Портрет Доріана Грея
Chapter 1
Thesenseofhisownbeautycameonhimlikearevelation. Hehadneverfeltitbefore.BasilHallward’scomplimentshadseemedtohimtobemerelythecharmingexaggerationsoffriendship. Hehadlistenedtothem,laughedatthem,forgottenthem. Theyhadnotinfluencedhisnature. ThenhadcomeLordHenryWottonwithhisstrangepanegyriconyouth,histerriblewarningofitsbrevity. Thathadstirredhimatthetime,andnow,ashestoodgazingattheshadowofhisownloveliness,thefullrealityofthedescriptionflashedacrosshim. Yes,therewouldbeadaywhenhisfacewouldbewrinkledandwizen,hiseyesdimandcolourless,thegraceofhisfigurebrokenanddeformed. Thescarletwouldpassawayfromhislips,andthegoldstealfromhishair. Thelifethatwastomakehissoulwouldmarhisbody. Hewouldbecomedreadful,hideous,anduncouth.
Ashethoughtofit,asharppangofpainstruckthroughhimlikeaknife,andmadeeachdelicatefibreofhisnaturequiver. Hiseyesdeepenedintoamethyst,andacrossthemcameamistoftears. Hefeltasifahandoficehadbeenlaiduponhisheart.
"Don’tyoulikeit?"criedHallwardatlast,stungalittlebythelad’ssilence,notunderstandingwhatitmeant.
"Ofcoursehelikesit,"saidLordHenry. "Whowouldn’tlikeit?Itisoneofthegreatestthingsinmodernart. Iwillgiveyouanythingyouliketoaskforit. Imusthaveit."
"Itisnotmyproperty,Harry."
"Whosepropertyisit?"
"Dorian’s,ofcourse,"answeredthepainter.
"Heisaveryluckyfellow."