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- Оскар Уайльд
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- Портрет Дориана Грея
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- Стр. 162/164
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It
is
superbly
sterile
.
The
books
that
the
world
calls
immoral
are
books
that
show
the
world
its
own
shame
.
That
is
all
.
But
we
wo
n't
discuss
literature
.
Come
round
to-morrow
.
I
am
going
to
ride
at
eleven
.
We
might
go
together
,
and
I
will
take
you
to
lunch
afterwards
with
Lady
Branksome
.
She
is
a
charming
woman
,
and
wants
to
consult
you
about
some
tapestries
she
is
thinking
of
buying
.
Mind
you
come
.
Or
shall
we
lunch
with
our
little
Duchess
?
She
says
she
never
sees
you
now
.
Perhaps
you
are
tired
of
Gladys
?
I
thought
you
would
be
.
Her
clever
tongue
gets
on
one
's
nerves
.
Well
,
in
any
case
,
be
here
at
eleven
.
"
"
Must
I
really
come
,
Harry
?
"
"
Certainly
.
The
Park
is
quite
lovely
now
.
I
do
n't
think
there
have
been
such
lilacs
since
the
year
I
met
you
.
"
"
Very
well
.
I
shall
be
here
at
eleven
,
"
said
Dorian
.
"
Good-night
,
Harry
.
"
As
he
reached
the
door
he
hesitated
for
a
moment
,
as
if
he
had
something
more
to
say
.
Then
he
sighed
and
went
out
.
It
was
a
lovely
night
,
so
warm
that
he
threw
his
coat
over
his
arm
,
and
did
not
even
put
his
silk
scarf
round
his
throat
.
As
he
strolled
home
,
smoking
his
cigarette
,
two
young
men
in
evening
dress
passed
him
.
He
heard
one
of
them
whisper
to
the
other
,
"
That
is
Dorian
Gray
.
"
He
remembered
how
pleased
he
used
to
be
when
he
was
pointed
out
,
or
stared
at
,
or
talked
about
.
He
was
tired
of
hearing
his
own
name
now
.
Half
the
charm
of
the
little
village
where
he
had
been
so
often
lately
was
that
no
one
knew
who
he
was
.
He
had
often
told
the
girl
whom
he
had
lured
to
love
him
that
he
was
poor
,
and
she
had
believed
him
.
He
had
told
her
once
that
he
was
wicked
,
and
she
had
laughed
at
him
,
and
answered
that
wicked
people
were
always
very
old
and
very
ugly
.
What
a
laugh
she
had
!
--
just
like
a
thrush
singing
.
And
how
pretty
she
had
been
in
her
cotton
dresses
and
her
large
hats
!
She
knew
nothing
,
but
she
had
everything
that
he
had
lost
.
When
he
reached
home
,
he
found
his
servant
waiting
up
for
him
.
He
sent
him
to
bed
,
and
threw
himself
down
on
the
sofa
in
the
library
,
and
began
to
think
over
some
of
the
things
that
Lord
Henry
had
said
to
him
.
Was
it
really
true
that
one
could
never
change
?
He
felt
a
wild
longing
for
the
unstained
purity
of
his
boyhood
--
his
rose-white
boyhood
,
as
Lord
Henry
had
once
called
it
.
He
knew
that
he
had
tarnished
himself
,
filled
his
mind
with
corruption
,
and
given
horror
to
his
fancy
;
that
he
had
been
an
evil
influence
to
others
,
and
had
experienced
a
terrible
joy
in
being
so
;
and
that
,
of
the
lives
that
had
crossed
his
own
,
it
had
been
the
fairest
and
the
most
full
of
promise
that
he
had
brought
to
shame
.
But
was
it
all
irretrievable
?
Was
there
no
hope
for
him
?
Ah
!
in
what
a
monstrous
moment
of
pride
and
passion
he
had
prayed
that
the
portrait
should
bear
the
burden
of
his
days
,
and
he
keep
the
unsullied
splendour
of
eternal
youth
!
All
his
failure
had
been
due
to
that
.
Better
for
him
that
each
sin
of
his
life
had
brought
its
sure
,
swift
penalty
along
with
it
.
There
was
purification
in
punishment
.
Not
"
Forgive
us
our
sins
,
"
but
"
Smite
us
for
our
iniquities
"
should
be
the
prayer
of
a
man
to
a
most
just
God
.
The
curiously
carved
mirror
that
Lord
Henry
had
given
to
him
,
so
many
years
ago
now
,
was
standing
on
the
table
,
and
the
white-limbed
Cupids
laughed
round
it
as
of
old
.
He
took
it
up
,
as
he
had
done
on
that
night
of
horror
,
when
he
had
first
noted
the
change
in
the
fatal
picture
,
and
with
wild
,
tear-dimmed
eyes
looked
into
its
polished
shield
.
Once
,
some
one
who
had
terribly
loved
him
had
written
to
him
a
mad
letter
,
ending
with
these
idolatrous
words
:
"
The
world
is
changed
because
you
are
made
of
ivory
and
gold
.
The
curves
of
your
lips
rewrite
history
.
"
The
phrases
came
back
to
his
memory
,
and
he
repeated
them
over
and
over
to
himself
.
Then
he
loathed
his
own
beauty
,
and
,
flinging
the
mirror
on
the
floor
,
crushed
it
into
silver
splinters
beneath
his
heel
.
It
was
his
beauty
that
had
ruined
him
,
his
beauty
and
the
youth
that
he
had
prayed
for
.
But
for
those
two
things
,
his
life
might
have
been
free
from
stain
.
His
beauty
had
been
to
him
but
a
mask
,
his
youth
but
a
mockery
.
What
was
youth
at
best
?
A
green
,
an
unripe
time
,
a
time
of
shallow
moods
and
sickly
thoughts
.
Why
had
he
worn
its
livery
?
Youth
had
spoiled
him
.
It
was
better
not
to
think
of
the
past
.
Nothing
could
alter
that
.
It
was
of
himself
,
and
of
his
own
future
,
that
he
had
to
think
.
James
Vane
was
hidden
in
a
nameless
grave
in
Selby
churchyard
.
