Портрет Доріана Грея

           Hewentinquietly,lockingthedoorbehindhim,aswashiscustom,anddraggedthepurplehangingfromtheportrait. Acryofpainandindignationbrokefromhim. Hecouldseenochange,savethatintheeyestherewasalookofcunning,andinthemouththecurvedwrinkleofthehypocrite. Thethingwasstillloathsome—moreloathsome,ifpossible,thanbefore—andthescarletdewthatspottedthehandseemedbrighter,andmorelikebloodnewlyspilt. Thenhetrembled. Haditbeenmerelyvanitythathadmadehimdohisonegooddeed? Orthedesireforanewsensation,asLordHenryhadhinted,withhismockinglaugh? Orthatpassiontoactapartthatsometimesmakesusdothingsfinerthanweareourselves? Or,perhaps,allthese? Andwhywastheredstainlargerthanithadbeen? Itseemedtohavecreptlikeahorriblediseaseoverthewrinkledfingers. Therewasbloodonthepaintedfeet,asthoughthethinghaddripped—bloodevenonthehandthathadnotheldtheknife. Confess? Diditmeanthathewastoconfess? Togivehimselfup,andbeputtodeath? Helaughed. Hefeltthattheideawasmonstrous. Besides,evenifhedidconfess,whowouldbelievehim? Therewasnotraceofthemurderedmananywhere. Everythingbelongingtohimhadbeendestroyed. Hehimselfhadburnedwhathadbeenbelow-stairs. Theworldwouldsimplysaythathewasmad. Theywouldshuthimupifhepersistedinhisstory.... Yetitwashisdutytoconfess,tosufferpublicshame,andtomakepublicatonement. TherewasaGodwhocalleduponmentotelltheirsinstoearthaswellastoheaven. Nothingthathecoulddowouldcleansehimtillhehadtoldhisownsin. Hissin? Heshruggedhisshoulders. ThedeathofBasilHallwardseemedverylittletohim. HewasthinkingofHettyMerton. Foritwasanunjustmirror,thismirrorofhissoulthathewaslookingat. Vanity? Curiosity? Hypocrisy?