道林格雷的画像_奥斯卡·王尔德-第51部分

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o　curiosity。　it　was　his　chief　defect。〃

〃what　would　you　say；　harry；　if　i　told　you　that　i　had　murdered　basil？〃　said　the　younger　man。　he　watched　him　intently　after　he　had　spoken。

〃i　would　say；　my　dear　fellow；　that　you　were　posing　for　a　character　that　doesnt　suit　you。　all　crime　is　vulgar；　just　as　all　vulgarity　is　crime。　it　is　not　in　you；　dorian；　to　mit　a　murder。　i　am　sorry　if　i　hurt　your　vanity　by　saying　so；　but　i　assure　you　it　is　true。　crime　belongs　exclusively　to　the　lower　orders。　i　dont　blame　them　in　the　smallest　degree。　i　should　fancy　that　crime　was　to　them　what　art　is　to　us；　simply　a　method　of　procuring　extraordinary　sensations。〃

〃a　method　of　procuring　sensations？　do　you　think；　then；　that　a　man　who　has　once　mitted　a　murder　could　possibly　do　the　same　crime　again？　dont　tell　me　that。〃

〃oh！　anything　bees　a　pleasure　if　one　does　it　too　often；〃　cried　lord　henry；　laughing。　〃that　is　one　of　the　most　important　secrets　of　life。　i　should　fancy；　however；　that　murder　is　always　a　mistake。　one　should　never　do　anything　that　one　cannot　talk　about　after　dinner。　but　let　us　pass　from　poor　basil。　i　wish　i　could　believe　that　he　had　e　to　such　a　really　romantic　end　as　you　suggest；　but　i　cant。　i　dare　say　he　fell　into　the　seine　off　an　omnibus　and　that　the　conductor　hushed　up　the　scandal。　yes：　i　should　fancy　that　was　his　end。　i　see　him　lying　now　on　his　back　under　those　dull…green　waters；　with　the　heavy　barges　floating　over　him　and　long　weeds　catching　in　his　hair。　do　you　know；　i　dont　think　he　would　have　done　much　more　good　work。　during　the　last　ten　years　his　painting　had　gone　off　very　much。〃

dorian　heaved　a　sigh；　and　lord　henry　strolled　across　the　room　and　began　to　stroke　the　head　of　a　curious　java　parrot；　a　large；　grey…plumaged　bird　with　pink　crest　and　tail；　that　was　balancing　itself　upon　a　bamboo　perch。　as　his　pointed　fingers　touched　it；　it　dropped　the　white　scurf　of　crinkled　lids　over　black；　glasslike　eyes　and　began　to　sway　backwards　and　forwards。

〃yes；〃　he　continued；　turning　round　and　taking　his　handkerchief　out　of　his　pocket；　〃his　painting　had　quite　gone　off。　it　seemed　to　me　to　have　lost　something。　it　had　lost　an　ideal。　when　you　and　he　ceased　to　be　great　friends；　he　ceased　to　be　a　great　artist。　what　was　it　separated　you？　i　suppose　he　bored　you。　if　so；　he　never　forgave　you。　its　a　habit　bores　have。　by　the　way；　what　has　bee　of　that　wonderful　portrait　he　did　of　you？　i　dont　think　i　have　ever　seen　it　since　he　finished　it。　oh！　i　remember　your　telling　me　years　ago　that　you　had　sent　it　down　to　selby；　and　that　it　had　got　mislaid　or　stolen　on　the　way。　you　never　got　it　back？　what　a　pity！　it　was　really　a　masterpiece。　i　remember　i　wanted　to　buy　it。　i　wish　i　had　now。　it　belonged　to　basils　best　period。　since　then；　his　work　was　that　curious　mixture　of　bad　painting　and　good　intentions　that　always　entitles　a　man　to　be　called　a　representative　british　artist。　did　you　advertise　for　it？　you　should。〃

〃i　forget；〃　said　dorian。　〃i　suppose　i　did。　but　i　never　really　liked　it。　i　am　sorry　i　sat　for　it。　the　memory　of　the　thing　is　hateful　to　me。　why　do　you　talk　of　it？　it　used　to　remind　me　of　those　curious　lines　in　some　playhamlet；　i　thinkhow　do　they　run？

like　the　painting　of　a　sorrow；

a　face　without　a　heart。　

yes：　that　is　what　it　was　like。〃

lord　henry　laughed。　〃if　a　man　treats　life　artistically；　his　brain　is　his　heart；〃　he　answered；　sinking　into　an　arm…chair。

dorian　gray　shook　his　head　and　struck　some　soft　chords　on　the　piano。　〃like　the　painting　of　a　sorrow；〃　he　repeated；　〃a　face　without　a　heart。〃

the　elder　man　lay　back　and　looked　at　him　with　half…closed　eyes。　〃by　the　way；　dorian；〃　he　said　after　a　pause；　〃what　does　it　profit　a　man　if　he　gain　the　whole　world　and　losehow　does　the　quotation　run？　his　own　soul？〃

the　music　jarred；　and　dorian　gray　started　and　stared　at　his　friend。　〃why　do　you　ask　me　that；　harry？〃

〃my　dear　fellow；〃　said　lord　henry；　elevating　his　eyebrows　in　surprise；　〃i　asked　you　because　i　thought　you　might　be　able　to　give　me　an　answer。　that　is　all。　i　was　going　through　the　park　last　sunday；　and　close　by　the　marble　arch　there　stood　a　little　crowd　of　shabby…looking　people　listening　to　some　vulgar　street…preacher。　as　i　passed　by；　i　heard　the　man　yelling　out　that　question　to　his　audience。　it　struck　me　as　being　rather　dramatic。　london　is　very　rich　in　curious　effects　of　that　kind。　a　wet　sunday；　an　uncouth　christian　in　a　mackintosh；　a　ring　of　sickly　white　faces　under　a　broken　roof　of　dripping　umbrellas；　and　a　wonderful　phrase　flung　into　the　air　by　shrill　hysterical　lipsit　was　really　very　good　in　its　way；　quite　a　suggestion。　i　thought　of　telling　the　prophet　that　art　had　a　soul；　but　that　man　had　not。　i　am　afraid；　however；　he　would　not　have　understood　me。〃

〃dont；　harry。　the　soul　is　a　terrible　reality。　it　can　be　bought；　and　sold；　and　bartered　away。　it　can　be　poisoned；　or　made　perfect。　there　is　a　soul　in　each　one　of　us。　i　know　it。〃

〃do　you　feel　quite　sure　of　that；　dorian？〃

〃quite　sure。〃

〃ah！　then　it　must　be　an　illusion。　the　things　one　feels　absolutely　certain　about　are　never　true。　that　is　the　fatality　of　faith；　and　the　lesson　of　romance。　how　grave　you　are！　dont　be　so　serious。　what　have　you　or　i　to　do　with　the　superstitions　of　our　age？　no：　we　have　given　up　our　belief　in　the　soul。　play　me　something。　play　me　a　nocturne；　dorian；　and；　as　you　play；　tell　me；　in　a　low　voice；　how　you　have　kept　your　youth。　you　must　have　some　secret。　i　am　only　ten　years　older　than　you　are；　and　i　am　wrinkled；　and　worn；　and　yellow。　you　are　really　wonderful；　dorian。　you　have　never　looked　more　charming　than　you　do　to…night。　you　remind　me　of　the　day　i　saw　you　first。　you　were　rather　cheeky；　very　shy；　and　absolutely　extraordinary。　you　have　changed；　of　course；　but　not　in　appearance。　i　wish　you　would　tell　me　your　secret。　to　get　back　my　youth　i　would　do　anything　in　the　world；　except　take　exercise；　get　up　early；　or　be　respectable。　youth！　there　is　nothing　like　it。　its　absurd　to　talk　of　the　ignorance　of　youth。　the　only　people　to　whose　opinions　i　listen　now　with　any　respect　are　people　much　younger　than　myself。　they　seem　in　front　of　me。　life　has　revealed　to　them　her　latest　wonder。　as　for　the　aged；　i　always　contradict　the　aged。　i　do　it　on　principle。　if　you　ask　them　their　opinion　on　something　that　happened　yesterday；　they　solemnly　give　you　the　opinions　current　in　1820；　when　people　wore　high　stocks；　believed　in　everything；　and　knew　absolutely　nothing。　how　lovely　that　thing　you　are　playing　is！　i　wonder；　did　chopin　write　it　at　majorca；　with　the　sea　weeping　round　the　villa　and　the　salt　spray　dashing　against　the　panes？　it　is　marvellously　romantic。　what　a　blessing　it　is　that　there　is　one　art　left　to　us　that　is　not　imitative！　dont　stop。　i　want　music　to…night。　it　seems　to　me　that　you　are　the　young　apollo　and　that　i　am　marsyas　listening　to　you。　i　have　sorrows；　dorian；　of　my　own；　that　even　you　know　nothing　of。　the　tragedy　of　old　age　is　not　that　one　is　old；　but　that　one　is　young。　i　am　amazed　sometimes　at　my　own　sincerity。　ah；　dorian；　how　happy　you　are！　what　an　exquisite　life　you　have　had！　you　have　drunk　deeply　of　everything。　you　have　crushed　the　grapes　against　your　palate。　nothing　has　been　hidden　from　you。　and　it　has　all　been　to　you　no　more　than　the　sound　of　music。　it　has　not　marred　you。　you　are　still　the　same。〃

〃i　am　not　the　same；　harry。〃

〃yes；　you　are　the　same。　i　wonder　what　the　rest　of　your　life　will　be。　dont　spoil　it　by　renunciations。　at　present　you　are　a　perfect　type。　dont　make　yourself　inplete。　you　are　quite　flawless　now。　you　need　not　shake　your　head：　you　know　you　are。　besides；　dorian；　dont　deceive　yourself。　life　is　not　governed　by　will　or　intention。　life　is　a　question　of　nerves；　and　fibres；　and　slowly　built…up　cells　in　which　thought　hides　itself　and　passion　has　its　dreams。　you　may　fancy　yourself　safe　and　think　yourself　strong。　but　a　chance　tone　of　colour　in　a　room　or　a　morning　sky；　a　particular　perfume　that　you　had　once　loved　and　that　brings　subtle　memories　with　it；　a　line　from　a　forgotten　poem　that　you　had　e　across　again；　a　cadence　from　a　piece　of　music　that　you　had　ceased　to　play　i　tell　you；　dorian；　that　it　is　on　things　like　these　that　our　lives　depend。　browning　writes　about　that　somewhere；　but　our　own　senses　will　imagine　them　for　us。　there　are　moments　when　the　odour　of　lilas　b