The Picture of Dorian Gray. Оскар Уайльд

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СКАЧАТЬ picture is yours, Dorian. I gave it to you before it existed."

      "And you know you have been a little silly, Mr. Gray, and that you don't really mind being called a boy."

      "I should have minded very much this morning, Lord Henry."

      "Ah! this morning! You have lived since then."

      There came a knock to the door, and the butler entered with the tea-tray and set it down upon a small Japanese table. There was a [21] rattle of cups and saucers and the hissing of a fluted Georgian urn. Two globe-shaped china dishes were brought in by a page. Dorian Gray went over and poured the tea out. The two men sauntered languidly to the table, and examined what was under the covers.

      "Let us go to the theatre to-night," said Lord Henry. "There is sure to be something on, somewhere. I have promised to dine at White's, but it is only with an old friend, so I can send him a wire and say that I am ill, or that I am prevented from coming in consequence of a subsequent engagement. I think that would be a rather nice excuse: it would have the surprise of candor."

      "It is such a bore putting on one's dress-clothes," muttered Hallward. "And, when one has them on, they are so horrid."

      "Yes," answered Lord Henry, dreamily, "the costume of our day is detestable. It is so sombre, so depressing. Sin is the only color-element left in modern life."

      "You really must not say things like that before Dorian, Harry."

      "Before which Dorian? The one who is pouring out tea for us, or the one in the picture?"

      "Before either."

      "I should like to come to the theatre with you, Lord Henry," said the lad.

      "Then you shall come; and you will come too, Basil, won't you?"

      "I can't, really. I would sooner not. I have a lot of work to do."

      "Well, then, you and I will go alone, Mr. Gray."

      "I should like that awfully."

      Basil Hallward bit his lip and walked over, cup in hand, to the picture. "I will stay with the real Dorian," he said, sadly.

      "Is it the real Dorian?" cried the original of the portrait, running across to him. "Am I really like that?"

      "Yes; you are just like that."

      "How wonderful, Basil!"

      "At least you are like it in appearance. But it will never alter," said Hallward. "That is something."

      "What a fuss people make about fidelity!" murmured Lord Henry.

      "And, after all, it is purely a question for physiology. It has nothing to do with our own will. It is either an unfortunate accident, or an unpleasant result of temperament. Young men want to be faithful, and are not; old men want to be faithless, and cannot: that is all one can say."

      "Don't go to the theatre to-night, Dorian," said Hallward. "Stop and dine with me."

      "I can't, really."

      "Why?"

      "Because I have promised Lord Henry to go with him."

      "He won't like you better for keeping your promises. He always breaks his own. I beg you not to go."

      Dorian Gray laughed and shook his head.

      "I entreat you."

      The lad hesitated, and looked over at Lord Henry, who was watching them from the tea-table with an amused smile.

      [22] "I must go, Basil," he answered.

      "Very well," said Hallward; and he walked over and laid his cup down on the tray. "It is rather late, and, as you have to dress, you had better lose no time. Good-by, Harry; good-by, Dorian. Come and see me soon. Come to-morrow."

      "Certainly."

      "You won't forget?"

      "No, of course not."

      "And … Harry!"

      "Yes, Basil?"

      "Remember what I asked you, when in the garden this morning."

      "I have forgotten it."

      "I trust you."

      "I wish I could trust myself," said Lord Henry, laughing.--"Come, Mr. Gray, my hansom is outside, and I can drop you at your own place.--Good-by, Basil. It has been a most interesting afternoon."

      As the door closed behind them, Hallward flung himself down on a sofa, and a look of pain came into his face.

CHAPTER III

       Table of Contents

      [ … 22] One afternoon, a month later, Dorian Gray was reclining in a luxurious arm-chair, in the little library of Lord Henry's house in Curzon Street. It was, in its way, a very charming room, with its high panelled wainscoting of olive-stained oak, its cream-colored frieze and ceiling of raised plaster-work, and its brick-dust felt carpet strewn with long-fringed silk Persian rugs. On a tiny satinwood table stood a statuette by Clodion, and beside it lay a copy of "Les Cent Nouvelles," bound for Margaret of Valois by Clovis Eve, and powdered with the gilt daisies that the queen had selected for her device. Some large blue china jars, filled with parrot-tulips, were ranged on the mantel-shelf, and through the small leaded panes of the window streamed the apricot-colored light of a summer's day in London.

      Lord Henry had not come in yet. He was always late on principle, his principle being that punctuality is the thief of time. So the lad was looking rather sulky, as with listless fingers he turned over the pages of an elaborately-illustrated edition of "Manon Lescaut" that he had found in one of the bookcases. The formal monotonous ticking of the Louis Quatorze clock annoyed him. Once or twice he thought of going away.

      At last he heard a light step outside, and the door opened. "How late you are, Harry!" he murmured.

      "I am afraid it is not Harry, Mr. Gray," said a woman's voice.

      He glanced quickly round, and rose to his feet. "I beg your pardon. I thought--"

      "You thought it was my husband. It is only his wife. You must let me introduce myself. I know you quite well by your photographs. I think my husband has got twenty-seven of them."

      [23] "Not twenty-seven, Lady Henry?"

      "Well, twenty-six, then. And I saw you with him the other night at the Opera." She laughed nervously, as she spoke, and watched him with her vague forget-me-not eyes. She was a curious woman, whose dresses always looked as if they had been designed in a rage and put on in a tempest. She was always in love with somebody, and, as her passion was never returned, she had kept all her illusions. She tried to look picturesque, but only succeeded in being untidy. Her name was Victoria, and she had a perfect mania for going to church.

      "That СКАЧАТЬ