Портрет Доріана Грея

           Hadtherebeennothingmoreinhisrenunciationthanthat? Therehadbeensomethingmore.Atleasthethoughtso. Butwhocouldtell?... No.Therehadbeennothingmore.Throughvanityhehadsparedher.Inhypocrisyhehadwornthemaskofgoodness. Forcuriosity’ssakehehadtriedthedenialofself.Herecognisedthatnow. 

           Butthismurder—wasittodoghimallhislife?Washealwaystobeburdenedbyhispast?Washereallytoconfess? Never.Therewasonlyonebitofevidenceleftagainsthim. Thepictureitself—thatwasevidence.Hewoulddestroyit. Whyhadhekeptitsolong?Onceithadgivenhimpleasuretowatchitchangingandgrowingold. Oflatehehadfeltnosuchpleasure.Ithadkepthimawakeatnight. Whenhehadbeenaway,hehadbeenfilledwithterrorlestothereyesshouldlookuponit. Ithadbroughtmelancholyacrosshispassions.Itsmerememoryhadmarredmanymomentsofjoy. Ithadbeenlikeconsciencetohim.Yes,ithadbeenconscience.Hewoulddestroyit. 

           Helookedround,andsawtheknifethathadstabbedBasilHallward. Hehadcleaneditmanytimes,tilltherewasnostainleftuponit.Itwasbright,andglistened. Asithadkilledthepainter,soitwouldkillthepainter’swork,andallthatthatmeant. Itwouldkillthepast,andwhenthatwasdeadhewouldbefree. Itwouldkillthismonstroussoul-life,and,withoutitshideouswarnings,hewouldbeatpeace. Heseizedthething,andstabbedthepicturewithit. 

           Therewasacryheard,andacrash. Thecrywassohorribleinitsagonythatthefrightenedservantswoke,andcreptoutoftheirrooms. Twogentlemen,whowerepassingintheSquarebelow,stopped,andlookedupatthegreathouse.