Chapter 8 - Page 2

where there had been a look of joy?
Surely a painted canvas could not alter? The thing was absurd.
It would serve as a tale to tell Basil some day. It would make
him smile.

And, yet, how vivid was his recollection of the whole thing!
First in the dim twilight, and then in the bright dawn,
he had seen the touch of cruelty round the warped lips.
He almost dreaded his valet leaving the room. He knew that
when he was alone he would have to examine the portrait.
He was afraid of certainty. When the coffee and cigarettes
had been brought and the man turned to go, he felt a wild desire
to tell him to remain. As the door was closing behind him,
he called him back. The man stood waiting for his orders.
Dorian looked at him for a moment. "I am not at home
to any one, Victor," he said with a sigh. The man bowed
and retired.

Then he rose from the table, lit a cigarette, and flung

THE PICTURE OF DORIAN GRAY 109

himself down on a luxuriously cushioned couch that stood facing
the screen. The screen was an old one, of gilt Spanish leather,
stamped and wrought with a rather florid Louis-Quatorze pattern.
He scanned it curiously, wondering if ever before it had concealed
the secret of a man's life.

Should he move it aside, after all? Why not let it stay there?
What was the use of knowing.? If the thing was true,
it was terrible. If it was not true, why trouble about it?
But what if, by some fate or deadlier chance, eyes other than
his spied behind and saw the horrible change? What should he do
if Basil Hallward came and asked to look at his own picture?
Basil would be sure to do that. No; the thing had to be examined,
and at once. Anything would be better than this dreadful state
of doubt.

He got up and locked both doors. At least he would be alone when he looked
upon the mask of his shame. Then he drew the screen aside and saw himself
face to face. It was perfectly true. The portrait had altered.

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