霍白筠 415万字 372951人读过 连载
"you wrecked the life of sibyl vane," was the answer, "and sibyl vane was my sister. she killed herself. i know it. her death is at your door. i swore i would kill you in return. for years i have sought you. i had no clue, no trace. the two people who could have described you were dead. i knew nothing of you but the pet name she used to call you. i heard it to-night by chance. make your peace with god, for to-night you are going to die."
when he reached the library, he saw the bag and coat in the corner. they must be hidden away somewhere. he unlocked a secret press that was in the wainscoting, a press in which he kept his own curious disguises, and put them into it. he could easily burn them afterwards. then he pulled out his watch. it was twenty minutes to two.
there is no such thing as a moral or an immoral book. books are well written, or badly written.
as the chime struck one, campbell turned round, and looking at dorian gray, saw that his eyes were filled with tears. there was something in the purity and refinement of that sad face that seemed to enrage him. "you are infamous, absolutely infamous!" he muttered.
"except in america," rejoined lord henry languidly. "but i didnt say he was married. i said he was engaged to be married. there is a great difference. i have a distinct remembrance of being married, but i have no recollection at all of being engaged. i am inclined to think that i never was engaged."
so that was the story of dorian grays parentage. crudely as it had been told to him, it had yet stirred him by its suggestion of a strange, almost modern romance. a beautiful woman risking everything for a mad passion. a few wild weeks of happiness cut short by a hideous, treacherous crime. months of voiceless agony, and then a child born in pain. the mother snatched away by death, the boy left to solitude and the tyranny of an old and loveless man. yes; it was an interesting background. it posed the lad, made him more perfect, as it were. behind every exquisite thing that existed, there was something tragic. worlds had to be in travail, that the meanest flower might blow. . . . and how charming he had been at dinner the night before, as with startled eyes and lips parted in frightened pleasure he had sat opposite to him at the club, the red candleshades staining to a richer rose the wakening wonder of his face. talking to him was like playing upon an exquisite violin. he answered to every touch and thrill of the bow. . . . there was something terribly enthralling in the exercise of influence. no other activity was like it. to project ones soul into some gracious form, and let it tarry there for a moment; to hear ones own intellectual views echoed back to one with all the added music of passion and youth; to convey ones temperament into another as though it were a subtle fluid or a strange perfume: there was a real joy in that--perhaps the most satisfying joy left to us in an age so limited and vulgar as our own, an age grossly carnal in its pleasures, and grossly common in its aims.... he was a marvellous type, too, this lad, whom by so curious a chance he had met in basils studio, or could be fashioned into a marvellous type, at any rate. grace was his, and the white purity of boyhood, and beauty such as old greek marbles kept for us. there was nothing that one could not do with him. he could be made a titan or a toy. what a pity it was that such beauty was destined to fade! . . . and basil? from a psychological point of view, how interesting he was! the new manner in art, the fresh mode of looking at life, suggested so strangely by the merely visible presence of one who was unconscious of it all; the silent spirit that dwelt in dim woodland, and walked unseen in open field, suddenly showing herself, dryadlike and not afraid, because in his soul who sought for her there had been wakened that wonderful vision to which alone are wonderful things revealed; the mere shapes and patterns of things becoming, as it were, refined, and gaining a kind of symbolical value, as though they were themselves patterns of some other and more perfect form whose shadow they made real: how strange it all was! he remembered something like it in history. was it not plato, that artist in thought, who had first analyzed it? was it not buonarotti who had carved it in the coloured marbles of a sonnet-sequence? but in our own century it was strange. . . . yes; he would try to be to dorian gray what, without knowing it, the lad was to the painter who had fashioned the wonderful portrait. he would seek to dominate him--had already, indeed, half done so. he would make that wonderful spirit his own. there was something fascinating in this son of love and death.
"was there anything found on him?" said dorian, leaning forward and looking at the man with startled eyes. "anything that would tell his name?"
"i wont hear of it," laughed lord henry, sinking into a chair. "from a label there is no escape! i refuse the title."
"kelsos grandson!" echoed the old gentleman. "kelsos grandson! ... of course.... i knew his mother intimately. i believe i was at her christening. she was an extraordinarily beautiful girl, margaret devereux, and made all the men frantic by running away with a penniless young fellow-- a mere nobody, sir, a subaltern in a foot regiment, or something of that kind. certainly. i remember the whole thing as if it happened yesterday. the poor chap was killed in a duel at spa a few months after the marriage. there was an ugly story about it. they said kelso got some rascally adventurer, some belgian brute, to insult his son-in-law in public--paid him, sir, to do it, paid him-- and that the fellow spitted his man as if he had been a pigeon. the thing was hushed up, but, egad, kelso ate his chop alone at the club for some time afterwards. he brought his daughter back with him, i was told, and she never spoke to him again. oh, yes; it was a bad business. the girl died, too, died within a year. so she left a son, did she? i had forgotten that. what sort of boy is he? if he is like his mother, he must be a good-looking chap."