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- Оскар Уайльд
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- Портрет Дориана Грея
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"
Oh
,
anywhere
.
Here
:
this
will
do
.
I
do
n't
want
to
have
it
hung
up
.
Just
lean
it
against
the
wall
.
Thanks
.
"
"
Might
one
look
at
the
work
of
art
,
sir
?
"
Dorian
started
.
"
It
would
not
interest
you
,
Mr.
Hubbard
,
"
he
said
,
keeping
his
eye
on
the
man
.
He
felt
ready
to
leap
upon
him
and
fling
him
to
the
ground
if
he
dared
to
lift
the
gorgeous
hanging
that
concealed
the
secret
of
his
life
.
"
I
sha
n't
trouble
you
any
more
now
.
I
am
much
obliged
for
your
kindness
in
coming
round
.
"
"
Not
at
all
,
not
at
all
,
Mr.
Gray
.
Ever
ready
to
do
anything
for
you
,
sir
.
"
And
Mr.
Hubbard
tramped
downstairs
,
followed
by
the
assistant
,
who
glanced
back
at
Dorian
with
a
look
of
shy
wonder
in
his
rough
,
uncomely
face
.
He
had
never
seen
anyone
so
marvellous
.
When
the
sound
of
their
footsteps
had
died
away
,
Dorian
locked
the
door
,
and
put
the
key
in
his
pocket
.
He
felt
safe
now
.
No
one
would
ever
look
upon
the
horrible
thing
.
No
eye
but
his
would
ever
see
his
shame
.
On
reaching
the
library
he
found
that
it
was
just
after
five
o'clock
o'clock
,
and
that
the
tea
had
been
already
brought
up
.
On
a
little
table
of
dark
perfumed
wood
thickly
encrusted
with
nacre
,
a
present
from
Lady
Radley
,
his
guardian
's
wife
,
a
pretty
professional
invalid
,
who
had
spent
the
preceding
winter
in
Cairo
,
was
lying
a
note
from
Lord
Henry
,
and
beside
it
was
a
book
bound
in
yellow
paper
,
the
cover
slightly
torn
and
the
edges
soiled
.
A
copy
of
the
third
edition
of
The
St.
James
's
Gazette
had
been
placed
on
the
tea-tray
.
It
was
evident
that
Victor
had
returned
.
He
wondered
if
he
had
met
the
men
in
the
hall
as
they
were
leaving
the
house
,
and
had
wormed
out
of
them
what
they
had
been
doing
.
He
would
be
sure
to
miss
the
picture
--
had
no
doubt
missed
it
already
,
while
he
had
been
laying
the
tea-things
.
The
screen
had
not
been
set
back
,
and
a
blank
space
was
visible
on
the
wall
.
Perhaps
some
night
he
might
find
him
creeping
upstairs
and
trying
to
force
the
door
of
the
room
.
It
was
a
horrible
thing
to
have
a
spy
in
one
's
house
.
He
had
heard
of
rich
men
who
had
been
blackmailed
all
their
lives
by
some
servant
who
had
read
a
letter
,
or
overheard
a
conversation
,
or
picked
up
a
card
with
an
address
,
or
found
beneath
a
pillow
a
withered
flower
or
a
shred
of
crumpled
lace
.
He
sighed
,
and
,
having
poured
himself
out
some
tea
,
opened
Lord
Henry
's
note
.
It
was
simply
to
say
that
he
sent
him
round
the
evening
paper
,
and
a
book
that
might
interest
him
,
and
that
he
would
be
at
the
club
at
eight-fifteen
.
He
opened
The
St.
James
's
languidly
,
and
looked
through
it
.
A
red
pencil-mark
on
the
fifth
page
caught
his
eye
.
It
drew
attention
to
the
following
paragraph
:
--
"
Inquest
on
an
Actress
.
--
An
inquest
was
held
this
morning
at
the
Bell
Tavern
,
Hoxton
Road
,
by
Mr.
Danby
,
the
District
Coroner
,
on
the
body
of
Sibyl
Vane
,
a
young
actress
recently
engaged
at
the
Royal
Theatre
,
Holborn
.
A
verdict
of
death
by
misadventure
was
returned
.
Considerable
sympathy
was
expressed
for
the
mother
of
the
deceased
,
who
was
greatly
affected
during
the
giving
of
her
own
evidence
,
and
that
of
Dr.
Birrell
,
who
had
made
the
post-mortem
examination
of
the
deceased
.
"
He
frowned
,
and
,
tearing
the
paper
in
two
,
went
across
the
room
and
flung
the
pieces
away
.
How
ugly
it
all
was
!
And
how
horribly
real
ugliness
made
things
!
He
felt
a
little
annoyed
with
Lord
Henry
for
having
sent
him
the
report
.
And
it
was
certainly
stupid
of
him
to
have
marked
it
with
red
pencil
.
Victor
might
have
read
it
.
The
man
knew
more
than
enough
English
for
that
.
Perhaps
he
had
read
it
,
and
had
begun
to
suspect
something
.
And
,
yet
,
what
did
it
matter
?
What
had
Dorian
Gray
to
do
with
Sibyl
Vane
's
death
?
There
was
nothing
to
fear
.
Dorian
Gray
had
not
killed
her
.
