CHAPTER VIII.

,theyarebroughttoyou.No,youmustkeepyourgoodlooks.Weliveinanagethatreadstoomuchtobewise,andthatthinkstoomuchtobebeautiful.Wecannotspareyou.Andnowyouhadbetterdressanddrivedowntotheclub.Weareratherlate,asitis.” “IthinkIshalljoinyouattheopera,Harry.Ifeeltootiredtoeatanything.Whatisthenumberofyoursister’sbox?” “Twenty-seven,Ibelieve.Itisonthegrandtier.Youwillseehernameonthedoor.ButIamsorryyouwon’tcomeanddine.” “Idon’tfeeluptoit,”saidDorianlistlessly.“ButIamawfullyobligedtoyouforallthatyouhavesaidtome.Youarecertainlymybestfriend.Noonehaseverunderstoodmeasyouhave.” “Weareonlyatthebeginningofourfriendship,Dorian,”answeredLordHenry,shakinghimbythehand.“Good-bye.Ishallseeyoubeforenine-thirty,Ihope.Remember,Pattiissinging.” Asheclosedthedoorbehindhim,DorianGraytouchedthebell,andinafewminutesVictorappearedwiththelampsanddrewtheblindsdown.Hewaitedimpatientlyforhimtogo.Themanseemedtotakeaninterminabletimeovereverything. Assoonashehadleft,herushedtothescreenanddrewitback.Notherewasnofurtherchangeinthepicture.IthadreceivedthenewsofSibylVane’sdeathbeforehehadknownofithimself.Itwasconsciousoftheeventsoflifeastheyoccurred.Theviciouscrueltythatmarredthefinelinesofthemouthhad,nodoubt,appearedattheverymomentthatthegirlhaddrunkthepoison,whateveritwas.Orwasitindifferenttoresults?Diditmerelytakecognizanceofwhatpassedwithinthesoul?Hewondered,andhopedthatsomedayhewouldseethechangetakingplacebeforehisveryeyes,shudderingashehopedit. PoorSibyl!Whataromanceithadallbeen!Shehadoftenmimickeddeathonthestage.ThenDeathhimselfhadtouchedherandtakenherwithhim.Howhadsheplayedthatdreadfullastscene?Hadshecursedhim,asshedied?Noshehaddiedforloveofhim,andlovewouldalwaysbeasacramenttohimnow.Shehadatonedforeverythingbythesacrificeshehadmadeofherlife.Hewouldnotthinkanymoreofwhatshehadmadehimgothrough,onthathorriblenightatthetheatre.Whenhethoughtofher,itwouldbeasawonderfultragicfiguresentontotheworld’sstagetoshowthesupremerealityoflove.Awonderfultragicfigure?Tearscametohiseyesasherememberedherchildlikelook,andwinsomefancifulways,andshytremulousgrace.Hebrushedthemawayhastilyandlookedagainatthepicture. Hefeltthatthetimehadreallycomeformakinghischoice.Orhadhischoicealreadybeenmade?Yes,lifehaddecidedthatforhim—life,andhisowninfinitecuriosityaboutlife.Eternalyouth,infinitepassion,pleasuressubtleandsecret,wildjoysandwildersins—hewastohaveallthesethings.Theportraitwastobeartheburdenofhisshame:thatwasall. Afeelingofpaincreptoverhimashethoughtofthedesecrationthatwasinstoreforthefairfaceonthecanvas.Once,inboyishmockeryofNarcissus,hehadkissed,orfeignedtokiss,thosepaintedlipsthatnowsmiledsocruellyathim.Morningaftermorninghehadsatbeforetheportraitwonderingatitsbeauty,almostenamouredofit,asitseemedtohimattimes.Wasittoalternowwitheverymoodtowhichheyielded?Wasittobecomeamonstrousandloathsomething,tobehiddenawayinalockedroom,tobeshutoutfromthesunlightthathadsooftentouchedtobrightergoldthewavingwonderofitshair?Thepityofit!thepityofit! Foramoment,hethoughtofprayingthatthehorriblesympathythatexistedbetweenhimandthepicturemightcease.Ithadchangedinanswertoaprayerperhapsinanswertoaprayeritmightremainunchanged.Andyet,who,thatknewanythingaboutlife,wouldsurrenderthechanceofremainingalwaysyoung,howeverfantasticthatchancemightbe,orwithwhatfatefulconsequencesitmightbefraught?Besides,wasitreallyunderhiscontrol?Haditindeedbeenprayerthathadproducedthesubstitution?Mighttherenotbesomecuriousscientificreasonforitall?Ifthoughtcouldexerciseitsinfluenceuponalivingorganism,mightnotthoughtexerciseaninfluenceupondeadandinorganicthings?Nay,withoutthoughtorconsciousdesire,mightnotthingsexternaltoourselvesvibrateinunisonwithourmoodsandpassions,atomcallingtoatominsecretloveorstrangeaffinity?Butthereasonwasofnoimportance.Hewouldneveragaintemptbyaprayeranyterriblepower.Ifthepicturewastoalter,itwastoalter.Thatwasall.Whyinquiretoocloselyintoit? Fortherewouldbearealpleasureinwatchingit.Hewouldbeabletofollowhismindintoitssecretplaces.Thisportraitwouldbetohimthemostmagicalofmirrors.Asithadrevealedtohimhisownbody,soitwouldrevealtohimhisownsoul.Andwhenwintercameuponit,hewouldstillbestandingwherespringtremblesonthevergeofsummer.Whenthebloodcreptfromitsface,andleftbehindapallidmaskofchalkwithleadeneyes,hewouldkeeptheglamourofboyhood.Notoneblossomofhislovelinesswouldeverfade.Notonepulseofhislifewouldeverweaken.LikethegodsoftheGreeks,hewouldbestrong,andfleet,andjoyous.Whatdiditmatterwhathappenedtothecolouredimageonthecanvas?Hewouldbesafe.Thatwaseverything. Hedrewthescreenbackintoitsformerplaceinfrontofthepicture,smilingashedidso,andpassedintohisbedroom,wherehisvaletwasalreadywaitingforhim.Anhourlaterhewasattheopera,andLordHenrywasleaningoverhischair.