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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 worlds 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 e for making his choice。 or had his choice already been made？ yes； life had decided that for himlife； and his own infinite curiosity about life。 eternal youth； infinite passion； pleasures subtle and secret； wild joys and wilder sinshe 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 bee 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
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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 cant 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 girls mother？ for a moment i thought of following you there。 they gave the address in the paper。 somewhere in the euston road； isnt 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 e on there。 i met lady gwendolen； harrys sister； for the first time。 we were in her box。 she is perfectly charming； and patti sang divinely。 dont talk about horrid subjects。 if one doesnt talk about a thing； it has never happened。 it is simply expression； as harry says； that gives reality to things。 i may mention that she was not the womans only child。 there is a son； a charming fellow； i believe。 but he is not on the stage。 he is a sailor； or something。 and now； tell me about yourself and what you are painting。〃
〃you went to the opera？〃 said hallward； speaking very slowly and with a strained touch of pain in his voice。 〃you went to the opera while sibyl vane was lying dead in some sordid lodging？ you can talk to me of other women being charming； and of patti singing divinely； before the girl you loved has even the quiet of a grave to sleep in？ why； man； there are horrors in store for that little white body of hers！〃
〃stop； basil！ i wont hear it！〃 cried dorian； leaping to his feet。 〃you must not tell me about things。 what is done is done。 what is past is past。〃
〃you call yesterday the past？〃
〃what has the actual lapse of time got to do with it？ it is only shallow people who require years to get rid of an emotion。 a man who is master of himself can end a sorrow as easily as he can invent a pleasure。 i dont want to be at the mercy of my emotions。 i want to use them； to enjoy them； and to dominate them。〃
〃dorian； this is horrible！ something has changed you pletely。 you look exactly the same wonderful boy who； day after day； used to e down to my studio to sit for his picture。 but you were simple； natural； and affectionate then。 you were the most unspoiled creature in the whole world。 now； i dont know what has e over you。 you talk as if you had no heart； no pity in you。 it is all harrys influence。 i see that。〃
the lad flushed up and； going to the window； looked out for a few moments on the green； flickering； sun…lashed garden。 〃i owe a great deal to harry； basil；〃 he said at last； 〃more than i owe to you。 you only taught me to be vain。〃
〃well； i am punished for that； dorianor shall be some day。〃
〃i dont know what you mean； basil；〃 he exclaimed； turning round。 〃i dont know what you want。 what do you want？〃
〃i want the dorian gray i used to paint；〃 said the artist sadly。
〃basil；〃 said the lad； going over to him and putting his hand on his shoulder； 〃you have e too late。 yesterday； when i heard that sibyl vane had killed herself〃
〃killed herself！ good heavens！ is there no doubt about that？〃 cried hallward； looking up at him with an expression of horror。
〃my dear basil！ surely you dont think it was a vulgar accident？ of course she killed herself。〃
the elder man buried his face in his hands。 〃how fearful；〃 he muttered； and a shudder ran through him。
〃no；〃 said dorian gray； 〃there is nothing fearful about it。 it is one of the great romantic tragedies of the age。 as a rule； people who act lead the most monplace lives。 they are good husbands； or faithful wives； or something tedious。 you know what i meanmiddle…class virtue and all that kind of thing。 how different sibyl was！ she lived her finest tragedy。 she was always a heroine。 the last night she played the night you saw hershe acted badly because she had known the reality of love。 when she knew its unreality； she died； as juliet might have died。 she passed again into the sphere of art。 there is something of the martyr about her。 her death has all the pathetic uselessness of martyrdom； all its wasted beauty。 but； as i was saying； you must not think i have not suffered。 if you had e in yesterday at a particular moment about half…past five； perhaps； or a quarter to six you would have found me in tears。 even harry； who was here； who brought me the news； in fact； had no idea what i was going through。 i suffered immensely。 then it passed away。 i cannot repeat an emotion。 no one can； except sentimentalists。 and you are awfully unjust； basil。 you e down here to con