Портрет Доріана Грея

           IwasgoingthroughtheParklastSunday,andclosebytheMarbleArchtherestoodalittlecrowdofshabby-lookingpeoplelisteningtosomevulgarstreet-preacher. AsIpassedby,Iheardthemanyellingoutthatquestiontohisaudience. Itstruckmeasbeingratherdramatic. Londonisveryrichincuriouseffectsofthatkind. AwetSunday,anuncouthChristianinamackintosh,aringofsicklywhitefacesunderabrokenroofofdrippingumbrellas,andawonderfulphraseflungintotheairbyshrill,hystericallips—itwasreallyverygoodinitsway,quiteasuggestion. IthoughtoftellingtheprophetthatArthadasoul,butthatmanhadnot. Iamafraid,however,hewouldnothaveunderstoodme." 

           "Don’t,Harry. Thesoulisaterriblereality. Itcanbebought,andsold,andbarteredaway. Itcanbepoisoned,ormadeperfect. Thereisasoulineachoneofus. Iknowit." 

           "Doyoufeelquitesureofthat,Dorian?" 

           "Quitesure." 

           "Ah!thenitmustbeanillusion. Thethingsonefeelsabsolutelycertainaboutarenevertrue. ThatisthefatalityofFaith,andthelessonofRomance. Howgraveyouare! Don’tbesoserious. WhathaveyouorItodowiththesuperstitionsofourage? No:wehavegivenupourbeliefinthesoul. Playmesomething. Playmeanocturne,Dorian,and,asyouplay,tellme,inalowvoice,howyouhavekeptyouryouth. Youmusthavesomesecret. Iamonlytenyearsolderthanyouare,andIamwrinkled,andworn,andyellow. Youarereallywonderful,Dorian. Youhaveneverlookedmorecharmingthanyoudoto-night. YouremindmeofthedayIsawyoufirst. Youwererathercheeky,veryshy,andabsolutelyextraordinary.