As soon as he had left, he rushed to the screen and drew it back. No;
there was no further change in the picture. It had received the news of
Sibyl Vane's death before he had known of it himself. It was conscious
of the events of life as they occurred. The vicious cruelty that marred
the fine lines of the mouth had, no doubt, appeared at the very moment
that the girl had drunk the poison, whatever it was. Or was it
indifferent to results? Did it merely take cognizance of what passed
within the soul? He wondered, and hoped that some day he would see the
change taking place before his very eyes, shuddering as he hoped it.

Poor Sibyl! What a romance it had all been! She had often mimicked death
on the stage. Then Death himself had touched her and taken her with him.
How had she played that dreadful last scene? Had she cursed him, as she
died? No; she had died for love of him, and love would always be a
sacrament to him now. She had atoned for everything by the sacrifice she
had made of her life. He would not think any more of what she had made
him go through, on that horrible night at the theatre. When he thought
of her, it would be as a wonderful tragic figure sent on to the world's
stage to show the supreme reality of love. A wonderful tragic figure?
Tears came to his eyes as he remembered her childlike look, and winsome
fanciful ways, and shy tremulous grace. He brushed them away hastily and
looked again at the picture.

He felt that the time had really come for making his choice. Or had his
choice already been made? Yes, life had decided that for him--life, and
his own infinite curiosity about life. Eternal youth, infinite passion,
pleasures subtle and secret, wild joys and wilder sins--he was to have
all these things. The portrait was to bear the burden of his shame: that
was all. ??? A feeling of pain crept over him as he thought of the
desecration that was in store for the fair face on the canvas. Once, in
boyish mockery of Narcissus, he had kissed, or feigned to kiss, those
painted lips that now smiled so cruelly at him. Morning after morning he
had sat before the portrait wondering at its beauty, almost enamoured of
it, as it seemed to him at times. Was it to alter now with every mood to
which he yielded? Was it to become a monstrous and loathsome thing, to
be hidden away in a locked room, to be shut out from the sunlight that
had so often touched to brighter gold the waving wonder of its hair? The
pity of it! the pity of it!

For a moment, he thought of praying that the horrible sympathy that
existed between him and the picture might cease. It had changed in
answer to a prayer; perhaps in answer to a prayer it might remain
unchanged. And yet, who, that knew anything about life, would surrender
the chance of remaining always young, however fantastic that chance
might be, or with what fateful consequences it might be fraught?
Besides, was it really under his control? Had it indeed been prayer that
had produced the substitution? Might there not be some curious
scientific reason for it all? If thought could exercise its influence
upon a living organism, might not thought exercise an influence upon
dead and inorganic things? Nay, without thought or conscious desire,
might not things external to ourselves vibrate in unison with our moods
and passions, atom calling to atom in secret love or strange affinity?
But the reason was of no importance. He would never again tempt by a
prayer any terrible power. If the picture was to alter, it was to alter.
That was all. Why inquire too closely into it?

For there would be a real pleasure in watching it. He would be able to
follow his mind into its secret places. This portrait would be to him
the most magical of mirrors. As it had revealed to him his own body, so
it would reveal to him his own soul. And when winter came upon it, he
would still be standing where spring trembles on the verge of summer.
When the blood crept from its face, and left behind a pallid mask of
chalk with leaden eyes, he would keep the glamour of boyhood. Not one
blossom of his loveliness would ever fade. Not one pulse of his life
would ever weaken. Like the gods of the Greeks, he would be strong, and
fleet, and joyous. What did it matter what happened to the coloured
image on the canvas? He would be safe. That was everything.

He drew the screen back into its former place in front of the picture,
smiling as he did so, and passed into his bedroom, where his valet was
already waiting for him. An hour later he was at the opera, and Lord
Henry was leaning over his chair.

CHAPTER 9

As he was sitting at breakfast next morning, Basil Hallward was shown
into the room.

"I am so glad I have found you, Dorian," he said gravely. "I called last
night, and they told me you were at the opera. Of course, I knew that
was impossible. But I wish you had left word where you had really gone
to. I passed a dreadful evening, half afraid that one tragedy might be
followed by another. I think you might have telegraphed for me when you
heard of it first. I read of it quite by chance in a late edition of The
Globe that I picked up at the club. I came here at once and was
miserable at not finding you. I can't tell you how heart-broken I am
about the whole thing. I know what you must suffer. But where were you?
Did you go down and see the girl's mother? For a moment I thought of
following you there. They gave the address in the paper. Somewhere in
the Euston Road, isn't it? But I was afraid of intruding upon a sorrow
that I could not lighten. Poor woman! What a state she must be in! And
her only child, too! What did she say about it all?"

"My dear Basil, how do I know?" murmured Dorian Gray, sipping some
pale-yellow wine from a delicate, gold-beaded bubble of Venetian glass
and looking dreadfully bored. "I was at the opera. You should have come
on there. I met Lady Gwendolen, Harry's sister, for the first time. We
were in her box. She is perfectly charming; and Patti sang divinely.
Don't talk about horrid subjects. If one doesn't talk about a thing, it
has never happened. It is simply expression, as Harry says, that gives


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