Dorian Gray Oscar Wilde Adapted Version English. Babylon Hill

Portrait of Dorian Gray | The Picture of Dorian Gray - Elementary Level (Audio + Book)

Heinemann Guided Readers, Elementary Level, 1993
language: English

An artist paints a picture of the young and handsome Dorian Gray. When he sees it, Dorian makes a wish that changes his life. As he grows older, his face stays young and handsome. But the picture changes. Why can't Dorian show it to anybody? What is its terrible secret?

Here is a version of the novel adapted for the so-called elementary level of language proficiency. (In general, there are 5 levels in this series). In the archive you will find text and audio.

Format: PDF + MP3 (RAR)
Size: 32 MB

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The Picture of Dorian Gray, Heinemann Guided Readers, Elementary Level
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The Picture of Dorian Gray - Intermediate Level (Audio + Book)

The Picture of Dorian Gray (Oscar Wilde); Text adaptation, notes and activities

Langenscheidt, 2003
language: English

When the superbly handsome Dorian Gray sees his portrait he makes a terrible wish: that the portrait will grow older and that he will remain young forever. What happens to the portrait that no one ever sees? This disturbing story of a man w ho is w illin g to se ll his sou l for etern al youth w h ile pursuing pleasure and passion, was first published in 1890. It is one of Oscar W ilde’s most celebrated works.

Accessible adaptation at intermediate level;
- Wide range of activities covering the four skills;
- FCE-style exercises;
- Trinity-style exercises (Grade 8); - Recording of parts of the text.

Format: PDF + MP3 (RAR)
Size: 73.63 MB

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The Picture of Dorian Gray, Langenscheidt, Intermediate Level
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The Picture of Dorian Gray - None Adapted (Audio + Book)

Dorian Gray, a young man of wealth and stature in late 1800’s London, meets Lord Henry Wotton while posing for a portrait by his friend Basil Hallward. Once the painting is complete, Dorian realizes that it will always be young and attractive, while he will be forced to age and wither with the years. Carelessly, he wishes the opposite were true. What happens is a treatise on morals, self-indulgence and how crucial personal responsibility is towards one’s self. Note: This is a recording of the 1890, 13-Chapter edition.

Audiobook "The Picture of Dorian Gray", text not adapted. The book itself (in the original) in two formats - pdf and fb2 - is in the archive.

Format: MP3, 64 kbps (06 hours 23 minutes) + PDF + FB2
Size: 167.7 (RAR)

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The Picture of Dorian Gray
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"The Picture of Dorian Gray - 01"

Translation from English M.Abkina

PREFACE

An artist is one who creates beauty.

To reveal oneself to people and hide the artist—that is what art strives for.

A critic is someone who is able to convey his impression of beauty in a new form or by new means.

The highest, as well as the lowest, form of criticism is one of the types of autobiography.

Those who find bad in the beautiful are spoiled people, and, moreover, corruption does not make them attractive. This is a great sin.

Those who are able to see the highest meaning in beauty are cultured people. They are not hopeless.

But the chosen one is the one who sees only one thing in beauty: Beauty.

There are no moral or immoral books. There are books that are well written and books that are poorly written. That's all.

The nineteenth century's hatred of Realism is the rage of Caliban when he saw himself in the mirror.

The nineteenth-century hatred of Romanticism is the rage of Caliban not being reflected in the mirror.

For an artist, a person’s moral life is only one of the themes of his work. The ethics of art is in the perfect use of imperfect means.

The artist does not seek to prove anything. Even undeniable truths can be proven.

The artist is not a moralist. Such an inclination of the artist gives rise to an unforgivable mannerism of style.

Do not attribute unhealthy tendencies to the artist: he is allowed to depict everything.

Thought and Word for the artist are the means of Art.

Vice and Virtue are the material for his creativity.

If we talk about form, the prototype of all arts is the art of the musician. If we talk about feeling - the art of the actor.

In all art there is something that lies on the surface and a symbol.

Anyone who tries to penetrate deeper than the surface takes risks.

And whoever reveals the symbol takes a risk.

In essence, Art is a mirror that reflects whoever looks into it, and not life at all.

If a work of art causes controversy, it means there is something new, complex and significant in it.

Even if critics disagree, the artist remains true to himself.

You can forgive a person who does something useful, as long as he does not admire it. For those who create something useless, the only justification is passionate love for their creation.

All art is completely useless.

Oscar Wilde

The thick aroma of roses filled the artist’s studio, and when the summer breeze rose in the garden, he flew into open door, brought with it either the heady smell of lilac or the delicate fragrance of scarlet hawthorn flowers.

From the sofa covered with Persian saddle cloths, on which Lord Henry Wotton lay, smoking, as always, countless cigarettes one after another, only a broom bush was visible - its golden and fragrant, like honey, flowers glowed hotly in the sun, and its trembling branches seemed , could hardly bear the weight of this sparkling splendor; from time to time, on the long silk curtains of the huge window, fanciful shadows of birds flying past flashed, creating for a moment the resemblance of Japanese drawings - and then Lord Henry thought about the yellow-faced artists of distant Tokyo, who sought to convey movement and impulse through the means of art, which was static in nature. The angry buzzing of the bees, making their way through the uncut tall grass or monotonously and persistently circling over the curly honeysuckle showered with golden dust, seemed to make the silence even more oppressive. The dull noise of London came here like the hum of a distant organ.

In the middle of the room stood on an easel a portrait of a young man of extraordinary beauty, and in front of the easel, a little further away, sat the artist, the same Basil Hallward, whose sudden disappearance several years ago had so excited London society and aroused so many fantastic speculations.

The artist looked at the beautiful young man, whom he depicted with such skill in the portrait, and the contented smile did not leave his face. But suddenly he jumped up and, closing his eyes, pressed his fingers to his eyelids, as if wanting to retain some amazing dream in his memory and afraid of waking up.

“This is your best work, Basil, the best of all that you have written,” said Lord Henry lazily. “You should definitely send it to an exhibition in Grosvenor next year.” It’s not worth joining the Academy: The Academy is too extensive and open to the public. Whenever you come, you meet so many people there that you don’t see the paintings, or so many paintings that you can’t see the people.

The first is very unpleasant, the second is even worse. No, the only suitable place

This is Grosvenor.

“And I’m not going to exhibit this portrait at all,” the artist responded, throwing his head back, according to his characteristic habit, about which his comrades at Oxford University used to make fun of him. “No, I won’t send it anywhere.”

Raising his eyebrows in surprise, Lord Henry looked at Basil through the blue smoke rising in strange rings from his opium-soaked cigarette.

Won't you send it anywhere? Why so? For what reason, my dear?

These artists are truly eccentric! They bend over backwards to achieve fame, and when fame comes, they seem to be burdened by it. How stupid this is! If it’s unpleasant when people talk about you a lot, then it’s even worse when they don’t talk about you at all. This portrait would elevate you, Basil, far above all the young artists in England, and would inspire great envy in the old, if old people are still capable of experiencing any feelings at all.

“I know you will laugh at me,” the artist objected, “but I really can’t show off this portrait... I put too much of myself into it.”

Lord Henry laughed, making himself more comfortable on the sofa.

Well, I knew that you would find this funny. Nevertheless, this is the absolute truth.

Too much of yourself? By God, Basil, I did not suspect such conceit in you. I don’t see the slightest resemblance between you, my black-haired, stern-faced friend, and this young Adonis, as if created from ivory and rose petals. Understand, Basil, he is a Narcissist, and you... Well, of course, you have a spiritual face and all that. But beauty, true beauty, disappears where spirituality appears. High developed intelligence This in itself is a kind of anomaly; it disrupts the harmony of the face. As soon as a person begins to think, his nose becomes disproportionately elongated, or his forehead enlarges, or something else spoils his face. Look at the eminent figures of any learned profession - how ugly they are! The exception is, of course, our spiritual shepherds, but these don’t bother their brains. The bishop, at eighty years old, continues to repeat what was instilled in him when he was an eighteen-year-old youth - naturally, his face retains its beauty and good looks. Judging by the portrait, your mysterious young friend, whose name you stubbornly refuse to name, is charming, -

This means he never thinks about anything. I am absolutely convinced of this.

He is probably a brainless and charming creature of God, which we should always have before us: in winter, when there are no flowers, to please the eyes, and in summer, to refresh our heated brain. No, Basil, don’t flatter yourself: you’re not at all like him.

“You didn’t understand me, Harry,” said the artist. “Of course, there is no similarity between me and this boy.” I know this very well. Yes, I wouldn’t want to be like him. You shrug your shoulders, don’t believe it? Meanwhile, I speak quite sincerely. There is something fatal in the fate of people, physically or spiritually perfect - exactly the same fate throughout history has seemed to guide the erring steps of kings. It is much safer to be no different from others. In this world, fools and freaks always make money.

They can sit quietly and watch others struggle. They are not given the opportunity to know the triumph of victories, but they are spared the bitterness of defeats. They live the way we all should live - without any worries, serenely, indifferent to everything. They do not destroy anyone and do not die at the hands of the enemy...

You are noble and rich, Harry, I have intelligence and talent, no matter how small, Dorian Gray has his beauty. And we will pay for all these gifts of the gods someday, we will pay with severe suffering.

Dorian Gray? Yeah, so that's his name? asked Lord Henry, approaching Hallward.

Yes. I didn't want to say his name...

But why?

How can I explain it to you... When I love someone very much, I never tell anyone their name. It's like giving away some part of someone you love to others. And you know - I became secretive, I like to keep secrets from people. This is perhaps the only thing that can make modern life exciting and mysterious for us. The most ordinary trifle acquires amazing interest as soon as you begin to hide it from people.

When I leave London, I now never tell my relatives where I am going.

If I tell them, all the fun will be gone. It's a funny whim, I agree, but it somehow brings a fair amount of romance into my life. Of course, you will say that this is terribly stupid?

“Not at all,” objected Lord Henry. “Not at all, my dear Basil!” You forget that I am a married man, and the only beauty of marriage is that both parties inevitably have to become more sophisticated in their lies. I never know where my wife is, and my wife doesn't know what I'm doing. When we meet - and she and I sometimes meet, when we dine together at a party or visit the Duke - we tell each other all sorts of tall tales with the most serious look. My wife does it much better than me. She never gets confused, but this happens to me all the time. However, if she happens to catch me, she doesn’t get angry and doesn’t make a scene. Sometimes it even annoys me. But she's only making fun of me.

“I can’t stand it when you talk about your family life in that tone, Harry,” said Basil Hallward, approaching the door to the garden. “I am sure that you are really a wonderful husband, but you are ashamed of your virtue.”

You are an amazing person! Never say anything moral and never do anything immoral. Your cynicism is just a pose.

I know that being natural is a pose, and the most hated pose by people! exclaimed Lord Henry, laughing.

The young people went out into the garden and sat down on a bamboo bench in the shade of a tall laurel bush. The sunbeams slid across its shiny, varnished leaves. White daisies swayed gently in the grass.

The host and guest sat in silence for some time. Then Lord Henry looked at his watch.

Well, unfortunately, I have to go, Basil,” he said. “But before I go, you must answer me the question I asked you.”

What question? - asked the artist without raising his eyes.

You know very well which one.

No, Harry, I don't know.

Okay, I'll remind you. Please explain why you decided not to send the portrait of Dorian Gray to the exhibition. I want to know the truth.

I told you the truth.

No. You said that there is too much of yourself in this portrait. But this is childish!

Understand, Harry. - Hallward looked into Lord Henry's eyes. - Every portrait painted with love is, in essence, a portrait of the artist himself, and not of the one who posed for him. The artist reveals not him, but himself on the canvas. And I'm afraid that the portrait will reveal the secret of my soul. That's why I don't want to exhibit it.

Lord Henry laughed.

And what is this secret? -- he asked.

So be it, I’ll tell you,” Hallward began somewhat embarrassed.

Nus? “I’m burning with impatience, Basil,” insisted Lord Henry, looking at him.

There’s almost nothing to say here, Harry... And you’re unlikely to understand me.

You probably won't even believe it.

Lord Henry only grinned in response and, bending down, picked a pink daisy from the grass.

“I’m absolutely sure that I’ll understand,” he responded, carefully examining the golden pistil of a flower with a white edge. “But I’m capable of believing in anything, and all the more willingly, the more incredible it is.”

A passing breeze shook a few flowers from the trees; heavy lilac tassels, as if woven from stars, slowly swayed in the sleepy silence softened by the heat. A grasshopper was chattering against the wall. A dragonfly flashed through the air like a long blue thread on transparent brown wings... Lord Henry thought he heard Basil’s heart beating in his chest, and he tried to guess what would happen next.

Well, so... - the artist spoke, after a short silence. - About two months ago I had to be at a reception with Lady Brandon. After all, we, poor artists, should appear in society from time to time, if only to show people that we are not savages. I remember your words that in a tailcoat and white tie, anyone, even a stockbroker, can pass for a civilized person.

In Lady Brandon's drawing room, I talked for about ten minutes with noble widows dressed to the nines and with boring academics, when I suddenly felt someone's gaze on me. I looked around and that’s when I saw Dorian Gray for the first time.

Our eyes met, and I felt myself turning pale. Some kind of instinctive fear gripped me, and I realized: in front of me was a man so charming that if I succumbed to his charm, he would absorb all of me, my soul and even my art. And I didn’t want any outside influences in my life. You know, Henry, what an independent character I have. I've always been my own boss... at least until I met Dorian Gray. Well, here... I don’t know how to explain it to you... Inner voice told me that I was on the eve of a terrible turning point in my life. I had a vague presentiment that fate was preparing extraordinary joys and equally exquisite torments for me. I felt creepy, and I was about to step towards the door, deciding to leave. I did this almost unconsciously, out of some kind of cowardice. Of course, trying to escape doesn't do me any credit. In all honesty...

Conscience and cowardice are essentially the same thing, Basil. "Conscience" --

the official name for cowardice, that's all.

I don’t believe this, Harry, and I don’t think you believe it either... In a word, I don’t know from what motives - perhaps out of pride, since I am very proud - I began to make my way to the exit. However, Lady Brandon, of course, intercepted me at the door. "Aren't you going to run away so early, Mr. Hallward?" - she screamed. Do you know what a shrill voice she has!

Still would! She is a real peacock, only without its beauty, -

said Lord Henry, tearing the daisy with his long, nervous fingers.

I couldn't get rid of her. She introduced me to the highest persons, then to various dignitaries in the stars and the Order of the Garter and some old ladies in huge tiaras and with hooked noses. She recommended me to everyone as her best friend, although she saw me for the second time in her life. Apparently, she took it into her head to include me in her collection of celebrities. It seems that at that time one of my paintings was a great success - in any case, they talked about it in penny newspapers, and in our time it is a patent for immortality.

And suddenly I found myself face to face with the very young man who at first sight had caused such a strange excitement in my soul. He stood so close that we almost collided. Our eyes met again. Here I foolishly asked Lady Brandon to introduce us. However, this, perhaps, was not such recklessness: all the same, even if we had not been introduced, we would inevitably have started talking to each other. I am sure about that. Dorian told me the same thing later. And he, too, immediately felt that it was not chance, but fate that brought us together.

What did Lady Brandon tell you about this charming young man? asked Lord Henry. I know her way of giving a quick description of each guest. I remember how she once led me to some formidable, red-faced old man, hung with orders and ribbons, and on the way, in a tragic whisper - probably heard by everyone in the living room - she told me in my ear the most stunning details of his biography. I simply simply ran away from her. I like to understand people myself, without the help of others. And Lady Brandon describes her guests exactly like an appraiser at an auction selling things under the hammer: she either tells you the most secret things about them, or tells you everything except what you would like to know.

Poor Lady Brandon! “You’re too hard on her, Harry,” Hallward remarked absently.

My dear, she tried to create a “salon”, but it turned out to be just a restaurant. Do you want me to admire her? Well, God bless you, tell me better, what did she say about Dorian Gray?

She muttered something like: “A lovely boy... his poor mother and I were inseparable... I forgot what he does... I'm afraid it's nothing... Oh yes, he plays the piano... Or the violin , dear Mr. Gray?" Both of us could not stop laughing, and this somehow immediately brought us closer.

It’s not bad if friendship begins with laughter, and it’s best if it ends with it,” said Lord Henry, picking another daisy.

Hallward shook his head.

You don't know what it is real friendship“Harry,” he said quietly. “And real enmity is also unfamiliar to you.” You love everyone, and loving everyone means loving no one. You are all equally indifferent.

How unfair you are to me! exclaimed Lord Henry. Pushing his hat to the back of his head, he looked at the clouds floating in the turquoise depths of the summer sky and looking like disheveled skeins of shiny silk. - Yes, yes, outrageously unfair! I don't treat people the same way. I choose beautiful people as my close friends, people with a good reputation as my friends, and I only make smart enemies. You should choose your enemies most carefully. There is not a single fool among my enemies. All of them are thinking people, quite intelligent and therefore know how to appreciate me. Will you say that my choice is due to vanity? Well, perhaps that's true.

And I think so, Harry. By the way, according to your scheme, I’m not your friend, but just a friend?

My dear Basil, you are much more than “just a friend” to me.

And much less than a friend? So, something like a brother, right?

Oh no! I have no tender feelings for my brothers. My older brother doesn’t want to die, but the younger ones do just that.

Harry! Hallward stopped him, frowning.

My friend, this is not being said entirely seriously. But I admit, I really can’t stand my family. This must be because we cannot stand people with the same shortcomings that we have. I deeply sympathize with the English democrats who are indignant at the so-called “vices of the upper classes.” People of the lower class instinctively understand that drunkenness, stupidity and immorality should be their privileges, and if any of us suffers from these vices, he thereby usurps their rights. When poor Southwark decided to divorce his wife, the indignation of the masses was absolutely magnificent. Meanwhile, I cannot guarantee that at least ten percent of the proletarians lead a virtuous lifestyle.

In everything you have piled up here, there is not a single word with which I can agree, Harry! And you, of course, don’t believe it yourself.

Lord Henry stroked his chestnut beard and patted his black tasseled cane on the toe of his patent leather boot.

What a true Englishman you are, Basil! This is the second time I have heard this remark from you. Try to express some thought to a typical Englishman,

And this is a big negligence! - so he won’t think to figure out whether this thought is right or wrong. He is only interested in one thing: whether you yourself are convinced of what you are saying. Meanwhile, the idea is important, regardless of whether the one who expresses it sincerely believes in it. An idea, perhaps, has the greater independent value, the less the person from whom it comes believes in it, because then it does not reflect his desires, needs and prejudices... However, I am not going to discuss political, sociological or metaphysical issues with you . People interest me more than their principles, and most interesting of all...

people without principles. Let's talk about Dorian Gray. Do you meet often?

Every day. I would feel miserable if I didn't see him every day. I can't live without him.

What miracles! And I thought that all your life you would love only your art.

Dorian for me now is all my art,” said the artist seriously. “You see, Harry, sometimes I think that there are only two important moments in the history of mankind.” The first is the emergence of new means of expression in art, the second is the appearance of a new image in it. And the face of Dorian Gray will one day become for me what the invention of oil paints in painting was for the Venetians or the face of Antinous for Greek sculpture.

Of course, I paint Dorian, draw, make sketches... But that’s not all. He is much more to me than a model or sitter. I am not saying that I am not satisfied with my work, I will not assure you that such beauty cannot be depicted in art. There is nothing that art cannot express. I see that what I have written since I met Dorian Gray is well written, it is my best work. I don’t know how to explain this and whether you will understand me... Meeting with Dorian seemed to give me the key to something completely new in painting, revealed to me a new style of writing. Now I see things in a different light and perceive everything differently. In my art I can recreate life through means that were previously unknown to me. “The dream of form in the days when thought reigns,” who said that? I do not remember. And Dorian Gray became such a dream for me. The mere presence of this boy - in my eyes he is still a boy, although he has already passed twenty years... ah, I don’t know if you can imagine what his presence means to me! Without suspecting it, he reveals to me the features of some new school, a school that will combine in itself all the passion of romanticism and all the perfection of Hellenism. Harmony of spirit and body - how wonderful it is! In our madness we separated them, we invented vulgar realism and empty idealism. Oh, Harry, if you only knew what Dorian Gray is to me! Do you remember that landscape for which Agnew offered me enormous money, but I did not want to part with it? This is one of my best paintings. And why? Because when I wrote it, Dorian Gray was sitting next to me. Some of his subtle influence on me helped me see for the first time in ordinary forest landscape a miracle that I was always looking for and could not find.

Basil, this is amazing! I have to see Dorian Gray! Hallward got up and began to walk around the garden. A few minutes later he returned to the bench.

Understand, Harry,” he said, “Dorian Gray is simply a motive in art for me.” You may not see anything in him, but I see everything. And in those of my paintings in which Dorian is not depicted, his influence is felt most strongly. As I already told you, he seems to be suggesting a new way of writing to me. I find it, like a revelation, in the curves of certain lines, in the gentle charm of other tones. That's all.

But why then don’t you want to exhibit his portrait? asked Lord Henry.

Because I involuntarily expressed in this portrait that incomprehensible love of the artist, which I, of course, never confessed to Dorian. Dorian doesn't know about her. And he will never know. But other people could guess the truth, and I don’t want to bare my soul before their curious and short-sighted eyes. I will never let them look at my heart under a microscope. Do you understand now, Harry? I put too much soul, too much of myself into this painting.

But poets are not as shy as you. They know very well that it is profitable to write about love; there is a great demand for it. A broken heart goes through many editions these days.

I despise such poets! - exclaimed Hallward. - An artist should create beautiful works of art without introducing into them anything from his personal life. In this age, people think that a work of art should be some kind of autobiography. We have lost the ability to abstractly perceive beauty. I hope someday to show the world what an abstract sense of beauty is - and that is why the world will never see the portrait of Dorian Gray.

I think you're wrong, Basil, but I won't argue with you. Only hopeless idiots argue. Tell me, does Dorian Gray love you very much?

The artist thought.

Dorian is attached to me,” he answered after a short silence. “

I know I'm tied. It’s understandable: I flatter him in every possible way. It gives me a strange pleasure to say things to him that I shouldn't say,

Even though I know that I will regret it later. In general, he treats me very well, and we spend whole days together, talking about a thousand topics. But sometimes he can be terribly insensitive, and he seems to really enjoy tormenting me.

Then I feel, Harry, that I have given my whole soul to a man for whom it is like a flower in his buttonhole, an ornament with which he will please his vanity only one summer day.

“The days of summer are long, Basil,” said Lord Henry in a low voice. “And perhaps you will be fed up before Dorian.” As sad as it may be, Genius is undoubtedly more durable than Beauty. That is why we strive to develop our mind beyond all measure. In the brutal struggle for existence, we want to preserve at least something stable, lasting, and we fill our heads with facts and all sorts of rubbish in the senseless hope of retaining our place in life.

A highly educated, knowledgeable person is the modern ideal. And the brain of such a highly educated person is something terrible! It is like an antique shop, filled with all sorts of dusty junk, where each thing is valued much higher than its real value... Yes, Basil, I still think that you will be the first to get fed up. One fine day you will look at your friend - and his beauty will seem a little less harmonious to you, you will suddenly not like the tone of his skin or something else. In your heart, you will bitterly reproach him for this and in the most serious way begin to think that he is somehow to blame for you. On your next date, you will be completely cold and indifferent. And one can only really regret this future change in you.

What you just told me is a real novel. You could say it's a romap based on art. And having survived the romance of his former life, a man - alas! --

becomes so prosaic!

Don't say that, Harry. I have been captivated by Dorian for the rest of my life. You don't understand me: you are so fickle.

Ah, dear Basil, that is why I am able to understand your feelings.

Those who are faithful in love only have access to its banal essence. The tragedy of love is experienced only by those who cheat.

Taking out an elegant silver matchbox, Lord Henry lit a cigarette with the smug and satisfied look of a man who managed to fit all worldly wisdom into one phrase.

Sparrows fussed and chirped among the shiny green ivy leaves, and the blue shadows of clouds, like flocks of swift swallows, glided across the grass. It was so nice in the garden! “And how fascinatingly interesting are the feelings of people, much more interesting than their thoughts!” Lord Henry said to himself. “One’s own soul and the passions of friends -

That's the funniest thing in life."

He remembered with secret pleasure that, having stayed late at Basil Hallward's, he had missed a boring breakfast at his aunt's. Lord Goodbody is no doubt having lunch with her to-day, and the conversation always revolves around the model dining-rooms and lodging-houses which should be opened for the poor. At the same time, everyone praises those virtues in which he himself does not need to practice: the rich preach frugality, and the idle eloquently spread about the great importance of work. How good it is that today he is freed from all this!

The thought of his aunt suddenly brought back a memory to Lord Henry's mind. He turned to Hallward.

You know, I just remembered...

What did you remember, Harry?

I remembered where I heard about Dorian Gray.

Where? asked Hallward, knitting his eyebrows.

Don't look at me so angry, Basil. It was my aunt, Lady Agatha's. She said that she had found a nice young man who promised to help her in the East End, and his name was Dorian Gray. Notice that she didn't say a word about his beauty. Women, at least virtuous women, do not value beauty. Auntie only said that he was a serious young man with a wonderful heart, and I immediately imagined a guy with glasses, straight hair, a freckled face and huge legs. It's a pity, I didn't know then that this Dorian was your friend.

And I'm very glad that you didn't know this, Harry.

Why?

I don't want you to meet.

Don't you want us to meet?

Mr. Dorian Gray is in the studio, sir,” reported the footman, appearing in the garden.

Yeah, now you will have to introduce us! - Lord Henry exclaimed with a laugh.

The artist turned to the footman, who stood squinting from the sun.

Ask Mr. Gray to wait, Parker: I'll be there in a minute.

The footman bowed and walked along the path to the house. Then Hallward looked at Lord Henry.

Dorian Gray is my best friend,” he said. “He has an open and light soul- your aunt was absolutely right. Watch out, Harry, don't spoil it! Don't try to influence him. Your influence would be disastrous for him. The world is great, there are many interesting people in it. So don’t take away from me the only person who breathed into my art the beauty that is in it. My entire future as an artist depends on him. Remember, Harry, I rely on your conscience!

He spoke very slowly, and the words seemed to come out of him against his will.

What nonsense! - Lord Henry interrupted with a smile and, taking Hallward by the arm, almost forcibly led him into the house.

They found Dorian Gray in the workshop. He sat at the piano, with his back to them, and leafed through Schumann's album "Forest Pictures."

What a beauty! “I want to learn them,” he said, without turning around. “Give them to me for a while, Basil.”

I'll give it to you if you pose well today, Dorian. - Oh, I'm tired of this! And I don’t at all strive to have a life-size portrait of myself,” the young man objected capriciously. Turning on the stool, he saw Lord Henry and hastily stood up, turning pink with embarrassment, “Sorry, Basil, I didn’t know you had a guest.”

Meet Dorian, this is Lord Henry Wotton, my old university friend. I was just telling him that you pose wonderfully, and you ruined everything with your grumbling!

But they didn’t spoil my pleasure in meeting you, Mr. Gray,” said Lord Henry, approaching Dorian and holding out his hand. “I’ve heard a lot about you from my aunt.” You are her favorite and, I'm afraid, one of her victims.

Just now I’m in bad standing with Lady Agatha,” Dorian responded with an amusingly repentant look. “I promised last Tuesday to go with her to a concert in a Whitechapel club - and completely forgot about it.” We had to play four hands with her there - it seems, even as many as three duets. I don’t know how she’ll meet me now. I'm afraid to appear in front of her.

It's okay, I'll make peace with you. Aunt Agatha loves you very much. And the fact that you didn’t perform with her at the concert is hardly that important. The audience probably thought that they were performing a duet, because at the piano Aunt Agatha could easily make a noise for two.

This opinion is extremely offensive for her and not very flattering for me, -

said Dorian, laughing. Lord Henry looked at Dorian, admiring his clear blue eyes, golden curls, and the graceful pattern of his scarlet mouth. This young man was truly amazingly handsome, and something in his face immediately inspired confidence. He felt the sincerity and purity of youth, its chaste ardor. It was easy to believe that life had not yet polluted this young soul. No wonder Basil Hallward idolized Dorian!

Well, is it possible for such a charming young man to do charity work! No, you're too handsome for that, Mr. Gray, -

said Lord Henry and, lounging on the sofa, took out his cigarette case.

Meanwhile, the artist prepared his brushes and mixed paints on the palette. His gloomy face showed great concern. Hearing Lord Henry's last remark, he quickly looked back at him and, after a moment's hesitation, said:

Harry, I would like to finish the portrait today. Would you be offended if I asked you to leave?

Lord Henry looked at Dorian with a smile.

Should I go, Mr. Gray?

Oh no, Lord Henry, please don't go! Basil, I see, is in a bad mood again today, and I can’t stand it when he’s angry. Moreover, you have not yet explained why I should not engage in charity?

Is there any need to explain this, Mr. Gray? Such a boring topic would have to be discussed seriously. But, of course, I won’t leave since you ask me to stay.

You won't mind, will you, Basil? You yourself have told me more than once that you love it when someone occupies those who pose for you.

Hallward bit his lip.

Of course, stay if Dorian wants you to. His whims are the law for everyone except himself.

Lord Henry took his hat and gloves.

Despite your insistence, Basil, I unfortunately must leave you. I promised to meet someone at the Orleans Club. Goodbye, Mr. Gren. Come visit me on Curzopstreet sometime. I'm almost always home at five. But it’s better if you let me know in advance when you want to come: it would be a shame if you didn’t find me.

Basil,” cried Dorian Gray, “if Lord Henry goes, I will go too!” You never open your mouth while working, and I get terribly tired of standing on the stage and smiling sweetly all the time. Ask him not to leave!

Stay, Harry. Dorian will be happy, and you will greatly oblige me with this, -

said Hallward, without taking his eyes off the picture. “I really am always silent while working and do not listen to what they say to me, so my poor sitters must be unbearably bored.” Please sit with us.

What about my date at the club? The artist grinned.

I don't think it's that important. Sit down, Harry. Well, Dorian, stand on the stage and move around less. Don't listen too much to Lord Henry - he is a very bad influence on everyone I know except me.

Dorian Gray, with the air of a young martyr, ascended the platform and, making a dissatisfied grimace, exchanged glances with Lord Henry. He liked this friend of Basil very much. He and Basil were completely different and made a curious contrast.

Lord Henry, are you really such a harmful influence on others?

There is no such thing as good influence, Mr. Gray. Any influence in itself is immoral - immoral with scientific point vision.

Why?

Because influencing another person means transferring your soul to him. He will begin to think not with his own thoughts, to burn with passions other than his own. And his virtues will not be his own, and his sins - assuming that such exist at all - will be borrowed. He will become an echo of someone else's melody, an actor performing in a role that was not written for him. The purpose of life is self-expression. To manifest our essence in its entirety - that’s what we live for. And in our age, people have become afraid of themselves. They forgot that the highest duty is a duty to oneself. Of course they are merciful. They feed the hungry and clothe the poor. But their own souls are naked and starving. We have lost our courage. Or maybe we never had one.

Fear of public opinion, this basis of morality, and fear of God, the fear on which religion rests, is what rules over us. Meanwhile...

“Please, Dorian, turn your head a little to the right,” the artist asked.

Absorbed in his work, he heard nothing and only noticed an expression on the young man’s face that he had never seen before.

And yet,” continued Lord Henry in his low, melodious voice, with his characteristic smooth gestures, memorable to all who knew him back at Eton, “I think that if every person could live a full life, giving free rein to everyone feeling and expression of every thought, realizing every dream - the world would again feel such a powerful rush to joy that all the diseases of the Middle Ages would be forgotten, and we would return to the ideals of Hellenism, and perhaps to something even more valuable and beautiful. But even the bravest of us is afraid of himself. Self-denial, this tragic relic of those wild times when people mutilated themselves, darkens our lives. And we pay for this self-restraint. Every desire that we try to suppress ferments in our soul and poisons us. And having sinned, a person gets rid of the attraction to sin, for fulfillment is the path to purification. After this, only memories of pleasure or the voluptuousness of repentance remain. The only way to get rid of temptation is to give in to it. And if you decide to fight it, your soul will be tormented by the attraction to the forbidden, and you will be tormented by desires that the monstrous law, created by you, has recognized as vicious and criminal.

Someone said that the greatest events in the world are those that happen in the human brain. And I will say that the greatest sins of the world are born in the brain, and only in the brain. But in you, Mr. Gray, even in the time of bright adolescence and rosy youth, passions were already fermenting that frightened you, thoughts that terrified you. You have known dreams and visions, the mere memory of which makes you blush with shame...

Wait, wait! - Dorian Gray muttered, stammering. “You confused me, I don’t know what to say... I could argue with you, but I can’t find the words right now... Don’t say anything more!” Let me think...

However, it’s better not to think about it!

For about ten minutes Dorian stood motionless, with his mouth half open and a strange sparkle in his eyes. He was vaguely aware that some completely new thoughts and feelings were awakening in him. It seemed to him that they did not come from outside, but rose from the depths of his being.

Yes, he felt that a few words spoken by this friend of Basil, said probably just like that, by the way, and deliberately paradoxical, touched some secret string in him that no one had touched before, and now it was trembling, vibrated in fits and starts.

Until now, only music had bothered him so much. Yes, music more than once aroused excitement in his soul, but a vague, thoughtless excitement. After all, it does not create a new world in the soul, but rather a new chaos. And then the words came out. Simple words --

but how terrible they are! You can't escape them. How clear, irresistibly strong and cruel they are! And at the same time - what an insidious charm lurks in them! They seemed to give visible and tangible form to vague dreams, and they had their own music, sweeter than the sounds of the lute and viol. Only words! But is there anything more powerful than words?

Yes, in his early youth he, Dorian, did not understand some things. Now he understood everything. Life suddenly sparkled before him with hot colors. It seemed to him that he was walking among raging flames. How did he not feel this until now?

Lord Henry watched him with a subtle smile. He knew when to be quiet. Dorian interested him keenly, and he himself was now surprised at the impression his words made on the young man. He remembered a book he had read when he was sixteen; She then revealed to him many things that he did not know before. Perhaps Dorian Gray is going through the same thing now? Did an arrow, fired at random, just like that, into space, hit the target? How cute this boy is!..

Hallward painted with passion, as always, with wonderful, bold strokes, with that genuine grace and sophistication which - in art at least - are always a sign of powerful talent. He did not notice the silence that followed.

Basil, I’m tired of standing,” Dorian suddenly exclaimed, “I need to be in the air, in the garden.” It's very stuffy here!

Oh, sorry, my friend! When I write, I forget about everything. And today you stood without moving. You've never posed so well before. And I caught the expression that I had been looking for all along. Parted lips, sparkle in the eyes... I don’t know what Harry was talking about here, but, of course, he brought such an amazing expression on your face. Must have given you a lot of compliments? And don't believe a single word he says.

No, he said things to me that were not flattering at all. That's why I'm not inclined to believe him.

Well, well, in your heart you know very well that you believed everything,” said Lord Henry, looking thoughtfully at him with his languid eyes. I think I’ll also go out into the garden with you, it’s unbearably hot here. Basil, order us to get some drink with ice... and it would be nice with strawberry juice.

My pleasure, Harry. Call Parker and I'll tell him what to bring. I'll come to your garden a little later, I still need to work on the background. But don't keep Dorian long. Today, more than ever, I want to write.

This portrait will be my masterpiece. Even in this form as it is now, he is already miraculously good.

Going out into the garden, Lord Henry found Dorian by a lilac bush: burying his face in the cool mass of flowers, he reveled in their aroma, like a thirsty person drinking wine.

Lord Henry came close to him and touched his shoulder.

“That’s right,” he said quietly. “The soul is best treated with sensations, and only the soul can heal from sensations.”

The young man shuddered and retreated. He was without a hat, and the branches tousled his unruly curls, tangling his golden locks. His eyes were frightened, like those of a suddenly awakened person. Thinly outlined nostrils trembled nervously, scarlet lips trembled with some secret excitement.

Yes,” continued Lord Henry, “you need to know this great secret of life: heal the soul with sensations, and let the soul heal sensations.” You --

amazing man, Mr. Grey. You know more than you think, but less than you would like to know.

Dorian Gray frowned and looked away. He unconsciously liked the tall and handsome man standing next to him. The dark romantic face of Lord Henry, his tired expression aroused interest, and there was something bewitching in his low and drawn-out voice. Even his hands, cool, white and tender, like flowers, concealed a strange charm. There was music in the movements of these hands, as well as in the voice, and it seemed that they spoke in their own language.

Dorian felt that he was afraid of this man, and was ashamed of his fear. Why was it necessary for someone else to teach him to understand his own soul? After all, he had been friends with Basil Hallward for a long time, but their friendship did not change anything in him. And suddenly this stranger comes and seems to reveal to him the secrets of life. But still, what should he be afraid of? He is not a schoolboy and not a girl. It is simply stupid for him to be afraid of Lord Henry.

Let's sit somewhere in the shade,” said Lord Henry. “Here Parker is already bringing us a drink.” And if you stand in the sun, you will turn ugly, and Basil will no longer want to paint you. A tan won't suit you.

How important, just think! - Dorian Gray laughed, sitting down on a bench in the corner of the garden.

This is very important to you, Mr. Gray.

Why?

Yes, because you have been given the wonderful beauty of youth, and youth...

the only wealth worth protecting.

I don't think so, Lord Henry.

Now, of course, you don't think so. But when you become an ugly old man, when thoughts furrow your forehead with wrinkles, and passions dry up your lips with their destructive fire, you will understand this with inexorable clarity. Now, wherever you go, you captivate everyone. But will it always be like this? You are amazingly handsome, Mr. Gray. Don't frown, it's true.

And Beauty is one of the types of Genius, it is even higher than Genius, because it does not require understanding. She is one of the great phenomena of the world around us, like sunlight, or spring, or the reflection in the tempestuous waters of the silver shield of the moon. The beauty is undeniable. She has the highest right to power and makes kings those who possess it. You are smiling? Oh, when you lose it, you will not smile... Some say that Beauty is earthly vanity. May be. But, in any case, it is not as vain as Thought. For me, Beauty is a miracle of miracles. Only empty, limited people do not judge by appearance. The true secret of life lies in the visible, and not in the hidden... Yes, Mr. Gray, the gods are merciful to you. But the gods soon take away what they give... You don’t have many years ahead for a real, full and beautiful life. Youth will pass, and with it beauty - and suddenly it will become clear to you that the time for victories has passed, or you will have to be content with victories so pitiful that in comparison with the past they will seem worse to you than defeats. Each passing month brings you closer to this difficult future. Time is jealous, it encroaches on the lilies and roses that the gods gave you. Your cheeks will turn yellow and hollow, your eyes will dim. You will suffer terribly... So take advantage of your youth before it is gone. Do not waste your golden days listening to boring saints, do not try to correct what is incorrigible, do not give your life to the ignorant, vulgar and nonentities, following the false ideas and unhealthy aspirations of our era.

Live! Live the wonderful life that is hidden within you. Don't miss anything, always look for new sensations! Don't be afraid of anything! New hedonism is what our generation needs. And you could become its visible symbol. For someone like you, nothing is impossible. For a short time the world belongs to you... I realized at first glance that you don’t know yourself yet, don’t know what you could be. There was a lot about you that captivated me, and I felt that I had to help you know yourself. I thought: “How tragic it would be if this life were wasted!” After all, your youth will pass so quickly! Simple wildflowers wither, but bloom again. Next summer, the broom in June will sparkle with gold just as it does now. In a month, the clematis will bloom with purple stars, and every year in the green night of its leaves more and more purple stars will light up. But youth does not return to us. The pulse of joy that beats so strongly at twenty years weakens, the body becomes decrepit, feelings fade away. We turn into disgusting puppets with haunting memories of those passions that we were too afraid of and temptations that we did not dare to give in to. Youth! Youth! There is nothing equal to her in the world!

Dorian Gray listened with greedy attention, his eyes wide open. A sprig of lilac slipped from his fingers and fell onto the gravel. A furry bee immediately flew up, circled around her for a minute, buzzing, then began to travel all over her hand, crawling from one star to another. Dorian watched her with that unexpected interest with which we sometimes focus our attention on the most insignificant trifles, when we are afraid to think about the most important, or when we are excited by a new feeling that is not yet clear to ourselves, or some terrible thought besieges the brain and forces us to us to give up.

Suddenly, Hallward appeared at the door of the workshop and began calling his guests into the house with energetic gestures. Lord Henry and Dorian looked at each other.

“I’m waiting,” the artist shouted. “Go!” The lighting is now perfect for work... And you can drink here too.

They got up and walked slowly along the path. Two pale green butterflies flew past, and in the far corner of the garden a thrush began to sing on a pear tree.

Are you glad you met me, Mr. Gray? - said Lord Henry, looking at Dorian.

Yes, now I'm glad about it. I just don’t know if it will always be like this.

Always!.. What a terrible word! I shudder when I hear it. Women especially love him. They spoil every romance, trying to make it last forever. Moreover, “always” is an empty word. The only difference between a whim and “eternal love” is that the whim lasts a little longer.

They were already entering the workshop. Dorian Gray put his hand on Lord Henry's shoulder.

If so, let our friendship be a caprice,” he whispered, blushing, embarrassed by his own boldness. Then he climbed onto the stage and struck a pose.

Lord Henry, seated in a wide wicker chair, watched him.

The silence in the room was broken only by the light knocking and rustling of the brush on the canvas, which died down when Hallward moved away from the easel to look at his work from a distance. Slanting rays of sunlight poured through the open door, and golden specks of dust danced in them. The pleasant scent of roses seemed to float in the air.

About a quarter of an hour passed. The artist stopped working. He looked at Dorian Gray for a long time, then, just as long, at the portrait, frowning and biting the tip of his long brush.

Ready! - he finally exclaimed and, bending down, signed his name in long red letters in the left corner of the picture.

Lord Henry moved closer to get a better look at her. Undoubtedly, it was a marvelous work of art, and the resemblance was striking.

“My dear Basil, I congratulate you with all my heart,” he said. “I do not know a better portrait in all modern painting.” Come here, Mr. Gray, and judge for yourself.

The young man shuddered, like a man suddenly awakening from a dream.

Is it really over? - he asked, stepping off the stage.

Yes Yes. And you posed beautifully today. I am eternally grateful to you for this.

“You have to thank me for that,” Lord Henry intervened. “Really, Mr. Gray?”

Dorian, without answering, with an absent-minded look, walked past the easel, then turned to face it. At the first glance at the portrait, he involuntarily took a step back and flushed with pleasure. His eyes sparkled so joyfully, as if he saw himself for the first time. He stood motionless, immersed in contemplation, vaguely aware that Hallward was telling him something, but not delving into the meaning of his words. Like a revelation, the consciousness of his beauty came to him. Until now he had somehow not noticed her, and Basil Hallward's admiration seemed to him the touching blindness of friendship. He listened to his compliments, laughed at them and forgot them. They made no impression on him. But then Lord Henry appeared, his enthusiastic hymn to youth sounded, a stern warning that it was fleeting. This excited Dorian, and now, as he looked at the reflection of his beauty, the future that Lord Henry spoke about suddenly stood before him with amazing clarity. Yes, the day will come when his face will fade and wrinkle, his eyes will dim and fade, his slender figure will bend and become ugly. The years will take with them the scarlet of the lips and the gold of the hair. Life, while shaping his soul, will destroy his body. He will become repulsively ugly, pathetic and scary.

At this thought, a sharp pain pierced Dorian like a knife, and every vein in him trembled. The eyes darkened, turning from blue to amethyst, and were clouded with tears. It was as if an icy hand lay on his heart.

Don't you like the portrait? - Hallward finally exclaimed, a little hurt by Dorian’s incomprehensible silence.

“Well, of course I like it,” Lord Henry answered for him. “Who could not like him?” This is one of the masterpieces of modern painting. I'm ready to give as much as you ask for it. This portrait should belong to me.

I can't sell it, Harry. He is not mine.

Whose is it?

Dorian, of course,” answered the artist.

What a lucky guy!

How sad! - Dorian Gray suddenly muttered, still not taking his eyes off his portrait. - How sad! I will grow old, become a nasty freak, and my portrait will be forever young. He will never become older than on this June day... Oh, if only it could be the other way around! If only this portrait would grow old, but I would remain young forever! For this... for this I would give everything in the world. Yes, I wouldn’t regret anything! I would give my soul for this!

You, Basil, would hardly like this order of things! --

exclaimed Lord Henry with a laugh. “The artist’s fate would be hard then!”

Yes, I would vehemently protest against that,” replied Hallward.

Dorian Gray turned around and looked at him point blank.

Oh Basil, I have no doubt about it! You love your art more than your friends. I am no more valuable to you than some greenish bronze figurine.

No, perhaps you value her more.

The surprised artist looked at him with all his eyes. It was very strange to hear such speeches from Dorian. What's wrong with him? He was apparently very irritated, his face was flushed.

Yes, yes,” continued Dorian. “I am not as dear to you as your silver faun or ivory Hermes.” You will always love them. How long will you love me? Probably until the first wrinkle on my face. I now know that when a person loses beauty, he loses everything. Your picture told me this. Lord Henry is absolutely right: youth is the only thing valuable in our lives. When I notice that I am getting old, I will commit suicide. Hallward turned pale and grabbed his hand.

Dorian, Dorian, what are you saying? I have never had and never will have a friend closer to you. Why are you thinking of envying some inanimate objects? Yes, you are more beautiful than them all!

I envy everything whose beauty is immortal. I envy this portrait you painted of me. Why would he keep what I was destined to lose?

Every moment that passes takes something away from me and gives it to him. Oh, if only it were the other way around! If only the portrait could change, but I could always remain the same as I am now! Why did you write it? The time will come when he will tease me, constantly mock me!

Hot tears welled up in Dorian's eyes, he tore his hand out of Hallward's and, falling onto the sofa, hid his face in the pillows.

You did this, Harry! - said the artist bitterly. Lord Henry shrugged.

It was the real Dorian Gray who spoke, that's all.

Not true.

And if not, what does it have to do with me?

You should have left when I asked you to.

“I stayed at your request,” objected Lord Henry.

Harry, I don’t want to quarrel with two of my close friends at once... But you both made me hate my best picture. I will destroy her. Well, it's just canvas and paints. And I will not allow it to darken the lives of all of us.

Dorian Gray raised his head from the pillow and, pale, with tear-stained eyes, watched the artist, who walked up to his work table by the high, curtained window. What is he doing there? He fumbles among the tubes of paint and dry brushes piled up randomly on the table, apparently looking for something. Yeah, he was the one looking for a long spatula with a thin and flexible steel blade. And I finally found him. He wants to cut up the portrait!

Sobbing, the young man jumped up from the sofa, ran up to Hallward and, snatching the spatula from his hands, threw it into the far corner.

Don't you dare, Basil! Don't you dare! - he shouted. - This is the same as murder!

It turns out that you still appreciate my work? “I’m very glad,” the artist said dryly when he came to his senses from surprise, “But I didn’t hope for that anymore.”

Do I appreciate her? Yes, I'm in love with her, Basil. I feel as if this portrait is a part of myself.

So that's great. Once you're dry, you'll be varnished, framed, and sent home. Then you can do with yourself what you want.

Walking across the room, Hallward rang the bell.

Of course, you won't refuse to drink tea, Dorian? And you too, Harry? Or are you not a fan of such simple pleasures?

“I love simple pleasures,” said Lord Henry. “They—”

the last refuge for complex natures. But I only tolerate dramatic scenes on the theater stage. What ridiculous people you both are! I wonder who came up with the idea that man is a rational animal? What a hasty judgment!

A person has anything but a mind. And, in essence, this is very good!.. However, I am unpleasant that you are quarreling over the portrait. You'd better give it to me, Basil! This stupid boy doesn't really want to have it, but I really want it.

Basil, I will never forgive you if you don’t give it to me! --

exclaimed Dorian Gray. “And I will not allow anyone to call me a “stupid boy.”

I have already said that I am giving the portrait to you, Dorian. I decided so even before I started writing it.

“Don’t be offended by me, Mr. Gray,” said Lord Henry. “You yourself know that you behaved rather stupidly.” And it’s not so unpleasant for you when you are reminded that you are still a boy.

Even this morning I would have been very unpleasant about it, Lord Henry.

Ah, in the morning! But since then you have gone through a lot. There was a knock on the door, a footman came in with a tea tray and placed it on the Japanese table.

Cups and saucers clinked, a large old teapot puffed. Behind the footman, the boy brought in two spherical porcelain dishes.

Dorian Gray walked up to the table and began pouring tea. Basil and Lord Henry slowly approached and, lifting the lids, looked at what was on the dishes.

Shouldn't we go to the theater this evening? - suggested Lord Henry. - Probably something interesting is going on somewhere. True, I promised one person to dine with him at White's today, but this is my old friend, I can telegraph to him that I am ill or that a later invitation prevented me from coming... Perhaps he will like this kind of excuse even more because of its unexpected frankness.

Oh, put on a tailcoat! How boring it is! - Hallward muttered. “I can’t stand tailcoats!”

Yes,” Lord Henry agreed lazily. “Modern costumes are ugly, they are depressing in their gloom.” There is nothing colorful left in our lives except vice.

Really, Harry, you shouldn't say such things in front of Dorian!

Which one? The one who pours us tea, or the one in the portrait?

And with this, and with the other.

“I would love to go to the theater with you, Lord Henry,” said Dorian.

Wonderful. So, let's go. And are you with us, Basil?

No, really, I can’t. I have a lot to do.

Well, then we'll go together - bang! and me, Mr. Gray.

I'm so glad!

The artist, biting his lip, walked up to the portrait with a cup in his hand.

“And I’ll stay with the real Dorian,” he said sadly.

So, do you think this is the real Dorian? asked Dorian Gray, approaching him. “Am I really like that?”

Yes, exactly like that.

How wonderful, Basil!

At least that's what you look like. “And in the portrait you will always remain like this,” the ord told Hall with a sigh. “And that’s worth something.”

How people chase consistency! exclaimed Lord Henry.

Lord, even in love, fidelity is entirely a matter of physiology, it does not in the least depend on our will. Young people want to be faithful - and they are not, old people would like to cheat, but where can they be! That's all.

“Don’t go to the theater today, Dorian,” said Hallward. “Stay with me and we’ll dine together.”

I can't, Basil.

Why?

I promised Lord Henry to go with him.

Do you think he will treat you worse if you don't keep your word?

He himself never keeps his promises. I beg you, don't leave.

Dorian laughed and shook his head.

I beg you!

The young man looked indecisively at Lord Henry, who, sitting at the tea table, listened to their conversation with a smile.

No, I have to go, Basil.

As you know.” Hallward walked back to the table and put his cup on the tray. “In that case, don’t waste time.” It's late, and you still need to change clothes. Goodbye, Harry. Goodbye, Dorian. Come quickly -

Well, at least tomorrow. Will you come?

Definitely.

Won't you forget?

No, of course not! - Dorian assured him.

And one more thing... Harry!

What, Basil?

Remember what I asked you this morning in the garden!

And I already forgot what exactly it was about.

Look! I trust you.

I wish I could trust myself! said Lord Henry with a laugh.

Come on, Mr. Gray, my convertible is at the gate and I can take you home. Goodbye, Basil. We had a very interesting time today.

When the door closed behind the guests, the artist sank heavily onto the sofa.

You could see from his face how much pain he was in.

The next day at half past one, Lord Henry Wotton left his house on Curzon Street and headed towards Albany. He wanted to visit his uncle, Lord Farmer, a good-natured, albeit harsh old bachelor, who outside the secular circle was considered an egoist, because he was not particularly useful to people, but in the secular circle - generous and kind, because Lord Farmer willingly treated those who entertained him. Lord Farmer's father was British Ambassador in Madrid at a time when Queen Isabella was young and Prima was not yet in sight. Under the influence of a momentary whim, he left the diplomatic service, angry that he was not appointed ambassador to Paris, although his origin, idleness, the beautiful style of diplomatic dispatches and an immoderate passion for pleasure gave him every right to this post. The son, who was his father's secretary, left with him - which everyone then considered folly - and, a few months later, inheriting the title, began to seriously study the great aristocratic art of doing nothing. He had two large houses in London, but he preferred to live as a bachelor in a rented furnished apartment, finding it less troublesome, and most often had lunch and breakfast at the club. Lord Farmer gave some attention to his coal mines in the midlands, and justified this unhealthy interest in industry by the fact that, being the owner of coal, he was able, as became a gentleman, to fuel his fireplace with wood. By political convictions he was a conservative, but not when conservatives came to power - during such periods he vigorously scolded them, calling them a bunch of radicals.

He fought heroically with his valet, who kept him under a tight rein. He himself, in turn, terrorized his numerous relatives.

Only England could give birth to him, and yet he was dissatisfied with her and always insisted that the country was going to destruction. His principles were old-fashioned, but much could be said in defense of his prejudices.

In the room into which Lord Henry entered, his uncle was sitting in a thick hunting jacket, with a cigar in his teeth, reading The Times, grumpily expressing out loud his dissatisfaction with this newspaper.

Ah, Harry! - said the venerable old man. - Why are you so early? I thought that you, dandy, get up no earlier than two o’clock in the afternoon and don’t leave the house until five.

Believe me, Uncle George, it was purely family feelings that brought me to you at such an early hour. I need something from you.

Money, perhaps? - said Lord Farmer with a sour look. - Okay, sit down and tell me. Today's young people imagine that money is everything.

Yes,” agreed Lord Henry, adjusting the flower in his buttonhole. “And over the years they become convinced of this.” But I don’t need money, Uncle George, it’s needed by those who are in the habit of paying debts, and I never pay my creditors. Credit is the only capital youngest son in the family, and you can live well on this capital. Besides, I deal only with Dartmoor suppliers - and, of course, they never bother me. I came to you not for money, but for information. Of course, not for the useful ones: for the useless ones.

Well, from me you can learn everything that is in any Blue Book of England, although nowadays they write a lot of nonsense. In those days when I was a diplomat, this was done much better. But now, they say, diplomats are enlisted only after they pass the exam. So what can you expect from them? Exams, sir, are pure nonsense, from beginning to end.

If you are a gentleman, there is nothing to teach you, what you know is enough for you. And if you are not a gentleman, then knowledge will only harm you.

Mister Dorian Gray is not listed in the Blue Books, Uncle George, -

Lord Henry remarked casually.

Mister Dorian Gray? And who is he? asked Lord Fermor, frowning his gray shaggy eyebrows.

That's what I came to find out from you, Uncle George. However, I know who he is: he is the grandson of the last Lord Kelso. His mother's surname was Devereux, Lady Margaret Devereux. Tell me what you know about her. What was she like, who did she marry? After all, you knew the whole London world in your time,

So maybe her too? I just met Mr. Gray and I'm very interested in him.

Kelso's grandson! - repeated the old lord. - Grandson of Kelso... Of course, of course, I knew his mother very well. I remember I even attended her christening. She was an extraordinary beauty, this Margaret Devereux, and all the men went wild when she ran away with some fellow, a complete nonentity without a penny to his name - he was an officer in an infantry regiment or something like that.

Yes, yes, I remember everything as if it happened yesterday. The poor fellow was killed in a duel at Spa a few months after they were married. There were bad rumors about this at the time. They said that Kelso sent some scoundrel, a Belgian adventurer, to publicly insult his son-in-law...

you see, he bribed him, paid the scoundrel, and in a duel he put the young man on his sword, like a dove on a spit. The matter was hushed up, but by God, after that Kelso ate his steak at the club all alone for a long time. They told me that he brought his daughter home, but from then on she did not speak to him until her death. Yes, bad story! And the daughter died very soon - less than a year had passed. So you're saying she left behind a son? And I forgot about it. What is he? If he looks like his mother, he must be a handsome fellow.

Yes, very handsome,” confirmed Lord Henry.

“I hope he ends up in good hands,” continued Lord Fermor. “If Kelso didn’t wrong him in his will, he must have a lot of money.” And Margaret had her own fortune. The entire Selby estate passed to her from her grandfather. Her grandfather hated Kelso, called him stingy. He really was a miser.

I remember he came to Madrid when I lived there. By God, I blushed for him!

The Queen asked me several times who this English peer was who was constantly haggling with the cab drivers. There were jokes about him there. For a whole month I did not dare to show myself at court. I hope Kelso was more generous to his grandson than to the Madrid cabbies?

“I don’t know that,” responded Lord Henry. “Dorian is still a minor.” But I think he will be rich. Selby passed on to him, I heard this from him himself... So you say his mother was very beautiful?

Margaret Devereux was one of the loveliest girls I have ever seen in my life. I could never understand what pushed her into such a strange marriage.

After all, she could marry anyone she wanted. Carlington himself was crazy about her. But the trouble is that she had a romantic imagination. In their family, all women were romantic. The men weren't worth much, but the women, by God, were wonderful... Carlington was on his knees in front of Margaret -

he told me this himself. But in London at that time all the girls were in love with him. But Margaret only laughed at him... Yes, speaking of stupid marriages - what kind of nonsense was your father talking about Dartmoor -

like he wants to marry an American? Are English women really not good enough for him?

You see, Uncle George, marrying American women is now very fashionable.

Well, I’m for Englishwomen and I’m ready to argue with the whole world! - Lord Fermor slammed his fist on the table.

The bet now is only on American women.

“I heard they don’t last long,” muttered Uncle George.

Long races tire them out, but they excel at steeplechase racing. They take barriers on the fly. I think Dartmoor will be in trouble.

Who are her parents? - Lord Fermor inquired grumpily. “Does she even have them?” Lord Henry shook his head.

“American girls hide their parents just as cleverly as English ladies hide their past,” he said, standing up.

Her dad must be a pork exporter?

For Dartmoor's sake, Uncle George, I wish it were so. They say this is the most profitable business in America. The only thing more profitable than him is politics.

Is his American girlfriend at least pretty?

Like most American women, she pretends to be a beauty. In that

The secret of their success.

And why aren’t they sitting in America? After all, we are always assured that it is a paradise for women there.

The way it is. That’s why they, like their foremother Eve, are trying to get out of there,” explained Lord Henry. “Well, goodbye, Uncle George.” I have to go, otherwise I'll be late for breakfast. Thanks for the information about Dorian. I like to know everything about my new acquaintances and nothing about my old ones.

Where are you having breakfast today, Harry?

At Aunt Agatha's. I asked for it myself and invited Mr. Gray. He is her new protégé.

Hm!.. So this is it, Harry: tell your Aunt Agatha to stop attacking me with appeals for donations. They bore me to death. This kind woman imagined that I had nothing better to do than write checks for her stupid charitable schemes.

Okay, Uncle George, I'll tell you. But it's useless. Philanthropists, carried away by charity, lose all philanthropy. This is their distinctive feature.

The old gentleman chuckled approvingly and called the footman to escort his guest.

Lord Henry walked through the passage on Burlington Street and headed towards Berkeley Square. He recalled what he had heard from his uncle about Dorian Gray's relatives.

Even told in general terms, this story excited him with its unusualness, its almost modern romanticism. A beautiful girl who sacrificed everything for passionate love. Several weeks of immense happiness, shattered by a heinous crime. Then - months of new suffering, a child born in pain. The mother is carried away by death, the son's lot is orphanhood and the tyranny of a heartless old man. Yes, this is an interesting background; it sets off the young man’s appearance and gives him even more charm. Behind the beautiful there is always some tragedy hidden. For the most humble flower to bloom, the worlds must undergo birth pangs.

How charming Dorian was last night when they dined together at the club! In his stunned gaze and parted lips one could read anxiety and timid joy, and in the shadow of the red lampshades his face seemed even pinker and his wondrous blossoming beauty stood out even brighter. Talking to this boy was like playing a rare violin. He responded to every touch, to the slightest tremor of the bow...

How exciting it is to test the power of your influence on another person! Nothing can compare to this. Pour your soul into another, let it stay in him; hear the echoes of your own thoughts, enhanced by the music of youth and passion; transmitting your temperament to another, like the finest fluid or a peculiar aroma, is true pleasure, the greatest joy, perhaps, that is given to a person in our limited and vulgar age with its coarsely sensual pleasures and crudely primitive aspirations.

Besides, this boy, whom he met by such a happy chance in Basil's workshop, is a wonderful guy... or, in any case, something wonderful can be made of him. He has everything...

charm, snow-white purity of youth and beauty, the beauty that the ancient Greeks captured in marble. You can mold it into anything, make it into titanium - or into a toy. What a pity that such beauty is destined to fade!..

And Basil? How psychologically interesting what he said! A new manner in painting, a new perception of reality, which unexpectedly arose thanks to the mere presence of a person who does not even suspect it... The soul of nature, who lived in dense forests, wandered in an open field, hitherto invisible and voiceless, suddenly, like a Dryad, appeared the artist without any fear, for his soul, which has been searching for it for a long time, has been given that inspired insight by which only wondrous secrets are revealed; and simple forms, images of things acquired high perfection and a certain symbolic meaning, as if showing the artist a different, more perfect form, which from a vague dream turned into reality. How extraordinary this is all!

Something similar happened in past centuries. Plato, for whom thinking was an art, was the first to think about this miracle. And Buonarroti? Didn't he express it in his cycle of sonnets, carved in colored marble? But in our age it is surprising...

And Lord Henry decided that he should become for Dorian Gray what Dorian, without knowing it, became for the artist who created his magnificent portrait. He will try to conquer Dorian - in fact, he has already achieved half of this - and the soul of the wonderful young man will belong to him. How generously fate has gifted this child of Love and Death!

Lord Henry suddenly stopped and looked around at the neighboring houses. Seeing that he had already passed his aunt’s house and gone quite far from it, he, laughing at himself, turned back. When he entered the darkish hallway, the butler reported to him that everyone was already in the dining room. Lord Henry gave one of the footmen his hat and cane and went there.

You're late as always, Harry! - exclaimed his aunt, shaking her head reproachfully.

He apologized, immediately coming up with some kind of explanation, and, sitting down on an empty chair next to the mistress of the house, looked around at the assembled guests. From the other end of the table, Dorian nodded shyly to him, blushing with pleasure. Opposite sat the Duchess of Harley, much loved by all who knew her, a lady of the highest degree of gentleness and cheerfulness, and of those architectural proportions which modern historians call corpulence (when we are not talking about duchesses!).

To the right of the Duchess sat Sir Thomas Burden, MP, a radical. In public life he was a loyal supporter of his leader, and in private -

a supporter of good cuisine, that is, he followed the well-known wise rule:

"Speak with liberals and dine with conservatives." By left hand The duchess's place was taken by Mr. Erskine of Threadley, an elderly gentleman, very cultured and pleasant, but who had acquired the bad habit of always being silent in society, for, as he once explained to Lady Agatha, before he was thirty he had said everything he had to say.

Lord Henry's neighbor at table was Mrs. Vandeleur, one of his aunt's old friends, a truly holy woman, but dressed so tastelessly and loudly that she could be compared to a prayer book in a bad, tawdry binding. Fortunately for Lord Henry, Mrs. Vandeleur's neighbor on the other side turned out to be Lord Faudel, a middle-aged man, of great intelligence, but of mediocre ability, as colorless and boring as a minister's report in the House of Commons. The conversation between him and Mrs. Vandeleur was conducted with that intense seriousness of which, in his own words, all virtuous people are unforgivably guilty, and from which none of them can ever quite free themselves.

“We’re talking about poor Dartmoor,” the duchess said loudly to Lord Henry, nodding affably across the table. “Do you think he will really marry this charming American?”

Yes, Duchess. Oda seems to have decided to propose to him.

Horrible! - exclaimed Lady Agatha. - Really, this should have been prevented!

“I have heard from the most reliable sources that her father in America sells haberdashery or some other wretched goods,” declared Sir Thomas Burdon with a contemptuous expression.

And my uncle says it's pork, Sir Thomas.

What kind of “poor” product is this? - the duchess inquired, raising her plump hands in surprise.

American novels,” explained Lord Henry, starting to eat partridge.

The Duchess was puzzled.

“Don’t listen to him, my dear,” Lady Agatha whispered to her. “He never says anything seriously.”

When America was discovered... - the radical began - and then all sorts of boring information followed. Like all speakers who set themselves the goal of exhausting a topic, he exhausted the patience of his listeners. The Duchess sighed and exercised her privilege of interrupting others.

It would be much better if this America was not open at all! she exclaimed. After all, American women are fighting off all the suitors from our girls. This mess!

“Perhaps I would say that America is not discovered at all,” said Mr. Erskine. “It has only just been discovered.”

“Oh, I have seen representatives of her population,” the duchess responded in an uncertain tone. “And I must admit that most of them—

very pretty. And they dress beautifully. All toilets are ordered in Paris. Unfortunately, I cannot afford this.

There is a saying that good Americans go to Paris when they die, said Sir Thomas, who had a large selection of threadbare witticisms, with a chuckle.

That's how! Where do bad Americans go after death? --

asked the Duchess.

To America,” muttered Lord Henry. Sir Thomas knitted his eyebrows.

I'm afraid your nephew is prejudiced against this great country, -

he said to Lady Agatha. “I traveled all over it, - they always provided me with special carriages, the directors there are very kind,

And, I assure you, trips to America are of great educational importance.

Is it really necessary to see Chicago to become an educated person? - Mr. Erskine asked piteously. “I don’t feel able to make such a journey.”

Sir Thomas waved his hand.

For Mr. Erskine, the world is centered on his bookshelves. And we, people of action, want to see everything with our own eyes, not just read about everything.

Americans are a very interesting people and have a lot of common sense. I believe this is their most distinctive feature. Yes, yes, Mr. Erskine, these are very sensible people. Believe me, an American never does anything stupid.

Horrible! - exclaimed Lord Henry. - I can still come to terms with brute force, but rude, dull rationality is completely intolerable.

To be guided by reason - there is something ignoble in this. This means

Betray the intellect.

I don’t understand what you mean by this,” replied Sir Thomas, turning purple.

“I understand you, Lord Henry,” muttered Mr. Erskine with a smile.

Paradoxes have their charm, but...- the baronet began.

Was this a paradox? - asked Mr. Erskine. - I didn’t even guess... However, maybe you’re right. Well, so what? The truth of life is revealed to us precisely in the form of paradoxes. To comprehend Reality, one must see how it balances on a tightrope. And only after looking at all the acrobatic things that Truth does, we can correctly judge it.

Lord, how men love to argue! - Lady Agatha sighed. “I just can’t understand what you’re talking about.” And I'm very angry with you, Harry.

Why are you trying to dissuade our dear Mr. Gray from working with me in the EastEnder? Understand, he could provide us with invaluable services: everyone likes his playing so much.

“And I want him to play for me,” Lord Henry objected, laughing, and, looking at where Dorian was sitting, he met his joyful gaze in return.

But in Whitechapel you see so much human grief! - Lady Agatha did not let up.

I sympathize with everything except human grief. - Lord Henry shrugged his shoulders. - I cannot sympathize with him. It is too ugly, too terrible and oppresses us. There is something highly unhealthy in universal sympathy for suffering. You need to sympathize with the beauty, bright colors and joys of life. And talk as little as possible about its dark sides.

But the EastEnd is very serious problem“,” said Sir Thomas impressively, shaking his head.

“Undoubtedly,” agreed Lord Henry. “After all, this is the problem of slavery, and we are trying to solve it by entertaining the slaves.” The old politician looked at him intently.

What do you offer in return? -- he asked. Lord Henry laughed.

I would not like to change anything in England except the weather, and I am quite content with philosophical contemplation. But the nineteenth century went bankrupt by lavishing compassion too generously. And therefore, it seems to me that only Science can guide people on the right path. Emotions are good because they lead us away from this path, and Science is good because it does not know emotions.

But we have such a responsibility! Mrs. Vandeleur timidly intervened.

Enormous responsibility! - Lady Agatha supported her. Lord Henry exchanged glances across the table with Mr. Erskine.

Humanity exaggerates its role on earth. This is his original sin. If cavemen could laugh, history would have taken a different path.

“You have comforted me greatly,” cooed the Duchess. “Until now, when I visited your dear aunt, I always felt ashamed that I was not interested in the East End.” Now I will look into her eyes without blushing.

But blush becomes a woman very well, duchess,” said Lord Henry.

Only in youth,” she objected. “And when an old woman like me blushes, it’s a very bad sign.” Oh, Lord Henry, if only you could give me some advice on how to become young again!

Lord Henry thought for a moment.

Can you, Duchess, remember any big mistake of your youth? - he asked, leaning across the table towards her.

Alas, not just one!

Then do them all again,” he said seriously. To regain youth, you just have to repeat all its follies.

Wonderful theory! - the duchess admired. - I will certainly test it in practice.

The theory is dangerous! - Sir Thomas muttered through tightly compressed lips. And Lady Agatha shook her head, but laughed involuntarily. Mr. Erskine listened in silence.

Yes,” continued Lord Henry. “This is one of the great mysteries of life.” Nowadays, most people die from a creeping form of slavish prudence, and everyone realizes too late that the only thing we will never regret is our mistakes and delusions.

There was friendly laughter at the table.

And Lord Henry began to capriciously play with this thought, giving free rein to his imagination: he juggled it, transformed it, then discarded it, then picked it up again;

made her sparkle, decorating her with rainbow sparkles of his imagination, inspired her with paradoxes. This hymn to follies soared to the heights of philosophy, and Philosophy gained youth and, carried away by the wild music of Pleasure, like a bacchante in a wine-drenched outfit and an ivy wreath, rushed in a frenzied dance over the hills of life, mocking the sobriety of the slow Silenus.

Facts gave way to her, scattering like frightened forest spirits. Her naked legs slammed the giant stone of the winepress on which the wise Omar sits, and the babbling grape juice boiled around these white legs in waves of purple splashes, then spreading in red foam along the sloping black walls of the vat.

It was a brilliant and original improvisation. Lord Henry felt that Dorian Gray was not taking his eyes off him, and the consciousness that among the listeners there was a person whom he wanted to captivate sharpened his wit and added color to his speeches. What he said was fascinating, irresponsible, contrary to logic and reason. The listeners laughed, but were involuntarily fascinated and obediently followed his flight of fancy, like children following the legendary piper. Dorian Gray looked into his face without looking away, as if spellbound, and a smile ran across his lips every now and then, and in his darkened eyes admiration was replaced by thoughtfulness.

Finally, Reality, in the costume of our century, entered the room in the form of a servant, who reported to the duchess that her carriage had arrived. The Duchess wrung her hands in playful despair.

What a shame! I have to leave. I have to pick up my husband at the club and take him to some stupid meeting that he will preside over. If I’m late, he’ll definitely get angry, and I try to avoid scenes when I’m wearing this hat: it’s too airy, one harsh word can ruin it. No, no, don't hold me back, dear Agatha. Goodbye Lord Henry! You are a charm, but a real demon tempter. I really don't know what to think about your theories. Be sure to come and dine with us. Well, let's say on Tuesday. Are you not invited anywhere on Tuesday?

“For you, duchess, I am ready to change everything,” said Lord Henry with a bow.

“Oh, that’s very kind of you, but also very bad,” exclaimed the venerable lady. “So remember, we are waiting for you.” And she majestically floated out of the room, followed by Lady Agatha and the other ladies.

When Lord Henry sat down again, Mr. Erskine, sitting down next to him, put his hand on his shoulder.

Your speeches are more interesting than any books,” he began. “Why don’t you write something?”

Of course, it would be nice to write a novel, a wonderful novel, like a Persian carpet, and just as fantastic. But here in England they only read newspapers, encyclopedic dictionaries and textbooks. The British understand the beauty of literature less than any other people in the world.

I’m afraid you’re right,” responded Mr. Erskine. “I myself once dreamed of becoming a writer, but I gave up this idea long ago... Now, my young friend, if I may call you that, I want Let me ask you one question: do you really believe everything you said at breakfast?

And I don’t remember at all what I said. - Lord Henry smiled. -

Some kind of heresy?

Yes, definitely. In my opinion, you are an extremely dangerous person, and if anything happens to our dear duchess, we will all consider you the main culprit... I would like to talk to you about life. People of my generation lived a boring life. Some day, when you get tired of London, come and see me in Treadley. There you will explain to me your philosophy of pleasure over a glass of wonderful Burgundy, which, fortunately, I still have.

With great pleasure. I would consider it a blessing to visit Treadley, where there is such a hospitable host and such a wonderful library.

You will grace her with your presence,” responded the old gentleman with a courteous bow. “Well, now I’ll go and say goodbye to your kind aunt.”

It's time for me to go to the Athenaeum. At this hour we usually doze there.

In full force, Mr. Erskine?

Yes, forty people in forty chairs. In this way we are preparing to become the English Academy of Letters.

Lord Henry laughed.

“Well, I’ll go to the Park,” he said, getting up. At the door, Dorian Gray touched his hand.

Can I come with you too?

But I believe you promised to visit Basil Hallward?

I want to be with you more. Yes, yes, I definitely need to go with you. Can? And you promise to talk to me all the time? Nobody speaks as interestingly as you. Oh, I've said enough today! - Lord Henry objected with a smile. - Now I just want to observe life. Let's go and watch together, if you want.

One afternoon, a month later, Dorian Gray was sitting in a comfortable chair in the small library of Lord Henry, in his house in Mayfair. It was a beautiful room, with tall olive-green oak paneling, a yellowish frieze and a stucco ceiling. Silk Persian rugs with long fringes were scattered across the brick-red cloth that covered the floor. On the mahogany table stood a figurine of Klordion, and next to it lay a copy

"Les Cent Nouvelles" bound by Clovis Ev. The book once belonged to Marguerite Valois, and its binding was strewn with golden daisies -

The queen chose this flower as her emblem. On the fireplace were colorful tulips in large blue Chinese porcelain vases. The apricot light of a London summer day poured in through the heavily leaded windows.

Lord Henry has not returned yet. He made it a rule to always be late, believing that punctuality is the thief of time. And Dorian, frowning with displeasure, absentmindedly leafed through the superbly illustrated edition of Manon Lescaut, which he found in one of the bookcases. The clock ticked steadily in the style of Louis the Fourteenth, and even this irritated Dorian. He already tried to leave several times without waiting for the owner.

Finally, footsteps were heard behind the door and it opened.

How late you are, Harry! - Dorian muttered.

“Unfortunately, it’s not Harry, Mr. Gray,” responded a high and sharp voice.

Dorian quickly turned around and jumped up.

Sorry! I thought...

You thought it was my husband. And this is just his wife, let me introduce myself. I already know you very well from photographs. My husband, if I’m not mistaken, has seventeen of them.

Does it feel like seventeen, Lady Henry?

Well, not seventeen, then eighteen. And then I recently saw you with him at the opera.

As she said this, she chuckled uneasily and looked attentively at Dorian with her shifting blue eyes, like forget-me-nots. All the clothes of this strange woman looked as if they had been conceived in a fit of madness and put on in a storm. Lady Wotton was always in love with someone - and always hopelessly, so she retained all her illusions. She tried to be impressive, but she only looked sloppy. Her name was Victoria, and she loved going to church to the point of passion - it turned into a mania for her.

Probably on Lohengrin, Lady Henry?

Yes, on my beloved Lohengrin. I prefer Wagner's music to any other. It's so noisy, you can chat to it in the theater all evening without fear of being heard by strangers. It's very convenient, isn't it, Mr. Gray?

The same restless and abrupt laugh escaped her narrow lips, and she began to twirl in her hands a long tortoiseshell knife for cutting paper.

Dorian shook his head with a smile.

Sorry, I can't agree with you, Lady Henry. I always listen to music carefully and don't talk if it's good. Well, bad music, of course, should be drowned out by conversations.

Yeah, that's Harry's opinion, isn't it, Mr. Grey? I hear Harry's opinions all the time from his friends. This is the only way I will recognize them. Well, the music...

Don't think that I don't love her. good music I adore her, but I'm afraid of her...

She's making me overly romantic. I absolutely adore pianists, sometimes I even fall in love twice, as Harry assures. I don’t know what attracts me so much about them... Maybe it’s the fact that they are foreigners? After all, they seem to be all foreigners? Even those born in England eventually become foreigners, don't they? This is very smart of them and gives a good reputation to their art and makes it cosmopolitan. Isn’t it, Mr. Gray?.. It seems you haven’t been to one of my evenings yet?

Come by all means. I don’t order orchids, it’s beyond my means, but I don’t spare money on foreigners - they give the living room such a picturesque look!

Yeah! Here comes Harry! Harry, I came in to ask you something, I don’t remember what exactly, and I found Mr. Gray here. He and I had a very interesting conversation about music. And they completely agreed on opinions... however, no -

They seem to have completely separated. But he is such a pleasant conversationalist, and I am very glad that I met him.

“I’m very glad too, my dear, very glad,” said Lord Henry, raising his languid arched eyebrows and looking with a cheerful smile first at his wife and then at Dorian. “Sorry for keeping you waiting, Dorian.” I went to Wardstreet, where I spotted a piece of antique brocade, and had to haggle for it for a good two hours. Nowadays, people know the price of everything, but have no idea about the true value.

It's a pity that I have to leave you! - Lady Henry announced, breaking the awkward silence that followed, and laughed as always, unexpectedly and inappropriately. I promised the duchess to go for a ride with her. Goodbye, Mr. Gray! Goodbye, Harry. Are you probably having lunch at a party today? Me too.

Maybe we can meet at Lady Thornbury's?

“Very possible, my dear,” replied Lord Henry, closing the door behind her. When his wife, resembling a bird of paradise that had been out in the rain all night, fluttered out of the compata, leaving behind a slight scent of jasmine, he lit a cigarette and lounged on the sofa.

Never marry a woman with straw-colored hair, -

he said after a few puffs.

Why, Harry?

They are terribly sentimental.

And I love sentimental people.

And in general, it’s better not to get married, Dorian. Men marry out of fatigue, women marry out of curiosity. For both, marriage brings disappointment.

I don't think I'll ever get married, Harry. I'm too in love. This is also one of your aphorisms. I will put it into practice, just like everything you preach.

Who are you in love with? asked Lord Henry after some silence.

“One actress,” answered Dorian Gray, blushing. Lord Henry shrugged.

A rather banal start.

You wouldn't say that if you saw her, Harry.

Who is she?

Her name is Sibyl Vane.

I've never heard of such an actress.

And no one has heard it yet. But someday everyone will know about it. She's brilliant.

My boy, women are not geniuses. They are a decorative floor. They have nothing to say to the world, but they speak - and they say it nicely. A woman is the embodiment of matter triumphing over the spirit, while a man personifies the triumph of thought over morality.

For mercy, Harry!..

My dear Dorian, believe me, this is the holy truth. I study women, how could I not know! And, I must say, this is not such a difficult subject to study. I have come to the conclusion that women generally fall into two categories: those without makeup and those with makeup. The first ones are very useful to us. If you want to gain a reputation as an honorable person, all you have to do is invite such a woman to have dinner with you. Women of the second category are charming. But they make one mistake: they wear makeup just to appear younger. Our grandmothers wore makeup to be known as witty and brilliant conversationalists: in those days, “rouge” and “esprit” were considered inseparable. It's not like that these days. If a woman has achieved the fact that she looks ten years younger than her daughter, she is quite satisfied with this. Don't expect a witty conversation from them. In all of London there are only five women worth talking to, and even then two of these five have no place in polite society... Well, tell me about your genius anyway. How long have you known her?

Oh, Harry, your reasoning horrifies me.

Nothing. So when did you meet her?

Three weeks ago.

I'll tell you now. But don’t try to discourage me, Harry! In essence, if I had not met you, nothing would have happened: after all, it was you who awakened in me a passionate desire to learn everything about life. After our meeting at Basil's, I knew no peace, every vein in me trembled. Wandering around the Park or Piccadilly, I peered with greedy curiosity at everyone I met and tried to guess what kind of life he led. I was drawn to some. Others filled me with fear. It was as if some sweet poison was poured into the air.

I was tormented by a thirst for new experiences... And then one evening, at about seven o’clock, I went to wander around London in search of this new one. I felt that in our huge gray city with its myriad inhabitants, vile sinners and captivating vices - as you described it to me - there was something in store for me. I pictured a thousand things to myself... I even anticipated the dangers that awaited me with delight. I remembered your words spoken on that wonderful evening when we dined together for the first time: “The true secret of happiness is the search for beauty.” Not knowing what I was waiting for, I left the house and walked towards the East End. I soon became lost in a maze of dirty streets and dull boulevards without greenery. About half past eight I passed by some miserable theater with large gas jets and flashy posters at the entrance.

A disgusting Jew in a hilarious vest, the likes of which I had never seen in my life, stood at the entrance and smoked a crappy cigar. His hair was greasy and curled, and a huge diamond sparkled on his dirty shirtfront. "Would you like a bed, my lord?" --

he suggested when he saw me and took off his hat with emphasized politeness. This freak seemed interesting to me. You will, of course, laugh at me - but imagine, Harry, I went in and paid a whole guinea for a box near the stage. I still don’t understand how this happened. But if I hadn’t done this - oh, my dear Harry, if I hadn’t done this, I would have missed the most beautiful novel of my life!..

Are you laughing? Honestly, this is outrageous!

I'm not laughing, Dorian. In any case, I'm not laughing at you. But don’t say that this is the most beautiful novel of your life. Say better:

"first". People will always fall in love with you, and you will always be in love with love. Grande passion is the privilege of people who spend their lives in idleness. This is the only thing the non-working classes are capable of. Don't be afraid, you have many wonderful experiences ahead of you. This is just the beginning.

So you consider me such a superficial person? --

exclaimed Dorian Gray.

On the contrary, deeply feeling.

How so?

My boy, I consider those who love only once in their life to be superficial people. Their so-called loyalty and constancy are just lethargy of habit or lack of imagination. Loyalty in love, like consistency and immutability of thoughts, is simply proof of powerlessness... Loyalty! Someday I will analyze this feeling. In him

Owner's greed. We would willingly give up a lot of things if it weren’t for the fear that someone else would pick it up... But I won’t interrupt you any longer.

So - I found myself in a nasty, cramped box near the stage, and before my eyes there was a clumsily painted curtain. I began to look around the hall.

It was decorated with tinsel luxury, cupids and cornucopias everywhere, like on a cheap wedding cake. The gallery and the back rows were crowded, but the first rows of shabby chairs were empty, and not a soul was visible in those places that here, it seems, are called the balcony. Sellers of ginger beer and oranges walked between the rows, and all the spectators were furiously cracking nuts.

Just like in the glory days of British drama!

Yes, probably. This situation was depressing. And I was already thinking about how I could get out of there, but then my gaze fell on the poster. What kind of play do you think was on that evening, Harry?

Well, something like “Idiot” or “The Mute is Innocent.” Our grandfathers loved such plays. The longer I live in the world, Dorian, the more clearly I see: what our grandfathers were satisfied with is no longer suitable for us. In art, as in politics, 1ez les grandperes ont toujours tort.

This play, Harry, is good enough for us: it was Shakespeare,

"Romeo and Juliet". Frankly, at first I felt offended for Shakespeare, who was being played in such a hole. But at the same time, it got me a little interested. Anyway, I decided to watch the first act.

A terrifying orchestra began to play, conducted by a young Jew sitting at a broken piano. This music almost made me run away from the hall, but finally the curtain rose and the performance began. Romeo was played by a corpulent elderly man with eyebrows drawn in with burnt cork and a hoarse, tragic voice.

His figure resembled a beer keg. Mercutio was little better. This role was played by a comedian who was used to performing in farces. He inserted gags into the text and was on the most friendly terms with the gallery. Both of these actors were as ridiculous as the scenery, and the whole thing resembled a fairground booth. But Juliet!.. Harry, imagine a girl of about seventeen, with a delicate face like a flower, with a Greek head entwined in dark braids.

Eyes are blue lakes of passion, lips are rose petals. For the first time in my life I saw such wondrous beauty! You once said that no pathos moves you, but beauty, beauty alone, can bring tears to your eyes. So, Harry, I could hardly see this girl because the tears blurred my eyes. And the voice! I have never heard such a voice! At first he was very quiet, but each of his deep, caressing notes seemed to flow separately into the ears. Then it became louder and sounded like a flute or a distant oboe. During the scene in the garden, that trembling delight that sounds before dawn in the song of a nightingale rang within him. There were moments when the frantic singing of violins was heard in it. You know how moving someone's voice can be. I will never forget your voice and the voice of Sibyl Vane! As soon as I close my eyes, I hear your voices. Each of them tells me something different, and I don’t know which one to listen to...

How could I not love her? Harry, I love her. She's everything to me. Every evening I see her on stage. Today she is Rosalind, tomorrow she is Imogen. I saw her in Italy dying in the darkness of a crypt, I saw her drink poison from the lips of her lover in a kiss. I watched her as she wandered through the Ardennes, disguised as a youth, charming in this costume - a short camisole, tight-fitting pants, an elegant cap. Mad, she came to the criminal king and gave him rue and bitter herbs. She was innocent Desdemona, and the black hands of jealousy squeezed her reed-thin neck. I have seen her in all ages and in all kinds of costumes. Ordinary women do not excite our imagination. They don't go beyond their time. They are not able to transform themselves as if by magic. Their souls are as familiar to us as their hats.

There is no secret in them. In the mornings they ride horses in the Park, and in the afternoon they chat with friends at the tea table. They have a stereotypical smile and good manners. They are an open book for us. But an actress!.. An actress is a completely different matter. And why didn’t you tell me, Harry, that only an actress is worth loving?

Because I loved so many actresses, Dorian.

Oh, I know which ones: these terrible women with dyed hair and painted faces.

Don't despise dyed hair and painted faces, Dorian! Sometimes you find some amazing charm in them.

Really, I regret telling you about Sibyl Vane!

You couldn't help but tell me, Dorian. You will trust me with everything all the time.

Yes, Harry, you're probably right. I can hide nothing from you. You have some kind of incomprehensible power over me. Even if I ever committed a crime, I would come and confess to you. You would understand me.

People like you, Dorian, the wayward rays of sunshine that illuminate life, do not commit crimes. And thank you for your flattering opinion about me!

Well, now tell me... Pass me the matches, please! Thank you...

Tell me, how far did your relationship with Sibyl Vane go?

Dorian jumped up, flushed all over, his eyes sparkling.

Harry! Sibyl Vane is sacred to me!

Only sacred things are worth touching, Dorian,” said Lord Henry with a note of pathos in his voice. And why are you angry? After all, sooner or later, I believe, she will be yours. Falling in love begins with a person deceiving himself, and ends with him deceiving another. This is what is commonly called a novel. I hope you have at least met her already?

Well, of course. On the first evening that nasty old Jew After the performance he came to the box and offered to take me backstage and introduce me to Juliet. I boiled and told him that Juliet had died several hundred years ago and her ashes rested in a marble crypt in Verona. He listened to me with the greatest surprise - he probably thought that I had drunk too much champagne...

Quite possible.

Then he asked if I wrote for newspapers. I replied that I don't even read them. He was apparently very disappointed and told me that all the theater critics were conspiring against him and that they were all corrupt.

Perhaps he is absolutely right about this. However, judging by their appearance, most of the critics are sold at an inexpensive price.

Well, he, apparently, finds that he can’t afford them,” Dorian said with a laugh. While we were talking like this, the lights in the theater began to go out, and it was time for me to leave. The Jew persistently offered me some more cigars, intensely praising them, but I refused them too. The next evening, of course, I came to the theater again. Seeing me, the Jew bowed deeply and announced that I was a generous patron of art. A most unpleasant subject, -

however, I must tell you, he is a passionate fan of Shakespeare. He proudly told me that he got burned five times just because of his love for the “bard” (as he stubbornly calls Shakespeare). He seems to consider this his great merit.

This is truly a merit, my dear, a great merit!

Most people go bankrupt because of an excessive addiction not to Shakespeare, but to the prose of life. And to go broke for the love of poetry is an honor...

Well, when did you first speak to Miss Sibyl Vane?

On the third evening. She then played Rosalind. I finally gave in and went backstage to see her. Before that, I threw her flowers, and she looked at me... At least, that’s what it seemed to me... And the old Jew kept pestering me -

he apparently decided to take me to Sibila at any cost. And I went...

Isn't it strange that I didn't want to get to know her?

No, it's not strange at all.

Why not, Harry? - I'll explain later. Now I want to listen to your story about this girl.

About Sybil? She is so shy and sweet. There is a lot of childishness in it. When I began to admire her performance, she opened her eyes wide with charming amazement - she is completely unaware of what talent she has! Both of us that evening seemed to be quite embarrassed. The Jew stood in the doorway of the dusty foyer and, grinning, ranted eloquently, and we stood and silently looked at each other, like children! The old man persistently called me “my lord,” and I hastened to assure Sybil that I was not a lord at all. She said innocently: "You are more like a prince. I will call you 'Prince Charming.'

By my honor, Miss Sibyl knows how to give compliments!

No, Harry, you don’t understand: for her, I’m like the hero of some play. She doesn't know life at all. Lives with her mother, a tortured, withered woman who played Lady Capulet in some red hood on her first night. It's clear that this woman has seen better days.

I’ve met people like that... They always make me sad,” Lord Henry interjected, looking at his rings.

The Jew wanted to tell me her story, but I didn’t listen and said that I wasn’t interested.

And they did the right thing. There is something immensely pathetic in other people's dramas.

I'm only interested in Sybil herself. What do I care about her family and background? Everything about her is perfection, everything is divine - from her head to her little legs. Every evening I go to see her on stage, and every evening she seems more and more wonderful to me.

So that's why you don't dine with me in the evenings anymore! I thought you were having some kind of affair. However, this is not quite what I expected.

Harry, dear, every day we either have breakfast or dinner together! And besides, I went to the opera with you several times, -

Dorian objected in surprise.

Yes, but you are always shamelessly late.

What can you do! I must see Sybil every evening, in at least one act. I can no longer live without her. And when I think of the wonderful soul contained in this fragile body, as if carved from ivory, I am filled with awe.

And today, Dorian, would you like to have lunch with me?

Dorian shook his head.

Today she is Imogen. Tomorrow night will be Juliet.

And when is she Sibyl Vane?

Never.

Well, then we can congratulate you!

Oh, Harry, how unbearable you are! Understand that all the great heroines of the world live in it! She is more than one being. Are you laughing? And I tell you: she is a genius. I love her: I will do everything so that she loves me too. Now you have comprehended all the secrets of life - so teach me how to bewitch Sibyl Vane! I want to be Romeo's happy rival and make him jealous. I want all the lovers who once lived on earth to hear our laughter in their graves and be sad, so that the breath of our passion will disturb their ashes, awaken them and make them suffer. My God, Harry, if you knew how much I adore her!

So spoke Dorian, walking excitedly from corner to corner. A feverish blush burned on his cheeks. He was very excited.

Lord Henry watched him with secret pleasure. How different Dorian was now from that shy and timid boy whom he met in Basil Hallward's workshop! His whole being opened up like a flower, blooming in a fiery scarlet color. The Soul came out of its secret refuge, and Desire hurried to meet it.

What are you planning to do? - Lord Henry finally asked.

I want you and Basil to come with me to the theater one day and see her on stage. I have no doubt that you will also appreciate her talent. Then it will be necessary to snatch it from the hands of this Jew. She is bound by a contract for three years - however, now there are only two years and eight months left.

Of course I'll pay him. When everything is settled, I will rent some theater in the West End and show it to people in all its glory. She will drive the whole world crazy, just like she drove me.

Well, that’s unlikely, my dear!

You'll see! She has not only a wonderful artistic flair, but also a bright personality! And you have repeatedly told me that in our age the world is ruled by individuals, not ideas.

Okay, when are we going to the theater?

Now I’ll figure it out... Today is Tuesday. Let's go tomorrow! Tomorrow she plays Juliet.

Great. Meet me at eight at Bristol. I'll bring Basil.

Not at eight, Harry, but at half past seven. We must get to the theater before the curtain goes up. I want you to see her in that scene when she meets Romeo for the first time.

At half past seven! This early! Yes, it’s like degrading yourself to reading an English novel. No, let's go at seven. No decent person dines before seven. Maybe you should go see Basil before that? Or just write to him?

Dear Basil! I haven't seen him for a whole week now. This is simply shameless - after all, he sent me my portrait in a magnificent frame, ordered according to his drawing... True, I am a little jealous of this portrait, which is a whole month younger than me, but, I admit, I am delighted with it.

Perhaps it would be better if you write to Basil. I wouldn't like to meet him face to face - everything he says bores me.

He constantly gives me good advice.

Lord Henry smiled.

Some people are very willing to give away what they themselves desperately need. This is what I call the height of generosity!

Basil is a kind soul, but I think he's a bit of a philistine. I realized this when I got to know you, Harry.

You see, my friend, Basil puts the best in him into his work. Thus, for life he has only prejudices, moral rules and common sense. Of all the artists I have known, only the mediocre ones were charming people. The talented live by their creativity and therefore are not at all interesting in themselves. Great poet --

the truly great always turns out to be the most prosaic person, And the minor ones are charming. The weaker their poetry, the more spectacular their appearance and manners. If a person has published a collection of bad sonnets, you can say in advance that he is completely irresistible. He brings into his life the poetry that he is unable to bring into his poems. But poets of a different kind pour out poetry on paper that they do not have the courage to bring into life.

I don’t know if this is true, Harry,” said Dorian Gray, moistening his handkerchief with perfume from a bottle with a gold stopper standing on the table. “It must be true, if you say so... Well, I’m leaving, there’s someone waiting for me.” Imogen. Don't forget about tomorrow's meeting. Goodbye.

Left alone, Lord Henry fell into thought, lowering his heavy eyelids. Undoubtedly, few people interested him as much as Dorian Gray, but the fact that the young man passionately loved someone else did not arouse the slightest annoyance or jealousy in Lord Henry's soul. On the contrary, he was even glad about it: now Dorian becomes an even more interesting object for study. Lord Henry always admired the scientific methods of naturalists, but found the field of their research boring and insignificant. He began his own research with vivisection on himself, then began to perform vivisection on others.

Human life was what seemed to him the only thing worthy of study. Compared to her, everything else was worthless. And, of course, an observer studying the effervescence of life in its peculiar crucible of joys and sufferings cannot protect his face with a glass mask and protect himself from the suffocating fumes that intoxicate the brain and imagination with monstrous images and terrible nightmares. In this crucible, poisons arise so subtle that you can study their properties only when you yourself are poisoned by them, and diseases so strange nest that you can understand their nature only by having suffered from them. But what a great reward awaits the brave explorer! How extraordinary the world will appear before him! To comprehend the amazingly cruel logic of passion and the life of intellect, colored by emotions, to find out when both converge and when they diverge, in what they are united and when discord sets in, what a pleasure! Does it matter at what price it is bought? It’s not a pity to pay anything for every new unknown sensation.

Lord Henry understood (and at this thought his dark eyes sparkled cheerfully) that it was his speeches, the music of these speeches, uttered in his melodious voice, that turned Dorian’s soul to the lovely girl and made him bow before her. Yes, the boy was to a large extent his creation and thanks to him he awoke to life so early. Isn't this an achievement?

Ordinary people wait for life itself to reveal its secrets to them, and to a select few, the secrets of life are revealed before the curtain rises. Sometimes art (and mainly literature) contributes to this, acting directly on the mind and feelings. But it happens that the role of art is assumed in this case by some person of a complex soul, who himself is a creation of art - for Life, like poetry, or sculpture, or painting, also creates its masterpieces.

Yes, Dorian matured early. Spring has not yet passed, but he is already harvesting. He has all the fervor and cheerfulness of youth, but at the same time he is already beginning to understand himself. Watching him is a real pleasure!

This boy with a beautiful face and a wonderful soul arouses a keen interest in himself. Does it really matter how it all ends, what fate is in store for him? He is like those glorious heroes of plays or mysteries whose joys are alien to us, but whose suffering awakens in us a love of beauty. Their wounds are red roses.

Soul and body, body and soul - what a mystery it is! Animal instincts lurk in the soul, and the body is given the opportunity to experience spiritualizing moments. Sensual impulses can become refined, and the intellect can become dull. Who can tell when the flesh becomes silent and the soul begins to speak? How superficial and arbitrary are the authoritative statements of psychologists! And despite all this, how difficult it is to decide which school is closer to the truth! Is the human soul really just a shadow enclosed in a sinful shell? Or, as Giordano Bruno believed, is the body contained in the spirit? The separation of the soul from the body is as incomprehensible a mystery as their merging.

Lord Henry asked himself whether psychology, through our efforts, could one day become an absolutely exact science, revealing the smallest impulses, every hidden feature of our inner life? Now we do not yet understand ourselves and rarely understand others. Experience has no moral significance; People call their mistakes experience. Moralists, as a rule, have always seen experience as a means of warning and believed that it influences the formation of character. They praised experience because it teaches us what to follow and what to avoid. But experience has no driving force. There is as little action in it as there is in human consciousness. Essentially, it only testifies that our future is usually similar to our past and that a sin committed once with a shudder, we repeat many times in life - but with pleasure.

It was clear to Lord Henry that only through experimentation can one arrive at a scientific analysis of the passions. And Doriap Gray is at hand, he is undoubtedly a suitable object, and his study promises to yield rich results. His instantly flared up mad love for Sibyl Vane is a very interesting psychological phenomenon. Of course, curiosity played a significant role here...

yes, curiosity and thirst for new sensations. However, this love is not a primitive feeling, but a very complex one. What in her is generated by the purely sensual instincts of youth seems to Dorian himself to be something sublime, far from sensuality - and for this reason it is even more dangerous. It is precisely those passions, the nature of which we misunderstand, that dominate us most powerfully. And the weakest of all are feelings whose origin is clear to us. And often a person imagines that he is performing an experiment on others, when in reality he is conducting an experiment on himself.

So Lord Henry was thinking when there was a knock at the door. The valet came in and reminded him that it was time to change for dinner. Lord Henry stood up and looked out into the street. The setting sun bathed the upper windows of the house opposite in purple and gold, and the glass sparkled like sheets of red-hot metal. The sky above the roofs was pale pink. And Lord Henry thought about the fiery youth of his new friend and tried to guess what fate awaited Dorian.

Returning home at about half past midnight, he saw a telegram on the table in the hallway. Dorian Gray informed him of his engagement to Sibyl Vane.

Mom, mom, I'm so happy! - whispered the girl, pressing her cheek to the knees of a woman with a tired, faded face, who was sitting with her back to the light, in the only chair in a squalid and dirty living room. - I’m so happy -

repeated Sibyl. “And you should rejoice too!”

Mrs. Vane convulsively hugged her daughter's head with her thin, whitened hands.

Rejoice? - she responded. “I am happy, Sybil, only when I see you on the stage. You should not think about anything other than the theater. Mr. Isaacs has done us a lot of good. And we still haven’t returned it to him.” money...

The girl raised her head and made a dissatisfied grimace.

Money? - she exclaimed. - Oh, mother, what nonsense! Love is more important than money.

Mr. Isaacs gave us fifty pounds in advance so that we could pay our debts and properly equip James for the journey. Don't forget this, Sybil. Fifty pounds is a lot of money. Mr. Isaacs is very attentive to us...

But he's not a gentleman, Mom! And I’m disgusted by his way of talking to me,” said the girl, getting up and going to the window.

“I don’t know what we would have done if it weren’t for him,” the mother objected grumpily.

Sybil threw back her head and laughed.

We don't need him anymore, Mom. Now Prince Charming will control our lives.

She suddenly fell silent. The blood rushed to her face, covering her cheeks with a pink shadow. Rapid breathing caused the petals of the lips to open. They were trembling. A sultry wind of passion blew in and seemed to even move the soft folds of the dress.

“I love him,” said Sibyl simply.

Stupid! Oh, silly! - the mother repeated like a parrot in response. And the movements of her crooked fingers, studded with cheap rings, gave these words something eeriely absurd.

The girl laughed again. The joy of the captive bird rang in her laughter.

Her eyes shone with the same joy, and Sybil closed them for a moment, as if wanting to hide her secret. When she opened them again, they were clouded with a dream.

Narrow-lipped wisdom called to her from a shabby chair, preaching prudence and caution, quoting maxims from the book of cowardice posing as common sense. Sybil did not listen. A voluntary captive of Love, she was not alone at those moments. Her prince, Prince Charming, was with her. She called upon Memory, and Memory recreated his image. She sent her soul out in search, and it brought him. His kiss was still burning on her lips, her eyelids were still warmed by his breath.

Wisdom, meanwhile, changed tactics and started talking about the need to check, make inquiries... This young man must be rich. If so, we need to think about marriage... But the waves of everyday cunning crashed into Sybil’s ears, the arrows of deceit flew past. She only saw the narrow lips move and smiled.

Suddenly she felt the need to speak. The word-filled silence disturbed her.

Mom, mom,” she exclaimed. “Why does he love me so much?” I know why I fell in love with him: he is beautiful, like Love itself. But what did he see in me? After all, I’m not worthy of him... And yet, I don’t know why, although I’m completely unworthy of him, I’m not at all ashamed of it. I am proud, oh, so proud of my love! Mom, did you also love my father as much as I love Prince Charming?

The old woman's face turned pale under a thick layer of cheap powder, her dry lips curled into a convulsive grimace of pain. Sybil ran up to her mother, hugged her and kissed her.

Sorry, mommy! I know it hurts you to remember your father. It's because you loved him dearly. Well, don't be so sad! Today I am as happy as you were twenty years ago. Oh, don’t stop me from being happy for the rest of my life!

My child, you are too young to fall in love. And besides, what do you know about this? young man? You don't even know his name. All this is highly indecent. Really, at a time when James is leaving us for Australia and I have so many worries, you should show more sensitivity... However, if it turns out that he is rich...

Oh, mom, mom, don’t interfere with my happiness!

Mrs. Vane looked at her daughter and embraced her. It was one of those theatrical gestures that often become “second nature” to actors. At that moment the door opened and a stocky, somewhat awkward young man with tousled dark hair and large arms and legs entered the room. There was no trace of the subtle grace that distinguished his sister. It was hard to believe that they were so closely related.

Mrs. Vane fixed her eyes on her son and her smile grew wider. At that moment her son took the place of her audience, and she felt that he and her daughter presented an interesting spectacle.

You could leave a few kisses for me too, Sybil, -

said the young man with a playful reproach.

“You don’t like kissing, Jim,” said Sibyl. You sullen old bear! She ran up to her brother and hugged him.

James Wayne looked tenderly into her eyes.

Let's go for one last walk, Sybil. I'll probably never go back to this nasty London again. And I don’t regret it at all.

My son, don’t say such terrible things! - muttered Mrs. Vane with a sigh and, taking out some tawdry theatrical outfit, began to mend it. She was somewhat disappointed that James did not take part in the touching scene - after all, this scene would have been even more spectacular then.

Why not say it, since it’s true, mom?

You make me very sad, James. I hope you return from Australia a wealthy man. You won't find a good society in the colonies.

Yes, there is nothing like a decent society there... So, when you make a fortune, return to your homeland and settle down in London.

-- "Good Society“Just think!” James muttered. “I really need it! I just want to earn money so that you and Sybil can leave the theater. I hate it!”

Oh, James, what a grump you are! “Sibyl said with a laugh. “So you really want to take a walk with me?” Wonderful! And I was afraid that you would go away to say goodbye to your comrades, to Tom Hardy, who gave you that ugly pipe, or Ned Langton, who mocks you when you smoke. It's very nice that you decided to spend your last day with me.

Where will we go? Let's go to the Park!

No, I’m too poorly dressed,” James objected, frowning. “Only the posh crowd walks in the Park.”

Nonsense, Jim! “Sibyl whispered, stroking the sleeve of his shabby coat.

Well, okay,” said James after a moment’s hesitation. “Just get dressed quickly.”

Sybil fluttered out of the room, and she could be heard singing as she ran up the stairs. Then her feet stamped somewhere above.

James walked from corner to corner several times. Then he turned to the motionless figure in the chair and asked:

Mom, are you all ready?

“Everything is ready, James,” she answered, without looking up from her sewing.

In recent months, Mrs. Vane had felt somewhat uneasy when she was alone with her stern and rude son. The limited and secretive woman was dismayed when their eyes met. She often asked herself whether her son suspected something.

James didn't say another word, and the silence became unbearable to her.

Then she resorted to reproaches and complaints. Women, when defending themselves, always go on the offensive. And their offensive often ends in a sudden and inexplicable surrender.

God grant that you enjoy the life of a sailor, James,” began Mrs. Vane. “Don’t forget that you wanted it yourself.” But he could have joined some lawyer’s office. Lawyers are a very respectable class; in the provinces they are often invited to the best houses.

“I don’t tolerate offices and officials,” James snapped. “That I made the choice myself is true.” I will live my life the way I like. And to you, mom, I’ll tell you one thing goodbye: take care of Sibyl. Make sure no harm happens to her! You must protect her!

I don't understand why you're saying this, James. Of course, I protect Sybil.

I heard that a certain gentleman comes to the theater every evening and goes backstage to see Sybil. This is true? What do you say to this?

Oh, James, you don't know anything about these things. We actors are used to being given the most kind attention. I was also once bombarded with bouquets. In those days, people knew how to appreciate our art. Well, as for Sibyl... I still don’t know whether her feeling is strong, whether it is serious. But this young man is without a doubt a true gentleman. He's always so polite to me. And it is obvious from everything that he is rich - he sends wonderful flowers to Sibila.

But you don’t even know his name! - the young man said sharply.

No, I don’t know,” the mother answered with the same serene calm.

He has not yet revealed his name to us. It's very romantic. He is probably from the most aristocratic circle.

James Vape bit his lip.

Take care of Sibyl, mom! - he said again insistently. - Look after her carefully!

My son, you offend me very much. Do I care enough about Sybil?

Of course, if this gentleman is rich, why shouldn't she marry him? I'm sure he's of noble birth. This is evident from everything. Sybil can make a brilliant match. And they will be a lovely couple - he is wonderfully handsome, his beauty catches everyone's eye.

James muttered something under his breath, drumming his fingers on the glass. He turned to his mother and wanted to say something else, but at that moment the door opened and Sybil ran in.

Why are you both looking so serious? - she exclaimed. “What’s the matter?”

“Nothing,” said James. “You can’t always laugh, sometimes you have to be serious.” Well, goodbye, mom. I'll come for dinner at five. Everything is packed except the shirts, so don't worry.

“Good-bye, my son,” said Mrs. Vane, and nodded majestically, but with a strained air, to James. She was greatly annoyed by the tone in which he spoke to her, and the expression in his eyes frightened her.

Kiss me, mother,” said Sibyl. Her lips, tender as flower petals, touched the withered cheek and warmed it.

O my child, my child! - exclaimed Mrs. Vane, raising her eyes to the ceiling in search of an imaginary gallery.

Well, let's go, Sybil! - James called impatiently. He could not stand the affectation to which his mother was so prone.

The brother and sister went out into the street, where the sunshine competed with the wind that was whipping up the clouds, and walked along the dull Euston Road. Passers-by looked in surprise at the gloomy and awkward guy in a cheap, poorly tailored suit, walking with such an elegant and graceful girl. He resembled a hillbilly gardener with a lovely rose.

From time to time Jim frowned, catching someone's curious gaze.

He hated being stared at, a feeling familiar to geniuses only in the twilight of life, but never leaving ordinary people. Sybil did not notice at all that they were admiring her. Her laughter rang with the joy of love.

She thought about Prince Charming, but so that nothing would stop her from reveling in these thoughts, she did not talk about him, but chatted about the ship on which James would sail, about the gold that he would certainly find in Australia, about the imaginary beautiful girl. rich girl, which he will save by freeing it from the hands of robbers in red shirts. Sybil could not even imagine that James would remain a simple sailor or third mate or anything like that for the rest of his life. No no! A sailor's life is terrible! To sit like a bird in a cage on some nasty ship, when it is constantly attacked with a hoarse roar by humpbacked waves, and an evil wind bends the masts and tears the sails into long whistling ribbons! As soon as the ship arrives in Melbourne, James should politely say "sorry" to the captain and disembark and immediately go to the gold fields. Within a week he would find a huge nugget of pure gold, the likes of which no one had ever found, and transport it to the coast in a wagon guarded by six mounted policemen. The bandits hiding in the thickets will attack them three times, a bloody battle will take place, and the bandits will be driven back... Or no, there is no need for any gold mines, what’s happening there is terrible, people are poisoning each other, there’s shooting and swearing in bars.

It's better for James to become a peaceful farmer and raise sheep. And one fine evening, when he is returning home on horseback, he will see a robber on a black horse taking away a beautiful noble girl, set off in pursuit of him and save the beauty. Well, then, of course, she will fall in love with him, and he with her, and they will get married, return to London and live here, in a huge house. Yes, yes, wonderful adventures lie ahead for James. Only he must be good, not get angry and not waste money.

You listen to me, James. Although I am only a year older than you, I know life much better... Look, write to me with every mail! And pray before going to bed every night, and I will also pray for you. And in a few years you will return rich and happy.

James listened to his sister gloomily and silently. It was with a heavy heart that he left home. And it was not only the upcoming separation that depressed him and made him frown angrily. For all his inexperience, the young man keenly felt that Sibyl was in danger. Don't expect any good from this society dandy who decided to court her! He was an aristocrat - and James hated him, hated him unconsciously, due to some class instinct, incomprehensible to him and therefore even more powerful. Moreover, James, knowing the frivolity and empty vanity of his mother, sensed in this a formidable danger for Sybil and her happiness. As children we love our parents. As adults, we judge them. And it happens that we forgive them.

Mother! James had long wanted to ask her one question - a question that had been tormenting him for many months. A phrase accidentally heard in the theater, a mocking whisper that reached him one evening when he was waiting for his mother at the entrance to the backstage, raised a whole storm of painful guesses in James’s head.

The memory of this still burned him like a whip in the face. He knitted his eyebrows so that a deep wrinkle appeared between them, and with a grimace of pain, he convulsively bit his lower lip.

You're not listening to me at all, Jim! - Sibyl suddenly exclaimed.

But I’m trying, making such wonderful plans for you for the future. Well, say something!

What can I say?

At least that you will be a good boy and will not forget you,” said Sybil with a smile. James shrugged.

You will sooner forget me than I will forget you, Sybil.

Sybil blushed.

Why do you think that, Jim?

Well, they say you have a new friend. Who is he? Why didn't you tell me anything about him? This acquaintance will not lead to good.

Stop it, Jim! Don't you dare speak ill of him! I love him.

Lord, you don’t even know his name! - James objected. Who is he? I think I have a right to know this.

His name is Prince Charming. Don't you love this name? Remember him, stupid boy. If you saw my Prince, you would understand that there is no one better in the world than him. When you return from Australia, I will introduce you to you then. You'll like him very much, Jim. Everyone likes him, and I... I love him. What a pity that you won't be able to be at the theater tonight. He promised to come. And today I'm playing Juliet. Oh, how I will play it! Just imagine, Jim, playing Juliet when you yourself are in love and when he is sitting in front of you. Play for him! I'm even afraid that I'll scare all the spectators.

I'll scare you or delight you! Love lifts a person above himself...

That poor Freak, Mr. Isaac, will be shouting to his drinking buddies in the bar again that I'm a genius. He believes in me, and today he will pray for me. And this was done by my Prince Charming, my wonderful love, the god of beauty! I'm so pathetic compared to him... Well, so what? The proverb says: poverty creeps in through the door, but love flies in through the window. Our proverbs should be remade. They were invented in winter, and now it’s summer...

No, for me it’s spring now, a real festival of flowers under the blue sky.

“He is a noble man,” said James gloomily.

He is a prince! - Sibyl sang. “What else do you want?”

He wants to make you his slave.

And I tremble at the thought of freedom.

Beware of him, Sybil!

Those who saw him worshiped him, and those who recognized him believed him.

Sibyl, he's driven you completely crazy!

Sybil laughed and took her brother's arm.

Jim, my dear, you talk like a hundred year old man. Someday you yourself will fall in love, then you will understand what it is. Well, don't sulk! You should be glad that when you leave, you leave me so happy. Life was hard for you and me, terribly hard and difficult. And now everything will go differently.

You go to see a new world, but it opened up for me here in London... Here are two empty seats, let's sit down and look at the elegant audience.

They sat down among a crowd of vacationers who stared at the passers-by. In the flower beds along the path, tulips glowed with trembling tongues of flame. White dust hung in the air, like a shifting cloud of fragrant powder. Umbrellas of bright colors fluttered and swayed overhead like huge colorful butterflies.

Sybil persistently questioned her brother, wanting him to share his plans and hopes with her. James answered slowly and reluctantly. They exchanged words like players exchange chips. Sybil was depressed that she could not infect James with her joy. The only response she managed to elicit was a slight smile on his gloomy face.

Suddenly golden hair and familiar smiling lips flashed before her: Dorian Gray rode past in an open carriage with two ladies.

Sybil jumped up.

Who? - asked Jim.

Beautiful Prince! - she answered, following the stroller with her eyes.

Then Jim jumped up and grabbed her hand tightly.

Where? Which? Show me! I have to see him! But at that moment the Duke of Berwick's carriage, drawn by four, obscured everything ahead, and when it passed, Dorian's carriage was already far away.

Left! - Sybil whispered sadly. - What a pity that you didn’t see him!

Yes, it is a pity. Because if he hurts you, I swear to God, I will find him and kill him.

Sybil looked at her brother in horror. And he repeated his words again.

They whistled through the air like a dagger, and people began to look back at James.

The lady standing next to her giggled.

Let's get out of here, Jim, let's get out of here! - Sibil whispered. She began to make her way through the crowd, and Jim, cheerful after having relieved his soul, followed her.

When they reached the statue of Achilles, the girl turned around. She looked at her brother with regret and shook her head, while laughter trembled on her lips.

You're a fool, Jim, a real fool and an evil boy, that's all. Well, is it possible to say such terrible things! You yourself don't understand what you're saying. You are simply jealous and therefore unfair to him. Oh, how I wish you would love someone too! Love makes a person kinder, but you said evil words!

“I’m already sixteen years old,” objected Jim. “And I know what I’m saying.”

Your mother is not your support. She won't be able to protect you. What a shame that I'm leaving!

If I hadn't signed the contract, I would have told Australia to hell and stayed with you.

That's it, Jim! You are exactly like the heroes of those stupid melodramas in which mom loved to play. But I don't want to argue with you. After all, I just saw him, and seeing him is such happiness! Let's not quarrel! I'm sure you'd never hurt the man I love, right, Jim?

As long as you love him, perhaps,” was the gloomy answer.

“I will love him forever,” exclaimed Sybil.

And he you?

And he too.

Well, toto. Just let him try to change it!

Sybil involuntarily recoiled from her brother. But then she laughed and put her hand on his shoulder. After all, in her eyes he was still a boy.

At Marble Arch they boarded an omnibus, which took them to the dirty, neglected house where they lived on Euston Road. It was already six o'clock, and Sibile was supposed to lie down for an hour or two before the performance. Jim insisted that she go to bed, explaining that he preferred to say goodbye to her in her room while her mother was downstairs. His mother would certainly have acted out a tragic scene when they said goodbye, but he hates scenes.

And they said goodbye in Sibyl's room. Jealousy and furious hatred for the stranger, who, as it seemed to him, stood between him and his sister, seethed in the young man’s heart. However, when Sibyl wrapped her arms around his neck and ran her fingers through his hair, Jim softened and kissed her with genuine tenderness. When he later walked down the stairs, his eyes were full of tears.

My mother was waiting downstairs. She scolded him for being late. James said nothing and began to eat his meager lunch. Flies buzzed over the table and crawled across the dirty tablecloth. Under the roar of omnibuses and cabs, James listened to the monotonous voice that poisoned his last remaining minutes.

Soon he pushed the plate aside and rested his head on his hands. He told himself that he had a right to know. If what he suspects is true, his mother should have told him about it long ago. Frozen with fear, Mrs. Vane secretly watched him. The words mechanically flew from her lips, her fingers crumpled the dirty lace handkerchief. When the clock struck six, Jim stood up and headed for the door. But on the way he stopped and looked back at his mother. Their glances met, and in her eyes he read an ardent plea for mercy. This only added fuel to the fire.

Mom, I want to ask you one question,” he began. The mother was silent, her eyes darting around.

Tell me the truth, I have the right to know: were you married to my father?

Mrs. Vane let out a deep sigh. It was a sigh of relief.

The terrible moment, which she had been waiting for with such anxiety day and night for many months, finally came - and suddenly her fear disappeared. She was even somewhat disappointed by this. The brutal directness of the question demanded an equally direct answer. A decisive scene without gradual preparation! It was awkward, reminiscent of a bad rehearsal.

No,” she answered, wondering to herself that everything in life is so crude and simple.

So he was a scoundrel? - the young man shouted, clenching his fists. Mother shook her head.

No. I knew that he was not free. But we loved each other deeply.

If he had not died, he would have provided for us. Don't judge him, son. He was your father and a gentleman. Yes, yes, he was of a noble family.

James cursed.

“I don’t care,” he exclaimed. “But make sure the same thing doesn’t happen to Sibyl!” After all, the one who is in love with her or pretends to be in love is also probably a “gentleman of noble birth”?

For an instant Mrs. Vane felt a humiliating feeling of shame.

Her head dropped and she wiped her eyes with shaking hands.

“Sibyl has a mother,” she whispered. But I didn’t have one.

James was touched. He walked up to his mother and leaned over and kissed her.

I'm sorry, mom, if I hurt you with these questions about your father,

He said. “But I couldn’t resist.” Well, I have to go. Goodbye! And remember: now you only have to take care of Spbil. You can believe me, if this man hurts my sister, I will find out who he is, I will find him and kill him like a dog. I swear!

The exaggerated passion of the threat and the energetic gestures that accompanied this melodramatic tirade pleased Mrs. Vane, they seemed to paint life in brighter colors. Now she felt in her element and breathed more freely. For the first time in a long time, she admired her son. She wanted to prolong this exciting scene, but Jim abruptly ended the conversation. It was necessary to carry the suitcases downstairs and find a warm scarf that had disappeared somewhere. The servant of the furnished rooms where they lived fussed, now running in, now running away. Then I had to bargain with the cab driver... The moment was lost, spoiled by vulgar trifles. And Mrs. Vane, with a redoubled sense of disappointment, waved a dirty lace handkerchief from the window after her son was leaving. What a great opportunity missed!

However, she consoled herself a little by declaring to Sibile that now that only her daughter was left in her care, there would be a big void in her life.

She liked this phrase and decided to remember it. She kept silent about James' threat. True, this threat was made very effectively and dramatically, but it was better not to mention it. Mrs. Vane hoped that someday they would all laugh at her together.

Oscar Wilde - The Picture of Dorian Gray - 01, read the text

See also Oscar Wilde - Prose (stories, poems, novels...):

The Picture of Dorian Gray - 02
CHAPTER VI - You've probably already heard the news, Basil? - in these words...

The Picture of Dorian Gray - 03
CHAPTER XII It was the ninth of November and (as Dorian often later recalled...

Do you want to read classics in English? It's easy! And the “Easy to Read English” series offers a whole collection of authors, English and American writers. Today I propose to start by studying the work of the Scottish writer Oscar Wilde and his most famous work “The Picture of Dorian Gray” (Oscar Wilde. The Picture of Dorian Gray). The books are adapted to upper-intermediate level. The first chapter of the book is posted in open access! Happy reading!

Oscar Wilde. The Picture of Dorian Gray" (adapted book in English, level 4)

Meet the main characters of the novel:

• Lord Henry Wotton - Lord Henry Wotton
• Basil Hallward - Basil Hallward
• Dorian Gray - Dorian Gray
• Sybil Vane - Sybil Vane

• full-length portrait - full-length portrait
• some little distance away - at a short distance
• Grosvenor - Grosvenor
• wreaths of smoke - smoke rings
• you are not in the least like him - you are not at all like him

The studio was filled with the rich smell of roses. Lord Henry Wotton was sitting on the sofa and smoking innumerable cigarettes. Through the open door came the distant sounds of the London streets. In the center of the room stood the full-length portrait of a young man of extraordinary personal beauty, and in front of it, some little distance away, was sitting the artist himself, Basil Hallward.

As the painter looked at the gracious form he had so skilfully mirrored in his art, a smile of pleasure passed across his face. He suddenly started up, and closing his eyes, placed his fingers upon the lids.

“It is your best work, Basil, the best thing you have ever done,” said Lord Henry. “You must certainly send it next year to the Grosvenor. The Academy is too large and too vulgar. The Grosvenor is really the only place to exhibit a painting like that.”

“I don’t think I shall send it anywhere,” the painter answered, moving his head in that odd way that was used to make his friends laugh at him at Oxford. “No, I won’t send it anywhere.”

Lord Henry elevated his eyebrows and looked at him in amazement through the thin blue wreaths of smoke. “Not send it anywhere? My dear fellow, why? What odd people you painters are! ”

A portrait like this would set you far above all the young men in England.- This portrait would elevate you much higher than all the young artists in England.

“I know you will laugh at me,” Basil replied, “but I really can’t exhibit it.” I have put too much of myself into it.”

I have put too much of myself into it.“I put too much of myself into it.”

Lord Henry stretched himself out on the sofa and laughed. “Too much of yourself in it!” Upon my word, Basil, this man is truly beautiful. Don’t flatter yourself, Basil: you are not in the least like him.”

“You don’t understand me, Harry,” answered the artist. “I know that perfectly well. Indeed, I should be sorry to look like him. I am telling you the truth. It is better not to be different from other people. The stupid and ugly have the best of this world. Dorian Gray -”

“Dorian Gray? Is that his name?” asked Lord Henry walking across the room towards Basil Hallward.

“Yes, that is his name. I didn’t intend to tell it to you.”

“But why not?”

“Oh, I can’t explain. When I like people immensely, I never tell their names to any one. When I leave town now I never tell my people where I am going. If I did, I would lose all my pleasure. It is a silly habit, I dare say. I suppose you think that’s very foolish?”

“Not at all,” answered Lord Henry, “not at all, my dear Basil. You seem to forget that I am married, so my life is full of secrets, I never know where my wife is, and my wife never knows what I am doing. When we meet we tell each other the most absurd stories with the most serious faces.”

“I hate the way you talk about your married life, Harry,” said Basil Hallward, walking towards the door that led into the garden. “I believe you are really a very good husband, but that you are ashamed of it.” You are an extraordinary fellow. You never say a good thing, and you never do a wrong thing. Your cynicism is simply a pose.”

“Being natural is simply a pose,” cried Lord Henry, laughing; and the two young
men went out into the garden together. After a pause, Lord Henry pulled out his watch. “I am afraid I have to go, Basil,” he said in a quiet voice. “But before I go I want you to explain to me why you won’t exhibit Dorian Gray’s picture. I want the real reason.” “I told you the real reason.”

“No, you didn't. You said that it was because there was too much of yourself in it. Now, that is childish.”

“Harry,” said Basil Hallward, looking him straight in the face, “every portrait that is painted with feeling is a portrait of the artist, not the sitter. The reason I will not exhibit this picture is that I am afraid that I have shown in it the secret of my own soul.”

Lord Henry laughed. “And what is that?” he asked. “Oh, there is really very little to tell, Harry,” answered the painter, “and I am afraid you will hardly understand it. Perhaps you will hardly believe it.”

Lord Henry smiled and picked a flower from the grass. “I am quite sure I’ll understand it,” he replied, staring at the flower, “and I can believe anything.”

“The story is simply this,” said the painter. “Two months ago I went to a party at Lady Brandon’s. After I had been in the room for about ten minutes, I suddenly realized that someone was looking at me. I turned around and saw Dorian Gray for the first time. When our eyes met, I felt the blood leaving my face. I knew that this boy would become my whole soul, my whole art itself. I grew afraid and turned to quit the room.”

“What did you do?”
“We were quite close, almost touching. Our eyes met again. I asked Lady Brandon to introduce me to him. It was simply inevitable.”

“What did Lady Brandon say about Mr. Dorian Gray?
“Oh, something like ‘Charming boy. I don’t know what he does - I think he doesn’t do anything. Oh, yes, he plays the piano - or is it the violin, dear Mr. Gray?’ Dorian and I both laughed and we became friends at once.”

“Laughter is not at all a bad beginning for a friendship,” said the young lord, picking another flower, “and it is the best ending for one.”

Hallward shook his head. “You don’t understand what friendship is, Harry. Everyone is the same to you.”

“That’s not true!”cried Lord Henry, pushing his hat back, and looking at the summer sky. “I make a great difference between people. I choose my friends for their beauty, my acquaintances for their good characters and my enemies for their intelligence. A man cannot be too careful in the choice of his enemies. Of course, I hate my relations. And I hate poor people because they are ugly, stupid and drunk -”

“I don’t agree with a single word you have said. And I feel sure that you don’t agree either.”
Lord Henry touched his pointed brown beard with his finger, and the toe of his boot with his stick. “How English you are, Basil! An Englishman is only interested in whether he agrees with an idea, not whether it is right or wrong. I like persons better than principles, and I like persons with no principles better than anything else in the world. But tell me more about Mr Dorian Gray. How often do you see him?”

“Every day. I couldn’t be happy if I didn’t see him every day.”

“How extraordinary! I thought you only cared about your art.”

“He is all my art to me now,” said the painter. “I know that the work I have done since I met Dorian Gray, is the best work of my life. He is much more to me than a model or a sitter. In some strange way his personality has shown me a new kind of art. He seems like a little boy - though he is really more than twenty - and when he is with me I see the world differently.”

“Basil, this is extraordinary! I must see Dorian Gray.” Hallward got up from his seat and walked up and down the garden. After some time he came back. “Harry,” he said, “Dorian Gray is the reason for my art.” You might see nothing in him. I see everything in him.”

“Then why won’t you exhibit his portrait?” asked Lord Henry.
“An artist should paint beautiful things, but he should put nothing of his own life into them. There is too much of myself in the thing, Harry - too much of myself! Some day I will show the world what that beauty is. For that reason the world will never see my portrait of Dorian Gray.”

“I think you are wrong, Basil, but I won’t argue with you. Tell me, is Dorian Gray very fond of you?”

The painter thought for a few moments. “He likes me,” he answered, after a pause. “I know he likes me. Of course I flatter him dreadfully and tell him things that I should not. He is usually very charming to me, and we spend thousands of wonderful hours together. But sometimes he can be horribly thoughtless and seems to enjoy causing me pain. Then I feel, Harry, that I have given my whole soul to someone who uses it like a flower to put in his coat on a summer’s day.”

“Summer days are long, Basil,” said Lord Henry in a quiet voice. “Perhaps you will get bored before he will.” Intelligence lives longer than beauty. One day you will look at your friend and you won’t like his color or something.

And then you will begin to think that he has behaved badly towards you -”
“Harry, don’t talk like that. As long as I live, Dorian Gray will be everything to me. You can't feel what I feel. You change too often.”

“My dear Basil, that is exactly why I can feel it.” Lord Henry took a cigarette from his pretty silver box and lit it. Then he turned to Hallward and said, “I have just remembered.”

“Remembered what, Harry?”

“Where I heard the name of Dorian Gray.”

“Where was it?” asked Hallward with a slight frown.

“Don’t look so angry, Basil. It was at my aunt's, Lady Agatha's. She told me that she had discovered this wonderful young man. He was going to help her work with the poor people in the East End of London, and his name was Dorian Gray. Of course I didn’t know it was your friend.”

“I am very glad you didn’t, Harry.”

“I don’t want you to meet him.”

“Mr. Dorian Gray is in the studio, sir,” said the butler, coming into the garden.

“You must introduce me now,” cried Lord Henry, laughing. The painter turned to his servant. “Ask Mr. Gray to wait, Parker. I will come in in a few moments.”

Then he looked at Lord Henry. “Dorian Gray is my dearest friend,” he said. “He has a simple and a beautiful nature. Don't spoil him. Don't try to influence him. Your influence would be bad. Don’t take away from me the one person who makes me a true artist. Mind, Harry, I trust you.”

“What nonsense are you talking!” said Lord Henry, smiling, and taking Hallward by the arm, he almost led him into the house.

• For beginners -
• For those who continue -

The book “The Picture of Dorian Gray” in English is intended for learning a foreign language. The textbook for self-study includes an adapted text intended for reading by schoolchildren in grades 10-11 who already speak English at the upper-intermediate level. The work of Oscar Wilde is one of the most famous; it captivates you into the world of London society and introduces you to the work of the Scottish writer.

Oscar Wilde “The Picture of Dorian Gray” in English – description of the book

The book “The Picture of Dorian Gray” in English is aimed at self-study of a foreign language or as an additional tool. This is an adaptation of a famous novel that still captivates readers today. incredible world storylines, philosophy and vivid images.

The book is part of the “English Club” series, offering the most famous works for various age categories of foreign language learners. This allows you to get acquainted with world literature, developing your speaking and reading skills, increasing and deepening your knowledge of English. The text in the book is intended for schoolchildren with an Intermediate level of knowledge; in addition to the text, students are offered a large dictionary of new words and expressions, lexical and grammatical exercises, page-by-page detailed comments. All this together with a unique structure parallel translation provides the most convenient and effective conditions for learning a foreign language.

The book about Dorian Gray tells the story of a young man who becomes acquainted with the philosophy of hedonism, that is, achieving the meaning of life in obtaining pleasure at any cost. The summary of the book tells about the life and relationships of such main characters as Doriant Gray himself, Lord Henry Watson, Sibyl Wayne, Basil Hallward and others. The artist Basil paints a portrait of Dorian, but, unlike the laws of real life, only Gray’s appearance in the portrait ages. Outwardly, he remains the same young man who first plunged into the world of hedonism. However, constant immersion in a vicious life makes the achieved eternal youth an empty and dubious undertaking, because the path chosen by the young man turns out to be disastrous.

"The picture of Dorian Gray" by Oscar Wilde

The original book in English allows you to plunge into the unusual world of London society. The text of the book is distinguished by a unique structure of parallel translation of English into Russian, which greatly facilitates the understanding and study of a foreign language. The spaced repetition method allows you to significantly expand lexicon, gain new knowledge. To build the structure of the book, Ilya Frank’s method was used, which shows its effectiveness for learning English at any level of knowledge.

The series presents several hundred books that schoolchildren and students studying foreign languages ​​have read or are planning to read with pleasure. The work is aimed at schoolchildren in grades 10-11 of lyceums, gymnasiums and schools who already speak English at the Intermediate level.