Читать книгу Dorian Gray - John Garavaglia - Страница 17

always young and the picture grew old. For that—I would give everything! I would give my soul!”

“You would hardly care for such an arrangement, Basil,” cried Lord Wotton, laughing. “It would be rather hard lines on your work.”

“I should object very strongly, Harry,” said Basil.

Dorian turned and looked at him. “I believe you would, Basil. You like your art better than your friends. I am no more to you than a green bronze figure. Hardly as much, I dare say.”

Basil stared at him in amazement. It was so unlike Dorian to think and speak like that.

What happened to him?

Was this Lord Henry Wotton’s evil influence already at work?

“I am jealous of everything whose beauty does not die,” said Dorian bitterly. “I know now that when one loses one’s good looks, one loses everything. Your picture has taught me that. Lord Wotton is right. Youth is the only thing worth having. I find that I am growing old,” he cried, “I shall kill myself!”

Basil was stunned by what he heard, but before he could speak Dorian went on.

“I am jealous of my portrait. It mocks me, Basil. I hate it! Why did you paint it?” With that, he flung himself onto the studio sofa and burst into tears.

“This is your doing, Harry.” Said the painter bitterly.

Lord Wotton shrugged his shoulders. “It is the real Dorian Gray. That is all.”

JOHN GRAVAGLIA

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