道林格雷的画像_奥斯卡·王尔德-第22章

按键盘上方向键 ← 或 → 可快速上下翻页，按键盘上的 Enter 键可回到本书目录页，按键盘上方向键 ↑ 可回到本页顶部！
————未阅读完？加入书签已便下次继续阅读！



in　the　huge　gilt　venetian　lantern；　spoil　of　some　doges　barge；　that　hung　from　the　ceiling　of　the　great；　oak…panelled　hall　of　entrance；　lights　were　still　burning　from　three　flickering　jets：　thin　blue　petals　of　flame　they　seemed；　rimmed　with　white　fire。　he　turned　them　out　and；　having　thrown　his　hat　and　cape　on　the　table；　passed　through　the　library　towards　the　door　of　his　bedroom；　a　large　octagonal　chamber　on　the　ground　floor　that；　in　his　new…born　feeling　for　luxury；　he　had　just　had　decorated　for　himself　and　hung　with　some　curious　renaissance　tapestries　that　had　been　discovered　stored　in　a　disused　attic　at　selby　royal。　as　he　was　turning　the　handle　of　the　door；　his　eye　fell　upon　the　portrait　basil　hallward　had　painted　of　him。　he　started　back　as　if　in　surprise。　then　he　went　on　into　his　own　room；　looking　somewhat　puzzled。　after　he　had　taken　the　button…hole　out　of　his　coat；　he　seemed　to　hesitate。　finally；　he　came　back；　went　over　to　the　picture；　and　examined　it。　in　the　dim　arrested　light　that　struggled　through　the　cream…coloured　silk　blinds；　the　face　appeared　to　him　to　be　a　little　changed。　the　expression　looked　different。　one　would　have　said　that　there　was　a　touch　of　cruelty　in　the　mouth。　it　was　certainly　strange。

he　turned　round　and；　walking　to　the　window；　drew　up　the　blind。　the　bright　dawn　flooded　the　room　and　swept　the　fantastic　shadows　into　dusky　corners；　where　they　lay　shuddering。　but　the　strange　expression　that　he　had　noticed　in　the　face　of　the　portrait　seemed　to　linger　there；　to　be　more　intensified　even。　the　quivering　ardent　sunlight　showed　him　the　lines　of　cruelty　round　the　mouth　as　clearly　as　if　he　had　been　looking　into　a　mirror　after　he　had　done　some　dreadful　thing。

he　winced　and；　taking　up　from　the　table　an　oval　glass　framed　in　ivory　cupids；　one　of　lord　henrys　many　presents　to　him；　glanced　hurriedly　into　its　polished　depths。　no　line　like　that　warped　his　red　lips。　what　did　it　mean？

he　rubbed　his　eyes；　and　came　close　to　the　picture；　and　examined　it　again。　there　were　no　signs　of　any　change　when　he　looked　into　the　actual　painting；　and　yet　there　was　no　doubt　that　the　whole　expression　had　altered。　it　was　not　a　mere　fancy　of　his　own。　the　thing　was　horribly　apparent。

he　threw　himself　into　a　chair　and　began　to　think。　suddenly　there　flashed　across　his　mind　what　he　had　said　in　basil　hallwards　studio　the　day　the　picture　had　been　finished。　yes；　he　remembered　it　perfectly。　he　had　uttered　a　mad　wish　that　he　himself　might　remain　young；　and　the　portrait　grow　old；　that　his　own　beauty　might　be　untarnished；　and　the　face　on　the　canvas　bear　the　burden　of　his　passions　and　his　sins；　that　the　painted　image　might　be　seared　with　the　lines　of　suffering　and　thought；　and　that　he　might　keep　all　the　delicate　bloom　and　loveliness　of　his　then　just　conscious　boyhood。　surely　his　wish　had　not　been　fulfilled？　such　things　were　impossible。　it　seemed　monstrous　even　to　think　of　them。　and；　yet；　there　was　the　picture　before　him；　with　the　touch　of　cruelty　in　the　mouth。

cruelty！　had　he　been　cruel？　it　was　the　girls　fault；　not　his。　he　had　dreamed　of　her　as　a　great　artist；　had　given　his　love　to　her　because　he　had　thought　her　great。　then　she　had　disappointed　him。　she　had　been　shallow　and　unworthy。　and；　yet；　a　feeling　of　infinite　regret　came　over　him；　as　he　thought　of　her　lying　at　his　feet　sobbing　like　a　little　child。　he　remembered　with　what　callousness　he　had　watched　her。　why　had　he　been　made　like　that？　why　had　such　a　soul　been　given　to　him？　but　he　had　suffered　also。　during　the　three　terrible　hours　that　the　play　had　lasted；　he　had　lived　centuries　of　pain；　aeon　upon　aeon　of　torture。　his　life　was　well　worth　hers。　she　had　marred　him　for　a　moment；　if　he　had　wounded　her　for　an　age。　besides；　women　were　better　suited　to　bear　sorrow　than　men。　they　lived　on　their　emotions。　they　only　thought　of　their　emotions。　when　they　took　lovers；　it　was　merely　to　have　some　one　with　whom　they　could　have　scenes。　lord　henry　had　told　him　that；　and　lord　henry　knew　what　women　were。　why　should　he　trouble　about　sibyl　vane？　she　was　nothing　to　him　now。

but　the　picture？　what　was　he　to　say　of　that？　it　held　the　secret　of　his　life；　and　told　his　story。　it　had　taught　him　to　love　his　own　beauty。　would　it　teach　him　to　loathe　his　own　soul？　would　he　ever　look　at　it　again？

no；　it　was　merely　an　illusion　wrought　on　the　troubled　senses。　the　horrible　night　that　he　had　passed　had　left　phantoms　behind　it。　suddenly　there　had　fallen　upon　his　brain　that　tiny　scarlet　speck　that　makes　men　mad。　the　picture　had　not　changed。　it　was　folly　to　think　so。

yet　it　was　watching　him；　with　its　beautiful　marred　face　and　its　cruel　smile。　its　bright　hair　gleamed　in　the　early　sunlight。　its　blue　eyes　met　his　own。　a　sense　of　infinite　pity；　not　for　himself；　but　for　the　painted　image　of　himself；　came　over　him。　it　had　altered　already；　and　would　alter　more。　its　gold　would　wither　into　grey。　its　red　and　white　roses　would　die。　for　every　sin　that　he　mitted；　a　stain　would　fleck　and　wreck　its　fairness。　but　he　would　not　sin。　the　picture；　changed　or　unchanged；　would　be　to　him　the　visible　emblem　of　conscience。　he　would　resist　temptation。　he　would　not　see　lord　henry　any　morewould　not；　at　any　rate；　listen　to　those　subtle　poisonous　theories　that　in　basil　hallwards　garden　had　first　stirred　within　him　the　passion　for　impossible　things。　he　would　go　back　to　sibyl　vane；　make　her　amends；　marry　her；　try　to　love　her　again。　yes；　it　was　his　duty　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　had　exercised　over　him　would　return。　they　would　be　happy　together。　his　life　with　her　would　be　beautiful　and　pure。

he　got　up　from　his　chair　and　drew　a　large　screen　right　in　front　of　the　portrait；　shuddering　as　he　glanced　at　it。　〃how　horrible！〃　he　murmured　to　himself；　and　he　walked　across　to　the　window　and　opened　it。　when　he　stepped　out　on　to　the　grass；　he　drew　a　deep　breath。　the　fresh　morning　air　seemed　to　drive　away　all　his　sombre　passions。　he　thought　only　of　sibyl。　a　faint　echo　of　his　love　came　back　to　him。　he　repeated　her　name　over　and　over　again。　the　birds　that　were　singing　in　the　dew…drenched　garden　seemed　to　be　telling　the　flowers　about　her。

w锛贰�w。xia　oshuotx锛础ｏ迹om



Chapter　8

灏弤璇磣t。xt‘澶﹡鍫�
chapter　8

it　was　long　past　noon　when　he　awoke。　his　valet　had　crept　several　times　on　tiptoe　into　the　room　to　see　if　he　was　stirring；　and　had　wondered　what　made　his　young　master　sleep　so　late。　finally　his　bell　sounded；　and　victor　came　in　softly　with　a　cup　of　tea；　and　a　pile　of　letters；　on　a　small　tray　of　old　sevres　china；　and　drew　back　the　olive…satin　curtains；　with　their　shimmering　blue　lining；　that　hung　in　front　of　the　three　tall　windows。

〃monsieur　has　well　slept　this　morning；〃　he　said；　smiling。

〃what　oclock　is　it；　victor？〃　asked　dorian　gray　drowsily。

〃one　hour　and　a　quarter；　monsieur。〃

how　late　it　was！　he　sat　up；　and　having　sipped　some　tea；　turned　over　his　letters。　one　of　them　was　from　lord　henry；　and　had　been　brought　by　hand　that　morning。　he　hesitated　for　a　moment；　and　then　put　it　aside。　the　others　he　opened　listlessly。　they　contained　the　usual　collection　of　cards；　invitations　to　dinner；　tickets　for　private　views；　programmes　of　charity　concerts；　and　the　like　that　are　showered　on　fashionable　young　men　every　morning　during　the　season。　there　was　a　rather　heavy　bill　for　a　chased　silver　louis…quinze　toilet…set　that　he　had　not　yet　had　the　courage　to　send　on　to　his　guardians；　who　were　extremely　old…fashioned　people　and　did　not　realize　that　we　live　in　an　age　when　unnecessary　things　are　our　only　necessities；　and　there　were　several　very　courteously　worded　munications　from　jermyn　street　money…lenders　offering　to　advance　any　sum　of　money　at　a　moments　notice　and　at　the　most　reasonable　rates　of　interest。

after　about　ten　minutes　he　got　up；　and　throwing　on　an　elaborate　dressing…gown　of　silk…embroidered　cashmere　wool；　passed　into　the　onyx…paved　bathroom。　the　cool　water　refreshed　him　after　his　long　sleep。　he　seemed　to　have　forgotten　all　that　he　had　gone　through。　a　dim　sense　of　having　taken　part　in　some　strange　tragedy　came　to　him　once　or　twice；　but　there　was　the　unreality　of　a　dream　about　it。

as　soon　as　he　was　dressed；　he　went　into　the　library　and　sat　down　to　a　light　f