《道林格雷的画像》第30章

lining；　that　hung　in　front　of　the　three　tall　windows。
〃monsieur　has　well　slept　this　morning；〃　he　said；　smiling。
〃what　oclock　is　it；　victor？〃　asked　dorian　gray　drowsily。
〃one　hour　and　a　quarter；　monsieur。〃
how　late　it　was！　he　sat　up；　and　having　sipped　some　tea；　turned　over　his　letters。　one　of　them　was　from　lord　henry；　and　had　been　brought　by　hand　that　morning。　he　hesitated　for　a　moment；　and　then　put　it　aside。　the　others　he　opened　listlessly。　they　contained　the　usual　collection　of　cards；　invitations　to　dinner；　tickets　for　private　views；　programmes　of　charity　concerts；　and　the　like　that　are　showered　on　fashionable　young　men　every　morning　during　the　season。　there　was　a　rather　heavy　bill　for　a　chased　silver　louis…quinze　toilet…set　that　he　had　not　yet　had　the　courage　to　send　on　to　his　guardians；　who　were　extremely　old…fashioned　people　and　did　not　realize　that　we　live　in　an　age　when　unnecessary　things　are　our　only　necessities；　and　there　were　several　very　courteously　worded　munications　from　jermyn　street　money…lenders　offering　to　advance　any　sum　of　money　at　a　moments　notice　and　at　the　most　reasonable　rates　of　interest。
after　about　ten　minutes　he　got　up；　and　throwing　on　an　elaborate　dressing…gown　of　silk…embroidered　cashmere　wool；　passed　into　the　onyx…paved　bathroom。　the　cool　water　refreshed　him　after　his　long　sleep。　he　seemed　to　have　forgotten　all　that　he　had　gone　through。　a　dim　sense　of　having　taken　part　in　some　strange　tragedy　came　to　him　once　or　twice；　but　there　was　the　unreality　of　a　dream　about　it。
as　soon　as　he　was　dressed；　he　went　into　the　library　and　sat　down　to　a　light　french　breakfast　that　had　been　laid　out　for　him　on　a　small　round　table　close　to　the　open　window。　it　was　an　exquisite　day。　the　warm　air　seemed　laden　with　spices。　a　bee　flew　in　and　buzzed　round　the　blue…dragon　bowl　that；　filled　with　sulphur…yellow　roses；　stood　before　him。　he　felt　perfectly　happy。
suddenly　his　eye　fell　on　the　screen　that　he　had　placed　in　front　of　the　portrait；　and　he　started。
〃too　cold　for　monsieur？〃　asked　his　valet；　putting　an　omelette　on　the　table。　〃i　shut　the　window？〃
dorian　shook　his　head。　〃i　am　not　cold；〃　he　murmured。
was　it　all　true？　had　the　portrait　really　changed？　or　had　it　been　simply　his　own　imagination　that　had　made　him　see　a　look　of　evil　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　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　mans　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　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　oclock　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　blam