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- Оскар Уайльд
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- Портрет Дориана Грея
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- Стр. 102/164
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Hallward
glanced
round
him
,
with
a
puzzled
expression
.
The
room
looked
as
if
it
had
not
been
lived
in
for
years
.
A
faded
Flemish
tapestry
,
a
curtained
picture
,
an
old
Italian
cassone
,
and
an
almost
empty
bookcase
--
that
was
all
that
it
seemed
to
contain
,
besides
a
chair
and
a
table
.
As
Dorian
Gray
was
lighting
a
half-burned
candle
that
was
standing
on
the
mantel-shelf
,
he
saw
that
the
whole
place
was
covered
with
dust
,
and
that
the
carpet
was
in
holes
.
A
mouse
ran
scuffling
behind
the
wainscoting
.
There
was
a
damp
odour
of
mildew
.
"
So
you
think
that
it
is
only
God
who
sees
the
soul
,
Basil
?
Draw
that
curtain
back
,
and
you
will
see
mine
.
"
The
voice
that
spoke
was
cold
and
cruel
.
"
You
are
mad
,
Dorian
,
or
playing
a
part
,
"
muttered
Hallward
,
frowning
.
"
You
wo
n't
?
Then
I
must
do
it
myself
,
"
said
the
young
man
;
and
he
tore
the
curtain
from
its
rod
,
and
flung
it
on
the
ground
.
An
exclamation
of
horror
broke
from
the
painter
's
lips
as
he
saw
in
the
dim
light
the
hideous
face
on
the
canvas
grinning
at
him
.
There
was
something
in
its
expression
that
filled
him
with
disgust
and
loathing
.
Good
heavens
!
it
was
Dorian
Gray
's
own
face
that
he
was
looking
at
!
The
horror
,
whatever
it
was
,
had
not
yet
entirely
spoiled
that
marvellous
beauty
.
There
was
still
some
gold
in
the
thinning
hair
and
some
scarlet
on
the
sensual
mouth
.
The
sodden
eyes
had
kept
something
of
the
loveliness
of
their
blue
,
the
noble
curves
had
not
yet
completely
passed
away
from
chiselled
nostrils
and
from
plastic
throat
.
Yes
,
it
was
Dorian
himself
.
But
who
had
done
it
?
He
seemed
to
recognise
his
own
brush-work
,
and
the
frame
was
his
own
design
.
The
idea
was
monstrous
,
yet
he
felt
afraid
.
He
seized
the
lighted
candle
,
and
held
it
to
the
picture
.
In
the
left-hand
corner
was
his
own
name
,
traced
in
long
letters
of
bright
vermilion
.
It
was
some
foul
parody
,
some
infamous
,
ignoble
satire
.
He
had
never
done
that
.
Still
,
it
was
his
own
picture
.
He
knew
it
,
and
he
felt
as
if
his
blood
had
changed
in
a
moment
from
fire
to
sluggish
ice
.
His
own
picture
!
What
did
it
mean
?
Why
had
it
altered
?
He
turned
,
and
looked
at
Dorian
Gray
with
the
eyes
of
a
sick
man
.
His
mouth
twitched
,
and
his
parched
tongue
seemed
unable
to
articulate
.
He
passed
his
hand
across
his
forehead
.
It
was
dank
with
clammy
sweat
.
The
young
man
was
leaning
against
the
mantel-shelf
,
watching
him
with
that
strange
expression
that
one
sees
on
the
faces
of
those
who
are
absorbed
in
a
play
when
some
great
artist
is
acting
.
There
was
neither
real
sorrow
in
it
nor
real
joy
.
There
was
simply
the
passion
of
the
spectator
,
with
perhaps
a
flicker
of
triumph
in
his
eyes
.
He
had
taken
the
flower
out
of
his
coat
,
and
was
smelling
it
,
or
pretending
to
do
so
.
"
What
does
this
mean
?
"
cried
Hallward
,
at
last
.
His
own
voice
sounded
shrill
and
curious
in
his
ears
.
"
Years
ago
,
when
I
was
a
boy
,
"
said
Dorian
Gray
,
crushing
the
flower
in
his
hand
,
"
you
met
me
,
flattered
me
,
and
taught
me
to
be
vain
of
my
good
looks
.
One
day
you
introduced
me
to
a
friend
of
yours
,
who
explained
to
me
the
wonder
of
youth
,
and
you
finished
the
portrait
of
me
that
revealed
to
me
the
wonder
of
beauty
.
In
a
mad
moment
,
that
,
even
now
,
I
do
n't
know
whether
I
regret
or
not
,
I
made
a
wish
,
perhaps
you
would
call
it
a
prayer
...
.
"
"
I
remember
it
!
Oh
,
how
well
I
remember
it
!
No
!
the
thing
is
impossible
.
The
room
is
damp
.
Mildew
has
got
into
the
canvas
.
The
paints
I
used
had
some
wretched
mineral
poison
in
them
.
I
tell
you
the
thing
is
impossible
.
"
