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 1
It was long past noon when he awoke. His valet had creptseveral times into the room on tiptoe to see if he was stirring, andhad wondered what made his young master sleep so late. Finally hisbell sounded, and Victor came in softly with a cup of tea, and a pileof letters, on a small tray of old Sèvres china, and drew back theolive-satin curtains, with their shimmering blue lining, that hung infront of the three tall windows.
"Monsieur has well slept this morning, " he said, smiling.
"What o'clock is it, Victor?" asked Dorian Gray, sleepily.
"One hour and a quarter, monsieur. "
How late it was! He sat up, and, having sipped some tea, turned overhis letters. One of them was from Lord Henry, and had been broughtby hand that morning. He hesitated for a moment, and then put itaside. The others he opened listlessly. They contained the usualcollection of cards, invitations to dinner, tickets for privateviews, programmes of charity concerts, and the like, that areshowered on fashionable young men every morning during the season.There was a rather heavy bill, for a chased silver Louis-Quinzetoilet-set, that he had not yet had the courage to send on to hisguardians, who were extremely old-fashioned people and did notrealize that we live in an age when only unnecessary things areabsolutely necessary to us; and there were several very courteouslyworded communications from Jermyn Street money-lenders offering toadvance any sum of money at a moment's notice and at the mostreasonable rates of interest.
After about ten minutes he got up, and, throwing on an elaboratedressing-gown, passed into the onyx-paved bath-room. The cool waterrefreshed him after his long sleep. He seemed to have forgotten allthat he had gone through. A dim sense of having taken part in somestrange tragedy came to him once or twice, but there was theunreality of a dream about it.
As soon as he was dressed, he went into the library and sat down to alight French breakfast, that had been laid out for him on a smallround table close to an open window. It was an exquisite day. Thewarm air seemed laden with spices. A bee flew in, and buzzed roundthe blue-dragon bowl, filled with sulphur-yellow roses, that stood infront of him. He felt perfectly happy.
Suddenly his eye fell on the screen that he had placed in front ofthe portrait, and he started.
"Too cold for Monsieur?" asked his valet, putting an omelette on thetable. "I shut the window?"
Dorian shook his head. "I am not cold, " he murmured.
Was it all true? Had the portrait really changed? Or had it beensimply his own imagination that had made him see a look of evil wherethere had been a look of joy? Surely a painted canvas could notalter? The thing was absurd. It would serve as a tale to tell Basilsome day. It would make him smile.
And, yet, how vivid was his recollection of the whole thing! Firstin the dim twilight, and then in the bright dawn, he had seen thetouch of cruelty in the warped lips. He almost dreaded his valetleaving the room. He knew that when he was alone he would have toexamine the portrait. He was afraid of certainty. When the coffeeand cigarettes had been brought and the man turned to go, he felt amad desire to tell him to remain. As the door closed behind him hecalled him back. The man stood waiting for his orders. Dorianlooked at him for a moment. "I am not at home to any one, Victor, "he said, with a sigh. The man bowed and retired.
He rose from the table, lit a cigarette, and flung himself down on aluxuriously-cushioned couch that stood facing the screen. The screenwas an old one of gilt Spanish leather, stamped and wrought with arather florid Louis-Quatorze pattern. He scanned it curiously,wondering if it had ever before concealed the secret of a man's life.
Should he move it aside, after all? Why not let it stay there? Whatwas the use of knowing? If the thing was true, it was terrible. Ifit was not true, why trouble about it? But what if, by some fate ordeadlier chance, other eyes than his spied behind, and saw thehorrible change? What should he do if Basil Hallward came and askedto look at his own picture? He would be sure to do that. No; thething had to be examined, and at once. Anything would be betterthan this dreadful state of doubt.
He got up, and locked both doors. At least he would be alone when helooked upon the mask of his shame. Then he drew the screen aside,and saw himself face to face. It was perfectly true. The portraithad altered.
As he often remembered afterwards, and always with no small wonder,he found himself at first gazing at the portrait with a feeling ofalmost scientific interest. That such a change should have takenplace was incredible to him. And yet it was a fact. Was there somesubtle affinity between the chemical atoms, that shaped themselvesinto form and color on the canvas, and the soul that was within him?Could it be that what that soul thought, they realized?--that what itdreamed, they made true? Or was there some other, more terriblereason? He shuddered, and felt afraid, and, going back to the couch,lay there, gazing at the picture in sickened horror.
One thing, however, he felt that it had done for him. It had madehim conscious how unjust, how cruel, he had been to Sibyl Vane. Itwas not too late to make reparation for that. She could still be hiswife. His unreal and selfish love would yield to some higherinfluence, would be transformed into some nobler passion, and theportrait that Basil Hallward had painted of him would be a guide tohim through life, would be to him what holiness was to some, andconscience to others, and the fear of God to us all. There wereopiates for remorse, drugs that could lull the moral sense to sleep.But here was a visible symbol of the degradation of sin. Here was anever-present sign of the ruin men brought upon their souls.
Three o'clock struck, and four, and half-past four, but he did notstir. He was trying to gather up the scarlet threads of life, and toweave them into a pattern; to find his way through the sanguinelabyrinth of passion through which he was wandering. He did not knowwhat to do, or what to think. Finally, he went over to the table andwrote a passionate letter to the girl he had loved, imploring herforgiveness, and accusing himself of madness. He covered page afterpage with wild words of sorrow, and wilder words of pain. There is aluxury in self-reproach. When we blame ourselves we feel that no oneelse has a right to blame us. It is the confession, not the priest,that gives us absolution. When Dorian Gray had finished the letter,he felt that he had been forgiven.
Suddenly there came a knock to the door, and he heard Lord Henry'svoice outside. "My dear Dorian, I must see you. Let me in at once.I can't bear your shutting yourself up like this. "
He made no answer at first, but remained quite still. The knockingstill continued, and grew louder. Yes, it was better to let LordHenry in, and to explain to him the new life he was going to lead, toquarrel with him if it became necessary to quarrel, to part ifparting was inevitable. He jumped up, drew the screen hastily acrossthe picture, and unlocked the door.
"I am so sorry for it all, my dear boy, " said Lord Henry, coming in."But you must not think about it too much. "
on it. But how are you going to begin?"tome again. Two days ago I asked.
"Do you mean about Sibyl Vane?" asked Dorian.
"Yes, of course, " answered Lord Henry, sinking into a chair, andslowly pulling his gloves off. "It is dreadful, from one point ofview, but it was not your fault. Tell me, did you go behind and seeher after the play was over?"
"Yes. "
"I felt sure you had. Did you make a scene with her?"
"I was brutal, Harry, --perfectly brutal. But it is all right now. Iam not sorry for anything that has happened. It has taught me toknow myself better. "
"Ah, Dorian, I am so glad you take it in that way! I was afraid Iwould find you plunged in remorse, and tearing your nice hair. "
? I wrote to youthis morning, and sent the note down, by my own man. "drew the screen.
"I have got through all that, " said Dorian, shaking his head, andsmiling. "I am perfectly happy now. I know what conscience is, tobegin with. It is not what you told me it was. It is the divinestthing in us. Don't sneer at it, Harry, any more, --at least notbefore me. I want to be good. I can't bear the idea of my soulbeing hideous. "
"A very charming artistic basis for ethics, Dorian! I congratulateyou on it. But how are you going to begin?"
"By marrying Sibyl Vane. "
"Marrying Sibyl Vane!" cried Lord Henry, standing up, and looking athim in perplexed amazement. "But, my dear Dorian--"
"Yes, Harry, I know what you are going to say. Something dreadfulabout marriage. Don't say it. Don't ever say things of that kind tome again. Two days ago I asked Sibyl to marry me. I am not going tobreak my word to her. She is to be my wife. "
"Your wife! Dorian! . . . Didn't you get my letter? I wrote to youthis morning, and sent the note down, by my own man. "
"Your letter? Oh, yes, I remember. I have not read it yet, Harry.I was afraid there might be something in it that I wouldn't like. "
Lord Henry walked across the room, and, sitting down by Dorian Gray,took both his hands in his, and held them tightly. "Dorian, " hesaid, "my letter--don't be frightened--was to tell you that SibylVane is dead. "
A cry of pain rose from the lad's lips, and he leaped to his feet,tearing his hands away from Lord Henry's grasp. "Dead! Sibyl dead!It is not true! It is a horrible lie!"
"It is quite true, Dorian, " said Lord Henry, gravely. "It is in allthe morning papers. I wrote down to you to ask you not to see anyone till I came. There will have to be an inquest, of course, andyou must not be mixed up in it. Things like that make a manfashionable in Paris. But in London people are so prejudiced. Here,one should never make one's début with a scandal. One should reservethat to give an interest to one's old age. I don't suppose they knowyour name at the theatre. If they don't, it is all right. Did anyone see you going round to her room? That is an important point. "
Dorian did not answer for a few moments. He was dazed with horror.Finally he murmured, in a stifled voice, "Harry, did you say aninquest? What did you mean by that? Did Sibyl--? Oh, Harry, Ican't bear it! But be quick. Tell me everything at once. "
"I have no doubt it was not an accident, Dorian, though it must beput in that way to the public. As she was leaving the theatre withher mother, about half-past twelve or so, she said she had forgottensomething up-stairs. They waited some time for her, but she did notcome down again. They ultimately found her lying dead on the floorof her dressing-room. She had swallowed something by mistake, somedreadful thing they use at theatres. I don't know what it was, butit had either prussic acid or white lead in it. I should fancy itwas prussic acid, as she seems to have died instantaneously. It isvery tragic, of course, but you must not get yourself mixed up in it.I see by the Standard that she was seventeen. I should have thoughtshe was almost younger than that. She looked such a child, andseemed to know so little about acting. Dorian, you mustn't let thisthing get on your nerves. You must come and dine with me, andafterwards we will look in at the Opera. It is a Patti night, andeverybody will be there. You can come to my sister's box. She hasgot some smart women with her. "
"So I have murdered Sibyl Vane, " said Dorian Gray, half to himself, --"murdered her as certainly as if I had cut her little throat with aknife. And the roses are not less lovely for all that. The birdssing just as happily in my garden. And to-night I am to dine withyou, and then go on to the Opera, and sup somewhere, I suppose,afterwards. How extraordinarily dramatic life is! If I had read allthis in a book, Harry, I think I would have wept over it. Somehow,now that it has happened actually, and to me, it seems far toowonderful for tears. Here is the first passionate love-letter I haveever written in my life. Strange, that my first passionate love-letter should have been addressed to a dead girl. Can they feel, Iwonder, those white silent people we call the dead? Sibyl! Can shefeel, or know, or listen? Oh, Harry, how I loved her once! It seemsyears ago to me now. She was everything to me. Then came thatdreadful night--was it really only last night?--when she played sobadly, and my heart almost broke. She explained it all to me. Itwas terribly pathetic. But I was not moved a bit. I thought hershallow. Then something happened that made me afraid. I can't tellyou what it was, but it was awful. I said I would go back to her. Ifelt I had done wrong. And now she is dead. My God! my God! Harry,what shall I do? You don't know the danger I am in, and there isnothing to keep me straight. She would have done that for me. Shehad no right to kill herself. It was selfish of her. "
"My dear Dorian, the only way a woman can ever reform a man is byboring him so completely that he loses all possible interest in life.If you had married this girl you would have been wretched. Of courseyou would have treated her kindly. One can always be kind to peopleabout whom one cares nothing. But she would have soon found out thatyou were absolutely indifferent to her. And when a woman finds thatout about her husband, she either becomes dreadfully dowdy, or wearsvery smart bonnets that some other woman's husband has to payfor. I say nothing about the social mistake, but I assure you thatin any case the whole thing would have been an absolute failure. "
"I suppose it would, " muttered the lad, walking up and down the room,and looking horribly pale. "But I thought it was my duty. It is notmy fault that this terrible tragedy has prevented my doing what wasright. I remember your saying once that there is a fatality aboutgood resolutions, --that they are always made too late. Minecertainly were. "
"Good resolutions are simply a useless attempt to interfere withscientific laws. Their origin is pure vanity. Their result isabsolutely nil. They give us, now and then, some of those luxurioussterile emotions that have a certain charm for us. That is all thatcan be said for them. "
"Harry, " cried Dorian Gray, coming over and sitting down beside him,"why is it that I cannot feel this tragedy as much as I want to? Idon't think I am heartless. Do you?"
"You have done too many foolish things in your life to be entitled togive yourself that name, Dorian, " answered Lord Henry, with hissweet, melancholy smile.
The lad frowned. "I don't like that explanation, Harry, " herejoined, "but I am glad you don't think I am heartless. I amnothing of the kind. I know I am not. And yet I must admit thatthis thing that has happened does not affect me as it should. Itseems to me to be simply like a wonderful ending to a wonderful play.It has all the terrible beauty of a great tragedy, a tragedy in whichI took part, but by which I have not been wounded. "
"It is an interesting question, " said Lord Henry, who found anexquisite pleasure in playing on the lad's unconscious egotism, --"anextremely interesting question. I fancy that the explanation isthis. It often happens that the real tragedies of life occur in suchan inartistic manner that they hurt us by their crude violence, theirabsolute incoherence, their absurd want of meaning, their entire lackof style. They affect us just as vulgarity affects us. They give usan impression of sheer brute force, and we revolt against that.Sometimes, however, a tragedy that has artistic elements of beautycrosses our lives. If these elements of beauty are real, the wholething simply appeals to our sense of dramatic effect. Suddenly wefind that we are no longer the actors, but the spectators of theplay. Or rather we are both. We watch ourselves, and the merewonder of the spectacle enthralls us. In the present case, what isit that has really happened? Some one has killed herself for love ofyou. I wish I had ever had such an experience. It would have mademe in love with love for the rest of my life. The people who haveadored me--there have not been very many, but there have been some--have always insisted on living on, long after I had ceased to carefor them, or they to care for me. They have become stout andtedious, and when I meet them they go in at once for reminiscences.That awful memory of woman! What a fearful thing it is! And what anutter intellectual stagnation it reveals! One should absorb thecolor of life, but one should never remember its details. Detailsare always vulgar.
"Of course, now and then things linger. I once wore nothing butviolets all through one season, as mourning for a romance that wouldnot die. Ultimately, however, it did die. I forget what killed it.I think it was her proposing to sacrifice the whole world for me.That is always a dreadful moment. It fills one with the terror ofeternity. Well, --would you believe it?--a week ago, at LadyHampshire's, I found myself seated at dinner next the lady inquestion, and she insisted on going over the whole thing again, anddigging up the past, and raking up the future. I had buried myromance in a bed of poppies. She dragged it out again, and assuredme that I had spoiled her life. I am bound to state that she ate anenormous dinner, so I did not feel any anxiety. But what a lack oftaste she showed! The one charm of the past is that it is the past.But women never know when the curtain has fallen. They always want asixth act, and as soon as the interest of the play is entirely overthey propose to continue it. If they were allowed to have their way,every comedy would have a tragic ending, and every tragedy wouldculminate in a farce. They are charmingly artificial, but they haveno sense of art. You are more fortunate than I am. I assure you,Dorian, that not one of the women I have known would have done for mewhat Sibyl Vane did for you. Ordinary women always consolethemselves. Some of them do it by going in for sentimental colors.Never trust a woman who wears mauve, whatever her age may be, or awoman over thirty-five who is fond of pink ribbons. It always meansthat they have a history. Others find a great consolation insuddenly discovering the good qualities of their husbands. Theyflaunt their conjugal felicity in one's face, as if it was the mostfascinating of sins. Religion consoles some. Its mysteries have allthe charm of a flirtation, a woman once told me; and I can quiteunderstand it. Besides, nothing makes one so vain as being told thatone is a sinner. There is really no end to the consolations thatwomen find in modern life. Indeed, I have not mentioned the mostimportant one of all. "
"What is that, Harry?" said Dorian Gray, listlessly.
"Oh, the obvious one. Taking some one else's admirer when one losesone's own. In good society that always whitewashes a woman. Butreally, Dorian, how different Sibyl Vane must have been from all thewomen one meets! There is something to me quite beautiful about herdeath. I am glad I am living in a century when such wonders happen.They make one believe in the reality of the things that shallow,fashionable people play with, such as romance, passion, and love. "