《道林格雷的画像》第32章

……was　it　really　only　last　night？……　when　she　played　so　badly；　and　my　heart　almost　broke。　she　explained　it　all　to　me。　it　was　terribly　pathetic。　but　i　was　not　moved　a　bit。　i　thought　her　shallow。　suddenly　something　happened　that　made　me　afraid。　i　cant　tell　you　what　it　was；　but　it　was　terrible。　i　said　i　would　go　back　to　her。　i　felt　i　had　done　wrong。　and　now　she　is　dead。　my　god！　my　god！　harry；　what　shall　i　do？　you　dont　know　the　danger　i　am　in；　and　there　is　nothing　to　keep　me　straight。　she　would　have　done　that　for　me。　she　had　no　right　to　kill　herself。　it　was　selfish　of　her。〃
〃my　dear　dorian；〃　answered　lord　henry；　taking　a　cigarette　from　his　case　and　producing　a　gold…latten　matchbox；　〃the　only　way　a　woman　can　ever　reform　a　man　is　by　boring　him　so　pletely　that　he　loses　all　possible　interest　in　life。　if　you　had　married　this　girl；　you　would　have　been　wretched。　of　course；　you　would　have　treated　her　kindly。　one　can　always　be　kind　to　people　about　whom　one　cares　nothing。　but　she　would　have　soon　found　out　that　you　were　absolutely　indifferent　to　her。　and　when　a　woman　finds　that　out　about　her　husband；　she　either　bees　dreadfully　dowdy；　or　wears　very　smart　bonnets　that　some　other　womans　husband　has　to　pay　for。　i　say　nothing　about　the　social　mistake；　which　would　have　been　abject……which；　of　course；　i　would　not　have　allowed……　but　i　assure　you　that　in　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　not　my　fault　that　this　terrible　tragedy　has　prevented　my　doing　what　was　right。　i　remember　your　saying　once　that　there　is　a　fatality　about　good　resolutions……that　they　are　always　made　too　late。　mine　certainly　were。〃　〃good　resolutions　are　useless　attempts　to　interfere　with　scientific　laws。　their　origin　is　pure　vanity。　their　result　is　absolutely　nil。　they　give　us；　now　and　then；　some　of　those　luxurious　sterile　emotions　that　have　a　certain　charm　for　the　weak。　that　is　all　that　can　be　said　for　them。　they　are　simply　cheques　that　men　draw　on　a　bank　where　they　have　no　account。〃
〃harry；〃　cried　dorian　gray；　ing　over　and　sitting　down　beside　him；　〃why　is　it　that　i　cannot　feel　this　tragedy　as　much　as　i　want　to？　i　dont　think　i　am　heartless。　do　you？〃
〃you　have　done　too　many　foolish　things　during　the　last　fortnight　to　be　entitled　to　give　yourself　that　name；　dorian；〃　answered　lord　henry　with　his　sweet　melancholy　smile。
the　lad　frowned。　〃i　dont　like　that　explanation；　harry；〃　he　rejoined；　〃but　i　am　glad　you　dont　think　i　am　heartless。　i　am　nothing　of　the　kind。　i　know　i　am　not。　and　yet　i　must　admit　that　this　thing　that　has　happened　does　not　affect　me　as　it　should。　it　seems　to　me　to　be　simply　like　a　wonderful　ending　to　a　wonderful　play。　it　has　all　the　terrible　beauty　of　a　greek　tragedy；　a　tragedy　in　which　i　took　a　great　part；　but　by　which　i　have　not　been　wounded。〃
〃it　is　an　interesting　question；〃　said　lord　henry；　who　found　an　exquisite　pleasure　in　playing　on　the　lads　unconscious　egotism；　〃an　extremely　interesting　question。　i　fancy　that　the　true　explanation　is　this：　it　often　happens　that　the　real　tragedies　of　life　occur　in　such　an　inartistic　manner　that　they　hurt　us　by　their　crude　violence；　their　absolute　incoherence；　their　absurd　want　of　meaning；　their　entire　lack　of　style。　they　affect　us　just　as　vulgarity　affects　us。　they　give　us　an　impression　of　sheer　brute　force；　and　we　revolt　against　that。　sometimes；　however；　a　tragedy　that　possesses　artistic　elements　of　beauty　crosses　our　lives。　if　these　elements　of　beauty　are　real；　the　whole　thing　simply　appeals　to　our　sense　of　dramatic　effect。　suddenly　we　find　that　we　are　no　longer　the　actors；　but　the　spectators　of　the　play。　or　rather　we　are　both。　we　watch　ourselves；　and　the　mere　wonder　of　the　spectacle　enthralls　us。　in　the　present　case；　what　is　it　that　has　really　happened？　some　one　has　killed　herself　for　love　of　you。　i　wish　that　i　had　ever　had　such　an　experience。　it　would　have　made　me　in　love　with　love　for　the　rest　of　my　life。　the　people　who　have　adored　me……there　have　not　been　very　many；　but　there　have　been　some……have　always　insisted　on　living　on；　long　after　i　had　ceased　to　care　for　them；　or　they　to　care　for　me。　they　have　bee　stout　and　tedious；　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　an　utter　intellectual　stagnation　it　reveals！　one　should　absorb　the　colour　of　life；　but　one　should　never　remember　its　details。　details　are　always　vulgar。〃
〃i　must　sow　poppies　in　my　garden；〃　sighed　dorian。
〃there　is　no　necessity；〃　rejoined　his　panion。　〃life　has　always　poppies　in　her　hands。　of　course；　now　and　then　things　linger。　i　once　wore　nothing　but　violets　all　through　one　season；　as　a　form　of　artistic　mourning　for　a　romance　that　would　not　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　of　eternity。　well……would　you　believe　it？……a　week　ago；　at　lady　hampshires；　i　found　myself　seated　at　dinner　next　the　lady　in　question；　and　she　insisted　on　going　over　the　whole　thing　again；　and　digging　up　the　past；　and　raking　up　the　future。　i　had　buried　my　romance　in　a　bed　of　asphodel。　she　dragged　it　out　again　and　assured　me　that　i　had　spoiled　her　life。　i　am　bound　to　state　that　she　ate　an　enormous　dinner；　so　i　did　not　feel　any　anxiety。　but　what　a　lack　of　taste　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　a　sixth　act；　and　as　soon　as　the　interest　of　the　play　is　entirely　over；　they　propose　to　continue　it。　if　they　were　allowed　their　own　way；　every　edy　would　have　a　tragic　ending；　and　every　tragedy　would　culminate　in　a　farce。　they　are　charmingly　artificial；　but　they　have　no　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　me　what　sibyl　vane　did　for　you。　ordinary　women　always　console　themselves。　some　of　them　do　it　by　going　in　for　sentimental　colours。　never　trust　a　woman　who　wears　mauve；　whatever　her　age　may　be；　or　a　woman　over　thirty