!" he cried.
A low moan broke from her, and she flung herself at his feet, and laythere like a trampled flower. "Dorian, Dorian, don't leave me!" shewhispered. "I am so sorry I didn't act well. I was thinking of youall the time. But I will try, --indeed, I will try. It came sosuddenly across me, my love for you. I think I should never haveknown it if you had not kissed me, --if we had not kissed each other.Kiss me again, my love. Don't go away from me. I couldn't bear it.Can't you forgive me for to-night? I will work so hard, and try toimprove. Don't be cruel to me because I love you better thananything in the world. After all, it is only once that I have notpleased you. But you are quite right, Dorian. I should have shownmyself more of an artist. It was foolish of me; and yet I couldn'thelp it. Oh, don't leave me, don't leave me. " A fit of passionatesobbing choked her. She crouched on the floor like a wounded thing,and Dorian Gray, with his beautiful eyes, looked down at her, and hischiselled lips curled in exquisite disdain. There is alwayssomething ridiculous about the passions of people whom one has ceasedto love. Sibyl Vane seemed to him to be absurdly melodramatic. Hertears and sobs annoyed him.
"I am going, " he said at last, in his calm, clear voice. "I don'twish to be unkind, but I can't see you again. You have disappointedme. "
She wept silently, and made no answer, but crept nearer to him. Herlittle hands stretched blindly out, and appeared to be seeking forhim. He turned on his heel, and left the room. In a few moments hewas out of the theatre.
Where he went to, he hardly knew. He remembered wandering throughdimly-lit streets with gaunt black-shadowed archways and evil-lookinghouses. Women with hoarse voices and harsh laughter had called afterhim. Drunkards had reeled by cursing, and chattering to themselveslike monstrous apes. He had seen grotesque children huddled upondoor-steps, and had heard shrieks and oaths from gloomy courts.
When the dawn was just breaking he found himself at Covent Garden.Huge carts filled with nodding lilies rumbled slowly down thepolished empty street. The air was heavy with the perfume of theflowers, and their beauty seemed to bring him an anodyne for hispain. He followed into the market, and watched the men unloadingtheir wagons. A white-smocked carter offered him some cherries. Hethanked him, wondered why he refused to accept any money for them,and began to eat them listlessly. They had been plucked at midnight,and the coldness of the moon had entered into them. A long line ofboys carrying crates of striped tulips, and of yellow and red roses,defiled in front of him, threading their way through the huge jade-green piles of vegetables. Under the portico, with its gray sun-bleached pillars, loitered a troop of draggled bareheaded girls,waiting for the auction to be over. After some time he hailed ahansom and drove home. The sky was pure opal now, and the roofs ofthe houses glistened like silver against it. As he was passingthrough the library towards the door of his bedroom, his eye fellupon the portrait Basil Hallward had painted of him. He started backin surprise, and then went over to it and examined it. In the dimarrested light that struggled through the cream-colored silk blinds,the face seemed to him to be a little changed. The expression lookeddifferent. One would have said that there was a touch of cruelty inthe mouth. It was certainly curious.
He turned round, and, walking to the window, drew the blinds up. Thebright dawn flooded the room, and swept the fantastic shadowsinto dusky corners, where they lay shuddering. But the strangeexpression that he had noticed in the face of the portrait seemed tolinger there, to be more intensified even. The quivering, ardentsunlight showed him the lines of cruelty round the mouth as clearlyas if he had been looking into a mirror after he had done somedreadful thing.
He winced, and, taking up from the table an oval glass framed inivory Cupids, that Lord Henry had given him, he glanced hurriedlyinto it. No line like that warped his red lips. What did it mean?
He rubbed his eyes, and came close to the picture, and examined itagain. There were no signs of any change when he looked into theactual painting, and yet there was no doubt that the whole expressionhad altered. It was not a mere fancy of his own. The thing washorribly apparent.
He threw himself into a chair, and began to think. Suddenly thereflashed across his mind what he had said in Basil Hallward's studiothe day the picture had been finished. Yes, he remembered itperfectly. He had uttered a mad wish that he himself might remainyoung, and the portrait grow old; that his own beauty might beuntarnished, and the face on the canvas bear the burden of hispassions and his sins; that the painted image might be seared withthe lines of suffering and thought, and that he might keep all thedelicate bloom and loveliness of his then just conscious boyhood.Surely his prayer had not been answered? Such things wereimpossible. It seemed monstrous even to think of them. And, yet,there was the picture before him, with the touch of cruelty in themouth.
Cruelty! Had he been cruel? It was the girl's fault, not his. Hehad dreamed of her as a great artist, had given his love to herbecause he had thought her great. Then she had disappointed him.She had been shallow and unworthy. And, yet, a feeling of infiniteregret came over him, as he thought of her lying at his feet sobbinglike a little child. He remembered with what callousness he hadwatched her. Why had he been made like that? Why had such a soulbeen given to him? But he had suffered also. During the threeterrible hours that the play had lasted, he had lived centuries ofpain, aeon upon aeon of torture. His life was well worth hers. Shehad marred him for a moment, if he had wounded her for an age.Besides, women were better suited to bear sorrow than men. Theylived on their emotions. They only thought of their emotions. Whenthey took lovers, it was merely to have some one with whom they couldhave scenes. Lord Henry had told him that, and Lord Henry knew whatwomen were. Why should he trouble about Sibyl Vane? She was nothingto him now.
But the picture? What was he to say of that? It held the secret ofhis life, and told his story. It had taught him to love his ownbeauty. Would it teach him to loathe his own soul? Would he everlook at it again?
No; it was merely an illusion wrought on the troubled senses. Thehorrible night that he had passed had left phantoms behind it.Suddenly there had fallen upon his brain that tiny scarlet speck thatmakes men mad. The picture had not changed. It was folly tothink so.
of joy when hereyes rested on Romeo. The few lines she had to speak, --absolutelyincompetent!
Yet it was watching him, with its beautiful marred face and its cruelsmile. Its bright hair gleamed in the early sunlight. Its blue eyesmet his own. A sense of infinite pity, not for himself, but for thepainted image of himself, came over him. It had altered already, andwould alter more. Its gold would wither into gray. Its red andwhite roses would die. For every sin that he committed, a stainwould fleck and wreck its fairness. But he would not sin. Thepicture, changed or unchanged, would be to him the visible emblem ofconscience. He would resist temptation. He would not see Lord Henryany more, --would not, at any rate, listen to those subtle poisonoustheories that in Basil Hallward's garden had first stirred within himthe passion for impossible things. He would go back to Sibyl Vane,make her amends, marry her, try to love her again. Yes, it was hisduty to do so. She must have suffered more than he had. Poor child!He had been selfish and cruel to her. The fascination that she hadexercised over him would return. They would be happy together. Hislife with her would be beautiful and pure.
He got up from his chair, and drew a large screen right in front ofthe portrait, shuddering as he glanced at it. "How horrible!" hemurmured to himself, and he walked across to the window and openedit. When he stepped out on the grass, he drew a deep breath. Thefresh morning air seemed to drive away all his sombre passions. Hethought only of Sibyl Vane. A faint echo of his love came back tohim. He repeated her name over and over again. The birds that weresinging in the dew-drenched garden seemed to be telling the flowersabout her.