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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
o'clock
o'clock
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
a
pattern
;
to
find
his
way
through
the
sanguine
labyrinth
of
passion
through
which
he
was
wandering
.
He
did
not
know
what
to
do
,
or
what
to
think
.
Finally
,
he
went
over
to
the
table
,
and
wrote
a
passionate
letter
to
the
girl
he
had
loved
,
imploring
her
forgiveness
,
and
accusing
himself
of
madness
.
He
covered
page
after
page
with
wild
words
of
sorrow
,
and
wilder
words
of
pain
.
There
is
a
luxury
in
self-reproach
.
When
we
blame
ourselves
we
feel
that
no
one
else
has
a
right
to
blame
us
.
It
is
the
confession
,
not
the
priest
,
that
gives
us
absolution
.
When
Dorian
had
finished
the
letter
,
he
felt
that
he
had
been
forgiven
.
Suddenly
there
came
a
knock
to
the
door
,
and
he
heard
Lord
Henry
's
voice
outside
.
"
My
dear
boy
,
I
must
see
you
.
Let
me
in
at
once
.
I
ca
n't
bear
your
shutting
yourself
up
like
this
.
"
He
made
no
answer
at
first
,
but
remained
quite
still
.
The
knocking
still
continued
,
and
grew
louder
.
Yes
,
it
was
better
to
let
Lord
Henry
in
,
and
to
explain
to
him
the
new
life
he
was
going
to
lead
,
to
quarrel
with
him
if
it
became
necessary
to
quarrel
,
to
part
if
parting
was
inevitable
.
He
jumped
up
,
drew
the
screen
hastily
across
the
picture
,
and
unlocked
the
door
.
"
I
am
so
sorry
for
it
all
,
Dorian
,
"
said
Lord
Henry
,
as
he
entered
.
"
But
you
must
not
think
too
much
about
it
.
"
"
Do
you
mean
about
Sibyl
Vane
?
"
asked
the
lad
.
"
Yes
,
of
course
,
"
answered
Lord
Henry
,
sinking
into
a
chair
,
and
slowly
pulling
off
his
yellow
gloves
.
"
It
is
dreadful
,
from
one
point
of
view
,
but
it
was
not
your
fault
.
Tell
me
,
did
you
go
behind
and
see
her
,
after
the
play
was
over
?
"
