道林格雷的画像_奥斯卡·王尔德-第45节

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　i　cannot　say　that　i　think　much　of　your　great　renunciation。　even　as　a　beginning；　it　is　poor。　besides；　how　do　you　know　that　hetty　isnt　floating　at　the　present　moment　in　some　starlit　mill…pond；　with　lovely　water…lilies　round　her；　like　ophelia？〃

〃i　cant　bear　this；　harry！　you　mock　at　everything；　and　then　suggest　the　most　serious　tragedies。　i　am　sorry　i　told　you　now。　i　dont　care　what　you　say　to　me。　i　know　i　was　right　in　acting　as　i　did。　poor　hetty！　as　i　rode　past　the　farm　this　morning；　i　saw　her　white　face　at　the　window；　like　a　spray　of　jasmine。　dont　let　us　talk　about　it　any　more；　and　dont　try　to　persuade　me　that　the　first　good　action　i　have　done　for　years；　the　first　little　bit　of　self…sacrifice　i　have　ever　known；　is　really　a　sort　of　sin。　i　want　to　be　better。　i　am　going　to　be　better。　tell　me　something　about　yourself。　what　is　going　on　in　town？　i　have　not　been　to　the　club　for　days。〃

〃the　people　are　still　discussing　poor　basils　disappearance。〃

〃i　should　have　thought　they　had　got　tired　of　that　by　this　time；〃　said　dorian；　pouring　himself　out　some　wine　and　frowning　slightly。

〃my　dear　boy；　they　have　only　been　talking　about　it　for　six　weeks；　and　the　british　public　are　really　not　equal　to　the　mental　strain　of　having　more　than　one　topic　every　three　months。　they　have　been　very　fortunate　lately；　however。　they　have　had　my　own　divorce…case　and　alan　campbells　suicide。　now　they　have　got　the　mysterious　disappearance　of　an　artist。　scotland　yard　still　insists　that　the　man　in　the　grey　ulster　who　left　for　paris　by　the　midnight　train　on　the　ninth　of　november　was　poor　basil；　and　the　french　police　declare　that　basil　never　arrived　in　paris　at　all。　i　suppose　in　about　a　fortnight　we　shall　be　told　that　he　has　been　seen　in　san　francisco。　it　is　an　odd　thing；　but　every　one　who　disappears　is　said　to　be　seen　at　san　francisco。　it　must　be　a　delightful　city；　and　possess　all　the　attractions　of　the　next　world。〃

〃what　do　you　think　has　happened　to　basil？〃　asked　dorian；　holding　up　his　burgundy　against　the　light　and　wondering　how　it　was　that　he　could　discuss　the　matter　so　calmly。

〃i　have　not　the　slightest　idea。　if　basil　chooses　to　hide　himself；　it　is　no　business　of　mine。　if　he　is　dead；　i　dont　want　to　think　about　him。　death　is　the　only　thing　that　ever　terrifies　me。　i　hate　it。〃

〃why？〃　said　the　younger　man　wearily。

〃because；〃　said　lord　henry；　passing　beneath　his　nostrils　the　gilt　trellis　of　an　open　vinaigrette　box；　〃one　can　survive　everything　nowadays　except　that。　death　and　vulgarity　are　the　only　two　facts　in　the　nineteenth　century　that　one　cannot　explain　away。　let　us　have　our　coffee　in　the　music…room；　dorian。　you　must　play　chopin　to　me。　the　man　with　whom　my　wife　ran　away　played　chopin　exquisitely。　poor　victoria！　i　was　very　fond　of　her。　the　house　is　rather　lonely　without　her。　of　course；　married　life　is　merely　a　habit；　a　bad　habit。　but　then　one　regrets　the　loss　even　of　ones　worst　habits。　perhaps　one　regrets　them　the　most。　they　are　such　an　essential　part　of　ones　personality。〃

dorian　said　nothing；　but　rose　from　the　table；　and　passing　into　the　next　room；　sat　down　to　the　piano　and　let　his　fingers　stray　across　the　white　and　black　ivory　of　the　keys。　after　the　coffee　had　been　brought　in；　he　stopped；　and　looking　over　at　lord　henry；　said；　〃harry；　did　it　ever　occur　to　you　that　basil　was　murdered？〃

lord　henry　yawned。　〃basil　was　very　popular；　and　always　wore　a　waterbury　watch。　why　should　he　have　been　murdered？　he　was　not　clever　enough　to　have　enemies。　of　course；　he　had　a　wonderful　genius　for　painting。　but　a　man　can　paint　like　velasquez　and　yet　be　as　dull　as　possible。　basil　was　really　rather　dull。　he　only　interested　me　once；　and　that　was　when　he　told　me；　years　ago；　that　he　had　a　wild　adoration　for　you　and　that　you　were　the　dominant　motive　of　his　art。〃

〃i　was　very　fond　of　basil；〃　said　dorian　with　a　note　of　sadness　in　his　voice。　〃but　dont　people　say　that　he　was　murdered？〃

〃oh；　some　of　the　papers　do。　it　does　not　seem　to　me　to　be　at　all　probable。　i　know　there　are　dreadful　places　in　paris；　but　basil　was　not　the　sort　of　man　to　have　gone　to　them。　he　had　no　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