Портрет Доріана Грея

           Itwasnotthatmerephysicaladmirationofbeautythatisbornofthesenses,andthatdieswhenthesensestire. ItwassuchloveasMichaelAngelohadknown,andMontaigne,andWinckelmann,andShakespearehimself. Yes,Basilcouldhavesavedhim. Butitwastoolatenow. Thepastcouldalwaysbeannihilated.Regret,denial,orforgetfulnesscoulddothat.Butthefuturewasinevitable. Therewerepassionsinhimthatwouldfindtheirterribleoutlet,dreamsthatwouldmaketheshadowoftheirevilreal. 

           Hetookupfromthecouchthegreatpurple-and-goldtexturethatcoveredit,and,holdingitinhishands,passedbehindthescreen. Wasthefaceonthecanvasvilerthanbefore? Itseemedtohimthatitwasunchanged;andyethisloathingofitwasintensified. Goldhair,blueeyes,androse-redlips—theyallwerethere. Itwassimplytheexpressionthathadaltered. Thatwashorribleinitscruelty. Comparedtowhathesawinitofcensureorrebuke,howshallowBasil’sreproachesaboutSibylVanehadbeen! —howshallow,andofwhatlittleaccount! Hisownsoulwaslookingoutathimfromthecanvasandcallinghimtojudgment. Alookofpaincameacrosshim,andheflungtherichpalloverthepicture. Ashedidso,aknockcametothedoor. Hepassedoutashisservantentered. 

           "Thepersonsarehere,Monsieur." 

           Hefeltthatthemanmustbegotridofatonce. Hemustnotbeallowedtoknowwherethepicturewasbeingtakento. Therewassomethingslyabouthim,andhehadthoughtful,treacherouseyes. Sittingdownatthewriting-table,hescribbledanotetoLordHenry,askinghimtosendhimroundsomethingtoread,andremindinghimthattheyweretomeetateight-fifteenthatevening.