Kitabı oku: «Портрет Дориана Грея / The Picture of Dorian Gray», sayfa 7

“It is not my property, Harry.”

“Whose is it?”

“Dorian’s, of course,” answered the painter.

“He is a very lucky fellow.”

“How sad it is!” said Dorian Gray, who was still staring at his own portrait. “I will grow old and horrible. But this painting will always stay young. It will never be older than this day in June… If only it were the other way!”

“What do you mean?” asked Hallward.

“If I could stay young and the picture grow old! For that – for that – I would give everything! Yes, there is nothing in the whole world I would not give! I would give my soul for that!”

“I don’t think you would like that, Basil!” cried Lord Henry, laughing.

“I certainly would not, Harry,” said Hallward.

Dorian Gray turned and looked at him. “You like your art better than your friends. I am no more to you than a green bronze figure.”

The painter stared in amazement. It was so unlike Dorian to speak like that. What had happened? He seemed quite angry. His face was flushed and his cheeks burning.

“You will always like this painting. But how long will you like me? Until I start getting old. Lord Henry Wotton is perfectly right. When I lose my beauty, I will lose everything. I shall kill myself before I get old.”

Hallward turned white, and caught his hand. “Dorian! Dorian!” he cried. “Don’t talk like that, I have never had a friend like you, and I will never have another. How can you be jealous of a painting? You are more beautiful than any work of art.”

“I am jealous of everything whose beauty does not die. I am jealous of the portrait you have painted of me. Why should it keep what I must lose?” Hot tears came into his eyes as he threw himself on the sofa.

“You did this, Harry,” said the painter, angrily.

Lord Henry shook his head. “It is the real Dorian Gray – that is all.”

“Harry, I can’t argue with two of my best friends at once. Between you both you have made me hate the best piece of work I have ever done. What is it but canvas and colour?¹⁹ I will destroy it.”

Dorian Gray watched as Hallward walked over to the painting-table and picked up a knife. The boy jumped from the sofa, tore the knife from Hallward’s hand and threw it across the room. “Don’t, Basil, don’t!” he cried. “It would be murder!”

“I am glad that you appreciate my work at last, Dorian,” said the painter coldly. “I never thought you would.”

“Appreciate it? I am in love with it, Basil. It is part of myself. I feel that.”

“What silly people you are, both of you!” said Lord Henry. “I don’t like scenes, except on the stage. Lets forget about the painting for one night and go to the theatre.”

“I would like to come to the theatre with you, Lord Henry.”

“And you will come too, won’t you, Basil?”

“I can’t,” said Hallward. “I have too much work to do.”

“Well, you and I will go together, Mr. Gray.”

The painter bit his lip and walked over to the picture.