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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
of
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
.
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
ca
n't
tell
you
how
heartbroken
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
,
is
n'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
.
Do
n't
talk
about
horrid
subjects
.
If
one
does
n't
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
woman
's
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
wo
n't
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
.
"
