CHAPTER IV.
關燈
小
中
大
Oneafternoon,amonthlater,DorianGraywasreclininginaluxuriousarm-chair,inthelittlelibraryofLordHenry’shouseinMayfair.Itwas,initsway,averycharmingroom,withitshighpanelledwainscotingofolive-stainedoak,itscream-colouredfriezeandceilingofraisedplasterwork,anditsbrickdustfeltcarpetstrewnwithsilk,long-fringedPersianrugs.OnatinysatinwoodtablestoodastatuettebyClodion,andbesideitlayacopyofLesCentNouvelles,boundforMargaretofValoisbyClovisEveandpowderedwiththegiltdaisiesthatQueenhadselectedforherdevice.Somelargebluechinajarsandparrot-tulipswererangedonthemantelshelf,andthroughthesmallleadedpanesofthewindowstreamedtheapricot-colouredlightofasummerdayinLondon.
LordHenryhadnotyetcomein.Hewasalwayslateonprinciple,hisprinciplebeingthatpunctualityisthethiefoftime.Sotheladwaslookingrathersulky,aswithlistlessfingersheturnedoverthepagesofanelaboratelyillustratededitionofManonLescautthathehadfoundinoneofthebook-cases.TheformalmonotonoustickingoftheLouisQuatorzeclockannoyedhim.Onceortwicehethoughtofgoingaway.
Atlastheheardastepoutside,andthedooropened.“Howlateyouare,Harry!”hemurmured.
“IamafraiditisnotHarry,Mr.Gray,”answeredashrillvoice.
Heglancedquicklyroundandrosetohisfeet.“Ibegyourpardon.Ithought—”
“Youthoughtitwasmyhusband.Itisonlyhiswife.Youmustletmeintroducemyself.Iknowyouquitewellbyyourphotographs.Ithinkmyhusbandhasgotseventeenofthem.”
“Notseventeen,LadyHenry?”
“Well,eighteen,then.AndIsawyouwithhimtheothernightattheopera.”Shelaughednervouslyasshespoke,andwatchedhimwithhervagueforget-me-noteyes.Shewasacuriouswoman,whosedressesalwayslookedasiftheyhadbeendesignedinarageandputoninatempest.Shewasusuallyinlovewithsomebody,and,asherpassionwasneverreturned,shehadkeptallherillusions.Shetriedtolookpicturesque,butonlysucceededinbeinguntidy.HernamewasVictoria,andshehadaperfectmaniaforgoingtochurch.
“ThatwasatLohengrin,LadyHenry,Ithink?”
“YesitwasatdearLohengrin.IlikeWagner’smusicbetterthananybody’s.Itissoloudthatonecantalkthewholetimewithoutotherpeoplehearingwhatonesays.Thatisagreatadvantage,don’tyouthinkso,Mr.Gray?”
Thesamenervousstaccatolaughbrokefromherthinlips,andherfingersbegantoplaywithalongtortoise-shellpaper-knife.
Doriansmiledandshookhishead:“IamafraidIdon’tthinkso,LadyHenry.Inevertalkduringmusic—atleast,duringgoodmusic.Ifonehearsbadmusic,itisone’sdutytodrownitinconversation.”
“Ah!thatisoneofHarry’sviews,isn’tit,Mr.Gray?IalwayshearHarry’sviewsfromhisfriends.ItistheonlywayIgettoknowofthem.ButyoumustnotthinkIdon’tlikegoodmusic.Iadoreit,butIamafraidofit.Itmakesmetooromantic.Ihavesimplyworshippedpianists—twoatatime,sometimes,Harrytellsme.Idon’tknowwhatitisaboutthem.Perhapsitisthattheyareforeigners.Theyallare,ain’tthey?EventhosethatareborninEnglandbecomeforeignersafteratime,don’tthey?Itissocleverofthem,andsuchacomplimenttoart.Makesitquitecosmopolitan,doesn’tit?Youhaveneverbeentoanyofmyparties,haveyou,Mr.Gray?Youmustcome.Ican’taffordorchids,butIsparenoexpenseinforeigners.Theymakeone’sroomslooksopicturesque.ButhereisHarry!Harry,Icameintolookforyou,toaskyousomething—Iforgetwhatitwas—andIfoundMr.Grayhere.Wehavehadsuchapleasantchataboutmusic.Wehavequitethesameideas.NoIthinkourideasarequitedifferent.Buthehasbeenmostpleasant.IamsogladI’veseenhim.”
“Iamcharmed,mylove,quitecharmed,”saidLordHenry,elevatinghisdark,crescent-shapedeyebrowsandlookingatthembothwithanamusedsmile.“SosorryIamlate,Dorian.IwenttolookafterapieceofoldbrocadeinWardourStreetandhadtobargainforhoursforit.Nowadayspeopleknowthepriceofeverythingandthevalueofnothing.”
“IamafraidImustbegoing,”exclaimedLadyHenry,breakinganawkwardsilencewithhersillysuddenlaugh.“Ihavepromisedtodrivewiththeduchess.Good-bye,Mr.Gray.Good-bye,Harry.Youarediningout,Isuppose?SoamI.PerhapsIshallseeyouatLadyThornbury’s.”
“Idaresay,mydear,”saidLordHenry,shuttingthedoorbehindheras,lookinglikeabirdofparadisethathadbeenoutallnightintherain,sheflittedoutoftheroom,leavingafaintodouroffrangipanni.Thenhelitacigaretteandflunghimselfdownonthesofa.
“Nevermarryawomanwithstraw-colouredhair,Dorian,”hesaidafterafewpuffs.
“Why,Harry?”
“Becausetheyaresosentimental.”
“ButIlikesentimentalpeople.”
“Nevermarryatall,Dorian.Menmarrybecausetheyaretiredwomen,becausetheyarecurious:botharedisappointed.”
“Idon’tthinkIamlikelytomarry,Harry.Iamtoomuchinlove.Thatisoneofyouraphorisms.Iamputtingitintopractice,asIdoeverythingthatyousay.”
“Whoareyouinlovewith?”askedLordHenryafterapause.
“Withanactress,”saidDorianGray,blushing.
LordHenryshruggedhisshoulders.“Thatisarathercommonplacedébut.”
“Youwouldnotsaysoifyousawher,Harry.”
“Whoisshe?”
“HernameisSibylVane.”
“Neverheardofher.”
“Noonehas.Peoplewillsomeday,however.Sheisagenius.”
“Mydearboy,nowomanisagenius.Womenareadecorativesex.Theyneverhaveanythingtosay,buttheysayitcharmingly.Womenrepresentthetriumphofmatterovermind,justasmenrepresentthetriumphofmindovermorals.”
“Harry,howcanyou?”
“MydearDorian,itisquitetrue.Iamanalysingwomenatpresent,soIoughttoknow.Thesubjectisnotsoab
