Chapter 7

For some reason or other, the house was crowded that night, and the fat Jew manager who met them at the door was beaming from ear to ear with an oily tremulous smile. He escorted them to their box with a sort of pompous humility, waving his fat jewelled hands and talking at the top of his voice. Dorian Gray loathed him more than ever. He felt as if he had come to look for Miranda and had been met by Caliban. Lord Henry, upon the other hand, rather liked him. At least he declared he did, and insisted on shaking him by the hand and assuring him that he was proud to meet a man who had discovered a real genius and gone bankrupt over a poet. Hallward amused himself with watching the faces in the pit. The heat was terribly oppressive, and the huge sunlight flamed like a monstrous dahlia with petals of yellow fire. The youths in the gallery had taken off their coats and waistcoats and hung them over the side. They talked to each other across the theatre and shared their oranges with the tawdry girls who sat beside them. Some women were laughing in the pit. Their voices were horribly shrill and discordant. The sound of the popping of corks came from the bar.

For some reason, the theater was crowded that night. The fat Jewish manager met them at the door, beaming with a slick, trembling smile. He led them to their box with a kind of pompous humility. He waved his fat, jeweled hands and spoke at the top of his voice. Dorian Gray hated him more than ever. He felt as if he had come looking for Miranda and had been met by Caliban. Lord Henry, on the other hand, rather liked the manager. At least, he said he did. He insisted on shaking his hand and assuring him that he was proud to meet him. After all, the man had discovered a real genius and gone bankrupt over a poet. Hallward entertained himself by watching the faces in the pit. The heat was terribly oppressive. The huge overhead gaslight blazed like a monstrous dahlia with petals of yellow fire. The young men in the gallery had taken off their coats and waistcoats and hung them over the edge. They called to one another across the theater and shared their oranges with the cheaply dressed girls beside them. Some women in the pit were laughing. Their voices were horribly shrill and jarring. Corks popped in the bar.

“What a place to find one’s divinity in!” said Lord Henry.

“What a place to find your goddess!” said Lord Henry.

“Yes!” answered Dorian Gray. “It was here I found her, and she is divine beyond all living things. When she acts, you will forget everything. These common rough people, with their coarse faces and brutal gestures, become quite different when she is on the stage. They sit silently and watch her. They weep and laugh as she wills them to do. She makes them as responsive as a violin. She spiritualizes them, and one feels that they are of the same flesh and blood as one’s self.”

“Yes!” Dorian Gray answered. “I found her here, and she is more divine than any living thing. When she acts, you will forget everything. These ordinary, rough people, with their coarse faces and brutal gestures, become completely different when she is on stage. They sit silently and watch her. They weep and laugh whenever she wants them to. She makes them as responsive as a violin. She lifts their spirits, and you feel that they are made of the same flesh and blood as you.”

“The same flesh and blood as one’s self! Oh, I hope not!” exclaimed Lord Henry, who was scanning the occupants of the gallery through his opera-glass.

“The same flesh and blood as oneself! Oh, I hope not!” exclaimed Lord Henry. He was looking at the people in the gallery through his opera glasses.

“Don’t pay any attention to him, Dorian,” said the painter. “I understand what you mean, and I believe in this girl. Any one you love must be marvellous, and any girl who has the effect you describe must be fine and noble. To spiritualize one’s age—that is something worth doing. If this girl can give a soul to those who have lived without one, if she can create the sense of beauty in people whose lives have been sordid and ugly, if she can strip them of their selfishness and lend them tears for sorrows that are not their own, she is worthy of all your adoration, worthy of the adoration of the world. This marriage is quite right. I did not think so at first, but I admit it now. The gods made Sibyl Vane for you. Without her you would have been incomplete.”

“Don’t pay any attention to him, Dorian,” said the painter. “I understand what you mean, and I believe in this girl. Anyone you love must be wonderful. And any girl who has the effect you describe must be good and noble. Bringing a sense of the spiritual to one’s age is worth doing. Perhaps she can give a soul to those who have lived without one. Perhaps she can awaken a sense of beauty in people whose lives have been sordid and ugly. Perhaps she can free them from selfishness and move them to tears over other people’s sorrows. If she can do all this, she deserves all your adoration. She deserves the adoration of the world. This marriage is absolutely right. I didn’t think so at first, but I admit it now. The gods made Sibyl Vane for you. Without her, you would have been incomplete.”

“Thanks, Basil,” answered Dorian Gray, pressing his hand. “I knew that you would understand me. Harry is so cynical, he terrifies me. But here is the orchestra. It is quite dreadful, but it only lasts for about five minutes. Then the curtain rises, and you will see the girl to whom I am going to give all my life, to whom I have given everything that is good in me.”

“Thanks, Basil,” Dorian Gray replied, squeezing his hand. “I knew you would understand me. Harry is so cynical that he terrifies me. But here comes the orchestra. It’s awful, but it only plays for about five minutes. Then the curtain rises, and you’ll see the girl I’m going to give my whole life to. I’ve given her everything good in me.”

A quarter of an hour afterwards, amidst an extraordinary turmoil of applause, Sibyl Vane stepped on to the stage. Yes, she was certainly lovely to look at—one of the loveliest creatures, Lord Henry thought, that he had ever seen. There was something of the fawn in her shy grace and startled eyes. A faint blush, like the shadow of a rose in a mirror of silver, came to her cheeks as she glanced at the crowded enthusiastic house. She stepped back a few paces and her lips seemed to tremble. Basil Hallward leaped to his feet and began to applaud. Motionless, and as one in a dream, sat Dorian Gray, gazing at her. Lord Henry peered through his glasses, murmuring, “Charming! charming!”

Fifteen minutes later, Sibyl Vane stepped onto the stage amid a great burst of applause. Yes, she was certainly beautiful. Lord Henry thought she was one of the loveliest creatures he had ever seen. Her shy grace and startled eyes were like those of a fawn. As she looked at the crowded, enthusiastic audience, a faint blush came to her cheeks. It was like the shadow of a rose in a silver mirror. She stepped back a few paces, and her lips seemed to tremble. Basil Hallward jumped to his feet and began to applaud. Dorian Gray sat motionless, gazing at her as if in a dream. Lord Henry peered through his glasses, murmuring, “Charming! Charming!”

The scene was the hall of Capulet’s house, and Romeo in his pilgrim’s dress had entered with Mercutio and his other friends. The band, such as it was, struck up a few bars of music, and the dance began. Through the crowd of ungainly, shabbily dressed actors, Sibyl Vane moved like a creature from a finer world. Her body swayed, while she danced, as a plant sways in the water. The curves of her throat were the curves of a white lily. Her hands seemed to be made of cool ivory.

The scene was the hall of Capulet’s house. Romeo entered in his pilgrim’s clothes with Mercutio and his other friends. The band, such as it was, played a few bars of music, and the dance began. Among the awkward, poorly dressed actors, Sibyl Vane moved like a creature from a finer world. As she danced, her body swayed like a plant in water. The curves of her throat were like those of a white lily. Her hands seemed to be made of cool ivory.

Yet she was curiously listless. She showed no sign of joy when her eyes rested on Romeo. The few words she had to speak—

Yet she seemed strangely listless. She showed no joy when she looked at Romeo. The few words she had to say...

with the brief dialogue that follows, were spoken in a thoroughly artificial manner. The voice was exquisite, but from the point of view of tone it was absolutely false. It was wrong in colour. It took away all the life from the verse. It made the passion unreal.

along with the brief dialogue that follows, were spoken in a completely artificial way. The voice was exquisite, but its tone was completely false. It had the wrong color. It took all the life out of the verse. It made the passion seem unreal.

Dorian Gray grew pale as he watched her. He was puzzled and anxious. Neither of his friends dared to say anything to him. She seemed to them to be absolutely incompetent. They were horribly disappointed.

Dorian Gray turned pale as he watched her. He was confused and anxious. Neither of his friends dared to say anything to him. She seemed completely incapable to them. They were terribly disappointed.

Yet they felt that the true test of any Juliet is the balcony scene of the second act. They waited for that. If she failed there, there was nothing in her.

Yet they felt that the real test of any Juliet was the balcony scene in the second act. They waited for that scene. If she failed there, she had no talent at all.

She looked charming as she came out in the moonlight. That could not be denied. But the staginess of her acting was unbearable, and grew worse as she went on. Her gestures became absurdly artificial. She overemphasized everything that she had to say. The beautiful passage—

She looked charming as she stepped into the moonlight. No one could deny that. But her theatrical acting was unbearable, and it grew worse as she went on. Her gestures became absurdly artificial. She overemphasized everything she said. The beautiful passage:

was declaimed with the painful precision of a schoolgirl who has been taught to recite by some second-rate professor of elocution. When she leaned over the balcony and came to those wonderful lines—

was recited with the painful precision of a schoolgirl taught by a second-rate speech teacher. When she leaned over the balcony and reached those wonderful lines:

she spoke the words as though they conveyed no meaning to her. It was not nervousness. Indeed, so far from being nervous, she was absolutely self-contained. It was simply bad art. She was a complete failure.

She spoke the words as if they meant nothing to her. It was not nervousness. In fact, she was not nervous at all. She was completely composed. It was simply bad art. She was a complete failure.

Even the common uneducated audience of the pit and gallery lost their interest in the play. They got restless, and began to talk loudly and to whistle. The Jew manager, who was standing at the back of the dress-circle, stamped and swore with rage. The only person unmoved was the girl herself.

Even the ordinary, uneducated audience in the pit and gallery lost interest in the play. They grew restless and began talking loudly and whistling. The Jewish manager stood at the back of the dress circle, stamping and swearing in anger. The girl herself was the only one who remained unmoved.

When the second act was over, there came a storm of hisses, and Lord Henry got up from his chair and put on his coat. “She is quite beautiful, Dorian,” he said, “but she can’t act. Let us go.”

When the second act ended, a storm of hisses broke out. Lord Henry stood up and put on his coat. “She is very beautiful, Dorian,” he said, “but she can’t act. Let’s go.”

“I am going to see the play through,” answered the lad, in a hard bitter voice. “I am awfully sorry that I have made you waste an evening, Harry. I apologize to you both.”

“I’m going to watch the play to the end,” the young man replied in a harsh, bitter voice. “I’m terribly sorry I made you waste an evening, Harry. I apologize to both of you.”

“My dear Dorian, I should think Miss Vane was ill,” interrupted Hallward. “We will come some other night.”

“My dear Dorian, I think Miss Vane must be ill,” Hallward interrupted. “We’ll come another night.”

“I wish she were ill,” he rejoined. “But she seems to me to be simply callous and cold. She has entirely altered. Last night she was a great artist. This evening she is merely a commonplace mediocre actress.”

“I wish she were ill,” he replied. “But she just seems cold and uncaring to me. She has completely changed. Last night she was a great artist. Tonight she is just an ordinary, mediocre actress.”

“Don’t talk like that about any one you love, Dorian. Love is a more wonderful thing than art.”

“Don’t talk like that about anyone you love, Dorian. Love is more wonderful than art.”

“They are both simply forms of imitation,” remarked Lord Henry. “But do let us go. Dorian, you must not stay here any longer. It is not good for one’s morals to see bad acting. Besides, I don’t suppose you will want your wife to act, so what does it matter if she plays Juliet like a wooden doll? She is very lovely, and if she knows as little about life as she does about acting, she will be a delightful experience. There are only two kinds of people who are really fascinating—people who know absolutely everything, and people who know absolutely nothing. Good heavens, my dear boy, don’t look so tragic! The secret of remaining young is never to have an emotion that is unbecoming. Come to the club with Basil and myself. We will smoke cigarettes and drink to the beauty of Sibyl Vane. She is beautiful. What more can you want?”

“They are both simply forms of imitation,” said Lord Henry. “But please, let’s go. Dorian, you must not stay here any longer. Watching bad acting is bad for your morals. Besides, I don’t suppose you’ll want your wife to act. So what does it matter if she plays Juliet like a wooden doll? She is very lovely. And if she knows as little about life as she does about acting, she will be a delightful experience. Only two kinds of people are really fascinating: people who know absolutely everything, and people who know absolutely nothing. Good heavens, my dear boy, don’t look so tragic! The secret to staying young is never to have an emotion that makes you look unattractive. Come to the club with Basil and me. We’ll smoke cigarettes and drink to the beauty of Sibyl Vane. She is beautiful. What more could you want?”

“Go away, Harry,” cried the lad. “I want to be alone. Basil, you must go. Ah! can’t you see that my heart is breaking?” The hot tears came to his eyes. His lips trembled, and rushing to the back of the box, he leaned up against the wall, hiding his face in his hands.

“Go away, Harry,” the young man cried. “I want to be alone. Basil, you must go. Oh, can’t you see my heart is breaking?” Hot tears filled his eyes. His lips trembled. He rushed to the back of the theater box and leaned against the wall, hiding his face in his hands.

“Let us go, Basil,” said Lord Henry with a strange tenderness in his voice, and the two young men passed out together.

“Let’s go, Basil,” said Lord Henry, his voice strangely tender. The two young men went out together.

A few moments afterwards the footlights flared up and the curtain rose on the third act. Dorian Gray went back to his seat. He looked pale, and proud, and indifferent. The play dragged on, and seemed interminable. Half of the audience went out, tramping in heavy boots and laughing. The whole thing was a fiasco. The last act was played to almost empty benches. The curtain went down on a titter and some groans.

A few moments later, the footlights flared up and the curtain rose for the third act. Dorian Gray returned to his seat. He looked pale, proud, and indifferent. The play dragged on and seemed endless. Half the audience left, laughing and stomping in heavy boots. The whole thing was a disaster. The last act was performed to almost empty benches. The curtain fell to a few snickers and some groans.

As soon as it was over, Dorian Gray rushed behind the scenes into the greenroom. The girl was standing there alone, with a look of triumph on her face. Her eyes were lit with an exquisite fire. There was a radiance about her. Her parted lips were smiling over some secret of their own.

As soon as it was over, Dorian Gray rushed backstage to the greenroom. The girl stood there alone, looking triumphant. Her eyes shone with a beautiful fire. She seemed radiant. Her lips were parted in a smile, as if they held a secret of their own.

When he entered, she looked at him, and an expression of infinite joy came over her. “How badly I acted to-night, Dorian!” she cried.

When he entered, she looked at him, and her face filled with limitless joy. “I acted so badly tonight, Dorian!” she cried.

“Horribly!” he answered, gazing at her in amazement. “Horribly! It was dreadful. Are you ill? You have no idea what it was. You have no idea what I suffered.”

“Horribly!” he answered, staring at her in amazement. “Horribly! It was awful. Are you ill? You have no idea what it was like. You have no idea how much I suffered.”

The girl smiled. “Dorian,” she answered, lingering over his name with long-drawn music in her voice, as though it were sweeter than honey to the red petals of her mouth. “Dorian, you should have understood. But you understand now, don’t you?”

The girl smiled. “Dorian,” she answered, drawing out his name in a musical voice. She said it as though it were sweeter than honey to the red petals of her lips. “Dorian, you should have understood. But you understand now, don’t you?”

“Understand what?” he asked, angrily.

“Understand what?” he asked angrily.

“Why I was so bad to-night. Why I shall always be bad. Why I shall never act well again.”

“Why I was so bad tonight. Why I’ll always be bad. Why I’ll never act well again.”

He shrugged his shoulders. “You are ill, I suppose. When you are ill you shouldn’t act. You make yourself ridiculous. My friends were bored. I was bored.”

He shrugged. “I suppose you’re ill. When you’re ill, you shouldn’t act. You make yourself look ridiculous. My friends were bored. I was bored.”

She seemed not to listen to him. She was transfigured with joy. An ecstasy of happiness dominated her.

She did not seem to hear him. Joy had transformed her. She was overcome with happiness.

“Dorian, Dorian,” she cried, “before I knew you, acting was the one reality of my life. It was only in the theatre that I lived. I thought that it was all true. I was Rosalind one night and Portia the other. The joy of Beatrice was my joy, and the sorrows of Cordelia were mine also. I believed in everything. The common people who acted with me seemed to me to be godlike. The painted scenes were my world. I knew nothing but shadows, and I thought them real. You came—oh, my beautiful love!—and you freed my soul from prison. You taught me what reality really is. To-night, for the first time in my life, I saw through the hollowness, the sham, the silliness of the empty pageant in which I had always played. To-night, for the first time, I became conscious that the Romeo was hideous, and old, and painted, that the moonlight in the orchard was false, that the scenery was vulgar, and that the words I had to speak were unreal, were not my words, were not what I wanted to say. You had brought me something higher, something of which all art is but a reflection. You had made me understand what love really is. My love! My love! Prince Charming! Prince of life! I have grown sick of shadows. You are more to me than all art can ever be. What have I to do with the puppets of a play? When I came on to-night, I could not understand how it was that everything had gone from me. I thought that I was going to be wonderful. I found that I could do nothing. Suddenly it dawned on my soul what it all meant. The knowledge was exquisite to me. I heard them hissing, and I smiled. What could they know of love such as ours? Take me away, Dorian—take me away with you, where we can be quite alone. I hate the stage. I might mimic a passion that I do not feel, but I cannot mimic one that burns me like fire. Oh, Dorian, Dorian, you understand now what it signifies? Even if I could do it, it would be profanation for me to play at being in love. You have made me see that.”

“Dorian, Dorian,” she cried, “before I knew you, acting was the only real thing in my life. I lived only in the theatre. I thought it was all true. One night I was Rosalind, and another night I was Portia. Beatrice’s joy was my joy, and Cordelia’s sorrows were mine too. I believed in everything. The ordinary people who acted with me seemed like gods to me. The painted scenery was my world. I knew nothing but shadows, and I thought they were real. “You came, oh, my beautiful love, and freed my soul from prison. You taught me what reality really is. Tonight, for the first time in my life, I saw how hollow, false, and silly the empty spectacle was. I had always been part of that spectacle. Tonight, for the first time, I noticed that Romeo was ugly, old, and wearing makeup. The moonlight in the orchard was fake, and the scenery was tacky. The words I had to speak were unreal. They were not my words, and they were not what I wanted to say. “You brought me something higher, something that all art merely reflects. You made me understand what love really is. My love! My love! Prince Charming! Prince of life! I am sick of shadows. You mean more to me than all art ever could. What do I have to do with the puppets in a play? “When I came onstage tonight, I couldn’t understand why all my ability had left me. I thought I would be wonderful. Instead, I found I could do nothing. Suddenly, I understood in my soul what it all meant. That knowledge was exquisite to me. I heard the audience hissing, and I smiled. What could they know of a love like ours? “Take me away, Dorian. Take me away with you, where we can be completely alone. I hate the stage. I could imitate a passion I don’t feel, but I can’t imitate one that burns me like fire. Oh, Dorian, Dorian, do you understand now what that means? Even if I could do it, pretending to be in love would be a violation of something sacred. You have made me see that.”

He flung himself down on the sofa and turned away his face. “You have killed my love,” he muttered.

He threw himself down on the sofa and turned his face away. “You have killed my love,” he muttered.

She looked at him in wonder and laughed. He made no answer. She came across to him, and with her little fingers stroked his hair. She knelt down and pressed his hands to her lips. He drew them away, and a shudder ran through him.

She looked at him in wonder and laughed. He didn't answer. She went over to him and stroked his hair with her little fingers. She knelt down and pressed his hands to her lips. He pulled them away, and a shudder ran through him.

Then he leaped up and went to the door. “Yes,” he cried, “you have killed my love. You used to stir my imagination. Now you don’t even stir my curiosity. You simply produce no effect. I loved you because you were marvellous, because you had genius and intellect, because you realized the dreams of great poets and gave shape and substance to the shadows of art. You have thrown it all away. You are shallow and stupid. My God! how mad I was to love you! What a fool I have been! You are nothing to me now. I will never see you again. I will never think of you. I will never mention your name. You don’t know what you were to me, once. Why, once ... Oh, I can’t bear to think of it! I wish I had never laid eyes upon you! You have spoiled the romance of my life. How little you can know of love, if you say it mars your art! Without your art, you are nothing. I would have made you famous, splendid, magnificent. The world would have worshipped you, and you would have borne my name. What are you now? A third-rate actress with a pretty face.”

Then he jumped up and went to the door. “Yes,” he cried, “you have killed my love. You used to stir my imagination. Now you don’t even make me curious. You have no effect on me at all. I loved you because you were wonderful, because you had genius and intelligence. You brought the dreams of great poets to life. You gave shape and substance to the shadows of art. You have thrown it all away. You are shallow and stupid. My God! How crazy I was to love you! What a fool I have been! You are nothing to me now. I will never see you again. I will never think of you. I will never mention your name. You don’t know what you once meant to me. Why, once ... Oh, I can’t bear to think of it! I wish I had never seen you! You have ruined the romance of my life. You must know so little about love if you say it ruins your art! Without your art, you are nothing. I would have made you famous, splendid, magnificent. The world would have worshipped you, and you would have had my name. What are you now? A third-rate actress with a pretty face.”

The girl grew white, and trembled. She clenched her hands together, and her voice seemed to catch in her throat. “You are not serious, Dorian?” she murmured. “You are acting.”

The girl turned pale and trembled. She clasped her hands together, and her voice seemed to catch in her throat. “You’re not serious, Dorian?” she murmured. “You’re acting.”

“Acting! I leave that to you. You do it so well,” he answered bitterly.

“Acting! I’ll leave that to you. You do it so well,” he replied bitterly.

She rose from her knees and, with a piteous expression of pain in her face, came across the room to him. She put her hand upon his arm and looked into his eyes. He thrust her back. “Don’t touch me!” he cried.

She got up from her knees and crossed the room to him, her face full of pain. She put her hand on his arm and looked into his eyes. He pushed her away. “Don’t touch me!” he cried.

A low moan broke from her, and she flung herself at his feet and lay there like a trampled flower. “Dorian, Dorian, don’t leave me!” she whispered. “I am so sorry I didn’t act well. I was thinking of you all the time. But I will try—indeed, I will try. It came so suddenly across me, my love for you. I think I should never have known it if you had not kissed me—if we had not kissed each other. Kiss me again, my love. Don’t go away from me. I couldn’t bear it. Oh! don’t go away from me. My brother ... No; never mind. He didn’t mean it. He was in jest.... But you, oh! can’t you forgive me for to-night? I will work so hard and try to improve. Don’t be cruel to me, because I love you better than anything in the world. After all, it is only once that I have not pleased you. But you are quite right, Dorian. I should have shown myself more of an artist. It was foolish of me, and yet I couldn’t help it. Oh, don’t leave me, don’t leave me.” A fit of passionate sobbing choked her. She crouched on the floor like a wounded thing, and Dorian Gray, with his beautiful eyes, looked down at her, and his chiselled lips curled in exquisite disdain. There is always something ridiculous about the emotions of people whom one has ceased to love. Sibyl Vane seemed to him to be absurdly melodramatic. Her tears and sobs annoyed him.

A low moan escaped her, and she threw herself at his feet. She lay there like a trampled flower. “Dorian, Dorian, don’t leave me!” she whispered. “I’m so sorry I didn’t act well. I was thinking of you all the time. But I’ll try. I really will. My love for you came over me so suddenly. I don’t think I would ever have known about it if you hadn’t kissed me, if we hadn’t kissed each other. Kiss me again, my love. Don’t go away from me. I couldn’t bear it. Oh! Don’t go away from me. My brother ... No, never mind. He didn’t mean it. He was joking.... But you, oh! Can’t you forgive me for tonight? I’ll work so hard and try to improve. Don’t be cruel to me, because I love you more than anything in the world. After all, this is only the first time I haven’t pleased you. But you’re quite right, Dorian. I should have shown more of an artist’s skill. It was foolish of me, and yet I couldn’t help it. Oh, don’t leave me, don’t leave me.” A burst of passionate sobbing choked her. She crouched on the floor like a wounded animal. Dorian Gray looked down at her with his beautiful eyes, his sculpted lips curling in exquisite contempt. There is always something ridiculous about the emotions of people one has stopped loving. Sibyl Vane seemed absurdly melodramatic to him. Her tears and sobs annoyed him.

“I am going,” he said at last in his calm clear voice. “I don’t wish to be unkind, but I can’t see you again. You have disappointed me.”

“I’m leaving,” he said at last in a calm, clear voice. “I don’t want to be unkind, but I can’t see you again. You’ve disappointed me.”

She wept silently, and made no answer, but crept nearer. Her little hands stretched blindly out, and appeared to be seeking for him. He turned on his heel and left the room. In a few moments he was out of the theatre.

She cried silently and said nothing, but moved closer. Her small hands reached out blindly, as if searching for him. He turned and left the room. Moments later, he was out of the theater.

Where he went to he hardly knew. He remembered wandering through dimly lit streets, past gaunt, black-shadowed archways and evil-looking houses. Women with hoarse voices and harsh laughter had called after him. Drunkards had reeled by, cursing and chattering to themselves like monstrous apes. He had seen grotesque children huddled upon door-steps, and heard shrieks and oaths from gloomy courts.

He hardly knew where he had gone. He remembered wandering through dimly lit streets, past stark archways in black shadow and sinister-looking houses. Women with hoarse voices and harsh laughter had called after him. Drunks had staggered past, cursing and muttering to themselves like monstrous apes. He had seen grotesque children huddled on doorsteps. He had heard screams and curses from gloomy courtyards.

As the dawn was just breaking, he found himself close to Covent Garden. The darkness lifted, and, flushed with faint fires, the sky hollowed itself into a perfect pearl. Huge carts filled with nodding lilies rumbled slowly down the polished empty street. The air was heavy with the perfume of the flowers, and their beauty seemed to bring him an anodyne for his pain. He followed into the market and watched the men unloading their waggons. A white-smocked carter offered him some cherries. He thanked him, wondered why he refused to accept any money for them, and began to eat them listlessly. They had been plucked at midnight, and the coldness of the moon had entered into them. A long line of boys carrying crates of striped tulips, and of yellow and red roses, defiled in front of him, threading their way through the huge, jade-green piles of vegetables. Under the portico, with its grey, sun-bleached pillars, loitered a troop of draggled bareheaded girls, waiting for the auction to be over. Others crowded round the swinging doors of the coffee-house in the piazza. The heavy cart-horses slipped and stamped upon the rough stones, shaking their bells and trappings. Some of the drivers were lying asleep on a pile of sacks. Iris-necked and pink-footed, the pigeons ran about picking up seeds.

Just as dawn was breaking, he found himself near Covent Garden. The darkness lifted, and the sky, glowing with faint fires, curved like a perfect pearl. Huge carts filled with nodding lilies rumbled slowly down the polished, empty street. The air was heavy with the scent of flowers, and their beauty seemed to soothe his pain. He followed the carts into the market and watched the men unload them. A cart driver in a white smock offered him some cherries. He thanked the driver and wondered why he refused to accept any money for them. Then he began eating them without interest. They had been picked at midnight, and the coldness of the moon had entered them. A long line of boys passed in front of him, carrying crates of striped tulips and yellow and red roses. They made their way through the huge, jade-green piles of vegetables. Under the portico, with its grey, sun-bleached pillars, a group of dishevelled girls waited without hats for the auction to end. Others crowded around the swinging doors of the coffee-house in the piazza. The heavy cart horses slipped and stamped on the rough stones, shaking their bells and harnesses. Some of the drivers lay asleep on a pile of sacks. The pigeons, with iridescent necks and pink feet, ran about, picking up seeds.

After a little while, he hailed a hansom and drove home. For a few moments he loitered upon the doorstep, looking round at the silent square, with its blank, close-shuttered windows and its staring blinds. The sky was pure opal now, and the roofs of the houses glistened like silver against it. From some chimney opposite a thin wreath of smoke was rising. It curled, a violet riband, through the nacre-coloured air.

After a little while, he hailed a horse-drawn cab and rode home. He lingered on the doorstep for a few moments, looking around the silent square. Its windows were blank, with shutters tightly closed and blinds drawn. The sky was pure opal now, and the roofs of the houses gleamed like silver against it. A thin wisp of smoke rose from a chimney across the way. It curled like a violet ribbon through the pearly air.

In the huge gilt Venetian lantern, spoil of some Doge’s barge, that hung from the ceiling of the great, oak-panelled hall of entrance, lights were still burning from three flickering jets: thin blue petals of flame they seemed, rimmed with white fire. He turned them out and, having thrown his hat and cape on the table, passed through the library towards the door of his bedroom, a large octagonal chamber on the ground floor that, in his new-born feeling for luxury, he had just had decorated for himself and hung with some curious Renaissance tapestries that had been discovered stored in a disused attic at Selby Royal. As he was turning the handle of the door, his eye fell upon the portrait Basil Hallward had painted of him. He started back as if in surprise. Then he went on into his own room, looking somewhat puzzled. After he had taken the button-hole out of his coat, he seemed to hesitate. Finally, he came back, went over to the picture, and examined it. In the dim arrested light that struggled through the cream-coloured silk blinds, the face appeared to him to be a little changed. The expression looked different. One would have said that there was a touch of cruelty in the mouth. It was certainly strange.

A huge gilded Venetian lantern hung from the ceiling of the great entrance hall, with its oak-paneled walls. The lantern had been taken from a Doge’s barge. Three jets were still flickering in it, their flames like thin blue petals edged with white fire. He turned them out, threw his hat and cape on the table, and passed through the library toward his bedroom door. The bedroom was a large, eight-sided room on the ground floor. In his newfound taste for luxury, he had just had it decorated for himself. He had also hung it with some unusual Renaissance tapestries found stored in an unused attic at Selby Royal. As he turned the door handle, his eye fell on the portrait Basil Hallward had painted of him. He stepped back as if surprised. Then he went into his room, looking somewhat puzzled. After taking the flower from his coat’s buttonhole, he seemed to hesitate. Finally, he came back, went over to the portrait, and examined it. In the dim light that struggled through the cream-colored silk blinds, the face seemed a little changed. The expression looked different. One might have said there was a touch of cruelty in the mouth. It was certainly strange.

He turned round and, walking to the window, drew up the blind. The bright dawn flooded the room and swept the fantastic shadows into dusky corners, where they lay shuddering. But the strange expression that he had noticed in the face of the portrait seemed to linger there, to be more intensified even. The quivering ardent sunlight showed him the lines of cruelty round the mouth as clearly as if he had been looking into a mirror after he had done some dreadful thing.

He turned around, walked to the window, and raised the blind. The bright dawn flooded the room, sweeping the fantastic shadows into dark corners, where they lay trembling. But the strange expression he had noticed on the portrait’s face seemed to remain, even more pronounced than before. The flickering, intense sunlight showed him the lines of cruelty around the mouth. They were as clear as if he had looked in a mirror after doing something terrible.

He winced and, taking up from the table an oval glass framed in ivory Cupids, one of Lord Henry’s many presents to him, glanced hurriedly into its polished depths. No line like that warped his red lips. What did it mean?

He winced and picked up an oval mirror from the table. It was framed with ivory Cupids and was one of Lord Henry’s many gifts to him. He glanced quickly into the mirror. No such line distorted his red lips. What did it mean?

He rubbed his eyes, and came close to the picture, and examined it again. There were no signs of any change when he looked into the actual painting, and yet there was no doubt that the whole expression had altered. It was not a mere fancy of his own. The thing was horribly apparent.

He rubbed his eyes, moved closer to the picture, and examined it again. He saw no signs of change in the actual painting. Yet there was no doubt that the whole expression had changed. He was not just imagining it. The change was horribly obvious.

He threw himself into a chair and began to think. Suddenly there flashed across his mind what he had said in Basil Hallward’s studio the day the picture had been finished. Yes, he remembered it perfectly. He had uttered a mad wish that he himself might remain young, and the portrait grow old; that his own beauty might be untarnished, and the face on the canvas bear the burden of his passions and his sins; that the painted image might be seared with the lines of suffering and thought, and that he might keep all the delicate bloom and loveliness of his then just conscious boyhood. Surely his wish had not been fulfilled? Such things were impossible. It seemed monstrous even to think of them. And, yet, there was the picture before him, with the touch of cruelty in the mouth.

He threw himself into a chair and began to think. Suddenly, he remembered what he had said in Basil Hallward’s studio on the day the picture was finished. Yes, he remembered it perfectly. He had made a mad wish that he would stay young while the portrait grew old. He had wished that his own beauty would remain untouched, while the face on the canvas bore the burden of his passions and sins. He had wished that lines of suffering and thought would mark the painted image, while he kept all the delicate freshness and beauty of his boyhood, which he had only just become aware of. Surely his wish had not come true? Such things were impossible. It seemed monstrous even to think of them. And yet, there was the picture before him, with a touch of cruelty in its mouth.

Cruelty! Had he been cruel? It was the girl’s fault, not his. He had dreamed of her as a great artist, had given his love to her because he had thought her great. Then she had disappointed him. She had been shallow and unworthy. And, yet, a feeling of infinite regret came over him, as he thought of her lying at his feet sobbing like a little child. He remembered with what callousness he had watched her. Why had he been made like that? Why had such a soul been given to him? But he had suffered also. During the three terrible hours that the play had lasted, he had lived centuries of pain, aeon upon aeon of torture. His life was well worth hers. She had marred him for a moment, if he had wounded her for an age. Besides, women were better suited to bear sorrow than men. They lived on their emotions. They only thought of their emotions. When they took lovers, it was merely to have some one with whom they could have scenes. Lord Henry had told him that, and Lord Henry knew what women were. Why should he trouble about Sibyl Vane? She was nothing to him now.

Cruelty! Had he been cruel? It was the girl’s fault, not his. He had imagined her as a great artist and loved her because he thought she was great. Then she had disappointed him. She had been shallow and unworthy. And yet, he felt endless regret when he thought of her lying at his feet, sobbing like a little child. He remembered how coldly he had watched her. Why had he been made that way? Why had he been given such a soul? But he had suffered too. During the three terrible hours of the play, he had lived through centuries of pain, ages upon ages of torture. His life was worth as much as hers. She had ruined him for a moment, even if he had wounded her for an age. Besides, women were better suited to bear sorrow than men. They lived on their emotions. They thought only of their emotions. When they took lovers, it was only so they could have someone to have scenes with. Lord Henry had told him that, and Lord Henry knew what women were. Why should he worry about Sibyl Vane? She was nothing to him now.

But the picture? What was he to say of that? It held the secret of his life, and told his story. It had taught him to love his own beauty. Would it teach him to loathe his own soul? Would he ever look at it again?

But what about the picture? What could he say about it? It held the secret of his life and told his story. It had taught him to love his own beauty. Would it teach him to hate his own soul? Would he ever look at it again?

No; it was merely an illusion wrought on the troubled senses. The horrible night that he had passed had left phantoms behind it. Suddenly there had fallen upon his brain that tiny scarlet speck that makes men mad. The picture had not changed. It was folly to think so.

No, it was only an illusion caused by his troubled senses. The horrible night he had been through had left ghosts behind. Suddenly, that tiny scarlet speck that drives men mad had fallen on his brain. The picture had not changed. It was foolish to think it had.

Yet it was watching him, with its beautiful marred face and its cruel smile. Its bright hair gleamed in the early sunlight. Its blue eyes met his own. A sense of infinite pity, not for himself, but for the painted image of himself, came over him. It had altered already, and would alter more. Its gold would wither into grey. Its red and white roses would die. For every sin that he committed, a stain would fleck and wreck its fairness. But he would not sin. The picture, changed or unchanged, would be to him the visible emblem of conscience. He would resist temptation. He would not see Lord Henry any more—would not, at any rate, listen to those subtle poisonous theories that in Basil Hallward’s garden had first stirred within him the passion for impossible things. He would go back to Sibyl Vane, make her amends, marry her, try to love her again. Yes, it was his duty to do so. She must have suffered more than he had. Poor child! He had been selfish and cruel to her. The fascination that she had exercised over him would return. They would be happy together. His life with her would be beautiful and pure.

Yet the picture was watching him, its beautiful face marred, its smile cruel. Its bright hair gleamed in the early sunlight. Its blue eyes met his. He felt endless pity, not for himself, but for his painted image. It had already changed, and it would change more. Its golden hair would turn grey. The red and white roses of its face would fade. Every sin he committed would leave a stain, spoiling and destroying its beauty. But he would not sin. Whether the picture changed or not, it would be a visible symbol of his conscience. He would resist temptation. He would not see Lord Henry anymore. At least, he would not listen to those subtle, poisonous theories. They had first stirred his longing for impossible things in Basil Hallward’s garden. He would return to Sibyl Vane, make things right, marry her, and try to love her again. Yes, it was his duty. She must have suffered more than he had. Poor child! He had been selfish and cruel to her. He would be fascinated by her again. They would be happy together. His life with her would be beautiful and pure.

He got up from his chair and drew a large screen right in front of the portrait, shuddering as he glanced at it. “How horrible!” he murmured to himself, and he walked across to the window and opened it. When he stepped out on to the grass, he drew a deep breath. The fresh morning air seemed to drive away all his sombre passions. He thought only of Sibyl. A faint echo of his love came back to him. He repeated her name over and over again. The birds that were singing in the dew-drenched garden seemed to be telling the flowers about her.

He rose from his chair and pulled a large screen in front of the portrait. He shuddered as he glanced at it. “How horrible!” he murmured to himself. He crossed to the window and opened it. When he stepped onto the grass, he took a deep breath. The fresh morning air seemed to drive away all his dark emotions. He thought only of Sibyl. A faint echo of his love came back to him. He repeated her name over and over. The birds singing in the dew-soaked garden seemed to be telling the flowers about her.