Page 271 sur 490

Every moment of his lonely childhood came back to him as he

looked round. He recalled the stainless purity of his boyish

life, and it seemed horrible to him that it was here the fatal

portrait was to be hidden away. How little he had thought, in

those dead days, of all that was in store for him!

But there was no other place in the house so secure from prying

eyes as this. He had the key, and no one else could enter it.

Beneath its purple pall, the face painted on the canvas could

grow bestial, sodden, and unclean. What did it matter? No one

could see it. He himself would not see it. Why should he watch

the hideous corruption of his soul? He kept his youth-that was

enough. And, besides, might not his nature grow finer, after all?

There was no reason that the future should be so full of shame.

Some love might come across his life, and purify him, and shield

him from those sins that seemed to be already stirring in spirit

and in flesh-those curious unpictured sins whose very mystery

lent them their subtlety and their charm. Perhaps, some day, the

cruel look would have passed away from the scarlet sensitive

mouth, and he might show to the world Basil Hallward's

masterpiece.