Портрет Доріана Грея

           "L’esquifabordeetmedépose, 

           Jetantsonamarreaupilier, 

           Devantunefaçaderose, 

           Surlemarbred’unescalier." 

           Howexquisitetheywere! Asonereadthem,oneseemedtobefloatingdownthegreenwater-waysofthepinkandpearlcity,seatedinablackgondolawithsilverprowandtrailingcurtains. Themerelineslookedtohimlikethosestraightlinesofturquoise-bluethatfollowoneasonepushesouttotheLido. Thesuddenflashesofcolourremindedhimofthegleamoftheopal-and-iris-throatedbirdsthatflutterroundthetallhoney-combedCampanile,orstalk,withsuchstatelygrace,throughthedim,dust-stainedarcades. Leaningbackwithhalf-closedeyes,hekeptsayingoverandovertohimself:— 

           "Devantunefaçaderose, 

           Surlemarbred’unescalier." 

           ThewholeofVenicewasinthosetwolines. Herememberedtheautumnthathehadpassedthere,andawonderfullovethathadstirredhimtomad,delightfulfollies. Therewasromanceineveryplace. ButVenice,likeOxford,hadkeptthebackgroundforromance,and,tothetrueromantic,backgroundwaseverything,oralmosteverything. Basilhadbeenwithhimpartofthetime,andhadgonewildoverTintoret. PoorBasil! whatahorriblewayforamantodie!