Портрет Доріана Грея

           "SoyouthinkthatitisonlyGodwhoseesthesoul,Basil? Drawthatcurtainback,andyouwillseemine." 

           Thevoicethatspokewascoldandcruel. "Youaremad,Dorian,orplayingapart,"mutteredHallward,frowning. 

           "Youwon’t? ThenImustdoitmyself,"saidtheyoungman; andhetorethecurtainfromitsrod,andflungitontheground. 

           Anexclamationofhorrorbrokefromthepainter’slipsashesawinthedimlightthehideousfaceonthecanvasgrinningathim. Therewassomethinginitsexpressionthatfilledhimwithdisgustandloathing. Goodheavens! itwasDorianGray’sownfacethathewaslookingat! Thehorror,whateveritwas,hadnotyetentirelyspoiledthatmarvellousbeauty. Therewasstillsomegoldinthethinninghairandsomescarletonthesensualmouth. Thesoddeneyeshadkeptsomethingofthelovelinessoftheirblue,thenoblecurveshadnotyetcompletelypassedawayfromchisellednostrilsandfromplasticthroat. Yes,itwasDorianhimself. Butwhohaddoneit? Heseemedtorecognisehisownbrush-work,andtheframewashisowndesign. Theideawasmonstrous,yethefeltafraid. Heseizedthelightedcandle,andheldittothepicture. Intheleft-handcornerwashisownname,tracedinlonglettersofbrightvermilion. 

           Itwassomefoulparody,someinfamous,ignoblesatire. Hehadneverdonethat. Still,itwashisownpicture. Heknewit,andhefeltasifhisbloodhadchangedinamomentfromfiretosluggishice. Hisownpicture! Whatdiditmean? Whyhaditaltered? Heturned,andlookedatDorianGraywiththeeyesofasickman. Hismouthtwitched,andhisparchedtongueseemedunabletoarticulate. Hepassedhishandacrosshisforehead. Itwasdankwithclammysweat.