Портрет Доріана Грея

           TherewasthehugeItaliancassone,withitsfantastically-paintedpanelsanditstarnishedgiltmouldings,inwhichhehadsooftenhiddenhimselfasaboy. Therethesatinwoodbookcasefilledwithhisdog-earedschoolbooks. OnthewallbehinditwashangingthesameraggedFlemishtapestry,whereafadedkingandqueenwereplayingchessinagarden, whileacompanyofhawkersrodeby,carryinghoodedbirdsontheirgauntletedwrists. Howwellheremembereditall! Everymomentofhislonelychildhoodcamebacktohimashelookedround. Herecalledthestainlesspurityofhisboyishlife,anditseemedhorribletohimthatitwasherethefatalportraitwastobehiddenaway. Howlittlehehadthought,inthosedeaddays,ofallthatwasinstoreforhim! 

           Buttherewasnootherplaceinthehousesosecurefrompryingeyesasthis. Hehadthekey,andnooneelsecouldenterit. Beneathitspurplepall,thefacepaintedonthecanvascouldgrowbestial,sodden,andunclean. Whatdiditmatter? Noonecouldseeit. Hehimselfwouldnotseeit. Whyshouldhewatchthehideouscorruptionofhissoul? Hekepthisyouth—thatwasenough. And,besides,mightnothisnaturegrowfiner,afterall? Therewasnoreasonthatthefutureshouldbesofullofshame. Somelovemightcomeacrosshislife,andpurifyhim,andshieldhimfromthosesinsthatseemedtobealreadystirringinspiritandinflesh —thosecuriousunpicturedsinswhoseverymysterylentthemtheirsubtletyandtheircharm. Perhaps,someday,thecruellookwouldhavepassedawayfromthescarletsensitivemouth,andhemightshowtotheworldBasilHallward’smasterpiece. 

           No;thatwasimpossible. Hourbyhour,andweekbyweek,thethinguponthecanvaswasgrowingold.