When his servant entered, be looked at him steadfastly1 and wondered if he had thought of peering behind the screen. The man was quite impassive and waited for his orders. Dorian lit a cigarette and walked over to the glass and glanced into it. He could see the reflection of Victor's face perfectly2. It was like a placid3 mask of servility. There was nothing to be afraid of, there. Yet he thought it best to be on his guard.
Speaking very slowly, he told him to tell the house-keeper that he wanted to see her, and then to go to the frame-maker and ask him to send two of his men round at once. It seemed to him that as the man left the room his eyes wandered in the direction of the screen. Or was that merely his own fancy?
After a few moments, in her black silk dress, with old-fashioned thread mittens6 on her wrinkled hands, Mrs. Leaf bustled7 into the library. He asked her for the key of the schoolroom.
"The old schoolroom, Mr. Dorian?" she exclaimed. "Why, it is full of dust. I must get it arranged and put straight before you go into it. It is not fit for you to see, sir. It is not, indeed."
"I don't want it put straight, Leaf. I only want the key."
"Well, sir, you'll be covered with cobwebs if you go into it. Why, it hasn't been opened for nearly five years--not since his lordship died."
He winced8 at the mention of his grandfather. He had hateful memories of him. "That does not matter," he answered. "I simply want to see the place-- that is all. Give me the key."
"And here is the key, sir," said the old lady, going over the contents of her bunch with tremulously uncertain hands. "Here is the key. I'll have it off the bunch in a moment. But you don't think of living up there, sir, and you so comfortable here?"
"No, no," he cried petulantly9. "Thank you, Leaf. That will do."
She lingered for a few moments, and was garrulous10 over some detail of the household. He sighed and told her to manage things as she thought best. She left the room, wreathed in smiles.
As the door closed, Dorian put the key in his pocket and looked round the room. His eye fell on a large, purple satin coverlet heavily embroidered11 with gold, a splendid piece of late seventeenth-century Venetian work that his grandfather had found in a convent near Bologna. Yes, that would serve to wrap the dreadful thing in. It had perhaps served often as a pall12 for the dead. Now it was to hide something that had a corruption13 of its own, worse than the corruption of death itself-- something that would breed horrors and yet would never die. What the worm was to the corpse14, his sins would be to the painted image on the canvas. They would mar15 its beauty and eat away its grace. They would defile16 it and make it shameful17. And yet the thing would still live on. It would be always alive.
He shuddered18, and for a moment he regretted that he had not told Basil the true reason why he had wished to hide the picture away. Basil would have helped him to resist Lord Henry's influence, and the still more poisonous influences that came from his own temperament19. The love that he bore him--for it was really love-- had nothing in it that was not noble and intellectual. It was not that mere5 physical admiration20 of beauty that is born of the senses and that dies when the senses tire. It was such love as Michelangelo had known, and Montaigne, and Winckelmann, and Shakespeare himself. Yes, Basil could have saved him. But it was too late now. The past could always be annihilated21. Regret, denial, or forgetfulness could do that. But the future was inevitable22. There were passions in him that would find their terrible outlet23, dreams that would make the shadow of their evil real.
He took up from the couch the great purple-and-gold texture24 that covered it, and, holding it in his hands, passed behind the screen. Was the face on the canvas viler25 than before? It seemed to him that it was unchanged, and yet his loathing26 of it was intensified27. Gold hair, blue eyes, and rose-red lips--they all were there. It was simply the expression that had altered. That was horrible in its cruelty. Compared to what he saw in it of censure28 or rebuke29, how shallow Basil's reproaches about Sibyl Vane had been!-- how shallow, and of what little account! His own soul was looking out at him from the canvas and calling him to judgement. A look of pain came across him, and he flung the rich pall over the picture. As he did so, a knock came to the door. He passed out as his servant entered.
"The persons are here, Monsieur."
He felt that the man must be got rid of at once. He must not be allowed to know where the picture was being taken to. There was something sly about him, and he had thoughtful, treacherous30 eyes. Sitting down at the writing-table he scribbled31 a note to Lord Henry, asking him to send him round something to read and reminding him that they were to meet at eight-fifteen that evening.
"Wait for an answer," he said, handing it to him, "and show the men in here."
In two or three minutes there was another knock, and Mr. Hubbard himself, the celebrated32 frame-maker of South Audley Street, came in with a somewhat rough-looking young assistant. Mr. Hubbard was a florid, red-whiskered little man, whose admiration for art was considerably33 tempered by the inveterate34 impecuniosity35 of most of the artists who dealt with him. As a rule, he never left his shop. He waited for people to come to him. But he always made an exception in favour of Dorian Gray. There was something about Dorian that charmed everybody. It was a pleasure even to see him.
"What can I do for you, Mr. Gray?" he said, rubbing his fat freckled36 hands. "I thought I would do myself the honour of coming round in person. I have just got a beauty of a frame, sir. Picked it up at a sale. Old Florentine. Came from Fonthill, I believe. Admirably suited for a religious subject, Mr. Gray."
"I am so sorry you have given yourself the trouble of coming round, Mr. Hubbard. I shall certainly drop in and look at the frame-- though I don't go in much at present for religious art--but to-day I only want a picture carried to the top of the house for me. It is rather heavy, so I thought I would ask you to lend me a couple of your men."
"No trouble at all, Mr. Gray. I am delighted to be of any service to you. Which is the work of art, sir?"
"This," replied Dorian, moving the screen back. "Can you move it, covering and all, just as it is? I don't want it to get scratched going upstairs."
"There will be no difficulty, sir," said the genial37 frame-maker, beginning, with the aid of his assistant, to unhook the picture from the long brass38 chains by which it was suspended. "And, now, where shall we carry it to, Mr. Gray?"
"I will show you the way, Mr. Hubbard, if you will kindly39 follow me. Or perhaps you had better go in front. I am afraid it is right at the top of the house. We will go up by the front staircase, as it is wider."
He held the door open for them, and they passed out into the hall and began the ascent40. The elaborate character of the frame had made the picture extremely bulky, and now and then, in spite of the obsequious41 protests of Mr. Hubbard, who had the true tradesman's spirited dislike of seeing a gentleman doing anything useful, Dorian put his hand to it so as to help them.
"Something of a load to carry, sir," gasped42 the little man when they reached the top landing. And he wiped his shiny forehead.
"I am afraid it is rather heavy," murmured Dorian as he unlocked the door that opened into the room that was to keep for him the curious secret of his life and hide his soul from the eyes of men.
He had not entered the place for more than four years--not, indeed, since he had used it first as a play-room when he was a child, and then as a study when he grew somewhat older. It was a large, well-proportioned room, which had been specially43 built by the last Lord Kelso for the use of the little grandson whom, for his strange likeness44 to his mother, and also for other reasons, he had always hated and desired to keep at a distance. It appeared to Dorian to have but little changed. There was the huge Italian cassone, with its fantastically painted panels and its tarnished45 gilt46 mouldings, in which he had so often hidden himself as a boy. There the satinwood book-case filled with his dog-eared schoolbooks. On the wall behind it was hanging the same ragged47 Flemish tapestry48 where a faded king and queen were playing chess in a garden, while a company of hawkers rode by, carrying hooded49 birds on their gauntleted wrists. How well he remembered it all! Every moment of his lonely childhood came back to him as he looked round. He recalled the stainless50 purity of his boyish life, and it seemed horrible to him that it was here the fatal portrait was to be hidden away. How little he had thought, in those dead days, of all that was in store for him!
But there was no other place in the house so secure from prying51 eyes as this. He had the key, and no one else could enter it. Beneath its purple pall, the face painted on the canvas could grow bestial52, sodden53, and unclean. What did it matter? No one could see it. He himself would not see it. Why should he watch the hideous54 corruption of his soul? He kept his youth-- that was enough. And, besides, might not his nature grow finer, after all? There was no reason that the future should be so full of shame. Some love might come across his life, and purify him, and shield him from those sins that seemed to be already stirring in spirit and in flesh-- those curious unpictured sins whose very mystery lent them their subtlety55 and their charm. Perhaps, some day, the cruel look would have passed away from the scarlet56 sensitive mouth, and he might show to the world Basil Hallward's masterpiece.
No; that was impossible. Hour by hour, and week by week, the thing upon the canvas was growing old. It might escape the hideousness57 of sin, but the hideousness of age was in store for it. The cheeks would become hollow or flaccid. Yellow crow's feet would creep round the fading eyes and make them horrible. The hair would lose its brightness, the mouth would gape58 or droop59, would be foolish or gross, as the mouths of old men are. There would be the wrinkled throat, the cold, blue-veined hands, the twisted body, that he remembered in the grandfather who had been so stern to him in his boyhood. The picture had to be concealed60. There was no help for it.
"Bring it in, Mr. Hubbard, please," he said, wearily, turning round. "I am sorry I kept you so long. I was thinking of something else."
"Always glad to have a rest, Mr. Gray," answered the frame-maker, who was still gasping61 for breath. "Where shall we put it, sir?"
"Oh, anywhere. Here: this will do. I don't want to have it hung up. Just lean it against the wall. Thanks."
"Might one look at the work of art, sir?"
Dorian started. "It would not interest you, Mr. Hubbard," he said, keeping his eye on the man. He felt ready to leap upon him and fling him to the ground if he dared to lift the gorgeous hanging that concealed the secret of his life. "I shan't trouble you any more now. I am much obliged for your kindness in coming round."
"Not at all, not at all, Mr. Gray. Ever ready to do anything for you, sir." And Mr. Hubbard tramped downstairs, followed by the assistant, who glanced back at Dorian with a look of shy wonder in his rough uncomely face. He had never seen any one so marvellous.
When the sound of their footsteps had died away, Dorian locked the door and put the key in his pocket. He felt safe now. No one would ever look upon the horrible thing. No eye but his would ever see his shame.
On reaching the library, he found that it was just after five o'clock and that the tea had been already brought up. On a little table of dark perfumed wood thickly incrusted with nacre, a present from Lady Radley, his guardian's wife, a pretty professional invalid62 who had spent the preceding winter in Cairo, was lying a note from Lord Henry, and beside it was a book bound in yellow paper, the cover slightly torn and the edges soiled. A copy of the third edition of The St. James's Gazette had been placed on the tea-tray. It was evident that Victor had returned. He wondered if he had met the men in the hall as they were leaving the house and had wormed out of them what they had been doing. He would be sure to miss the picture--had no doubt missed it already, while he had been laying the tea-things. The screen had not been set back, and a blank space was visible on the wall. Perhaps some night he might find him creeping upstairs and trying to force the door of the room. It was a horrible thing to have a spy in one's house. He had heard of rich men who had been blackmailed63 all their lives by some servant who had read a letter, or overheard a conversation, or picked up a card with an address, or found beneath a pillow a withered64 flower or a shred65 of crumpled66 lace.
He sighed, and having poured himself out some tea, opened Lord Henry's note. It was simply to say that he sent him round the evening paper, and a book that might interest him, and that he would be at the club at eight-fifteen. He opened The St. James's languidly, and looked through it. A red pencil-mark on the fifth page caught his eye. It drew attention to the following paragraph:
INQUEST ON AN ACTRESS.--An inquest was held this morning at the Bell Tavern67, Hoxton Road, by Mr. Danby, the District Coroner, on the body of Sibyl Vane, a young actress recently engaged at the Royal Theatre, Holborn. A verdict of death by misadventure was returned. Considerable sympathy was expressed for the mother of the deceased, who was greatly affected68 during the giving of her own evidence, and that of Dr. Birrell, who had made the post-mortem examination of the deceased.
He frowned, and tearing the paper in two, went across the room and flung the pieces away. How ugly it all was! And how horribly real ugliness made things! He felt a little annoyed with Lord Henry for having sent him the report. And it was certainly stupid of him to have marked it with red pencil. Victor might have read it. The man knew more than enough English for that.
Perhaps he had read it and had begun to suspect something. And, yet, what did it matter? What had Dorian Gray to do with Sibyl Vane's death? There was nothing to fear. Dorian Gray had not killed her.
His eye fell on the yellow book that Lord Henry had sent him. What was it, he wondered. He went towards the little, pearl-coloured octagonal stand that had always looked to him like the work of some strange Egyptian bees that wrought69 in silver, and taking up the volume, flung himself into an arm-chair and began to turn over the leaves. After a few minutes he became absorbed. It was the strangest book that he had ever read. It seemed to him that in exquisite70 raiment, and to the delicate sound of flutes71, the sins of the world were passing in dumb show before him. Things that he had dimly dreamed of were suddenly made real to him. Things of which he had never dreamed were gradually revealed.
It was a novel without a plot and with only one character, being, indeed, simply a psychological study of a certain young Parisian who spent his life trying to realize in the nineteenth century all the passions and modes of thought that belonged to every century except his own, and to sum up, as it were, in himself the various moods through which the world-spirit had ever passed, loving for their mere artificiality those renunciations that men have unwisely called virtue72, as much as those natural rebellions that wise men still call sin. The style in which it was written was that curious jewelled style, vivid and obscure at once, full of argot73 and of archaisms, of technical expressions and of elaborate paraphrases74, that characterizes the work of some of the finest artists of the French school of Symbolistes. There were in it metaphors75 as monstrous76 as orchids77 and as subtle in colour. The life of the senses was described in the terms of mystical philosophy. One hardly knew at times whether one was reading the spiritual ecstasies78 of some mediaeval saint or the morbid79 confessions80 of a modern sinner. It was a poisonous book. The heavy odour of incense81 seemed to cling about its pages and to trouble the brain. The mere cadence82 of the sentences, the subtle monotony of their music, so full as it was of complex refrains and movements elaborately repeated, produced in the mind of the lad, as he passed from chapter to chapter, a form of reverie, a malady83 of dreaming, that made him unconscious of the falling day and creeping shadows.
Cloudless, and pierced by one solitary84 star, a copper-green sky gleamed through the windows. He read on by its wan4 light till he could read no more. Then, after his valet had reminded him several times of the lateness of the hour, he got up, and going into the next room, placed the book on the little Florentine table that always stood at his bedside and began to dress for dinner.
It was almost nine o'clock before he reached the club, where he found Lord Henry sitting alone, in the morning-room, looking very much bored.
"I am so sorry, Harry85," he cried, "but really it is entirely86 your fault. That book you sent me so fascinated me that I forgot how the time was going."
"Yes, I thought you would like it," replied his host, rising from his chair.
"I didn't say I liked it, Harry. I said it fascinated me. There is a great difference."
"Ah, you have discovered that?" murmured Lord Henry. And they passed into the dining-room.
收听单词发音 |
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steadfastly
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| adv.踏实地，不变地；岿然；坚定不渝 | |
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perfectly
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| adv.完美地，无可非议地，彻底地 | |
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placid
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| adj.安静的，平和的 | |
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wan
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| (wide area network)广域网 | |
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mere
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| adj.纯粹的；仅仅，只不过 | |
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mittens
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| 不分指手套 | |
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bustled
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| 闹哄哄地忙乱，奔忙( bustle的过去式和过去分词 )； 催促 | |
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winced
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| 赶紧避开，畏缩( wince的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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petulantly
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garrulous
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| adj.唠叨的，多话的 | |
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embroidered
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| adj．绣花的 | |
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pall
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| v.覆盖，使平淡无味；n.柩衣，棺罩；棺材；帷幕 | |
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corruption
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| n.腐败，堕落，贪污 | |
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corpse
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| n.尸体，死尸 | |
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mar
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| vt.破坏，毁坏，弄糟 | |
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defile
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| v.弄污，弄脏；n.(山间)小道 | |
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shameful
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| adj.可耻的，不道德的 | |
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shuddered
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| v.战栗( shudder的过去式和过去分词 )；发抖；（机器、车辆等）突然震动；颤动 | |
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temperament
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| n.气质，性格，性情 | |
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admiration
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| n.钦佩，赞美，羡慕 | |
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annihilated
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| v.（彻底）消灭( annihilate的过去式和过去分词 )；使无效；废止；彻底击溃 | |
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inevitable
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| adj.不可避免的，必然发生的 | |
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outlet
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| n.出口/路；销路；批发商店；通风口；发泄 | |
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texture
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| n.(织物)质地；(材料)构造；结构；肌理 | |
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viler
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| adj.卑鄙的( vile的比较级 )；可耻的；极坏的；非常讨厌的 | |
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loathing
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| n.厌恶，憎恨v.憎恨，厌恶( loathe的现在分词)；极不喜欢 | |
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intensified
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| v.（使）增强， （使）加剧( intensify的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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censure
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| v./n.责备；非难；责难 | |
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rebuke
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| v.指责，非难，斥责 [反]praise | |
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treacherous
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| adj.不可靠的，有暗藏的危险的；adj.背叛的，背信弃义的 | |
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scribbled
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| v.潦草的书写( scribble的过去式和过去分词 )；乱画；草草地写；匆匆记下 | |
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celebrated
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| adj.有名的，声誉卓著的 | |
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considerably
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| adv.极大地；相当大地；在很大程度上 | |
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inveterate
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| adj.积习已深的，根深蒂固的 | |
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impecuniosity
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| n.（经常）没有钱，身无分文，贫穷 | |
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freckled
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| adj.雀斑；斑点；晒斑；（使）生雀斑v.雀斑，斑点( freckle的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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genial
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| adj.亲切的，和蔼的，愉快的，脾气好的 | |
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brass
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| n.黄铜；黄铜器，铜管乐器 | |
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kindly
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| adj.和蔼的，温和的，爽快的；adv.温和地，亲切地 | |
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ascent
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| n.(声望或地位)提高；上升，升高；登高 | |
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obsequious
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| adj.谄媚的，奉承的，顺从的 | |
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gasped
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| v.喘气( gasp的过去式和过去分词 )；喘息；倒抽气；很想要 | |
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specially
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| adv.特定地；特殊地；明确地 | |
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likeness
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| n.相像，相似（之处） | |
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45
tarnished
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| （通常指金属）（使）失去光泽，（使）变灰暗( tarnish的过去式和过去分词 )； 玷污，败坏 | |
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gilt
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| adj.镀金的；n.金边证券 | |
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ragged
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| adj.衣衫褴褛的，粗糙的，刺耳的 | |
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tapestry
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| n.挂毯，丰富多采的画面 | |
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hooded
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| adj.戴头巾的；有罩盖的；颈部因肋骨运动而膨胀的 | |
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stainless
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| adj.无瑕疵的，不锈的 | |
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51
prying
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| adj.爱打听的v.打听，刺探（他人的私事）( pry的现在分词 )；撬开 | |
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bestial
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| adj.残忍的；野蛮的 | |
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53
sodden
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| adj.浑身湿透的；v.使浸透；使呆头呆脑 | |
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hideous
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| adj.丑陋的，可憎的，可怕的，恐怖的 | |
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subtlety
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| n.微妙，敏锐，精巧；微妙之处，细微的区别 | |
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scarlet
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| n.深红色，绯红色，红衣；adj.绯红色的 | |
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hideousness
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58
gape
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| v.张口，打呵欠，目瞪口呆地凝视 | |
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59
droop
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| v.低垂，下垂；凋萎，萎靡 | |
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concealed
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| a.隐藏的，隐蔽的 | |
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61
gasping
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| adj. 气喘的, 痉挛的 动词gasp的现在分词 | |
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invalid
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| n.病人，伤残人；adj.有病的，伤残的；无效的 | |
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63
blackmailed
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| 胁迫，尤指以透露他人不体面行为相威胁以勒索钱财( blackmail的过去式 ) | |
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64
withered
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| adj. 枯萎的，干瘪的，（人身体的部分器官）因病萎缩的或未发育良好的 动词wither的过去式和过去分词形式 | |
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65
shred
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| v.撕成碎片，变成碎片；n.碎布条，细片，些少 | |
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66
crumpled
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| adj. 弯扭的, 变皱的 动词crumple的过去式和过去分词形式 | |
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67
tavern
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| n.小旅馆，客栈；小酒店 | |
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affected
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| adj.不自然的，假装的 | |
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69
wrought
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| v.引起；以…原料制作；运转；adj.制造的 | |
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70
exquisite
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| adj.精美的；敏锐的；剧烈的，感觉强烈的 | |
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71
flutes
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| 长笛( flute的名词复数 )； 细长香槟杯（形似长笛） | |
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72
virtue
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| n.德行，美德；贞操；优点；功效，效力 | |
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73
argot
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| n.隐语，黑话 | |
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74
paraphrases
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| n.释义，意译( paraphrase的名词复数 )v.释义，意译( paraphrase的第三人称单数 ) | |
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75
metaphors
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| 隐喻( metaphor的名词复数 ) | |
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76
monstrous
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| adj.巨大的；恐怖的；可耻的，丢脸的 | |
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orchids
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| n.兰花( orchid的名词复数 ) | |
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78
ecstasies
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| 狂喜( ecstasy的名词复数 )； 出神； 入迷； 迷幻药 | |
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morbid
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| adj.病的；致病的；病态的；可怕的 | |
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80
confessions
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| n.承认( confession的名词复数 )；自首；声明；（向神父的）忏悔 | |
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81
incense
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| v.激怒；n.香，焚香时的烟，香气 | |
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82
cadence
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| n.（说话声调的）抑扬顿挫 | |
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83
malady
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| n.病，疾病(通常做比喻) | |
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84
solitary
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| adj.孤独的，独立的，荒凉的；n.隐士 | |
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85
harry
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| vt.掠夺，蹂躏，使苦恼 | |
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86
entirely
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| ad.全部地，完整地；完全地，彻底地 | |
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