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“Don’t keep Dorian too long,” said the painter. “This is going to be my masterpiece.”
Lord Henry went out to the garden, and found Dorian Gray holding a flower to his face. He came close to him, and put his hand on his shoulder.
Dorian Gray frowned and turned his head away. He liked the tall young man who was standing by him. His dark, romantic face interested him. There was something in his low, musical voice that was fascinating. But he felt a little afraid. Why was this stranger having a strong influence on him like this? He had known Basil Hallward for months, but the friendship between them had not changed him. Suddenly someone had come into his life and turned it upside down[17 - upside down – вверх ногами]. Someone who seemed to have the key to the mystery of life itself.
And yet, what was there to be afraid of? He was not a schoolboy or a girl. It was silly to be afraid.
“Let us go and sit out of the sun. I don’t want you to be burnt by the sun.”
“What does that matter?” cried Dorian Gray, laughing as he sat down on the seat at the end of the garden.
“It should matter very much to you, Mr. Gray.”
“Why?”
“Because you are young, and youth is the best thing in the world.”
“I don’t feel that, Lord Henry.”
“No, you don’t feel it now. Some day when you are old and ugly you will feel it terribly. Now, wherever you go, you charm the world. Will it always be so? You have a wonderfully beautiful face, Mr. Gray.”
“I don’t think.”
“Don’t frown. It is true. The gods have been good to you. But what the gods give they quickly take away[18 - But what the gods give they quickly take away. – Но боги скоро отнимают то, что дают.]. You have only a few years in which to really live, perfectly and fully. Live your life now, while you are still young!”
Suddenly the painter appeared at the door and waved at them to come in. They turned to each other and smiled.
“I am waiting,” he cried. “Do come in. The light is quite perfect, and you can bring your drinks.”
They got up and walked towards the house together.
“You are glad you have met me, Mr. Gray,” said Lord Henry, looking at him.
“Yes, I am glad now. I wonder whether I will always be glad.”
“Always! That is a terrible word. Women are so fond of using it.”
After about a quarter of an hour Hallward stopped painting. He stood back and looked at the portrait for a few moments. Then he bent down and signed his name in red paint on the bottom left-hand corner.
“It is finished,” he cried. “And you have sat splendidly to-day. I am awfully obliged to you.”
Lord Henry came over and examined the picture. It was certainly a wonderful work of art.
“My dear man,” he said. “It is the best portrait of our time. Mr. Gray, come over and look at yourself.”
Dorian walked across to look at the painting. When he saw it his cheeks went red with pleasure. He felt that he recognized his own beauty for the first time. But then he remembered what Lord Henry had said. His beauty would only be there for a few years. One day he would be old and ugly.
“Don’t you like it?” cried Hallward, not understanding why the boy was silent.
“Of course he likes it,” said Lord Henry. “Who wouldn’t like it? It is one of the greatest paintings in modern art. I will give you anything you like to ask for it. I must have it.”
“It is not my property, Harry.”
“Whose is it?”
“Dorian’s, of course,” answered the painter.
“He is a very lucky fellow.”
“How sad it is!” said Dorian Gray, who was still staring at his own portrait. “I will grow old and horrible. But this painting will always stay young. It will never be older than this day in June… If only it were the other way!”
“What do you mean?” asked Hallward.
“If I could stay young and the picture grow old! For that – for that – I would give everything! Yes, there is nothing in the whole world I would not give! I would give my soul for that!”
“I don’t think you would like that, Basil!” cried Lord Henry, laughing.
“I certainly would not, Harry,” said Hallward.
Dorian Gray turned and looked at him. “You like your art better than your friends. I am no more to you than a green bronze figure.”
The painter stared in amazement. It was so unlike Dorian to speak like that. What had happened? He seemed quite angry. His face was flushed and his cheeks burning.
“You will always like this painting. But how long will you like me? Until I start getting old. Lord Henry Wotton is perfectly right. When I lose my beauty, I will lose everything. I shall kill myself before I get old.”
Hallward turned white, and caught his hand. “Dorian! Dorian!” he cried. “Don’t talk like that, I have never had a friend like you, and I will never have another. How can you be jealous of a painting? You are more beautiful than any work of art.”
“I am jealous of everything whose beauty does not die. I am jealous of the portrait you have painted of me. Why should it keep what I must lose?” Hot tears came into his eyes as he threw himself on the sofa.
“You did this, Harry,” said the painter, angrily.
Lord Henry shook his head. “It is the real Dorian Gray – that is all.”
“Harry, I can’t argue with two of my best friends at once. Between you both you have made me hate the best piece of work I have ever done. What is it but canvas and colour?[19 - What is it but canvas and colour? – Ведь это только холст и краски.] I will destroy it.”
Dorian Gray watched as Hallward walked over to the painting-table and picked up a knife. The boy jumped from the sofa, tore the knife from Hallward’s hand and threw it across the room. “Don’t, Basil, don’t!” he cried. “It would be murder!”
“I am glad that you appreciate my work at last, Dorian,” said the painter coldly. “I never thought you would.”
“Appreciate it? I am in love with it, Basil. It is part of myself. I feel that.”
“What silly people you are, both of you!” said Lord Henry. “I don’t like scenes, except on the stage. Lets forget about the painting for one night and go to the theatre.”
“I would like to come to the theatre with you, Lord Henry.”
“And you will come too, won’t you, Basil?”
“I can’t,” said Hallward. “I have too much work to do.”
“Well, you and I will go together, Mr. Gray.”
The painter bit his lip and walked over to the picture.
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[20 - family affection – родственные связи], I assure you, Uncle George. I want to get something out of you.[21 - I want to get something out of you. – Мне от вас кое-что нужно.]”
“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[22 - That is what I have come to learn. – Вот это-то я и пришёл у вас узнать.], Uncle George. Or rather, I know who he is. He is the last Lord Kelso’s grandson[23 - the last Lord Kelso’s grandson – внук последнего лорда Келсо]. His mother was a Devereux, Lady Margaret Devereux[24 - Margaret Devereux – Маргарет Девере]. 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[25 - a mere nobody – полнейшее ничтожество], 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[26 - Dartmoor – Дартмур] wants to marry an American? Ain’t[27 - ain’t = are mot] 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[28 - Eve – Ева], they are so excessively anxious to get out of it[29 - they are so excessively anxious to get out of it – они стремятся выбраться оттуда],” 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[30 - charity appeals – воззвания о пожертвованиях]. 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[31 - such beauty was destined to fade – такой красоте суждено увянуть]!
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[32 - Vandeleur – Ванделер], 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[33 - under a spell – заколдованный, очарованный].
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.
Chapter 4
One afternoon, a month later, Dorian Gray was sitting in a luxurious arm-chair, in the little library of Lord Henry’s house in Mayfair[34 - Mayfair – Мэйфер]. Lord Henry had not yet come in. He was always late, Dorian Gray was bored and once or twice he thought of going away.
At last he heard a step outside and the door opened. “How late you are, Harry!” he said. “I’m afraid it is not Harry, Mr. Gray. It is only his wife.”
He looked around quickly and got to his feet. “I am sorry, I thought —”
“I know you quite well by your photographs, I think my husband has got seventeen of them.”
“Not seventeen, Lady Henry?”
“Well, eighteen, then. And I saw you with him the other night at the theatre. But here is Harry!”
Lord Henry smiled at them both. “So sorry I am late, Dorian.”
“I am afraid I must go,” said Lady Henry. “Goodbye, Mr. Gray. Goodbye, Harry. You are eating out, I suppose? I am too. Perhaps I will see you later.”
“Perhaps, my dear,” said Lord Henry, shutting the door behind her. Then he lit a cigarette and threw himself down on the sofa.
“Never marry a woman with straw-coloured hair, Dorian,” he said.
“Why, Harry?”
“Because they are so sentimental.”
“But I like sentimental people.”
“Never marry at all, Dorian. Men marry because they are tired; women, because they are curious: both are disappointed.”
“I don’t think I will marry, Harry. I am too much in love. I’m in love with the most beautiful girl.”
“Who are you in love with?” asked Lord Henry, after a pause.
“With an actress,” said Dorian Gray. His face became red.
“How ordinary.”
“You would not say that if you saw her, Harry.”
“Who is she?”
