Портрет Доріана Грея

           "Andhereisthekey,sir,"saidtheoldlady,goingoverthecontentsofherbunchwithtremulouslyuncertainhands. "Hereisthekey. I’llhaveitoffthebunchinamoment. Butyoudon’tthinkoflivingupthere,sir,andyousocomfortablehere?" 

           "No,no,"hecried,petulantly. "Thankyou,Leaf. Thatwilldo." 

           Shelingeredforafewmoments,andwasgarrulousoversomedetailofthehousehold. Hesighed,andtoldhertomanagethingsasshethoughtbest. Shelefttheroom,wreathedinsmiles. 

           Asthedoorclosed,Dorianputthekeyinhispocket,andlookedroundtheroom. Hiseyefellonalarge,purplesatincoverletheavilyembroideredwithgold,asplendidpieceoflateseventeenth-centuryVenetianworkthathisgrandfatherhadfoundinaconventnearBologna. Yes,thatwouldservetowrapthedreadfulthingin. Ithadperhapsservedoftenasapallforthedead. Nowitwastohidesomethingthathadacorruptionofitsown,worsethanthecorruptionofdeathitself—somethingthatwouldbreedhorrorsandyetwouldneverdie. Whatthewormwastothecorpse,hissinswouldbetothepaintedimageonthecanvas. Theywouldmaritsbeauty,andeatawayitsgrace. Theywoulddefileit,andmakeitshameful. Andyetthethingwouldstillliveon. Itwouldbealwaysalive. 

           Heshuddered,andforamomentheregrettedthathehadnottoldBasilthetruereasonwhyhehadwishedtohidethepictureaway. BasilwouldhavehelpedhimtoresistLordHenry’sinfluence,andthestillmorepoisonousinfluencesthatcamefromhisowntemperament. Thelovethatheborehim—foritwasreallylove—hadnothinginitthatwasnotnobleandintellectual.