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1As he closed the door behind him, Dorian Gray touched the bell, and in a few minutes Victor appeared with the lamps and
2drew the blinds down. He waited impatiently for him to go. The man seemed to take an interminable time over everything.
3As 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
4received the news of Sibyl Vane's death before he had known of it himself. It was conscious of the events of life as
5they occurred. The vicious cruelty that marred the fine lines of the mouth had, no doubt, appeared at the very moment
6that the girl had drunk the poison, whatever it was. Or was it indifferent to results? Did it merely take cognizance of
7what passed within the soul? He wondered, and hoped that some day he would see the change taking place before his very
8eyes, shuddering as he hoped it. Poor Sibyl! What a romance it had all been! She had often mimicked death on the stage.
9Then Death himself had touched her and taken her with him. How had she played that dreadful last scene? Had she cursed
10him, 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
11everything by the sacrifice she had made of her life. He would not think any more of what she had made him go through,
12on that horrible night at the theatre. When he thought of her, it would be as a wonderful tragic figure sent on to the
13world's stage to show the supreme reality of love. A wonderful tragic figure? Tears came to his eyes as he remembered
14her childlike look, and winsome fanciful ways, and shy tremulous grace. He brushed them away hastily and looked again at
15the picture. He felt that the time had really come for making his choice. Or had his choice already been made? Yes, life
16had decided that for him--life, and his own infinite curiosity about life. Eternal youth, infinite passion, pleasures
17subtle and secret, wild joys and wilder sins--he was to have all these things. The portrait was to bear the burden of
18his shame: that was all. A feeling of pain crept over him as he thought of the desecration that was in store for the
19fair face on the canvas. Once, in boyish mockery of Narcissus, he had kissed, or feigned to kiss, those painted lips
20that now smiled so cruelly at him. Morning after morning he had sat before the portrait wondering at its beauty, almost
21enamoured 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
22a monstrous and loathsome thing, to be hidden away in a locked room, to be shut out from the sunlight that had so often
23touched to brighter gold the waving wonder of its hair? The pity of it! the pity of it! For a moment, he thought of
24praying that the horrible sympathy that existed between him and the picture might cease. It had changed in answer to a
25prayer; perhaps in answer to a prayer it might remain unchanged. And yet, who, that knew anything about life, would
26surrender the chance of remaining always young, however fantastic that chance might be, or with what fateful
27consequences it might be fraught? Besides, was it really under his control? Had it indeed been prayer that had produced
28the substitution? Might there not be some curious scientific reason for it all? If thought could exercise its influence
29upon a living organism, might not thought exercise an influence upon dead and inorganic things? Nay, without thought or
30conscious desire, might not things external to ourselves vibrate in unison with our moods and passions, atom calling to
31atom in secret love or strange affinity? But the reason was of no importance. He would never again tempt by a prayer any
32terrible power. If the picture was to alter, it was to alter. That was all. Why inquire too closely into it? For there
33would be a real pleasure in watching it. He would be able to follow his mind into its secret places. This portrait would
34be 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.
35And when winter came upon it, he would still be standing where spring trembles on the verge of summer. When the blood
36crept from its face, and left behind a pallid mask of chalk with leaden eyes, he would keep the glamour of boyhood. Not
37one blossom of his loveliness would ever fade. Not one pulse of his life would ever weaken. Like the gods of the Greeks,
38he would be strong, and fleet, and joyous. What did it matter what happened to the coloured image on the canvas? He
39would be safe. That was everything. He drew the screen back into its former place in front of the picture, smiling as he
40did so, and passed into his bedroom, where his valet was already waiting for him. An hour later he was at the opera, and
41Lord Henry was leaning over his chair.
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