Chapter 4

24 min

One afternoon, a month later, Dorian Gray was reclining in a luxurious arm-chair, in the little library of Lord Henry’s house in Mayfair. It was, in its way, a very charming room, with its high panelled wainscoting of olive-stained oak, its cream-coloured frieze and ceiling of raised plasterwork, and its brickdust felt carpet strewn with silk, long-fringed Persian rugs. On a tiny satinwood table stood a statuette by Clodion, and beside it lay a copy of Les Cent Nouvelles, bound for Margaret of Valois by Clovis Eve and powdered with the gilt daisies that Queen had selected for her device. Some large blue china jars and parrot-tulips were ranged on the mantelshelf, and through the small leaded panes of the window streamed the apricot-coloured light of a summer day in London.

One afternoon, a month later, Dorian Gray was reclining in a luxurious armchair in Lord Henry’s small library in Mayfair. It was a charming room in its own way. High oak panels stained olive covered the lower walls, and the cream-colored frieze and ceiling had raised plaster designs. Long-fringed Persian silk rugs lay scattered across the brick-red felt carpet. A statuette by Clodion stood on a small satinwood table. Beside it lay a copy of Les Cent Nouvelles, bound for Margaret of Valois by Clovis Eve. The cover was scattered with gold daisies, the emblem the Queen had chosen for herself. Some large blue porcelain jars and parrot tulips stood on the mantelpiece. Through the small leaded windowpanes streamed the apricot-colored light of a summer day in London.

Lord Henry had not yet come in. He was always late on principle, his principle being that punctuality is the thief of time. So the lad was looking rather sulky, as with listless fingers he turned over the pages of an elaborately illustrated edition of Manon Lescaut that he had found in one of the book-cases. The formal monotonous ticking of the Louis Quatorze clock annoyed him. Once or twice he thought of going away.

Lord Henry had not yet arrived. He was always late on principle. His principle was that punctuality is the thief of time. So the young man looked rather sulky as he listlessly turned the pages of an elaborately illustrated edition of Manon Lescaut. He had found the book in one of the bookcases. The formal, monotonous ticking of the Louis Quatorze clock annoyed him. Once or twice, he thought of leaving.

At last he heard a step outside, and the door opened. “How late you are, Harry!” he murmured.

At last, he heard footsteps outside, and the door opened. “You’re so late, Harry!” he murmured.

“I am afraid it is not Harry, Mr. Gray,” answered a shrill voice.

“I’m afraid it isn’t Harry, Mr. Gray,” a shrill voice replied.

He glanced quickly round and rose to his feet. “I beg your pardon. I thought—”

He glanced around quickly and stood up. “I'm sorry. I thought...”

“You thought it was my husband. It is only his wife. You must let me introduce myself. I know you quite well by your photographs. I think my husband has got seventeen of them.”

“You thought I was my husband. I’m only his wife. Let me introduce myself. I know you quite well from your photographs. I think my husband has seventeen of them.”

“Not seventeen, Lady Henry?”

“Well, eighteen, then. And I saw you with him the other night at the opera.” She laughed nervously as she spoke, and watched him with her vague forget-me-not eyes. She was a curious woman, whose dresses always looked as if they had been designed in a rage and put on in a tempest. She was usually in love with somebody, and, as her passion was never returned, she had kept all her illusions. She tried to look picturesque, but only succeeded in being untidy. Her name was Victoria, and she had a perfect mania for going to church.

“Well, eighteen, then. And I saw you with him the other night at the opera.” She laughed nervously as she spoke and watched him with her vague, forget-me-not eyes. She was an odd woman. Her dresses always looked as if they had been designed in a rage and put on in a storm. She was usually in love with someone. Because her love was never returned, she had kept all her illusions. She tried to look picturesque, but only succeeded in looking untidy. Her name was Victoria, and she was obsessed with going to church.

“That was at Lohengrin, Lady Henry, I think?”

“Yes; it was at dear Lohengrin. I like Wagner’s music better than anybody’s. It is so loud that one can talk the whole time without other people hearing what one says. That is a great advantage, don’t you think so, Mr. Gray?”

“Yes, it was at dear Lohengrin. I like Wagner’s music better than anyone else’s. It is so loud that you can talk the whole time without anyone else hearing what you say. That is a great advantage, don’t you think, Mr. Gray?”

The same nervous staccato laugh broke from her thin lips, and her fingers began to play with a long tortoise-shell paper-knife.

The same nervous, sharp laugh escaped her thin lips, and her fingers began playing with a long tortoiseshell paper knife.

Dorian smiled and shook his head: “I am afraid I don’t think so, Lady Henry. I never talk during music—at least, during good music. If one hears bad music, it is one’s duty to drown it in conversation.”

Dorian smiled and shook his head: “I’m afraid I don’t think so, Lady Henry. I never talk during music. At least, not during good music. If you hear bad music, it’s your duty to drown it out with conversation.”

“Ah! that is one of Harry’s views, isn’t it, Mr. Gray? I always hear Harry’s views from his friends. It is the only way I get to know of them. But you must not think I don’t like good music. I adore it, but I am afraid of it. It makes me too romantic. I have simply worshipped pianists—two at a time, sometimes, Harry tells me. I don’t know what it is about them. Perhaps it is that they are foreigners. They all are, ain’t they? Even those that are born in England become foreigners after a time, don’t they? It is so clever of them, and such a compliment to art. Makes it quite cosmopolitan, doesn’t it? You have never been to any of my parties, have you, Mr. Gray? You must come. I can’t afford orchids, but I spare no expense in foreigners. They make one’s rooms look so picturesque. But here is Harry! Harry, I came in to look for you, to ask you something—I forget what it was—and I found Mr. Gray here. We have had such a pleasant chat about music. We have quite the same ideas. No; I think our ideas are quite different. But he has been most pleasant. I am so glad I’ve seen him.”

“Ah! That’s one of Harry’s opinions, isn’t it, Mr. Gray? I always hear Harry’s opinions from his friends. It’s the only way I ever find out what they are. But you mustn’t think I don’t like good music. I adore it, but I’m afraid of it. It makes me too romantic. I’ve simply worshipped pianists. Sometimes two at a time, Harry tells me. I don’t know what it is about them. Perhaps it’s because they’re foreigners. They all are, aren’t they? Even the ones born in England become foreigners after a while, don’t they? It’s so clever of them, and such a compliment to art. It makes art quite cosmopolitan, doesn’t it? You’ve never been to one of my parties, have you, Mr. Gray? You must come. I can’t afford orchids, but I spare no expense on foreigners. They make the rooms look so picturesque. But here’s Harry! Harry, I came in looking for you. I wanted to ask you something, but I’ve forgotten what it was. And I found Mr. Gray here. We’ve had such a pleasant chat about music. We have exactly the same ideas. No, I think our ideas are quite different. But he’s been very pleasant. I’m so glad I’ve seen him.”

“I am charmed, my love, quite charmed,” said Lord Henry, elevating his dark, crescent-shaped eyebrows and looking at them both with an amused smile. “So sorry I am late, Dorian. I went to look after a piece of old brocade in Wardour Street and had to bargain for hours for it. Nowadays people know the price of everything and the value of nothing.”

“I’m delighted, my love, absolutely delighted,” said Lord Henry. He raised his dark, crescent-shaped eyebrows and looked at them both with an amused smile. “I’m so sorry I’m late, Dorian. I went to look at a piece of old brocade on Wardour Street and had to bargain for hours to buy it. These days, people know the price of everything and the value of nothing.”

“I am afraid I must be going,” exclaimed Lady Henry, breaking an awkward silence with her silly sudden laugh. “I have promised to drive with the duchess. Good-bye, Mr. Gray. Good-bye, Harry. You are dining out, I suppose? So am I. Perhaps I shall see you at Lady Thornbury’s.”

“I’m afraid I have to go,” exclaimed Lady Henry, breaking an awkward silence with her sudden, silly laugh. “I promised to go for a drive with the duchess. Goodbye, Mr. Gray. Goodbye, Harry. I suppose you’re dining out? So am I. Perhaps I’ll see you at Lady Thornbury’s.”

“I dare say, my dear,” said Lord Henry, shutting the door behind her as, looking like a bird of paradise that had been out all night in the rain, she flitted out of the room, leaving a faint odour of frangipanni. Then he lit a cigarette and flung himself down on the sofa.

“I suppose so, my dear,” said Lord Henry, shutting the door behind her as she flitted out of the room. She looked like a bird of paradise that had been out in the rain all night. She left behind a faint scent of frangipanni. Then he lit a cigarette and threw himself down on the sofa.

“Never marry a woman with straw-coloured hair, Dorian,” he said after a few puffs.

“Never marry a woman with straw-colored hair, Dorian,” he said after a few puffs.

“Why, Harry?”

“Because they are so sentimental.”

“But I like sentimental people.”

“Never marry at all, Dorian. Men marry because they are tired; women, because they are curious: both are disappointed.”

“Never marry, Dorian. Men marry because they are tired. Women marry because they are curious. Both are disappointed.”

“I don’t think I am likely to marry, Harry. I am too much in love. That is one of your aphorisms. I am putting it into practice, as I do everything that you say.”

“I don’t think I’m likely to marry, Harry. I’m too much in love. That’s one of your sayings. I’m putting it into practice, just as I do everything you say.”

“Who are you in love with?” asked Lord Henry after a pause.

“With an actress,” said Dorian Gray, blushing.

Lord Henry shrugged his shoulders. “That is a rather commonplace début.”

Lord Henry shrugged. “That is a rather ordinary debut.”

“You would not say so if you saw her, Harry.”

“You wouldn’t say that if you saw her, Harry.”

“Who is she?”

“Her name is Sibyl Vane.”

“Never heard of her.”

“No one has. People will some day, however. She is a genius.”

“No one has. But people will someday. She is a genius.”

“My dear boy, no woman is a genius. Women are a decorative sex. They never have anything to say, but they say it charmingly. Women represent the triumph of matter over mind, just as men represent the triumph of mind over morals.”

“My dear boy, no woman is a genius. Women are the decorative sex. They never have anything to say, but they say it charmingly. Women show the triumph of matter over mind, just as men show the triumph of mind over morals.”

“Harry, how can you?”

“My dear Dorian, it is quite true. I am analysing women at present, so I ought to know. The subject is not so abstruse as I thought it was. I find that, ultimately, there are only two kinds of women, the plain and the coloured. The plain women are very useful. If you want to gain a reputation for respectability, you have merely to take them down to supper. The other women are very charming. They commit one mistake, however. They paint in order to try and look young. Our grandmothers painted in order to try and talk brilliantly. Rouge and esprit used to go together. That is all over now. As long as a woman can look ten years younger than her own daughter, she is perfectly satisfied. As for conversation, there are only five women in London worth talking to, and two of these can’t be admitted into decent society. However, tell me about your genius. How long have you known her?”

“My dear Dorian, it’s quite true. I’m studying women at the moment, so I should know. The subject isn’t as complicated as I thought. In the end, I find there are only two kinds of women: the plain and the made-up. Plain women are very useful. If you want a reputation for respectability, you only have to escort them to supper. The other women are very charming. But they make one mistake. They wear makeup to try to look young. Our grandmothers wore makeup to try to be brilliant conversationalists. Rouge and esprit used to go together. That’s all over now. As long as a woman can look ten years younger than her own daughter, she’s perfectly satisfied. As for conversation, there are only five women in London worth talking to. Two of them can’t be admitted into respectable society. But tell me about your genius. How long have you known her?”

“Ah! Harry, your views terrify me.”

“Oh, Harry, your views frighten me.”

“Never mind that. How long have you known her?”

“About three weeks.”

“And where did you come across her?”

“And where did you meet her?”

“I will tell you, Harry, but you mustn’t be unsympathetic about it. After all, it never would have happened if I had not met you. You filled me with a wild desire to know everything about life. For days after I met you, something seemed to throb in my veins. As I lounged in the park, or strolled down Piccadilly, I used to look at every one who passed me and wonder, with a mad curiosity, what sort of lives they led. Some of them fascinated me. Others filled me with terror. There was an exquisite poison in the air. I had a passion for sensations.... Well, one evening about seven o’clock, I determined to go out in search of some adventure. I felt that this grey monstrous London of ours, with its myriads of people, its sordid sinners, and its splendid sins, as you once phrased it, must have something in store for me. I fancied a thousand things. The mere danger gave me a sense of delight. I remembered what you had said to me on that wonderful evening when we first dined together, about the search for beauty being the real secret of life. I don’t know what I expected, but I went out and wandered eastward, soon losing my way in a labyrinth of grimy streets and black grassless squares. About half-past eight I passed by an absurd little theatre, with great flaring gas-jets and gaudy play-bills. A hideous Jew, in the most amazing waistcoat I ever beheld in my life, was standing at the entrance, smoking a vile cigar. He had greasy ringlets, and an enormous diamond blazed in the centre of a soiled shirt. ‘Have a box, my Lord?’ he said, when he saw me, and he took off his hat with an air of gorgeous servility. There was something about him, Harry, that amused me. He was such a monster. You will laugh at me, I know, but I really went in and paid a whole guinea for the stage-box. To the present day I can’t make out why I did so; and yet if I hadn’t—my dear Harry, if I hadn’t—I should have missed the greatest romance of my life. I see you are laughing. It is horrid of you!”

“I’ll tell you, Harry, but you must be sympathetic. After all, it never would have happened if I hadn’t met you. You filled me with a wild desire to know everything about life. For days after we met, something seemed to pulse in my veins. As I relaxed in the park or walked down Piccadilly, I looked at everyone who passed me. I wondered, with a mad curiosity, what kind of lives they led. Some fascinated me. Others terrified me. There was a delightful poison in the air. I had a passion for sensations.... Well, one evening, around seven o’clock, I decided to go out in search of an adventure. I felt that our vast, grim London must have something in store for me. It had countless people, its wretched sinners, and its splendid sins, as you once put it. I imagined a thousand things. The danger alone delighted me. I remembered what you had said on that wonderful evening when we first dined together. You said that the search for beauty was the real secret of life. I don’t know what I expected, but I went out and wandered east. Soon I lost my way in a maze of dirty streets and dark squares without any grass. Around half past eight, I passed a ridiculous little theatre with brightly burning gas lamps and gaudy posters. A hideous Jew stood at the entrance, smoking a disgusting cigar. He wore the most extraordinary waistcoat I had ever seen. He had greasy curls, and an enormous diamond sparkled in the middle of his dirty shirt. ‘Would you like a box, my Lord?’ he said when he saw me. He took off his hat with an extravagantly submissive manner. There was something about him that amused me, Harry. He was such a monster. I know you’ll laugh at me, but I went in and paid a whole guinea for a box beside the stage. I still can’t understand why I did it. And yet, if I hadn’t, my dear Harry, if I hadn’t, I would have missed the greatest romance of my life. I can see you’re laughing. You’re horrid!”

“I am not laughing, Dorian; at least I am not laughing at you. But you should not say the greatest romance of your life. You should say the first romance of your life. You will always be loved, and you will always be in love with love. A grande passion is the privilege of people who have nothing to do. That is the one use of the idle classes of a country. Don’t be afraid. There are exquisite things in store for you. This is merely the beginning.”

“I’m not laughing, Dorian. At least, I’m not laughing at you. But you shouldn’t call it the greatest romance of your life. You should call it the first romance of your life. You’ll always be loved, and you’ll always be in love with love. A great passion is a privilege for people who have nothing to do. That’s the one use for a country’s idle classes. Don’t be afraid. Wonderful things are waiting for you. This is only the beginning.”

“Do you think my nature so shallow?” cried Dorian Gray angrily.

“Do you think I’m so shallow?” Dorian Gray cried angrily.

“No; I think your nature so deep.”

“No, I think you have a very deep nature.”

“How do you mean?”

“What do you mean?”

“My dear boy, the people who love only once in their lives are really the shallow people. What they call their loyalty, and their fidelity, I call either the lethargy of custom or their lack of imagination. Faithfulness is to the emotional life what consistency is to the life of the intellect—simply a confession of failure. Faithfulness! I must analyse it some day. The passion for property is in it. There are many things that we would throw away if we were not afraid that others might pick them up. But I don’t want to interrupt you. Go on with your story.”

“My dear boy, people who love only once in their lives are really shallow. What they call loyalty and fidelity, I call either the laziness of habit or a lack of imagination. Faithfulness is to our emotions what consistency is to our thinking. Both are simply admissions of failure. Faithfulness! I must examine it someday. The desire to possess things plays a part in it. There are many things we would throw away if we weren’t afraid someone else might pick them up. But I don’t want to interrupt you. Go on with your story.”

“Well, I found myself seated in a horrid little private box, with a vulgar drop-scene staring me in the face. I looked out from behind the curtain and surveyed the house. It was a tawdry affair, all Cupids and cornucopias, like a third-rate wedding-cake. The gallery and pit were fairly full, but the two rows of dingy stalls were quite empty, and there was hardly a person in what I suppose they called the dress-circle. Women went about with oranges and ginger-beer, and there was a terrible consumption of nuts going on.”

“Well, I found myself sitting in a horrid little private box, facing a tasteless painted stage curtain. I looked out from behind the curtain and surveyed the theater. The place was shabby and showy, covered in cupids and cornucopias, like a third-rate wedding cake. The gallery and pit were fairly full, but the two rows of grimy seats were completely empty. There was hardly anyone in what I suppose they called the dress circle. Women walked around selling oranges and ginger beer, and people were eating an enormous number of nuts.”

“It must have been just like the palmy days of the British drama.”

“It must have been just like the golden age of British theater.”

“Just like, I should fancy, and very depressing. I began to wonder what on earth I should do when I caught sight of the play-bill. What do you think the play was, Harry?”

“Just what I would have expected, and very depressing. I began to wonder what on earth to do when I spotted the playbill. What do you think the play was, Harry?”

“I should think ‘The Idiot Boy’, or ‘Dumb but Innocent’. Our fathers used to like that sort of piece, I believe. The longer I live, Dorian, the more keenly I feel that whatever was good enough for our fathers is not good enough for us. In art, as in politics, les grandpères ont toujours tort.”

“I’d say ‘The Idiot Boy’, or ‘Dumb but Innocent’. I believe our fathers used to like that kind of work. The longer I live, Dorian, the more strongly I feel that whatever was good enough for our fathers isn’t good enough for us. In art, as in politics, grandfathers are always wrong.”

“This play was good enough for us, Harry. It was Romeo and Juliet. I must admit that I was rather annoyed at the idea of seeing Shakespeare done in such a wretched hole of a place. Still, I felt interested, in a sort of way. At any rate, I determined to wait for the first act. There was a dreadful orchestra, presided over by a young Hebrew who sat at a cracked piano, that nearly drove me away, but at last the drop-scene was drawn up and the play began. Romeo was a stout elderly gentleman, with corked eyebrows, a husky tragedy voice, and a figure like a beer-barrel. Mercutio was almost as bad. He was played by the low-comedian, who had introduced gags of his own and was on most friendly terms with the pit. They were both as grotesque as the scenery, and that looked as if it had come out of a country-booth. But Juliet! Harry, imagine a girl, hardly seventeen years of age, with a little, flowerlike face, a small Greek head with plaited coils of dark-brown hair, eyes that were violet wells of passion, lips that were like the petals of a rose. She was the loveliest thing I had ever seen in my life. You said to me once that pathos left you unmoved, but that beauty, mere beauty, could fill your eyes with tears. I tell you, Harry, I could hardly see this girl for the mist of tears that came across me. And her voice—I never heard such a voice. It was very low at first, with deep mellow notes that seemed to fall singly upon one’s ear. Then it became a little louder, and sounded like a flute or a distant hautboy. In the garden-scene it had all the tremulous ecstasy that one hears just before dawn when nightingales are singing. There were moments, later on, when it had the wild passion of violins. You know how a voice can stir one. Your voice and the voice of Sibyl Vane are two things that I shall never forget. When I close my eyes, I hear them, and each of them says something different. I don’t know which to follow. Why should I not love her? Harry, I do love her. She is everything to me in life. Night after night I go to see her play. One evening she is Rosalind, and the next evening she is Imogen. I have seen her die in the gloom of an Italian tomb, sucking the poison from her lover’s lips. I have watched her wandering through the forest of Arden, disguised as a pretty boy in hose and doublet and dainty cap. She has been mad, and has come into the presence of a guilty king, and given him rue to wear and bitter herbs to taste of. She has been innocent, and the black hands of jealousy have crushed her reedlike throat. I have seen her in every age and in every costume. Ordinary women never appeal to one’s imagination. They are limited to their century. No glamour ever transfigures them. One knows their minds as easily as one knows their bonnets. One can always find them. There is no mystery in any of them. They ride in the park in the morning and chatter at tea-parties in the afternoon. They have their stereotyped smile and their fashionable manner. They are quite obvious. But an actress! How different an actress is! Harry! why didn’t you tell me that the only thing worth loving is an actress?”

“This play was good enough for us, Harry. It was Romeo and Juliet. I admit I was annoyed at the thought of seeing Shakespeare performed in such a miserable place. Still, I was interested in a way. In any case, I decided to stay for the first act. The orchestra was dreadful, and it nearly drove me away. A young Jewish man led it from a cracked piano. But at last the curtain rose and the play began. Romeo was a stout older man, with eyebrows darkened with burnt cork, a husky tragic voice, and a beer-barrel figure. Mercutio was almost as bad. He was played by the comic actor, who had added his own jokes and was very friendly with the audience in the pit. Both actors were as grotesque as the scenery. It looked as if it had come from a country fair booth. But Juliet! Harry, imagine a girl, hardly seventeen, with a small, flowerlike face and a little Greek-shaped head. Her dark brown hair was braided and coiled. Her eyes were violet wells of passion, and her lips were like rose petals. She was the loveliest thing I had ever seen in my life. You once told me that pathos left you unmoved, but that beauty, mere beauty, could bring tears to your eyes. I tell you, Harry, I could hardly see this girl through the mist of tears that came over me. And her voice! I had never heard a voice like it. At first it was very soft, with deep, mellow notes that seemed to reach the ear one by one. Then it grew a little louder and sounded like a flute or a distant oboe. In the garden scene, it had all the trembling joy of nightingales singing just before dawn. Later, there were moments when it had the wild passion of violins. You know how a voice can stir you. Your voice and Sibyl Vane’s are two things I shall never forget. When I close my eyes, I hear them, and each says something different. I don’t know which to follow. Why shouldn’t I love her? Harry, I do love her. She is everything to me in life. Night after night, I go to see her perform. One evening she is Rosalind, and the next she is Imogen. I have seen her die in the darkness of an Italian tomb, sucking the poison from her lover’s lips. I have watched her wander through the forest of Arden. She was disguised as a pretty boy in tights, a fitted jacket, and a delicate cap. She has been mad and come before a guilty king, giving him rue to wear and bitter herbs to taste. She has been innocent, and the black hands of jealousy have crushed her slender throat. I have seen her in every age and in every costume. Ordinary women never appeal to the imagination. They are limited to their own century. No glamour ever transforms them. You know their minds as easily as you know their hats. You can always find them. There is no mystery in any of them. They ride in the park in the morning and chatter at tea parties in the afternoon. They have their standard smile and their fashionable manner. They are completely obvious. But an actress! How different an actress is! Harry! Why didn’t you tell me that the only thing worth loving is an actress?”

“Because I have loved so many of them, Dorian.”

“Oh, yes, horrid people with dyed hair and painted faces.”

“Oh, yes, awful people with dyed hair and makeup on their faces.”

“Don’t run down dyed hair and painted faces. There is an extraordinary charm in them, sometimes,” said Lord Henry.

“Don’t criticize dyed hair and makeup. Sometimes they have an extraordinary charm,” said Lord Henry.

“I wish now I had not told you about Sibyl Vane.”

“I wish I hadn't told you about Sibyl Vane.”

“You could not have helped telling me, Dorian. All through your life you will tell me everything you do.”

“You couldn’t have kept it from me, Dorian. All your life, you will tell me everything you do.”

“Yes, Harry, I believe that is true. I cannot help telling you things. You have a curious influence over me. If I ever did a crime, I would come and confess it to you. You would understand me.”

“Yes, Harry, I believe that’s true. I can’t help telling you things. You have a strange influence over me. If I ever committed a crime, I would come and confess it to you. You would understand me.”

“People like you—the wilful sunbeams of life—don’t commit crimes, Dorian. But I am much obliged for the compliment, all the same. And now tell me—reach me the matches, like a good boy—thanks—what are your actual relations with Sibyl Vane?”

“People like you, the willful sunbeams of life, don’t commit crimes, Dorian. But thank you for the compliment anyway. Now, be a good boy and pass me the matches. Thanks. Tell me, what exactly is your relationship with Sibyl Vane?”

Dorian Gray leaped to his feet, with flushed cheeks and burning eyes. “Harry! Sibyl Vane is sacred!”

Dorian Gray jumped to his feet, his cheeks flushed and his eyes burning. “Harry! Sibyl Vane is sacred!”

“It is only the sacred things that are worth touching, Dorian,” said Lord Henry, with a strange touch of pathos in his voice. “But why should you be annoyed? I suppose she will belong to you some day. When one is in love, one always begins by deceiving one’s self, and one always ends by deceiving others. That is what the world calls a romance. You know her, at any rate, I suppose?”

“Only sacred things are worth touching, Dorian,” said Lord Henry, with a strange note of sadness in his voice. “But why should you be annoyed? I suppose she will belong to you someday. When people fall in love, they always begin by deceiving themselves. They always end by deceiving others. The world calls that romance. You do know her, at least, I suppose?”

“Of course I know her. On the first night I was at the theatre, the horrid old Jew came round to the box after the performance was over and offered to take me behind the scenes and introduce me to her. I was furious with him, and told him that Juliet had been dead for hundreds of years and that her body was lying in a marble tomb in Verona. I think, from his blank look of amazement, that he was under the impression that I had taken too much champagne, or something.”

“Of course I know her. On my first night at the theatre, the horrid old Jew came to my box after the performance. He offered to take me backstage and introduce me to her. I was furious with him. I told him Juliet had been dead for hundreds of years, and that her body lay in a marble tomb in Verona. From his blank, astonished look, I think he thought I’d had too much champagne, or something.”

“I am not surprised.”

“I’m not surprised.”

“Then he asked me if I wrote for any of the newspapers. I told him I never even read them. He seemed terribly disappointed at that, and confided to me that all the dramatic critics were in a conspiracy against him, and that they were every one of them to be bought.”

“Then he asked if I wrote for any newspapers. I told him I never even read them. He seemed terribly disappointed to hear that. He confided that all the theater critics were conspiring against him and that every one of them could be bought.”

“I should not wonder if he was quite right there. But, on the other hand, judging from their appearance, most of them cannot be at all expensive.”

“I wouldn’t be surprised if he was quite right about that. But judging by their appearance, most of them can’t be very expensive.”

“Well, he seemed to think they were beyond his means,” laughed Dorian. “By this time, however, the lights were being put out in the theatre, and I had to go. He wanted me to try some cigars that he strongly recommended. I declined. The next night, of course, I arrived at the place again. When he saw me, he made me a low bow and assured me that I was a munificent patron of art. He was a most offensive brute, though he had an extraordinary passion for Shakespeare. He told me once, with an air of pride, that his five bankruptcies were entirely due to ‘The Bard,’ as he insisted on calling him. He seemed to think it a distinction.”

“Well, he seemed to think they cost more than he could afford,” Dorian laughed. “By then, though, they were turning out the lights in the theatre, and I had to go. He wanted me to try some cigars he highly recommended. I said no. The next night, of course, I went back to the theatre. When he saw me, he bowed low and assured me that I was a generous supporter of art. He was a thoroughly offensive brute, though he had an extraordinary passion for Shakespeare. He once told me proudly that all five of his bankruptcies were entirely due to ‘The Bard,’ as he insisted on calling Shakespeare. He seemed to think the bankruptcies were a mark of distinction.”

“It was a distinction, my dear Dorian—a great distinction. Most people become bankrupt through having invested too heavily in the prose of life. To have ruined one’s self over poetry is an honour. But when did you first speak to Miss Sibyl Vane?”

“It was an achievement, my dear Dorian. A great achievement. Most people go bankrupt because they invest too heavily in the prose of life. To ruin yourself over poetry is an honor. But when did you first speak to Miss Sibyl Vane?”

“The third night. She had been playing Rosalind. I could not help going round. I had thrown her some flowers, and she had looked at me—at least I fancied that she had. The old Jew was persistent. He seemed determined to take me behind, so I consented. It was curious my not wanting to know her, wasn’t it?”

“The third night, she had been playing Rosalind. I couldn’t help going round. I had thrown her some flowers, and she had looked at me. At least, I thought she had. The old Jew was persistent. He seemed determined to take me backstage, so I agreed. It was strange that I didn’t want to meet her, wasn’t it?”

“No; I don’t think so.”

“No, I don’t think so.”

“My dear Harry, why?”

“I will tell you some other time. Now I want to know about the girl.”

“I’ll tell you another time. Now I want to know about the girl.”

“Sibyl? Oh, she was so shy and so gentle. There is something of a child about her. Her eyes opened wide in exquisite wonder when I told her what I thought of her performance, and she seemed quite unconscious of her power. I think we were both rather nervous. The old Jew stood grinning at the doorway of the dusty greenroom, making elaborate speeches about us both, while we stood looking at each other like children. He would insist on calling me ‘My Lord,’ so I had to assure Sibyl that I was not anything of the kind. She said quite simply to me, ‘You look more like a prince. I must call you Prince Charming.’”

“Sibyl? Oh, she was so shy and gentle. There is something childlike about her. Her eyes opened wide with beautiful wonder when I told her what I thought of her performance. She seemed completely unaware of her power. I think we were both rather nervous. The old Jew stood grinning in the doorway of the dusty greenroom. He made elaborate speeches about us both while we stood looking at each other like children. He insisted on calling me ‘My Lord,’ so I had to assure Sibyl that I was nothing of the kind. She said simply to me, ‘You look more like a prince. I must call you Prince Charming.’”

“Upon my word, Dorian, Miss Sibyl knows how to pay compliments.”

“Honestly, Dorian, Miss Sibyl certainly knows how to give compliments.”

“You don’t understand her, Harry. She regarded me merely as a person in a play. She knows nothing of life. She lives with her mother, a faded tired woman who played Lady Capulet in a sort of magenta dressing-wrapper on the first night, and looks as if she had seen better days.”

“You don’t understand her, Harry. She saw me only as a character in a play. She knows nothing about life. She lives with her mother, a faded, tired woman who seems to have seen better days. On the first night, her mother played Lady Capulet in a kind of magenta dressing gown.”

“I know that look. It depresses me,” murmured Lord Henry, examining his rings.

“I know that look. It depresses me,” said Lord Henry softly, looking at his rings.

“The Jew wanted to tell me her history, but I said it did not interest me.”

“The Jew wanted to tell me her story, but I said I wasn’t interested.”

“You were quite right. There is always something infinitely mean about other people’s tragedies.”

“You were quite right. There is always something endlessly petty about other people’s tragedies.”

“Sibyl is the only thing I care about. What is it to me where she came from? From her little head to her little feet, she is absolutely and entirely divine. Every night of my life I go to see her act, and every night she is more marvellous.”

“Sibyl is the only thing I care about. Why should I care where she came from? From head to toe, she is absolutely and entirely divine. Every night of my life I go to see her act, and every night she is more wonderful.”

“That is the reason, I suppose, that you never dine with me now. I thought you must have some curious romance on hand. You have; but it is not quite what I expected.”

“I suppose that’s why you never have dinner with me anymore. I thought you must be involved in some unusual romance. You are, but it’s not quite what I expected.”

“My dear Harry, we either lunch or sup together every day, and I have been to the opera with you several times,” said Dorian, opening his blue eyes in wonder.

“My dear Harry, we have either lunch or dinner together every day. And I’ve been to the opera with you several times,” said Dorian, opening his blue eyes in surprise.

“You always come dreadfully late.”

“You’re always terribly late.”

“Well, I can’t help going to see Sibyl play,” he cried, “even if it is only for a single act. I get hungry for her presence; and when I think of the wonderful soul that is hidden away in that little ivory body, I am filled with awe.”

“Well, I can’t help going to see Sibyl act,” he cried, “even if I can only see one act. I long to be near her. And when I think of the wonderful soul hidden in that little ivory body, I’m filled with awe.”

“You can dine with me to-night, Dorian, can’t you?”

“You can have dinner with me tonight, Dorian, can’t you?”

He shook his head. “To-night she is Imogen,” he answered, “and to-morrow night she will be Juliet.”

He shook his head. “Tonight she is Imogen,” he answered, “and tomorrow night she will be Juliet.”

“When is she Sibyl Vane?”

“Never.”

“I congratulate you.”

“Congratulations.”

“How horrid you are! She is all the great heroines of the world in one. She is more than an individual. You laugh, but I tell you she has genius. I love her, and I must make her love me. You, who know all the secrets of life, tell me how to charm Sibyl Vane to love me! I want to make Romeo jealous. I want the dead lovers of the world to hear our laughter and grow sad. I want a breath of our passion to stir their dust into consciousness, to wake their ashes into pain. My God, Harry, how I worship her!” He was walking up and down the room as he spoke. Hectic spots of red burned on his cheeks. He was terribly excited.

“How awful you are! She is all the great heroines of the world in one. She is more than one person. You laugh, but I tell you she is a genius. I love her, and I must make her love me. You know all the secrets of life. Tell me how to win Sibyl Vane’s love! I want to make Romeo jealous. I want the dead lovers of the world to hear our laughter and grow sad. I want a breath of our passion to stir their dust into awareness and wake their ashes to pain. My God, Harry, how I worship her!” He paced the room as he spoke. Bright red patches burned on his cheeks. He was wildly excited.

Lord Henry watched him with a subtle sense of pleasure. How different he was now from the shy frightened boy he had met in Basil Hallward’s studio! His nature had developed like a flower, had borne blossoms of scarlet flame. Out of its secret hiding-place had crept his soul, and desire had come to meet it on the way.

Lord Henry watched him with a quiet sense of pleasure. How different he was now from the shy, frightened boy he had met in Basil Hallward’s studio! His nature had unfolded like a flower, producing blossoms of scarlet flame. His soul had crept out of its secret hiding place, and desire had come to meet it along the way.

“And what do you propose to do?” said Lord Henry at last.

“And what do you plan to do?” Lord Henry said at last.

“I want you and Basil to come with me some night and see her act. I have not the slightest fear of the result. You are certain to acknowledge her genius. Then we must get her out of the Jew’s hands. She is bound to him for three years—at least for two years and eight months—from the present time. I shall have to pay him something, of course. When all that is settled, I shall take a West End theatre and bring her out properly. She will make the world as mad as she has made me.”

“I want you and Basil to come with me one night and see her act. I have no doubt about what you’ll think. You’ll recognize her genius. Then we must get her away from the Jew. She’s under contract to him for three years, or at least two years and eight months from now. I’ll have to pay him something, of course. Once that’s settled, I’ll rent a West End theater and give her a proper debut. She’ll drive the world as mad as she’s driven me.”

“That would be impossible, my dear boy.”

“Yes, she will. She has not merely art, consummate art-instinct, in her, but she has personality also; and you have often told me that it is personalities, not principles, that move the age.”

“Yes, she will. She has not just artistic talent, a supreme artistic instinct, but personality too. And you have often told me that personalities, not principles, shape the age.”

“Well, what night shall we go?”

“Well, what night should we go?”

“Let me see. To-day is Tuesday. Let us fix to-morrow. She plays Juliet to-morrow.”

“Let me see. Today is Tuesday. Let’s set it for tomorrow. She plays Juliet tomorrow.”

“All right. The Bristol at eight o’clock; and I will get Basil.”

“All right. The Bristol at eight o’clock. I’ll get Basil.”

“Not eight, Harry, please. Half-past six. We must be there before the curtain rises. You must see her in the first act, where she meets Romeo.”

“Not eight, Harry, please. Six-thirty. We have to be there before the curtain goes up. You have to see her in the first act, when she meets Romeo.”

“Half-past six! What an hour! It will be like having a meat-tea, or reading an English novel. It must be seven. No gentleman dines before seven. Shall you see Basil between this and then? Or shall I write to him?”

“Six thirty! What a time! It would be like having a meat tea or reading an English novel. It has to be seven. No gentleman eats dinner before seven. Will you see Basil before then? Or should I write to him?”

“Dear Basil! I have not laid eyes on him for a week. It is rather horrid of me, as he has sent me my portrait in the most wonderful frame, specially designed by himself, and, though I am a little jealous of the picture for being a whole month younger than I am, I must admit that I delight in it. Perhaps you had better write to him. I don’t want to see him alone. He says things that annoy me. He gives me good advice.”

“Dear Basil! I haven’t seen him for a week. I feel rather awful about it because he sent me my portrait in a wonderful frame he designed himself. Though I’m a little jealous that the portrait is a whole month younger than I am, I must admit I love it. Perhaps you had better write to him. I don’t want to see him alone. He says things that annoy me. He gives me good advice.”

Lord Henry smiled. “People are very fond of giving away what they need most themselves. It is what I call the depth of generosity.”

Lord Henry smiled. “People love giving away what they need most themselves. I call that the height of generosity.”

“Oh, Basil is the best of fellows, but he seems to me to be just a bit of a Philistine. Since I have known you, Harry, I have discovered that.”

“Oh, Basil is a wonderful fellow, but he seems to me a little indifferent to art and culture. I’ve realized that since I met you, Harry.”

“Basil, my dear boy, puts everything that is charming in him into his work. The consequence is that he has nothing left for life but his prejudices, his principles, and his common sense. The only artists I have ever known who are personally delightful are bad artists. Good artists exist simply in what they make, and consequently are perfectly uninteresting in what they are. A great poet, a really great poet, is the most unpoetical of all creatures. But inferior poets are absolutely fascinating. The worse their rhymes are, the more picturesque they look. The mere fact of having published a book of second-rate sonnets makes a man quite irresistible. He lives the poetry that he cannot write. The others write the poetry that they dare not realize.”

“Basil, my dear boy, puts everything charming about himself into his work. So he has nothing left for life but his prejudices, his principles, and his common sense. The only artists I have ever known who are delightful in person are bad artists. Good artists exist only in what they make, so they are perfectly uninteresting as people. A great poet, a truly great poet, is the least poetic of all creatures. But lesser poets are absolutely fascinating. The worse their rhymes, the more striking they look. Just having published a book of second-rate sonnets makes a man quite irresistible. He lives the poetry he cannot write. The others write the poetry they dare not live.”

“I wonder is that really so, Harry?” said Dorian Gray, putting some perfume on his handkerchief out of a large, gold-topped bottle that stood on the table. “It must be, if you say it. And now I am off. Imogen is waiting for me. Don’t forget about to-morrow. Good-bye.”

“Is that really true, Harry?” said Dorian Gray. He put some perfume on his handkerchief from a large, gold-topped bottle on the table. “It must be, if you say so. And now I’m off. Imogen is waiting for me. Don’t forget about tomorrow. Goodbye.”

As he left the room, Lord Henry’s heavy eyelids drooped, and he began to think. Certainly few people had ever interested him so much as Dorian Gray, and yet the lad’s mad adoration of some one else caused him not the slightest pang of annoyance or jealousy. He was pleased by it. It made him a more interesting study. He had been always enthralled by the methods of natural science, but the ordinary subject-matter of that science had seemed to him trivial and of no import. And so he had begun by vivisecting himself, as he had ended by vivisecting others. Human life—that appeared to him the one thing worth investigating. Compared to it there was nothing else of any value. It was true that as one watched life in its curious crucible of pain and pleasure, one could not wear over one’s face a mask of glass, nor keep the sulphurous fumes from troubling the brain and making the imagination turbid with monstrous fancies and misshapen dreams. There were poisons so subtle that to know their properties one had to sicken of them. There were maladies so strange that one had to pass through them if one sought to understand their nature. And, yet, what a great reward one received! How wonderful the whole world became to one! To note the curious hard logic of passion, and the emotional coloured life of the intellect—to observe where they met, and where they separated, at what point they were in unison, and at what point they were at discord—there was a delight in that! What matter what the cost was? One could never pay too high a price for any sensation.

As he left the room, Lord Henry’s heavy eyelids drooped, and he began to think. Few people had ever interested him as much as Dorian Gray. Yet the young man’s mad adoration of someone else did not cause him the slightest pang of annoyance or jealousy. It pleased him. It made Dorian a more interesting subject to study. Lord Henry had always been fascinated by the methods of natural science. But the usual subjects of that science had seemed trivial and unimportant to him. So he had begun by dissecting himself, and had ended by dissecting others. Human life seemed to him the one thing worth investigating. Compared with human life, nothing else had any value. It was true that, while watching life in its strange crucible of pain and pleasure, one could not wear a glass mask over one’s face. Nor could one keep the sulfurous fumes from clouding the brain and filling the imagination with monstrous fantasies and misshapen dreams. Some poisons were so subtle that one had to become sick from them to know their properties. Some illnesses were so strange that one had to go through them to understand their nature. And yet, what a great reward one received! How wonderful the whole world became! There was delight in noticing the strange, hard logic of passion, and the emotional, colorful life of the intellect. There was delight in observing where passion and intellect met, and where they separated, where they agreed and where they clashed. What did the cost matter? One could never pay too high a price for any sensation.

He was conscious—and the thought brought a gleam of pleasure into his brown agate eyes—that it was through certain words of his, musical words said with musical utterance, that Dorian Gray’s soul had turned to this white girl and bowed in worship before her. To a large extent the lad was his own creation. He had made him premature. That was something. Ordinary people waited till life disclosed to them its secrets, but to the few, to the elect, the mysteries of life were revealed before the veil was drawn away. Sometimes this was the effect of art, and chiefly of the art of literature, which dealt immediately with the passions and the intellect. But now and then a complex personality took the place and assumed the office of art, was indeed, in its way, a real work of art, life having its elaborate masterpieces, just as poetry has, or sculpture, or painting.

He knew that his own words had turned Dorian Gray’s soul toward this pale girl, making him bow before her in worship. The thought brought a gleam of pleasure to his brown agate eyes. His words had been musical, and he had spoken them musically. To a large extent, the young man was his own creation. He had made Dorian develop early. That was something. Ordinary people waited for life to reveal its secrets to them. But to the chosen few, life’s mysteries were revealed before the veil was lifted. Sometimes art brought about this revelation, especially literature, which dealt directly with the passions and the intellect. But now and then, a complex personality took the place of art and performed its role. Such a person was, in fact, a real work of art in their own way. Life has its elaborate masterpieces, just as poetry, sculpture, and painting do.

Yes, the lad was premature. He was gathering his harvest while it was yet spring. The pulse and passion of youth were in him, but he was becoming self-conscious. It was delightful to watch him. With his beautiful face, and his beautiful soul, he was a thing to wonder at. It was no matter how it all ended, or was destined to end. He was like one of those gracious figures in a pageant or a play, whose joys seem to be remote from one, but whose sorrows stir one’s sense of beauty, and whose wounds are like red roses.

Yes, the young man was developing too soon. He was gathering his harvest while it was still spring. He had the energy and passion of youth, but he was becoming self-conscious. He was delightful to watch. With his beautiful face and beautiful soul, he was a wonder to behold. It did not matter how it all ended, or was destined to end. He was like one of those graceful figures in a pageant or a play. Their joys seem distant, but their sorrows awaken one’s sense of beauty, and their wounds are like red roses.

Soul and body, body and soul—how mysterious they were! There was animalism in the soul, and the body had its moments of spirituality. The senses could refine, and the intellect could degrade. Who could say where the fleshly impulse ceased, or the psychical impulse began? How shallow were the arbitrary definitions of ordinary psychologists! And yet how difficult to decide between the claims of the various schools! Was the soul a shadow seated in the house of sin? Or was the body really in the soul, as Giordano Bruno thought? The separation of spirit from matter was a mystery, and the union of spirit with matter was a mystery also.

Soul and body, body and soul. How mysterious they were! The soul had its animal side, and the body had its moments of spirituality. The senses could refine, and the intellect could degrade. Who could say where the impulse of the body ended and the impulse of the mind began? How shallow were the arbitrary definitions of ordinary psychologists! And yet how hard it was to decide between the claims of the different schools of thought! Was the soul a shadow sitting in the house of sin? Or was the body really inside the soul, as Giordano Bruno thought? The separation of spirit from matter was a mystery. The union of spirit and matter was a mystery too.

He began to wonder whether we could ever make psychology so absolute a science that each little spring of life would be revealed to us. As it was, we always misunderstood ourselves and rarely understood others. Experience was of no ethical value. It was merely the name men gave to their mistakes. Moralists had, as a rule, regarded it as a mode of warning, had claimed for it a certain ethical efficacy in the formation of character, had praised it as something that taught us what to follow and showed us what to avoid. But there was no motive power in experience. It was as little of an active cause as conscience itself. All that it really demonstrated was that our future would be the same as our past, and that the sin we had done once, and with loathing, we would do many times, and with joy.

He began to wonder whether psychology could ever become an exact science, revealing every small impulse of life. As things stood, we always misunderstood ourselves and rarely understood others. Experience had no moral value. It was merely the name men gave to their mistakes. Moralists had generally seen experience as a warning. They had claimed that it helped shape moral character. They had praised experience as something that taught us what to follow and showed us what to avoid. But experience had no power to move us to action. It was no more an active cause than conscience itself. All it really showed was that our future would be the same as our past. The sin we had committed once, with disgust, we would commit many times, with joy.

It was clear to him that the experimental method was the only method by which one could arrive at any scientific analysis of the passions; and certainly Dorian Gray was a subject made to his hand, and seemed to promise rich and fruitful results. His sudden mad love for Sibyl Vane was a psychological phenomenon of no small interest. There was no doubt that curiosity had much to do with it, curiosity and the desire for new experiences, yet it was not a simple, but rather a very complex passion. What there was in it of the purely sensuous instinct of boyhood had been transformed by the workings of the imagination, changed into something that seemed to the lad himself to be remote from sense, and was for that very reason all the more dangerous. It was the passions about whose origin we deceived ourselves that tyrannized most strongly over us. Our weakest motives were those of whose nature we were conscious. It often happened that when we thought we were experimenting on others we were really experimenting on ourselves.

It was clear to him that experimentation was the only way to analyze the passions scientifically. Dorian Gray was certainly an ideal subject, and seemed to promise rich and fruitful results. His sudden, mad love for Sibyl Vane was a psychological phenomenon of considerable interest. Curiosity and the desire for new experiences had certainly played a large part in it. Yet his passion was not simple, but very complex. Any purely physical instinct of boyhood in it had been transformed by his imagination. To Dorian himself, the passion now seemed far removed from physical desire. For that very reason, it was all the more dangerous. The passions whose origins we deceived ourselves about ruled us most strongly. Our weakest motives were those whose nature we understood. Often, when we thought we were experimenting on others, we were really experimenting on ourselves.

While Lord Henry sat dreaming on these things, a knock came to the door, and his valet entered and reminded him it was time to dress for dinner. He got up and looked out into the street. The sunset had smitten into scarlet gold the upper windows of the houses opposite. The panes glowed like plates of heated metal. The sky above was like a faded rose. He thought of his friend’s young fiery-coloured life and wondered how it was all going to end.

While Lord Henry sat thinking about these things, someone knocked at the door. His valet came in and reminded him that it was time to dress for dinner. He got up and looked out into the street. The sunset had turned the upper windows of the houses opposite a scarlet gold. The panes glowed like sheets of heated metal. The sky above was like a faded rose. He thought of his friend’s young, fiery life and wondered how it would all end.

When he arrived home, about half-past twelve o’clock, he saw a telegram lying on the hall table. He opened it and found it was from Dorian Gray. It was to tell him that he was engaged to be married to Sibyl Vane.

When he got home around twelve thirty, he saw a telegram on the hall table. He opened it and found it was from Dorian Gray. Dorian wrote to say that he was engaged to marry Sibyl Vane.