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o　doubt　that　the　whole　expression　had　altered。　it　was　not　a　mere　fancy　of　his　own。　the　thing　was　horribly　apparent。

he　threw　himself　into　a　chair　and　began　to　think。　suddenly　there　flashed　across　his　mind　what　he　had　said　in　basil　hallwards　studio　the　day　the　picture　had　been　finished。　yes；　he　remembered　it　perfectly。　he　had　uttered　a　mad　wish　that　he　himself　might　remain　young；　and　the　portrait　grow　old；　that　his　own　beauty　might　be　untarnished；　and　the　face　on　the　canvas　bear　the　burden　of　his　passions　and　his　sins；　that　the　painted　image　might　be　seared　with　the　lines　of　suffering　and　thought；　and　that　he　might　keep　all　the　delicate　bloom　and　loveliness　of　his　then　just　conscious　boyhood。　surely　his　wish　had　not　been　fulfilled？　such　things　were　impossible。　it　seemed　monstrous　even　to　think　of　them。　and；　yet；　there　was　the　picture　before　him；　with　the　touch　of　cruelty　in　the　mouth。

cruelty！　had　he　been　cruel？　it　was　the　girls　fault；　not　his。　he　had　dreamed　of　her　as　a　great　artist；　had　given　his　love　to　her　because　he　had　thought　her　great。　then　she　had　disappointed　him。　she　had　been　shallow　and　unworthy。　and；　yet；　a　feeling　of　infinite　regret　came　over　him；　as　he　thought　of　her　lying　at　his　feet　sobbing　like　a　little　child。　he　remembered　with　what　callousness　he　had　watched　her。　why　had　he　been　made　like　that？　why　had　such　a　soul　been　given　to　him？　but　he　had　suffered　also。　during　the　three　terrible　hours　that　the　play　had　lasted；　he　had　lived　centuries　of　pain；　aeon　upon　aeon　of　torture。　his　life　was　well　worth　hers。　she　had　marred　him　for　a　moment；　if　he　had　wounded　her　for　an　age。　besides；　women　were　better　suited　to　bear　sorrow　than　men。　they　lived　on　their　emotions。　they　only　thought　of　their　emotions。　when　they　took　lovers；　it　was　merely　to　have　some　one　with　whom　they　could　have　scenes。　lord　henry　had　told　him　that；　and　lord　henry　knew　what　women　were。　why　should　he　trouble　about　sibyl　vane？　she　was　nothing　to　him　now。

but　the　picture？　what　was　he　to　say　of　that？　it　held　the　secret　of　his　life；　and　told　his　story。　it　had　taught　him　to　love　his　own　beauty。　would　it　teach　him　to　loathe　his　own　soul？　would　he　ever　look　at　it　again？

no；　it　was　merely　an　illusion　wrought　on　the　troubled　senses。　the　horrible　night　that　he　had　passed　had　left　phantoms　behind　it。　suddenly　there　had　fallen　upon　his　brain　that　tiny　scarlet　speck　that　makes　men　mad。　the　picture　had　not　changed。　it　was　folly　to　think　so。

yet　it　was　watching　him；　with　its　beautiful　marred　face　and　its　cruel　smile。　its　bright　hair　gleamed　in　the　early　sunlight。　its　blue　eyes　met　his　own。　a　sense　of　infinite　pity；　not　for　himself；　but　for　the　painted　image　of　himself；　came　over　him。　it　had　altered　already；　and　would　alter　more。　its　gold　would　wither　into　grey。　its　red　and　white　roses　would　die。　for　every　sin　that　he　mitted；　a　stain　would　fleck　and　wreck　its　fairness。　but　he　would　not　sin。　the　picture；　changed　or　unchanged；　would　be　to　him　the　visible　emblem　of　conscience。　he　would　resist　temptation。　he　would　not　see　lord　henry　any　morewould　not；　at　any　rate；　listen　to　those　subtle　poisonous　theories　that　in　basil　hallwards　garden　had　first　stirred　within　him　the　passion　for　impossible　things。　he　would　go　back　to　sibyl　vane；　make　her　amends；　marry　her；　try　to　love　her　again。　yes；　it　was　his　duty　to　do　so。　she　must　have　suffered　more　than　he　had。　poor　child！　he　had　been　selfish　and　cruel　to　her。　the　fascination　that　she　had　exercised　over　him　would　return。　they　would　be　happy　together。　his　life　with　her　would　be　beautiful　and　pure。

he　got　up　from　his　chair　and　drew　a　large　screen　right　in　front　of　the　portrait；　shuddering　as　he　glanced　at　it。　〃how　horrible！〃　he　murmured　to　himself；　and　he　walked　across　to　the　window　and　opened　it。　when　he　stepped　out　on　to　the　grass；　he　drew　a　deep　breath。　the　fresh　morning　air　seemed　to　drive　away　all　his　sombre　passions。　he　thought　only　of　sibyl。　a　faint　echo　of　his　love　came　back　to　him。　he　repeated　her　name　over　and　over　again。　the　birds　that　were　singing　in　the　dew…drenched　garden　seemed　to　be　telling　the　flowers　about　her。

w锛贰�w。xia　oshuotx锛础ｏ迹om



Chapter　8

灏弤璇磣t。xt‘澶﹡鍫�
chapter　8

it　was　long　past　noon　when　he　awoke。　his　valet　had　crept　several　times　on　tiptoe　into　the　room　to　see　if　he　was　stirring；　and　had　wondered　what　made　his　young　master　sleep　so　late。　finally　his　bell　sounded；　and　victor　came　in　softly　with　a　cup　of　tea；　and　a　pile　of　letters；　on　a　small　tray　of　old　sevres　china；　and　drew　back　the　olive…satin　curtains；　with　their　shimmering　blue　lining；　that　hung　in　front　of　the　three　tall　windows。

〃monsieur　has　well　slept　this　morning；〃　he　said；　smiling。

〃what　oclock　is　it；　victor？〃　asked　dorian　gray　drowsily。

〃one　hour　and　a　quarter；　monsieur。〃

how　late　it　was！　he　sat　up；　and　having　sipped　some　tea；　turned　over　his　letters。　one　of　them　was　from　lord　henry；　and　had　been　brought　by　hand　that　morning。　he　hesitated　for　a　moment；　and　then　put　it　aside。　the　others　he　opened　listlessly。　they　contained　the　usual　collection　of　cards；　invitations　to　dinner；　tickets　for　private　views；　programmes　of　charity　concerts；　and　the　like　that　are　showered　on　fashionable　young　men　every　morning　during　the　season。　there　was　a　rather　heavy　bill　for　a　chased　silver　louis…quinze　toilet…set　that　he　had　not　yet　had　the　courage　to　send　on　to　his　guardians；　who　were　extremely　old…fashioned　people　and　did　not　realize　that　we　live　in　an　age　when　unnecessary　things　are　our　only　necessities；　and　there　were　several　very　courteously　worded　munications　from　jermyn　street　money…lenders　offering　to　advance　any　sum　of　money　at　a　moments　notice　and　at　the　most　reasonable　rates　of　interest。

after　about　ten　minutes　he　got　up；　and　throwing　on　an　elaborate　dressing…gown　of　silk…embroidered　cashmere　wool；　passed　into　the　onyx…paved　bathroom。　the　cool　water　refreshed　him　after　his　long　sleep。　he　seemed　to　have　forgotten　all　that　he　had　gone　through。　a　dim　sense　of　having　taken　part　in　some　strange　tragedy　came　to　him　once　or　twice；　but　there　was　the　unreality　of　a　dream　about　it。

as　soon　as　he　was　dressed；　he　went　into　the　library　and　sat　down　to　a　light　french　breakfast　that　had　been　laid　out　for　him　on　a　small　round　table　close　to　the　open　window。　it　was　an　exquisite　day。　the　warm　air　seemed　laden　with　spices。　a　bee　flew　in　and　buzzed　round　the　blue…dragon　bowl　that；　filled　with　sulphur…yellow　roses；　stood　before　him。　he　felt　perfectly　happy。

suddenly　his　eye　fell　on　the　screen　that　he　had　placed　in　front　of　the　portrait；　and　he　started。

〃too　cold　for　monsieur？〃　asked　his　valet；　putting　an　omelette　on　the　table。　〃i　shut　the　window？〃

dorian　shook　his　head。　〃i　am　not　cold；〃　he　murmured。

was　it　all　true？　had　the　portrait　really　changed？　or　had　it　been　simply　his　own　imagination　that　had　made　him　see　a　look　of　evil　where　there　had　been　a　look　of　joy？　surely　a　painted　canvas　could　not　alter？　the　thing　was　absurd。　it　would　serve　as　a　tale　to　tell　basil　some　day。　it　would　make　him　smile。

and；　yet；　how　vivid　was　his　recollection　of　the　whole　thing！　first　in　the　dim　twilight；　and　then　in　the　bright　dawn；　he　had　seen　the　touch　of　cruelty　round　the　warped　lips。　he　almost　dreaded　his　valet　leaving　the　room。　he　knew　that　when　he　was　alone　he　would　have　to　examine　the　portrait。　he　was　afraid　of　certainty。　when　the　coffee　and　cigarettes　had　been　brought　and　the　man　turned　to　go；　he　felt　a　wild　desire　to　tell　him　to　remain。　as　the　door　was　closing　behind　him；　he　called　him　back。　the　man　stood　waiting　for　his　orders。　dorian　looked　at　him　for　a　moment。　〃i　am　not　at　home　to　any　one；　victor；〃　he　said　with　a　sigh。　the　man　bowed　and　retired。

then　he　rose　from　the　table；　lit　a　cigarette；　and　flung　himself　down　on　a　luxuriously　cushioned　couch　that　stood　facing　the　screen。　the　screen　was　an　old　one；　of　gilt　spanish　leather；　stamped　and　wrought　with　a　rather　florid　louis…quatorze　pattern。　he　scanned　it　curiously；　wondering　if　ever　before　it　had　concealed　the　secret　of　a　mans　life。

should　he　move　it　aside；　after　all？　why　not　let　it　stay　there？　what　was　the　use　of　knowing。？　if　the　thing　was　true；　it　was　terrible。　if　it　was　not　true；　why　trouble　about　it？　but　what　if；　by　some　fate　or　deadlier　chance；　eyes　other　than　his　spied　behind　and　saw　the　horrible　change？　what　should　he　do　if　basil　hallward　came　and　asked　to　look　at　his　own　picture？　basil　would　be　sure　to　do　that。　no；　the　thing　had　to　be　examined；　and　at　once。　anything　would　be　better　than　this　dreadful　state　of　doubt。

he　got　up　and　locked　both　doors。　at　least　he　would　be　alone　when　he　looked　upon　the　mask　of　his　shame。　then　he　drew　the　screen　aside　and　saw　himself　face　to　face。　it　was　perfectly　true。　the　portrait　had　altered。

as　he　often　remembered　afterwards；　and　always　with　no　small　wonder；　he　found　himself　at　first　gazing　at　the　portrait　with　a　feeling　of　almost　scientific　interest。　that　such　a　change　should　have　taken　place　was　incredible　to　him。　and　yet　it　was　a　fact。　was　there　some　subtle　affinity　between　the　chemical　atoms　that　shaped　themselves　into　form　and　colour　on　the　canvas　and　the　soul　that　was　within　him？　could　it　be　that　what　that　soul　thought；　they　realized？that　what　it　dreamed；　they　made　true？　or　was　there　some　other；　more　terrible　reason？　he　shuddered；　and　felt　afraid；　and；　going　back　to　the　couch；　lay　there；　gazing　at　the　picture　in　sickened　horror。

one　thing；　however；　he　felt　that　it　had　done　for　him。　it　had　made　him　conscious　how　unjust；　how　cruel；　he　had　been　to　sibyl　vane。　it　was　not　too　late　to　make　reparation　for　that。　she　could　still　be　his　wife。　his　unreal　and　selfish　love　would　yield　to　some　higher　influence；　would　be　transformed　into　some　nobler　passion；　and　the　portrait　that　basil　hallward　had　painted　of　him　would　be　a　guide　to　him　through　life；　would　be　to　him　what　holiness　is　to　some；　and　conscience　to　others；　and　the　fear　of　god　to　us　all。　there　were　opiates　for　remorse；　drugs　that　could　lull　the　moral　sense　to　sleep。　but　here　was　a　visible　symbol　of　the　degradation　of　sin。　here　was　an　ever…present　sign　of　the　ruin　men　brought　upon　their　souls。

three　oclock　struck；　and　four；　and　the　half…hour　rang　its　double　chime；　but　dorian　gray　did　not　stir。　he　was　trying　to　gather　up　the　scarlet　threads　of　life　and　to　weave　them　into