Портрет Дориана Грея / The Picture of Dorian Gray. Оскар Уайльд
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меня возненавидеть лучшее произведение искусства, которое я когда-либо создавал. Ведь это только холст и краски. Я его уничтожу.
Дориан Грей смотрел, как Холлуорд подошёл к рабочему столу и взял нож. Юноша спрыгнул с дивана, вырвал из руки Холлуорда нож и бросил его через комнату.
– Не надо, Бэзил, не делайте этого! – крикнул он. – Это будет убийство!
– Я рад, что вы всё-таки цените мою работу, Дориан, – холодно сказал художник. – Я уже и не надеялся.
– Ценю её? Я люблю её, Бэзил. Это часть меня самого. Я это чувствую.
– Какие вы оба глупые! – сказал лорд Генри. – Мне не нравятся сцены, если они происходят не в театре. Давайте на один вечер забудем о живописи и пойдём в театр.
– Я хотел бы отправиться с вами в театр, лорд Генри.
– А вы пойдёте, Бэзил?
– Я не смогу, – сказал Холлуорд. – У меня слишком много работы.
– Хорошо, мы пойдем вдвоем, мистер Грей.
Художник закусил губу и шагнул к портрету.
Chapter 3
At half-past twelve next day Lord Henry Wotton strolled from Curzon Street over to the Albany to call on his uncle, Lord Fermor. His father had been our ambassador at Madrid, but had retired from the diplomatic service.
When Lord Henry entered the room, he found his uncle sitting in a rough shooting-coat and smoking. “Well, Harry,” said the old gentleman, “what brings you out so early? I thought you dandies never got up till two, and were not visible till five.”
“Pure family affection, I assure you, Uncle George. I want to get something out of you.”
“Money, I suppose,” said Lord Fermor. “Well, sit down and tell me all about it. Young people, nowadays, imagine that money is everything.”
“Yes,” murmured Lord Henry, settling his button-hole in his coat, “and when they grow older they know it. But I don't want money. What I want is information: not useful information, of course; useless information. Do you know Mr. Dorian Gray?”
“Mr. Dorian Gray? Who is he?” asked Lord Fermor.
“That is what I have come to learn, Uncle George. Or rather, I know who he is. He is the last Lord Kelso's grandson. His mother was a Devereux, Lady Margaret Devereux. I want you to tell me about his mother. What was she like? Whom did she marry? I am very much interested in Mr. Gray at present. I have only just met him.”
“Kelso's grandson!” echoed the old gentleman. “Kelso's grandson! Of course, I knew his mother intimately. She was a very beautiful girl, Margaret Devereux, but she married a penniless young fellow – a mere nobody, sir. Certainly I remember the whole thing as if it happened yesterday. Lady Margaret fell in love when she was very young. She ran away from home and married a soldier. But she did not have a happy life. The poor chap was killed in a duel, a few months after the marriage. Lord Kelso was very angry and never talked to Lady Margaret again. Dorian's father, the soldier, was killed before Dorian was born. Lady Margaret died before Dorian was a year old. So Dorian was an orphan. 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 boy.”
“He is very good-looking,” said Lord Henry.
“He should have a lot of money waiting for him. Dorian is going to be very rich. Soon Dorian would be twenty-one. Then he would have all Lord Kelso's money,” continued the old man.
“And… his mother was very beautiful?” asked Lord Henry.
“Margaret Devereux was one of the loveliest creatures I ever saw, Harry. She could have married anybody she chose. She was romantic, though. By the way, Harry, talking about silly marriages, Dartmoor wants to marry an American? Ain't English girls good enough for him?”
“It is rather fashionable to marry Americans just now, Uncle George.”
“Is she pretty?”
“She behaves as if she was beautiful. Most American women do. It is the secret of their charm.”
“Why can't these American women stay in their own country? They are always telling us that it is the paradise for women.”
“It is. That is the reason why, like Eve, they are so excessively anxious to get out of it,” said Lord Henry. “Good-bye, Uncle George. Thanks for giving me the information I wanted. I always like to know everything about my new friends, and nothing about my old ones.”
“Where are you lunching, Harry?”
“At Aunt Agatha's. I have asked myself and Mr. Gray. He is her latest protege.”
“Tell your Aunt Agatha, Harry, not to bother me any more with her charity appeals. I am sick of them. Why, the good woman thinks that I have nothing to do but to write cheques for her.”
Lord Henry went out. It was a sad and romantic story. Now Harry was even more interested in Dorian Gray. Dorian Gray… How charming he had been at dinner the night before! Talking to him was like playing upon an exquisite violin. What a pity it was that such beauty was destined to fade!
Lord Henry smiled. Yes; he would try to dominate Dorian Gray – had already, indeed, half done so. There was something fascinating in this son of Love and Death.
Suddenly he stopped and glanced up at the houses. He found that he had passed his aunt's some distance, and, smiling to himself, turned back.
“Late as usual, Harry,” cried his aunt, shaking her head at him.
His neighbour was Mrs. Vandeleur, one of his aunt's oldest friends. Lord Henry began to talk. He felt that the eyes of Dorian Gray were fixed on him. He charmed his listeners, everybody listened to Harry. But Harry was not talking to everybody. He was talking to Dorian. Sometimes Dorian smiled, sometimes his eyes were wide open with surprise. Dorian listened to everything. Dorian Gray never took his gaze off him, but sat like one under a spell.
Dorian Gray spent every day of the next three weeks with Lord Henry. They had lunch together and went to parties. And Dorian was influenced by Lord Henry more and more. When Dorian was alone, he was always looking for pleasurable things to do.
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