her life. I am bound to state that she ate an enormous din-
become stout and tedious, and when I meet them, they go
ner, so I did not feel any anxiety. But what a lack of taste she
in at once for reminiscences. That awful memory of woman!
showed! The one charm of the past is that it is the past. But
What a fearful thing it is! And what an utter intellectual
women never know when the curtain has fallen. They al-
stagnation it reveals! One should absorb the colour of life,
ways want a sixth act, and as soon as the interest of the play
but one should never remember its details. Details are al-
is entirely over, they propose to continue it. If they were al-
ways vulgar.”
lowed their own way, every comedy would have a tragic end-
“I must sow poppies in my garden,” sighed Dorian.
ing, and every tragedy would culminate in a farce. They are
“There is no necessity,” rejoined his companion. “Life has
charmingly artificial, but they have no sense of art. You are
always poppies in her hands. Of course, now and then things
more fortunate than I am. I assure you, Dorian, that not one
linger. I once wore nothing but violets all through one sea-
of the women I have known would have done for me what
son, as a form of artistic mourning for a romance that would
Sibyl Vane did for you. Ordinary women always console
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The Picture of Dorian Gray
themselves. Some of them do it by going in for sentimental
They make one believe in the reality of the things we all play
colours. Never trust a woman who wears mauve, whatever
with, such as romance, passion, and love.”
her age may be, or a woman over thirty-five who is fond of
“I was terribly cruel to her. You forget that.”
pink ribbons. It always means that they have a history. Oth-
“I am afraid that women appreciate cruelty, downright cru-
ers find a great consolation in suddenly discovering the good
elty, more than anything else. They have wonderfully primi-
qualities of their husbands. They flaunt their conjugal felic-
tive instincts. We have emancipated them, but they remain
ity in one’s face, as if it were the most fascinating of sins.
slaves looking for their masters, all the same. They love be-
Religion consoles some. Its mysteries have all the charm of a
ing dominated. I am sure you were splendid. I have never
flirtation, a woman once told me, and I can quite under-
seen you really and absolutely angry, but I can fancy how
stand it. Besides, nothing makes one so vain as being told
delightful you looked. And, after all, you said something to
that one is a sinner. Conscience makes egotists of us all. Yes;
me the day before yesterday that seemed to me at the time to
there is really no end to the consolations that women find in
be merely fanciful, but that I see now was absolutely true,
modern life. Indeed, I have not mentioned the most impor-
and it holds the key to everything.”
tant one.”
“What was that, Harry?”
“What is that, Harry?” said the lad listlessly.
“You said to me that Sibyl Vane represented to you all the
“Oh, the obvious consolation. Taking some one else’s ad-
heroines of romance—that she was Desdemona one night,
mirer when one loses one’s own. In good society that always
and Ophelia the other; that if she died as Juliet, she came to
whitewashes a woman. But really, Dorian, how different Sibyl
life as Imogen.”
Vane must have been from all the women one meets! There
“She will never come to life again now,” muttered the lad,
is something to me quite beautiful about her death. I am
burying his face in his hands.
glad I am living in a century when such wonders happen.
“No, she will never come to life. She has played her last
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Oscar Wilde
part. But you must think of that lonely death in the tawdry
well you know me! But we will not talk again of what has
dressing-room simply as a strange lurid fragment from some
happened. It has been a marvellous experience. That is all. I
Jacobean tragedy, as a wonderful scene from Webster, or Ford,
wonder if life has still in store for me anything as marvel-
or Cyril Tourneur. The girl never really lived, and so she has
lous.”
never really died. To you at least she was always a dream, a
“Life has everything in store for you, Dorian. There is noth-
phantom that flitted through Shakespeare’s plays and left
ing that you, with your extraordinary good looks, will not be
them lovelier for its presence, a reed through which
able to do.”
Shakespeare’s music sounded richer and more full of joy. The
“But suppose, Harry, I became haggard, and old, and
moment she touched actual life, she marred it, and it marred
wrinkled? What then?”
her, and so she passed away. Mourn for Ophelia, if you like.
“Ah, then,” said Lord Henry, rising to go, “then, my dear
Put ashes on your head because Cordelia was strangled. Cry
Dorian, you would have to fight for your victories. As it is,
out against Heaven because the daughter of Brabantio died.
they are brought to you. No, you must keep your good looks.
But don’t waste your tears over Sibyl Vane. She was less real
We live in an age that reads too much to be wise, and that
than they are.”
thinks too much to be beautiful. We cannot spare you. And
There was a silence. The evening darkened in the room.
now you had better dress and drive down to the club. We are
Noiselessly, and with silver feet, the shadows crept in from
rather late, as it is.”
the garden. The colours faded wearily out of things.
“I think I shall join you at the opera, Harry. I feel too tired
After some time Dorian Gray looked up. “You have ex- [ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]