Lord Arthur Savile's Crime谷月社, 30. 10. 2015 It was Lady Windermere’s last reception before Easter, and Bentinck House was even more crowded than usual. Six Cabinet Ministers had come on from the Speaker’s Levée in their stars and ribands, all the pretty women wore their smartest dresses, and at the end of the picture-gallery stood the Princess Sophia of Carlsrühe, a heavy Tartar-looking lady, with tiny black eyes and wonderful emeralds, talking bad French at the top of her voice, and laughing immoderately at everything that was said to her. It was certainly a wonderful medley of people. Gorgeous peeresses chatted affably to violent Radicals, popular preachers brushed coat-tails with eminent sceptics, a perfect bevy of bishops kept following a stout prima-donna from room to room, on the staircase stood several Royal Academicians, disguised as artists, and it was said that at one time the supper-room was absolutely crammed with geniuses. In fact, it was one of Lady Windermere’s best nights, and the Princess stayed till nearly half-past eleven. As soon as she had gone, Lady Windermere returned to the picture-gallery, where a celebrated political economist was solemnly explaining the scientific theory of music to an indignant virtuoso from Hungary, and began to talk to the Duchess of Paisley. She looked wonderfully beautiful with her grand ivory throat, her large blue forget-me-not eyes, and her heavy coils of golden hair....
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... mysterious , or esoteric , or romantic - looking . He is a little , stout man , with a funny , bald head , and great gold - rimmed spectacles ; something between a family doctor and a country attorney . I'm really very sorry , but it is ...
... mystery of Destiny, of the awful meaning of Doom. How mad and monstrous it all seemed! Could it be that written on his hand, in characters that he could not read himself, but that another could decipher, was some fearful secret of sin ...
... A strange pity came over him . Were these children of sin and misery predestined to their end , as he to his ? Were they , like him , merely the puppets of a monstrous show ? And yet it was not the mystery, but the comedy.
Oscar Wilde. And yet it was not the mystery, but the comedy of suffering that struck him; its absolute uselessness, its grotesque want of meaning. How incoherent everything seemed! How lacking in all harmony! He was amazed at the discord ...
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Lord Arthur Savile's Crime: The Portrait of Mr. W.H., and Other Stories Oscar Wilde Úplné zobrazenie - 1914 |