wand malen ohne beamer

chapter 5 "mother, mother, i am so happy!" whisperedthe girl, burying her face in the lap of the faded, tired-looking woman who, withback turned to the shrill intrusive light, was sitting in the one arm-chair that theirdingy sitting-room contained. "i am so happy!" she repeated, "and youmust be happy, too!" mrs. vane winced and put her thin, bismuth-whitened hands on her daughter's head. "happy!" she echoed, "i am only happy,sibyl, when i see you act. you must not think of anything but youracting. mr. isaacs has been very good to us, and weowe him money."

the girl looked up and pouted. "money, mother?" she cried, "what doesmoney matter? love is more than money." "mr. isaacs has advanced us fifty pounds topay off our debts and to get a proper outfit for james.you must not forget that, sibyl. fifty pounds is a very large sum. mr. isaacs has been most considerate.""he is not a gentleman, mother, and i hate the way he talks to me," said the girl,rising to her feet and going over to the window.

"i don't know how we could manage withouthim," answered the elder woman querulously. sibyl vane tossed her head and laughed."we don't want him any more, mother. prince charming rules life for us now." then she paused.a rose shook in her blood and shadowed her cheeks.quick breath parted the petals of her lips. they trembled. some southern wind of passion swept overher and stirred the dainty folds of her dress."i love him," she said simply. "foolish child! foolish child!" was theparrot-phrase flung in answer.

the waving of crooked, false-jewelledfingers gave grotesqueness to the words. the girl laughed again. the joy of a caged bird was in her voice.her eyes caught the melody and echoed it in radiance, then closed for a moment, asthough to hide their secret. when they opened, the mist of a dream hadpassed across them. thin-lipped wisdom spoke at her from theworn chair, hinted at prudence, quoted from that book of cowardice whose author apesthe name of common sense. she did not listen. she was free in her prison of passion.her prince, prince charming, was with her.

she had called on memory to remake him.she had sent her soul to search for him, and it had brought him back. his kiss burned again upon her mouth.her eyelids were warm with his breath. then wisdom altered its method and spoke ofespial and discovery. this young man might be rich. if so, marriage should be thought of.against the shell of her ear broke the waves of worldly cunning.the arrows of craft shot by her. she saw the thin lips moving, and smiled. suddenly she felt the need to speak.the wordy silence troubled her.

"mother, mother," she cried, "why does helove me so much? i know why i love him. i love him because he is like what lovehimself should be. but what does he see in me?i am not worthy of him. and yet--why, i cannot tell--though i feelso much beneath him, i don't feel humble. i feel proud, terribly proud.mother, did you love my father as i love prince charming?" the elder woman grew pale beneath thecoarse powder that daubed her cheeks, and her dry lips twitched with a spasm of pain.sybil rushed to her, flung her arms round

her neck, and kissed her. "forgive me, mother.i know it pains you to talk about our father.but it only pains you because you loved him so much. don't look so sad.i am as happy to-day as you were twenty years ago.ah! let me be happy for ever!" "my child, you are far too young to thinkof falling in love. besides, what do you know of this youngman? you don't even know his name.

the whole thing is most inconvenient, andreally, when james is going away to australia, and i have so much to think of,i must say that you should have shown more consideration. however, as i said before, if he is rich..." "ah!mother, mother, let me be happy!" mrs. vane glanced at her, and with one ofthose false theatrical gestures that so often become a mode of second nature to astage-player, clasped her in her arms. at this moment, the door opened and a younglad with rough brown hair came into the room.

he was thick-set of figure, and his handsand feet were large and somewhat clumsy in movement.he was not so finely bred as his sister. one would hardly have guessed the closerelationship that existed between them. mrs. vane fixed her eyes on him andintensified her smile. she mentally elevated her son to thedignity of an audience. she felt sure that the tableau wasinteresting. "you might keep some of your kisses for me,sibyl, i think," said the lad with a good- natured grumble."ah! but you don't like being kissed, jim," she cried.

"you are a dreadful old bear."and she ran across the room and hugged him. james vane looked into his sister's facewith tenderness. "i want you to come out with me for a walk,sibyl. i don't suppose i shall ever see thishorrid london again. i am sure i don't want to." "my son, don't say such dreadful things,"murmured mrs. vane, taking up a tawdry theatrical dress, with a sigh, andbeginning to patch it. she felt a little disappointed that he hadnot joined the group. it would have increased the theatricalpicturesqueness of the situation.

"why not, mother? i mean it.""you pain me, my son. i trust you will return from australia in aposition of affluence. i believe there is no society of any kindin the colonies--nothing that i would call society--so when you have made yourfortune, you must come back and assert yourself in london." "society!" muttered the lad."i don't want to know anything about that. i should like to make some money to takeyou and sibyl off the stage. i hate it."

"oh, jim!" said sibyl, laughing, "howunkind of you! but are you really going for a walk withme? that will be nice! i was afraid you were going to say good-byeto some of your friends--to tom hardy, who gave you that hideous pipe, or ned langton,who makes fun of you for smoking it. it is very sweet of you to let me have yourlast afternoon. where shall we go?let us go to the park." "i am too shabby," he answered, frowning. "only swell people go to the park.""nonsense, jim," she whispered, stroking

the sleeve of his coat.he hesitated for a moment. "very well," he said at last, "but don't betoo long dressing." she danced out of the door.one could hear her singing as she ran upstairs. her little feet pattered overhead.he walked up and down the room two or three times.then he turned to the still figure in the chair. "mother, are my things ready?" he asked."quite ready, james," she answered, keeping her eyes on her work.

for some months past she had felt ill atease when she was alone with this rough stern son of hers.her shallow secret nature was troubled when their eyes met. she used to wonder if he suspectedanything. the silence, for he made no otherobservation, became intolerable to her. she began to complain. women defend themselves by attacking, justas they attack by sudden and strange surrenders."i hope you will be contented, james, with your sea-faring life," she said.

"you must remember that it is your ownchoice. you might have entered a solicitor'soffice. solicitors are a very respectable class,and in the country often dine with the best families.""i hate offices, and i hate clerks," he replied. "but you are quite right.i have chosen my own life. all i say is, watch over sibyl.don't let her come to any harm. mother, you must watch over her." "james, you really talk very strangely.of course i watch over sibyl."

"i hear a gentleman comes every night tothe theatre and goes behind to talk to her. is that right? what about that?""you are speaking about things you don't understand, james. in the profession we are accustomed toreceive a great deal of most gratifying attention.i myself used to receive many bouquets at one time. that was when acting was really understood.as for sibyl, i do not know at present whether her attachment is serious or not.but there is no doubt that the young man in

question is a perfect gentleman. he is always most polite to me.besides, he has the appearance of being rich, and the flowers he sends are lovely.""you don't know his name, though," said the lad harshly. "no," answered his mother with a placidexpression in her face. "he has not yet revealed his real name.i think it is quite romantic of him. he is probably a member of thearistocracy." james vane bit his lip."watch over sibyl, mother," he cried, "watch over her."

"my son, you distress me very much.sibyl is always under my special care. of course, if this gentleman is wealthy,there is no reason why she should not contract an alliance with him. i trust he is one of the aristocracy.he has all the appearance of it, i must say.it might be a most brilliant marriage for sibyl. they would make a charming couple.his good looks are really quite remarkable; everybody notices them." the lad muttered something to himself anddrummed on the window-pane with his coarse

fingers.he had just turned round to say something when the door opened and sibyl ran in. "how serious you both are!" she cried."what is the matter?" "nothing," he answered."i suppose one must be serious sometimes. good-bye, mother; i will have my dinner atfive o'clock. everything is packed, except my shirts, soyou need not trouble." "good-bye, my son," she answered with a bowof strained stateliness. she was extremely annoyed at the tone hehad adopted with her, and there was something in his look that had made herfeel afraid.

"kiss me, mother," said the girl. her flowerlike lips touched the witheredcheek and warmed its frost. "my child! my child!" cried mrs. vane,looking up to the ceiling in search of an imaginary gallery. "come, sibyl," said her brotherimpatiently. he hated his mother's affectations. they went out into the flickering, wind-blown sunlight and strolled down the dreary euston road. the passersby glanced in wonder at thesullen heavy youth who, in coarse, ill-

fitting clothes, was in the company of sucha graceful, refined-looking girl. he was like a common gardener walking witha rose. jim frowned from time to time when hecaught the inquisitive glance of some stranger. he had that dislike of being stared at,which comes on geniuses late in life and never leaves the commonplace.sibyl, however, was quite unconscious of the effect she was producing. her love was trembling in laughter on herlips. she was thinking of prince charming, and,that she might think of him all the more,

she did not talk of him, but prattled onabout the ship in which jim was going to sail, about the gold he was certain to find, about the wonderful heiress whoselife he was to save from the wicked, red- shirted bushrangers.for he was not to remain a sailor, or a supercargo, or whatever he was going to be. oh, no!a sailor's existence was dreadful. fancy being cooped up in a horrid ship,with the hoarse, hump-backed waves trying to get in, and a black wind blowing themasts down and tearing the sails into long screaming ribands!

he was to leave the vessel at melbourne,bid a polite good-bye to the captain, and go off at once to the gold-fields. before a week was over he was to comeacross a large nugget of pure gold, the largest nugget that had ever beendiscovered, and bring it down to the coast in a waggon guarded by six mountedpolicemen. the bushrangers were to attack them threetimes, and be defeated with immense slaughter. or, no.he was not to go to the gold-fields at all. they were horrid places, where men gotintoxicated, and shot each other in bar-

rooms, and used bad language. he was to be a nice sheep-farmer, and oneevening, as he was riding home, he was to see the beautiful heiress being carried offby a robber on a black horse, and give chase, and rescue her. of course, she would fall in love with him,and he with her, and they would get married, and come home, and live in animmense house in london. yes, there were delightful things in storefor him. but he must be very good, and not lose histemper, or spend his money foolishly. she was only a year older than he was, butshe knew so much more of life.

he must be sure, also, to write to her byevery mail, and to say his prayers each night before he went to sleep. god was very good, and would watch overhim. she would pray for him, too, and in a fewyears he would come back quite rich and happy. the lad listened sulkily to her and made noanswer. he was heart-sick at leaving home.yet it was not this alone that made him gloomy and morose. inexperienced though he was, he had still astrong sense of the danger of sibyl's

position.this young dandy who was making love to her could mean her no good. he was a gentleman, and he hated him forthat, hated him through some curious race- instinct for which he could not account,and which for that reason was all the more dominant within him. he was conscious also of the shallownessand vanity of his mother's nature, and in that saw infinite peril for sibyl andsibyl's happiness. children begin by loving their parents; asthey grow older they judge them; sometimes they forgive them.his mother!

he had something on his mind to ask of her,something that he had brooded on for many months of silence. a chance phrase that he had heard at thetheatre, a whispered sneer that had reached his ears one night as he waited at thestage-door, had set loose a train of horrible thoughts. he remembered it as if it had been the lashof a hunting-crop across his face. his brows knit together into a wedgelikefurrow, and with a twitch of pain he bit his underlip. "you are not listening to a word i amsaying, jim," cried sibyl, "and i am making

the most delightful plans for your future.do say something." "what do you want me to say?" "oh! that you will be a good boy and notforget us," she answered, smiling at him. he shrugged his shoulders."you are more likely to forget me than i am to forget you, sibyl." she flushed."what do you mean, jim?" she asked. "you have a new friend, i hear.who is he? why have you not told me about him? he means you no good.""stop, jim!" she exclaimed.

"you must not say anything against him.i love him." "why, you don't even know his name,"answered the lad. "who is he?i have a right to know." "he is called prince charming. don't you like the name.oh! you silly boy! you should never forget it.if you only saw him, you would think him the most wonderful person in the world. some day you will meet him--when you comeback from australia. you will like him so much.everybody likes him, and i ... love him.

i wish you could come to the theatre to-night. he is going to be there, and i am to playjuliet. oh! how i shall play it! fancy, jim, to be in love and play juliet!to have him sitting there! to play for his delight!i am afraid i may frighten the company, frighten or enthrall them. to be in love is to surpass one's self.poor dreadful mr. isaacs will be shouting 'genius' to his loafers at the bar.he has preached me as a dogma; to-night he will announce me as a revelation.

i feel it.and it is all his, his only, prince charming, my wonderful lover, my god ofgraces. but i am poor beside him. poor?what does that matter? when poverty creeps in at the door, loveflies in through the window. our proverbs want rewriting. they were made in winter, and it is summernow; spring-time for me, i think, a very dance of blossoms in blue skies.""he is a gentleman," said the lad sullenly. "a prince!" she cried musically.

"what more do you want?""he wants to enslave you." "i shudder at the thought of being free.""i want you to beware of him." "to see him is to worship him; to know himis to trust him." "sibyl, you are mad about him."she laughed and took his arm. "you dear old jim, you talk as if you werea hundred. some day you will be in love yourself.then you will know what it is. don't look so sulky. surely you should be glad to think that,though you are going away, you leave me happier than i have ever been before.life has been hard for us both, terribly

hard and difficult. but it will be different now.you are going to a new world, and i have found one.here are two chairs; let us sit down and see the smart people go by." they took their seats amidst a crowd ofwatchers. the tulip-beds across the road flamed likethrobbing rings of fire. a white dust--tremulous cloud of orris-rootit seemed--hung in the panting air. the brightly coloured parasols danced anddipped like monstrous butterflies. she made her brother talk of himself, hishopes, his prospects.

he spoke slowly and with effort.they passed words to each other as players at a game pass counters. sibyl felt oppressed.she could not communicate her joy. a faint smile curving that sullen mouth wasall the echo she could win. after some time she became silent. suddenly she caught a glimpse of goldenhair and laughing lips, and in an open carriage with two ladies dorian gray drovepast. she started to her feet. "there he is!" she cried."who?" said jim vane.

"prince charming," she answered, lookingafter the victoria. he jumped up and seized her roughly by thearm. "show him to me.which is he? point him out. i must see him!" he exclaimed; but at thatmoment the duke of berwick's four-in-hand came between, and when it had left thespace clear, the carriage had swept out of the park. "he is gone," murmured sibyl sadly."i wish you had seen him." "i wish i had, for as sure as there is agod in heaven, if he ever does you any

wrong, i shall kill him." she looked at him in horror.he repeated his words. they cut the air like a dagger.the people round began to gape. a lady standing close to her tittered. "come away, jim; come away," she whispered.he followed her doggedly as she passed through the crowd.he felt glad at what he had said. when they reached the achilles statue, sheturned round. there was pity in her eyes that becamelaughter on her lips. she shook her head at him.

"you are foolish, jim, utterly foolish; abad-tempered boy, that is all. how can you say such horrible things?you don't know what you are talking about. you are simply jealous and unkind. ah!i wish you would fall in love. love makes people good, and what you saidwas wicked." "i am sixteen," he answered, "and i knowwhat i am about. mother is no help to you.she doesn't understand how to look after you. i wish now that i was not going toaustralia at all.

i have a great mind to chuck the wholething up. i would, if my articles hadn't beensigned." "oh, don't be so serious, jim. you are like one of the heroes of thosesilly melodramas mother used to be so fond of acting in.i am not going to quarrel with you. i have seen him, and oh! to see him isperfect happiness. we won't quarrel.i know you would never harm any one i love, would you?" "not as long as you love him, i suppose,"was the sullen answer.

"i shall love him for ever!" she cried."and he?" "for ever, too!" "he had better."she shrank from him. then she laughed and put her hand on hisarm. he was merely a boy. at the marble arch they hailed an omnibus,which left them close to their shabby home in the euston road. it was after five o'clock, and sibyl had tolie down for a couple of hours before acting.jim insisted that she should do so.

he said that he would sooner part with herwhen their mother was not present. she would be sure to make a scene, and hedetested scenes of every kind. in sybil's own room they parted. there was jealousy in the lad's heart, anda fierce murderous hatred of the stranger who, as it seemed to him, had come betweenthem. yet, when her arms were flung round hisneck, and her fingers strayed through his hair, he softened and kissed her with realaffection. there were tears in his eyes as he wentdownstairs. his mother was waiting for him below.she grumbled at his unpunctuality, as he

entered. he made no answer, but sat down to hismeagre meal. the flies buzzed round the table andcrawled over the stained cloth. through the rumble of omnibuses, and theclatter of street-cabs, he could hear the droning voice devouring each minute thatwas left to him. after some time, he thrust away his plateand put his head in his hands. he felt that he had a right to know.it should have been told to him before, if it was as he suspected. leaden with fear, his mother watched him.words dropped mechanically from her lips.

a tattered lace handkerchief twitched inher fingers. when the clock struck six, he got up andwent to the door. then he turned back and looked at her.their eyes met. in hers he saw a wild appeal for mercy. it enraged him."mother, i have something to ask you," he said.her eyes wandered vaguely about the room. she made no answer. "tell me the truth.i have a right to know. were you married to my father?"she heaved a deep sigh.

it was a sigh of relief. the terrible moment, the moment that nightand day, for weeks and months, she had dreaded, had come at last, and yet she feltno terror. indeed, in some measure it was adisappointment to her. the vulgar directness of the questioncalled for a direct answer. the situation had not been gradually led upto. it was crude.it reminded her of a bad rehearsal. "no," she answered, wondering at the harshsimplicity of life. "my father was a scoundrel then!" cried thelad, clenching his fists.

she shook her head. "i knew he was not free.we loved each other very much. if he had lived, he would have madeprovision for us. don't speak against him, my son. he was your father, and a gentleman.indeed, he was highly connected." an oath broke from his lips."i don't care for myself," he exclaimed, "but don't let sibyl.... it is a gentleman, isn't it, who is in lovewith her, or says he is? highly connected, too, i suppose."for a moment a hideous sense of humiliation

came over the woman. her head drooped.she wiped her eyes with shaking hands. "sibyl has a mother," she murmured; "i hadnone." the lad was touched. he went towards her, and stooping down, hekissed her. "i am sorry if i have pained you by askingabout my father," he said, "but i could not help it. i must go now.good-bye. don't forget that you will have only onechild now to look after, and believe me

that if this man wrongs my sister, i willfind out who he is, track him down, and kill him like a dog. i swear it."the exaggerated folly of the threat, the passionate gesture that accompanied it, themad melodramatic words, made life seem more vivid to her. she was familiar with the atmosphere.she breathed more freely, and for the first time for many months she really admired herson. she would have liked to have continued thescene on the same emotional scale, but he cut her short.trunks had to be carried down and mufflers

looked for. the lodging-house drudge bustled in andout. there was the bargaining with the cabman.the moment was lost in vulgar details. it was with a renewed feeling ofdisappointment that she waved the tattered lace handkerchief from the window, as herson drove away. she was conscious that a great opportunityhad been wasted. she consoled herself by telling sibyl howdesolate she felt her life would be, now that she had only one child to look after. she remembered the phrase.it had pleased her.

of the threat she said nothing.it was vividly and dramatically expressed. she felt that they would all laugh at itsome day. > chapter 6 "i suppose you have heard the news, basil?"said lord henry that evening as hallward was shown into a little private room at thebristol where dinner had been laid for three. "no, harry," answered the artist, givinghis hat and coat to the bowing waiter. "what is it?nothing about politics, i hope!

they don't interest me. there is hardly a single person in thehouse of commons worth painting, though many of them would be the better for alittle whitewashing." "dorian gray is engaged to be married,"said lord henry, watching him as he spoke. hallward started and then frowned."dorian engaged to be married!" he cried. "impossible!" "it is perfectly true.""to whom?" "to some little actress or other.""i can't believe it. dorian is far too sensible."

"dorian is far too wise not to do foolishthings now and then, my dear basil." "marriage is hardly a thing that one can donow and then, harry." "except in america," rejoined lord henrylanguidly. "but i didn't say he was married.i said he was engaged to be married. there is a great difference. i have a distinct remembrance of beingmarried, but i have no recollection at all of being engaged.i am inclined to think that i never was engaged." "but think of dorian's birth, and position,and wealth.

it would be absurd for him to marry so muchbeneath him." "if you want to make him marry this girl,tell him that, basil. he is sure to do it, then. whenever a man does a thoroughly stupidthing, it is always from the noblest motives.""i hope the girl is good, harry. i don't want to see dorian tied to somevile creature, who might degrade his nature and ruin his intellect." "oh, she is better than good--she isbeautiful," murmured lord henry, sipping a glass of vermouth and orange-bitters."dorian says she is beautiful, and he is

not often wrong about things of that kind. your portrait of him has quickened hisappreciation of the personal appearance of other people.it has had that excellent effect, amongst others. we are to see her to-night, if that boydoesn't forget his appointment." "are you serious?""quite serious, basil. i should be miserable if i thought i shouldever be more serious than i am at the present moment." "but do you approve of it, harry?" askedthe painter, walking up and down the room

and biting his lip."you can't approve of it, possibly. it is some silly infatuation." "i never approve, or disapprove, ofanything now. it is an absurd attitude to take towardslife. we are not sent into the world to air ourmoral prejudices. i never take any notice of what commonpeople say, and i never interfere with what charming people do. if a personality fascinates me, whatevermode of expression that personality selects is absolutely delightful to me.

dorian gray falls in love with a beautifulgirl who acts juliet, and proposes to marry her.why not? if he wedded messalina, he would be nonethe less interesting. you know i am not a champion of marriage.the real drawback to marriage is that it makes one unselfish. and unselfish people are colourless.they lack individuality. still, there are certain temperaments thatmarriage makes more complex. they retain their egotism, and add to itmany other egos. they are forced to have more than one life.

they become more highly organized, and tobe highly organized is, i should fancy, the object of man's existence. besides, every experience is of value, andwhatever one may say against marriage, it is certainly an experience. i hope that dorian gray will make this girlhis wife, passionately adore her for six months, and then suddenly become fascinatedby some one else. he would be a wonderful study." "you don't mean a single word of all that,harry; you know you don't. if dorian gray's life were spoiled, no onewould be sorrier than yourself.

you are much better than you pretend tobe." lord henry laughed. "the reason we all like to think so well ofothers is that we are all afraid for ourselves.the basis of optimism is sheer terror. we think that we are generous because wecredit our neighbour with the possession of those virtues that are likely to be abenefit to us. we praise the banker that we may overdrawour account, and find good qualities in the highwayman in the hope that he may spareour pockets. i mean everything that i have said.

i have the greatest contempt for optimism.as for a spoiled life, no life is spoiled but one whose growth is arrested.if you want to mar a nature, you have merely to reform it. as for marriage, of course that would besilly, but there are other and more interesting bonds between men and women.i will certainly encourage them. they have the charm of being fashionable. but here is dorian himself.he will tell you more than i can." "my dear harry, my dear basil, you mustboth congratulate me!" said the lad, throwing off his evening cape with itssatin-lined wings and shaking each of his

friends by the hand in turn. "i have never been so happy.of course, it is sudden--all really delightful things are.and yet it seems to me to be the one thing i have been looking for all my life." he was flushed with excitement andpleasure, and looked extraordinarily handsome. "i hope you will always be very happy,dorian," said hallward, "but i don't quite forgive you for not having let me know ofyour engagement. you let harry know."

"and i don't forgive you for being late fordinner," broke in lord henry, putting his hand on the lad's shoulder and smiling ashe spoke. "come, let us sit down and try what the newchef here is like, and then you will tell us how it all came about." "there is really not much to tell," crieddorian as they took their seats at the small round table."what happened was simply this. after i left you yesterday evening, harry,i dressed, had some dinner at that little italian restaurant in rupert street youintroduced me to, and went down at eight o'clock to the theatre.

sibyl was playing rosalind.of course, the scenery was dreadful and the orlando absurd.but sibyl! you should have seen her! when she came on in her boy's clothes, shewas perfectly wonderful. she wore a moss-coloured velvet jerkin withcinnamon sleeves, slim, brown, cross- gartered hose, a dainty little green capwith a hawk's feather caught in a jewel, and a hooded cloak lined with dull red. she had never seemed to me more exquisite.she had all the delicate grace of that tanagra figurine that you have in yourstudio, basil.

her hair clustered round her face like darkleaves round a pale rose. as for her acting--well, you shall see herto-night. she is simply a born artist. i sat in the dingy box absolutelyenthralled. i forgot that i was in london and in thenineteenth century. i was away with my love in a forest that noman had ever seen. after the performance was over, i wentbehind and spoke to her. as we were sitting together, suddenly therecame into her eyes a look that i had never seen there before.my lips moved towards hers.

we kissed each other. i can't describe to you what i felt at thatmoment. it seemed to me that all my life had beennarrowed to one perfect point of rose- coloured joy. she trembled all over and shook like awhite narcissus. then she flung herself on her knees andkissed my hands. i feel that i should not tell you all this,but i can't help it. of course, our engagement is a dead secret.she has not even told her own mother. i don't know what my guardians will say.

lord radley is sure to be furious.i don't care. i shall be of age in less than a year, andthen i can do what i like. i have been right, basil, haven't i, totake my love out of poetry and to find my wife in shakespeare's plays?lips that shakespeare taught to speak have whispered their secret in my ear. i have had the arms of rosalind around me,and kissed juliet on the mouth." "yes, dorian, i suppose you were right,"said hallward slowly. "have you seen her to-day?" asked lordhenry. dorian gray shook his head."i left her in the forest of arden; i shall

find her in an orchard in verona." lord henry sipped his champagne in ameditative manner. "at what particular point did you mentionthe word marriage, dorian? and what did she say in answer? perhaps you forgot all about it.""my dear harry, i did not treat it as a business transaction, and i did not makeany formal proposal. i told her that i loved her, and she saidshe was not worthy to be my wife. not worthy!why, the whole world is nothing to me compared with her."

"women are wonderfully practical," murmuredlord henry, "much more practical than we are. in situations of that kind we often forgetto say anything about marriage, and they always remind us."hallward laid his hand upon his arm. "don't, harry. you have annoyed dorian.he is not like other men. he would never bring misery upon any one.his nature is too fine for that." lord henry looked across the table. "dorian is never annoyed with me," heanswered.

"i asked the question for the best reasonpossible, for the only reason, indeed, that excuses one for asking any question--simplecuriosity. i have a theory that it is always the womenwho propose to us, and not we who propose to the women.except, of course, in middle-class life. but then the middle classes are notmodern." dorian gray laughed, and tossed his head."you are quite incorrigible, harry; but i don't mind. it is impossible to be angry with you.when you see sibyl vane, you will feel that the man who could wrong her would be abeast, a beast without a heart.

i cannot understand how any one can wish toshame the thing he loves. i love sibyl vane. i want to place her on a pedestal of goldand to see the world worship the woman who is mine.what is marriage? an irrevocable vow. you mock at it for that.ah! don't mock. it is an irrevocable vow that i want totake. her trust makes me faithful, her beliefmakes me good. when i am with her, i regret all that youhave taught me.

i become different from what you have knownme to be. i am changed, and the mere touch of sibylvane's hand makes me forget you and all your wrong, fascinating, poisonous,delightful theories." "and those are ...?" asked lord henry,helping himself to some salad. "oh, your theories about life, yourtheories about love, your theories about pleasure. all your theories, in fact, harry.""pleasure is the only thing worth having a theory about," he answered in his slowmelodious voice. "but i am afraid i cannot claim my theoryas my own.

it belongs to nature, not to me.pleasure is nature's test, her sign of approval. when we are happy, we are always good, butwhen we are good, we are not always happy." "ah! but what do you mean by good?" criedbasil hallward. "yes," echoed dorian, leaning back in hischair and looking at lord henry over the heavy clusters of purple-lipped irises thatstood in the centre of the table, "what do you mean by good, harry?" "to be good is to be in harmony with one'sself," he replied, touching the thin stem of his glass with his pale, fine-pointedfingers.

"discord is to be forced to be in harmonywith others. one's own life--that is the importantthing. as for the lives of one's neighbours, ifone wishes to be a prig or a puritan, one can flaunt one's moral views about them,but they are not one's concern. besides, individualism has really thehigher aim. modern morality consists in accepting thestandard of one's age. i consider that for any man of culture toaccept the standard of his age is a form of the grossest immorality." "but, surely, if one lives merely for one'sself, harry, one pays a terrible price for

doing so?" suggested the painter."yes, we are overcharged for everything nowadays. i should fancy that the real tragedy of thepoor is that they can afford nothing but self-denial.beautiful sins, like beautiful things, are the privilege of the rich." "one has to pay in other ways but money.""what sort of ways, basil?" "oh! i should fancy in remorse, in suffering, in... well, in the consciousness of degradation."lord henry shrugged his shoulders.

"my dear fellow, mediaeval art is charming,but mediaeval emotions are out of date. one can use them in fiction, of course. but then the only things that one can usein fiction are the things that one has ceased to use in fact. believe me, no civilized man ever regrets apleasure, and no uncivilized man ever knows what a pleasure is.""i know what pleasure is," cried dorian gray. "it is to adore some one.""that is certainly better than being adored," he answered, toying with somefruits.

"being adored is a nuisance. women treat us just as humanity treats itsgods. they worship us, and are always botheringus to do something for them." "i should have said that whatever they askfor they had first given to us," murmured the lad gravely."they create love in our natures. they have a right to demand it back." "that is quite true, dorian," criedhallward. "nothing is ever quite true," said lordhenry. "this is," interrupted dorian.

"you must admit, harry, that women give tomen the very gold of their lives." "possibly," he sighed, "but they invariablywant it back in such very small change. that is the worry. women, as some witty frenchman once put it,inspire us with the desire to do masterpieces and always prevent us fromcarrying them out." "harry, you are dreadful! i don't know why i like you so much.""you will always like me, dorian," he replied."will you have some coffee, you fellows? waiter, bring coffee, and fine-champagne,and some cigarettes.

no, don't mind the cigarettes--i have some.basil, i can't allow you to smoke cigars. you must have a cigarette. a cigarette is the perfect type of aperfect pleasure. it is exquisite, and it leaves oneunsatisfied. what more can one want? yes, dorian, you will always be fond of me.i represent to you all the sins you have never had the courage to commit." "what nonsense you talk, harry!" cried thelad, taking a light from a fire-breathing silver dragon that the waiter had placed onthe table.

"let us go down to the theatre. when sibyl comes on the stage you will havea new ideal of life. she will represent something to you thatyou have never known." "i have known everything," said lord henry,with a tired look in his eyes, "but i am always ready for a new emotion.i am afraid, however, that, for me at any rate, there is no such thing. still, your wonderful girl may thrill me.i love acting. it is so much more real than life.let us go. dorian, you will come with me.

i am so sorry, basil, but there is onlyroom for two in the brougham. you must follow us in a hansom."they got up and put on their coats, sipping their coffee standing. the painter was silent and preoccupied.there was a gloom over him. he could not bear this marriage, and yet itseemed to him to be better than many other things that might have happened. after a few minutes, they all passeddownstairs. he drove off by himself, as had beenarranged, and watched the flashing lights of the little brougham in front of him.

a strange sense of loss came over him.he felt that dorian gray would never again be to him all that he had been in the past.life had come between them.... his eyes darkened, and the crowded flaringstreets became blurred to his eyes. when the cab drew up at the theatre, itseemed to him that he had grown years older. chapter 7 for some reason or other, the house wascrowded that night, and the fat jew manager who met them at the door was beaming fromear to ear with an oily tremulous smile. he escorted them to their box with a sortof pompous humility, waving his fat

jewelled hands and talking at the top ofhis voice. dorian gray loathed him more than ever. he felt as if he had come to look formiranda and had been met by caliban. lord henry, upon the other hand, ratherliked him. at least he declared he did, and insistedon shaking him by the hand and assuring him that he was proud to meet a man who haddiscovered a real genius and gone bankrupt over a poet. hallward amused himself with watching thefaces in the pit. the heat was terribly oppressive, and thehuge sunlight flamed like a monstrous

dahlia with petals of yellow fire. the youths in the gallery had taken offtheir coats and waistcoats and hung them over the side. they talked to each other across thetheatre and shared their oranges with the tawdry girls who sat beside them.some women were laughing in the pit. their voices were horribly shrill anddiscordant. the sound of the popping of corks came fromthe bar. "what a place to find one's divinity in!"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, becomequite different when she is on the stage. they sit silently and watch her. they weep and laugh as she wills them todo. she makes them as responsive as a violin. she spiritualizes them, and one feels thatthey are of the same flesh and blood as one's self.""the same flesh and blood as one's self! oh, i hope not!" exclaimed lord henry, whowas scanning the occupants of the gallery

through his opera-glass."don't pay any attention to him, dorian," said the painter. "i understand what you mean, and i believein this girl. any one you love must be marvellous, andany girl who has the effect you describe must be fine and noble. to spiritualize one's age--that issomething worth doing. if this girl can give a soul to those whohave lived without one, if she can create the sense of beauty in people whose liveshave 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 itnow. 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 forabout five minutes.

then the curtain rises, and you will seethe girl to whom i am going to give all my life, to whom i have given everything thatis good in me." a quarter of an hour afterwards, amidst anextraordinary 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 ina mirror of silver, came to her cheeks as she glanced at the crowded enthusiastichouse.

she stepped back a few paces and her lipsseemed to tremble. basil hallward leaped to his feet and beganto applaud. motionless, and as one in a dream, satdorian gray, gazing at her. 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 otherfriends. the band, such as it was, struck up a fewbars of music, and the dance began. through the crowd of ungainly, shabbilydressed actors, sibyl vane moved like a creature from a finer world.

her body swayed, while she danced, as aplant sways in the water. the curves of her throat were the curves ofa 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-- good pilgrim, you do wrong your hand toomuch, which mannerly devotion shows in this; for saints have hands that pilgrims'hands do touch, and palm to palm is holy palmers' kiss-- with the brief dialogue that follows, were spoken in a thoroughlyartificial manner.

the voice was exquisite, but from the pointof 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. dorian gray grew pale as he watched her.he was puzzled and anxious. neither of his friends dared to sayanything to him. she seemed to them to be absolutelyincompetent. they were horribly disappointed. yet they felt that the true test of anyjuliet is the balcony scene of the second act.they waited for that.

if she failed there, there was nothing inher. she looked charming as she came out in themoonlight. that could not be denied. but the staginess of her acting wasunbearable, and grew worse as she went on. her gestures became absurdly artificial.she overemphasized everything that she had to say. the beautiful passage-- thou knowest the mask of night is on myface, else would a maiden blush bepaint my cheek for that which thou hast heard mespeak to-night-- was declaimed with the

painful precision of a schoolgirl who has been taught to recite by some second-rateprofessor of elocution. when she leaned over the balcony and cameto those wonderful lines-- although i joy in thee, i have no joy ofthis contract to-night: it is too rash, too unadvised, too sudden; too like thelightning, which doth cease to be ere one can say, "it lightens." sweet, good-night!this bud of love by summer's ripening breath may prove a beauteous flower whennext we meet-- 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. even the common uneducated audience of thepit 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 theback of the dress-circle, stamped and swore with rage.the only person unmoved was the girl herself.

when the second act was over, there came astorm 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.""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.""my dear dorian, i should think miss vane was ill," interrupted hallward."we will come some other night." "i wish she were ill," he rejoined.

"but she seems to me to be simply callousand cold. she has entirely altered.last night she was a great artist. this evening she is merely a commonplacemediocre actress." "don't talk like that about any one youlove, dorian. love is a more wonderful thing 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 badacting. besides, i don't suppose you will want yourwife to act, so what does it matter if she

plays juliet like a wooden doll? she is very lovely, and if she knows aslittle about life as she does about acting, she will be a delightful experience. there are only two kinds of people who arereally fascinating--people who know absolutely everything, and people who knowabsolutely nothing. good heavens, my dear boy, don't look sotragic! the secret of remaining young is never tohave an emotion that is unbecoming. come to the club with basil and myself. we will smoke cigarettes and drink to thebeauty of sibyl vane.

she is beautiful.what more can 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 isbreaking?" the hot tears came to his eyes. his lips trembled, and rushing to the backof the box, he leaned up against the wall, hiding his face in his hands. "let us go, basil," said lord henry with astrange tenderness in his voice, and the two young men passed out together.

a few moments afterwards the footlightsflared 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 seemedinterminable. half of the audience went out, tramping inheavy boots and laughing. the whole thing was a fiasco. the last act was played to almost emptybenches. the curtain went down on a titter and somegroans. as soon as it was over, dorian gray rushedbehind the scenes into the greenroom.

the girl was standing there alone, with alook 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.when he entered, she looked at him, and an expression of infinite joy came over her. "how badly i acted to-night, dorian!" shecried. "horribly!" he answered, gazing at her inamazement. "horribly! it was dreadful.are you ill?

you have no idea what it was.you have no idea what i suffered." the girl smiled. "dorian," she answered, lingering over hisname with long-drawn music in her voice, as though it were sweeter than honey to thered petals of her mouth. "dorian, you should have understood. but you understand now, don't you?""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." 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."she seemed not to listen to him. she was transfigured with joy.an ecstasy of happiness dominated her. "dorian, dorian," she cried, "before i knewyou, 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 theother. the joy of beatrice was my joy, and thesorrows of cordelia were mine also. i believed in everything.

the common people who acted with me seemedto 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 youfreed my soul from prison. you taught me what reality really is. to-night, for the first time in my life, isaw through the hollowness, the sham, the silliness of the empty pageant in which ihad always played. to-night, for the first time, i becameconscious that the romeo was hideous, and old, and painted, that the moonlight in theorchard was false, that the scenery was

vulgar, and that the words i had to speak were unreal, were not my words, were notwhat 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 reallyis. my love!my love! prince charming! prince of life!i have grown sick of shadows. you are more to me than all art can everbe.

what have i to do with the puppets of aplay? when i came on to-night, i could notunderstand 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 allmeant. 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 withyou, 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 beprofanation for me to play at being in love.you have made me see that." he flung himself down on the sofa andturned away his face. "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 littlefingers stroked his hair.

she knelt down and pressed his hands to herlips. he drew them away, and a shudder ranthrough 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 greatpoets 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." 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?" shemurmured. "you are acting.""acting! i leave that to you. you do it so well," he answered bitterly.she rose from her knees and, with a piteous

expression of pain in her face, came acrossthe room to him. she put her hand upon his arm and lookedinto his eyes. he thrust her back."don't touch me!" he cried. a low moan broke from her, and she flungherself 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 i think i should never have known it if youhad 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 youbetter than anything in the world. after all, it is only once that i have notpleased you.

but you are quite right, dorian. i should have shown myself more of anartist. it was foolish of me, and yet i couldn'thelp 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 beautifuleyes, looked down at her, and his chiselled lips curled in exquisite disdain. there is always something ridiculous aboutthe emotions of people whom one has ceased to love.sibyl vane seemed to him to be absurdly

melodramatic. 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."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. where he went to he hardly knew.

he remembered wandering through dimly litstreets, 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 andchattering to themselves like monstrous apes. he had seen grotesque children huddled upondoor-steps, and heard shrieks and oaths from gloomy courts.as the dawn was just breaking, he found himself close to covent garden. the darkness lifted, and, flushed withfaint fires, the sky hollowed itself into a

perfect pearl. huge carts filled with nodding liliesrumbled slowly down the polished empty street. the air was heavy with the perfume of theflowers, 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 somecherries. he thanked him, wondered why he refused toaccept any money for them, and began to eat them listlessly.

they had been plucked at midnight, and thecoldness of the moon had entered into them. a long line of boys carrying crates ofstriped tulips, and of yellow and red roses, defiled in front of him, threadingtheir 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 theauction to be over. others crowded round the swinging doors ofthe coffee-house in the piazza. the heavy cart-horses slipped and stampedupon the rough stones, shaking their bells and trappings.

some of the drivers were lying asleep on apile of sacks. iris-necked and pink-footed, the pigeonsran about picking up seeds. after a little while, he hailed a hansomand drove home. for a few moments he loitered upon thedoorstep, looking round at the silent square, with its blank, close-shutteredwindows and its staring blinds. the sky was pure opal now, and the roofs ofthe houses glistened like silver against it.from some chimney opposite a thin wreath of smoke was rising. it curled, a violet riband, through thenacre-coloured air.

in the huge gilt venetian lantern, spoil ofsome doge's barge, that hung from the ceiling of the great, oak-panelled hall ofentrance, lights were still burning from three flickering jets: thin blue petals offlame they seemed, rimmed with white fire. he turned them out and, having thrown hishat and cape on the table, passed through the library towards the door of hisbedroom, a large octagonal chamber on the ground floor that, in his new-born feeling for luxury, he had just had decorated forhimself and hung with some curious renaissance tapestries that had beendiscovered 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, lookingsomewhat puzzled. after he had taken the button-hole out ofhis coat, he seemed to hesitate. finally, he came back, went over to thepicture, and examined it. in the dim arrested light that struggledthrough the cream-coloured silk blinds, the face appeared to him to be a littlechanged. the expression looked different. one would have said that there was a touchof 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 sweptthe fantastic shadows into dusky corners, where they lay shuddering. but the strange expression that he hadnoticed in the face of the portrait seemed to linger there, to be more intensifiedeven. the quivering ardent sunlight showed himthe lines of cruelty round the mouth as clearly as if he had been looking into amirror after he had done some dreadful thing.

he winced and, taking up from the table anoval glass framed in ivory cupids, one of lord henry's many presents to him, glancedhurriedly into its polished depths. no line like that warped 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 helooked into the actual painting, and yet there was no doubt that the wholeexpression had altered. it was not a mere fancy of his own. the thing was horribly apparent.he threw himself into a chair and began to

think. suddenly there flashed across his mind whathe 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 himselfmight remain young, and the portrait grow old; that his own beauty might beuntarnished, and the face on the canvas bear the burden of his passions and his sins; that the painted image might beseared with the lines of suffering and thought, and that he might keep all thedelicate 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. 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 cameover 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 theplay 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 hadwounded her for an age. besides, women were better suited to bearsorrow 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 havescenes. lord henry had told him that, and lordhenry knew what women were. why should he trouble 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?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 brainthat tiny scarlet speck that makes men mad. the picture had not changed.it was folly to think so. yet it was watching him, with its beautifulmarred face and its cruel smile. its bright hair gleamed in the earlysunlight. 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 stainwould fleck and wreck its fairness. but he would not sin. the picture, changed or unchanged, would beto him the visible emblem of conscience. he would resist temptation. he would not see lord henry any more--wouldnot, at any rate, listen to those subtle poisonous theories that in basil hallward'sgarden had first stirred within him the passion for impossible things.

he would go back to sibyl vane, make heramends, 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 andpure. he got up from his chair and drew a largescreen right in front of the portrait, shuddering as he glanced at it. "how horrible!" he murmured to himself, andhe 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 awayall 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. chapter 8 it was long past noon when he awoke.his valet had crept several times on tiptoe

into the room to see if he was stirring,and had wondered what made his young master sleep so late. finally his bell sounded, and victor camein softly with a cup of tea, and a pile of letters, on a small tray of old sevreschina, and drew back the olive-satin curtains, with their shimmering blue lining, that hung in front of the threetall windows. "monsieur has well slept this morning," hesaid, smiling. "what o'clock is it, victor?" asked doriangray drowsily. "one hour and a quarter, monsieur."how late it was!

he sat up, and having sipped some tea,turned over his letters. one of them was from lord henry, and hadbeen brought by hand that morning. he hesitated for a moment, and then put itaside. the others he opened listlessly. they contained the usual collection ofcards, invitations to dinner, tickets for private views, programmes of charityconcerts, and the like that are showered on fashionable young men every morning duringthe season. there was a rather heavy bill for a chasedsilver louis-quinze toilet-set that he had not yet had the courage to send on to hisguardians, who were extremely old-fashioned

people and did not realize that we live in an age when unnecessary things are our onlynecessities; and there were several very courteously worded communications fromjermyn street money-lenders offering to advance any sum of money at a moment's notice and at the most reasonable rates ofinterest. after about ten minutes he got up, andthrowing on an elaborate dressing-gown of silk-embroidered cashmere wool, passed intothe onyx-paved bathroom. the cool water refreshed him after his longsleep. he seemed to have forgotten all that he hadgone through.

a dim sense of having taken part in somestrange tragedy came to him once or twice, but there was the unreality of a dreamabout it. as soon as he was dressed, he went into thelibrary and sat down to a light french breakfast that had been laid out for him ona small round table close to the open it was an exquisite day.the warm air seemed laden with spices. a bee flew in and buzzed round the blue-dragon bowl that, filled with sulphur- yellow roses, stood before him. he felt perfectly happy.suddenly his eye fell on the screen that he had placed in front of the portrait, and hestarted.

"too cold for monsieur?" asked his valet,putting an omelette on the table. "i shut the window?"dorian shook his head. "i am not cold," he murmured. was it all true?had the portrait really changed? or had it been simply his own imaginationthat had made him see a look of evil where there had been a look of joy? surely a painted canvas could not alter?the thing was absurd. it would serve as a tale to tell basil someday. it would make him smile.

and, yet, how vivid was his recollection ofthe whole thing! first in the dim twilight, and then in thebright dawn, he had seen the touch of cruelty round the warped lips. he almost dreaded his valet leaving theroom. he knew that when he was alone he wouldhave to examine the portrait. he was afraid of certainty. when the coffee and cigarettes had beenbrought and the man turned to go, he felt a wild desire to tell him to remain.as the door was closing behind him, he called him back.

the man stood waiting for his orders.dorian looked at him for a moment. "i am not at home to any one, victor," hesaid with a sigh. the man bowed and retired. then he rose from the table, lit acigarette, and flung himself down on a luxuriously cushioned couch that stoodfacing the screen. the screen was an old one, of gilt spanishleather, stamped and wrought with a rather florid louis-quatorze pattern. he scanned it curiously, wondering if everbefore it had concealed the secret of a man's life.should he move it aside, after all?

why not let it stay there? what was the use of knowing?if the thing was true, it was terrible. if it was not true, why trouble about it? but what if, by some fate or deadlierchance, eyes other than his spied behind and saw the horrible change?what should he do if basil hallward came and asked to look at his own picture? basil would be sure to do that.no; the thing had to be examined, and at once.anything would be better than this dreadful state of doubt.

he got up and locked both doors.at least he would be alone when he looked upon the mask of his shame.then he drew the screen aside and saw himself face to face. it was perfectly true.the portrait had altered. as he often remembered afterwards, andalways with no small wonder, he found himself at first gazing at the portraitwith a feeling of almost scientific interest. that such a change should have taken placewas incredible to him. and yet it was a fact.

was there some subtle affinity between thechemical atoms that shaped themselves into form and colour on the canvas and the soulthat was within him? could it be that what that soul thought,they realized?--that what it dreamed, they made true?or was there some other, more terrible reason? he shuddered, and felt afraid, and, goingback to the couch, lay there, gazing at the picture in sickened horror.one thing, however, he felt that it had done for him. it had made him conscious how unjust, howcruel, he had been to sibyl vane.

it was not too late to make reparation forthat. she could still be his wife. his unreal and selfish love would yield tosome higher influence, would be transformed into some nobler passion, and the portraitthat basil hallward had painted of him would be a guide to him through life, would be to him what holiness is to some, andconscience to others, and the fear of god to us all.there were opiates for remorse, drugs that could lull the moral sense to sleep. but here was a visible symbol of thedegradation of sin.

here was an ever-present sign of the ruinmen brought upon their souls. three o'clock struck, and four, and thehalf-hour rang its double chime, but dorian gray did not stir. he was trying to gather up the scarletthreads of life and to weave them into a pattern; to find his way through thesanguine labyrinth of passion through which he was wandering. he did not know what to do, or what tothink. finally, he went over to the table andwrote a passionate letter to the girl he had loved, imploring her forgiveness andaccusing himself of madness.

he covered page after page with wild wordsof sorrow and wilder words of pain. there is a luxury in self-reproach.when we blame ourselves, we feel that no one else has a right to blame us. it is the confession, not the priest, thatgives us absolution. when dorian had finished the letter, hefelt that he had been forgiven. suddenly there came a knock to the door,and he heard lord henry's voice outside. "my dear boy, i must see you.let me in at once. i can't bear your shutting yourself up likethis." he made no answer at first, but remainedquite still.

the knocking still continued and grewlouder. yes, it was better to let lord henry in,and to explain to him the new life he was going to lead, to quarrel with him if itbecame necessary to quarrel, to part if parting was inevitable. he jumped up, drew the screen hastilyacross the picture, and unlocked the door. "i am so sorry for it all, dorian," saidlord henry as he entered. "but you must not think too much about it." "do you mean about sibyl vane?" asked thelad. "yes, of course," answered lord henry,sinking into a chair and slowly pulling off

his yellow gloves. "it is dreadful, from one point of view,but it was not your fault. tell me, did you go behind and see her,after the play was over?" "yes." "i felt sure you had.did you make a scene with her?" "i was brutal, harry--perfectly brutal.but it is all right now. i am not sorry for anything that hashappened. it has taught me to know myself better.""ah, dorian, i am so glad you take it in that way!

i was afraid i would find you plunged inremorse and tearing that nice curly hair of yours.""i have got through all that," said dorian, shaking his head and smiling. "i am perfectly happy now.i know what conscience is, to begin with. it is not what you told me it was.it is the divinest thing in us. don't sneer at it, harry, any more--atleast not before me. i want to be good.i can't bear the idea of my soul being hideous." "a very charming artistic basis for ethics,dorian!

i congratulate you on it.but how are you going to begin?" "by marrying sibyl vane." "marrying sibyl vane!" cried lord henry,standing up and looking at him in perplexed amazement."but, my dear dorian--" "yes, harry, i know what you are going tosay. something dreadful about marriage.don't say it. don't ever say things of that kind to meagain. two days ago i asked sibyl to marry me.i am not going to break my word to her. she is to be my wife."

"your wife!dorian!... didn't you get my letter?i wrote to you this morning, and sent the note down by my own man." "your letter?oh, yes, i remember. i have not read it yet, harry.i was afraid there might be something in it that i wouldn't like. you cut life to pieces with your epigrams.""you know nothing then?" "what do you mean?" lord henry walked across the room, andsitting down by dorian gray, took both his

hands in his own and held them tightly. "dorian," he said, "my letter--don't befrightened--was to tell you that sibyl vane is dead." a cry of pain broke from the lad's lips,and he leaped to his feet, tearing his hands away from lord henry's grasp."dead! sibyl dead! it is not true!it is a horrible lie! how dare you say it?""it is quite true, dorian," said lord henry, gravely.

"it is in all the morning papers.i wrote down to you to ask you not to see any one till i came.there will have to be an inquest, of course, and you must not be mixed up in it. things like that make a man fashionable inparis. but in london people are so prejudiced.here, one should never make one's debut with a scandal. one should reserve that to give an interestto one's old age. i suppose they don't know your name at thetheatre? if they don't, it is all right.

did any one see you going round to herroom? that is an important point."dorian did not answer for a few moments. he was dazed with horror. finally he stammered, in a stifled voice,"harry, did you say an inquest? what did you mean by that?did sibyl--? oh, harry, i can't bear it! but be quick.tell me everything at once." "i have no doubt it was not an accident,dorian, though it must be put in that way to the public.

it seems that as she was leaving thetheatre with her mother, about half-past twelve or so, she said she had forgottensomething upstairs. they waited some time for her, but she didnot come down again. they ultimately found her lying dead on thefloor of her dressing-room. she had swallowed something by mistake,some dreadful thing they use at theatres. i don't know what it was, but it had eitherprussic acid or white lead in it. i should fancy it was prussic acid, as sheseems to have died instantaneously." "harry, harry, it is terrible!" cried thelad. "yes; it is very tragic, of course, but youmust not get yourself mixed up in it.

i see by the standard that she wasseventeen. i should have thought she was almostyounger than that. she looked such a child, and seemed to knowso little about acting. dorian, you mustn't let this thing get onyour nerves. you must come and dine with me, andafterwards we will look in at the opera. it is a patti night, and everybody will bethere. you can come to my sister's box.she has got some smart women with her." "so i have murdered sibyl vane," saiddorian gray, half to himself, "murdered her as surely as if i had cut her little throatwith a knife.

yet the roses are not less lovely for allthat. the birds sing just as happily in mygarden. and to-night i am to dine with you, andthen go on to the opera, and sup somewhere, i suppose, afterwards.how extraordinarily dramatic life is! if i had read all this in a book, harry, ithink i would have wept over it. somehow, now that it has happened actually,and to me, it seems far too wonderful for tears. here is the first passionate love-letter ihave ever written in my life. strange, that my first passionate love-letter should have been addressed to a dead

girl. can they feel, i wonder, those white silentpeople we call the dead? sibyl!can she feel, or know, or listen? oh, harry, how i loved her once! it seems years ago to me now.she was everything to me. then came that dreadful night--was itreally only last night?--when she played so badly, and my heart almost broke. she explained it all to me.it was terribly pathetic. but i was not moved a bit.i thought her shallow.

suddenly something happened that made meafraid. i can't tell you what it was, but it wasterrible. i said i would go back to her. i felt i had done wrong.and now she is dead. my god!my god! harry, what shall i do? you don't know the danger i am in, andthere is nothing to keep me straight. she would have done that for me.she had no right to kill herself. it was selfish of her."

"my dear dorian," answered lord henry,taking a cigarette from his case and producing a gold-latten matchbox, "the onlyway a woman can ever reform a man is by boring him so completely that he loses allpossible interest in life. if you had married this girl, you wouldhave been wretched. of course, you would have treated herkindly. one can always be kind to people about whomone cares nothing. but she would have soon found out that youwere absolutely indifferent to her. and when a woman finds that out about herhusband, she either becomes dreadfully dowdy, or wears very smart bonnets thatsome other woman's husband has to pay for.

i say nothing about the social mistake,which would have been abject--which, of course, i would not have allowed--but iassure you that in any case the whole thing would have been an absolute failure." "i suppose it would," muttered the lad,walking up and down the room and looking horribly pale."but i thought it was my duty. it is not my fault that this terribletragedy has prevented my doing what was right. i remember your saying once that there is afatality about good resolutions--that they are always made too late.mine certainly were."

"good resolutions are useless attempts tointerfere with scientific laws. their origin is pure vanity.their result is absolutely nil. they give us, now and then, some of thoseluxurious sterile emotions that have a certain charm for the weak.that is all that can be said for them. they are simply cheques that men draw on abank where they have no account." "harry," cried dorian gray, coming over andsitting down beside him, "why is it that i cannot feel this tragedy as much as i wantto? i don't think i am heartless. do you?""you have done too many foolish things

during the last fortnight to be entitled togive yourself that name, dorian," answered lord henry with his sweet melancholy smile. the lad frowned."i don't like that explanation, harry," he rejoined, "but i am glad you don't think iam heartless. i am nothing of the kind. i know i am not.and yet i must admit that this thing that has happened does not affect me as itshould. it seems to me to be simply like awonderful ending to a wonderful play. it has all the terrible beauty of a greektragedy, a tragedy in which i took a great

part, but by which i have not beenwounded." "it is an interesting question," said lordhenry, who found an exquisite pleasure in playing on the lad's unconscious egotism,"an extremely interesting question. i fancy that the true explanation is this:it often happens that the real tragedies of life occur in such an inartistic mannerthat they hurt us by their crude violence, their absolute incoherence, their absurd want of meaning, their entire lack ofstyle. they affect us just as vulgarity affectsus. they give us an impression of sheer bruteforce, and we revolt against that.

sometimes, however, a tragedy thatpossesses artistic elements of beauty crosses our lives. if these elements of beauty are real, thewhole thing simply appeals to our sense of dramatic effect.suddenly we find that we are no longer the actors, but the spectators of the play. or rather we are both.we watch ourselves, and the mere wonder of the spectacle enthralls us.in the present case, what is it that has really happened? some one has killed herself for love ofyou.

i wish that i had ever had such anexperience. it would have made me in love with love forthe rest of my life. the people who have adored me--there havenot been very many, but there have been some--have always insisted on living on,long after i had ceased to care for them, or they to care for me. they have become stout and tedious, andwhen i meet them, they go in at once for reminiscences.that awful memory of woman! what a fearful thing it is! and what an utter intellectual stagnationit reveals!

one should absorb the colour of life, butone should never remember its details. details are always vulgar." "i must sow poppies in my garden," sigheddorian. "there is no necessity," rejoined hiscompanion. "life has always poppies in her hands. of course, now and then things linger.i once wore nothing but violets all through one season, as a form of artistic mourningfor a romance that would not die. ultimately, however, it did die. i forget what killed it.i think it was her proposing to sacrifice

the whole world for me.that is always a dreadful moment. it fills one with the terror of eternity. well--would you believe it?--a week ago, atlady hampshire's, i found myself seated at dinner next the lady in question, and sheinsisted on going over the whole thing again, and digging up the past, and rakingup the future. i had buried my romance in a bed ofasphodel. she dragged it out again and assured methat i had spoiled her life. i am bound to state that she ate anenormous dinner, so i did not feel any anxiety.

but what a lack of taste she showed!the one charm of the past is that it is the past.but women never know when the curtain has fallen. they always want a sixth act, and as soonas the interest of the play is entirely over, they propose to continue it. if they were allowed their own way, everycomedy would have a tragic ending, and every tragedy would culminate in a farce.they are charmingly artificial, but they have no sense of art. you are more fortunate than i am.i assure you, dorian, that not one of the

women i have known would have done for mewhat sibyl vane did for you. ordinary women always console themselves. some of them do it by going in forsentimental colours. never trust a woman who wears mauve,whatever her age may be, or a woman over thirty-five who is fond of pink ribbons. it always means that they have a history.others find a great consolation in suddenly discovering the good qualities of theirhusbands. they flaunt their conjugal felicity inone's face, as if it were the most fascinating of sins.religion consoles some.

its mysteries have all the charm of aflirtation, a woman once told me, and i can quite understand it.besides, nothing makes one so vain as being told that one is a sinner. conscience makes egotists of us all.yes; there is really no end to the consolations that women find in modernlife. indeed, i have not mentioned the mostimportant one." "what is that, harry?" said the ladlistlessly. "oh, the obvious consolation. taking some one else's admirer when oneloses one's own.

in good society that always whitewashes awoman. but really, dorian, how different sibylvane must have been from all the women one meets!there is something to me quite beautiful about her death. i am glad i am living in a century whensuch wonders happen. they make one believe in the reality of thethings we all play with, such as romance, passion, and love." "i was terribly cruel to her.you forget that." "i am afraid that women appreciate cruelty,downright cruelty, more than anything else.

they have wonderfully primitive instincts. we have emancipated them, but they remainslaves looking for their masters, all the same.they love being dominated. i am sure you were splendid. i have never seen you really and absolutelyangry, but i can fancy how delightful you looked. and, after all, you said something to methe day before yesterday that seemed to me at the time to be merely fanciful, but thati see now was absolutely true, and it holds the key to everything."

"what was that, harry?" "you said to me that sibyl vane representedto you all the heroines of romance--that she was desdemona one night, and opheliathe other; that if she died as juliet, she came to life as imogen." "she will never come to life again now,"muttered the lad, burying his face in his hands."no, she will never come to life. she has played her last part. but you must think of that lonely death inthe tawdry dressing-room simply as a strange lurid fragment from some jacobeantragedy, as a wonderful scene from webster,

or ford, or cyril tourneur. the girl never really lived, and so she hasnever really died. to you at least she was always a dream, aphantom that flitted through shakespeare's plays and left them lovelier for itspresence, a reed through which shakespeare's music sounded richer and morefull of joy. the moment she touched actual life, shemarred it, and it marred her, and so she passed away. mourn for ophelia, if you like.put ashes on your head because cordelia was strangled.cry out against heaven because the daughter

of brabantio died. but don't waste your tears over sibyl vane.she was less real than they are." there was a silence.the evening darkened in the room. noiselessly, and with silver feet, theshadows crept in from the garden. the colours faded wearily out of things.after some time dorian gray looked up. "you have explained me to myself, harry,"he murmured with something of a sigh of relief. "i felt all that you have said, but somehowi was afraid of it, and i could not express it to myself.how well you know me!

but we will not talk again of what hashappened. it has been a marvellous experience.that is all. i wonder if life has still in store for meanything as marvellous." "life has everything in store for you,dorian. there is nothing that you, with yourextraordinary good looks, will not be able to do.""but suppose, harry, i became haggard, and old, and wrinkled? what then?""ah, then," said lord henry, rising to go, "then, my dear dorian, you would have tofight for your victories.

as it is, they are brought to you. no, you must keep your good looks.we live in an age that reads too much to be wise, and that thinks too much to bebeautiful. we cannot spare you. and now you had better dress and drive downto the club. we are rather late, as it is.""i think i shall join you at the opera, harry. i feel too tired to eat anything.what is the number of your sister's box?" "twenty-seven, i believe.it is on the grand tier.

you will see her name on the door. but i am sorry you won't come and dine.""i don't feel up to it," said dorian listlessly."but i am awfully obliged to you for all that you have said to me. you are certainly my best friend.no one has ever understood me as you have." "we are only at the beginning of ourfriendship, dorian," answered lord henry, shaking him by the hand. "good-bye.i shall see you before nine-thirty, i hope. remember, patti is singing."

as he closed the door behind him, doriangray touched the bell, and in a few minutes victor appeared with the lamps and drew theblinds down. he waited impatiently for him to go. the man seemed to take an interminable timeover everything. as soon as he had left, he rushed to thescreen and drew it back. no; there was no further change in thepicture. it had received the news of sibyl vane'sdeath before he had known of it himself. it was conscious of the events of life asthey occurred. the vicious cruelty that marred the finelines of the mouth had, no doubt, appeared

at the very moment that the girl had drunkthe poison, whatever it was. or was it indifferent to results? did it merely take cognizance of whatpassed within the soul? he wondered, and hoped that some day hewould see the change taking place before his very eyes, shuddering as he hoped it. poor sibyl!what a romance it had all been! she had often mimicked death on the stage.then death himself had touched her and taken her with him. how had she played that dreadful lastscene?

had she cursed him, as she died?no; she had died for love of him, and love would always be a sacrament to him now. she had atoned for everything by thesacrifice she had made of her life. he would not think any more of what she hadmade him go through, on that horrible night at the theatre. when he thought of her, it would be as awonderful tragic figure sent on to the world's stage to show the supreme realityof love. a wonderful tragic figure? tears came to his eyes as he remembered herchildlike look, and winsome fanciful ways,

and shy tremulous grace.he brushed them away hastily and looked again at the picture. he felt that the time had really come formaking his choice. or had his choice already been made?yes, life had decided that for him--life, and his own infinite curiosity about life. eternal youth, infinite passion, pleasuressubtle and secret, wild joys and wilder sins--he was to have all these things.the portrait was to bear the burden of his shame: that was all. a feeling of pain crept over him as hethought of the desecration that was in

store for the fair face on the canvas. once, in boyish mockery of narcissus, hehad kissed, or feigned to kiss, those painted lips that now smiled so cruelly athim. morning after morning he had sat before theportrait wondering at its beauty, almost enamoured of it, as it seemed to him attimes. was it to alter now with every mood towhich he yielded? was it to become a monstrous and loathsomething, to be hidden away in a locked room, to be shut out from the sunlight that hadso often touched to brighter gold the waving wonder of its hair?

the pity of it! the pity of it!for a moment, he thought of praying that the horrible sympathy that existed betweenhim and the picture might cease. it had changed in answer to a prayer;perhaps in answer to a prayer it might remain unchanged. and yet, who, that knew anything aboutlife, would surrender the chance of remaining always young, however fantasticthat chance might be, or with what fateful consequences it might be fraught? besides, was it really under his control?had it indeed been prayer that had produced the substitution?might there not be some curious scientific

reason for it all? if thought could exercise its influenceupon a living organism, might not thought exercise an influence upon dead andinorganic things? nay, without thought or conscious desire,might not things external to ourselves vibrate in unison with our moods andpassions, atom calling to atom in secret love or strange affinity? but the reason was of no importance.he would never again tempt by a prayer any terrible power.if the picture was to alter, it was to alter.

that was all.why inquire too closely into it? for there would be a real pleasure inwatching it. he would be able to follow his mind intoits secret places. this portrait would be to him the mostmagical of mirrors. as it had revealed to him his own body, soit would reveal to him his own soul. and when winter came upon it, he wouldstill be standing where spring trembles on the verge of summer. when the blood crept from its face, andleft behind a pallid mask of chalk with leaden eyes, he would keep the glamour ofboyhood.

not one blossom of his loveliness wouldever fade. not one pulse of his life would everweaken. like the gods of the greeks, he would bestrong, and fleet, and joyous. what did it matter what happened to thecoloured image on the canvas? he would be safe. that was everything. he drew the screen back into its formerplace in front of the picture, smiling as he did so, and passed into his bedroom,where his valet was already waiting for him.

an hour later he was at the opera, and lordhenry was leaning over his chair. chapter 9 as he was sitting at breakfast nextmorning, basil hallward was shown into the room."i am so glad i have found you, dorian," he said gravely. "i called last night, and they told me youwere at the opera. of course, i knew that was impossible.but i wish you had left word where you had really gone to. i passed a dreadful evening, half afraidthat one tragedy might be followed by

another.i think you might have telegraphed for me when you heard of it first. i read of it quite by chance in a lateedition of the globe that i picked up at the club.i came here at once and was miserable at not finding you. i can't tell you how heart-broken i amabout the whole thing. i know what you must suffer.but where were you? did you go down and see the girl's mother? for a moment i thought of following youthere.

they gave the address in the paper.somewhere in the euston road, isn't it? but i was afraid of intruding upon a sorrowthat i could not lighten. poor woman!what a state she must be in! and her only child, too! what did she say about it all?" "my dear basil, how do i know?" murmureddorian gray, sipping some pale-yellow wine from a delicate, gold-beaded bubble ofvenetian glass and looking dreadfully bored. "i was at the opera.you should have come on there.

i met lady gwendolen, harry's sister, forthe first time. we were in her box. she is perfectly charming; and patti sangdivinely. don't talk about horrid subjects.if one doesn't talk about a thing, it has never happened. it is simply expression, as harry says,that gives reality to things. i may mention that she was not the woman'sonly child. there is a son, a charming fellow, ibelieve. but he is not on the stage.he is a sailor, or something.

and now, tell me about yourself and whatyou are painting." "you went to the opera?" said hallward,speaking very slowly and with a strained touch of pain in his voice. "you went to the opera while sibyl vane waslying dead in some sordid lodging? you can talk to me of other women beingcharming, and of patti singing divinely, before the girl you loved has even thequiet of a grave to sleep in? why, man, there are horrors in store forthat little white body of hers!" "stop, basil!i won't hear it!" cried dorian, leaping to his feet.

"you must not tell me about things.what is done is done. what is past is past.""you call yesterday the past?" "what has the actual lapse of time got todo with it? it is only shallow people who require yearsto get rid of an emotion. a man who is master of himself can end asorrow as easily as he can invent a pleasure.i don't want to be at the mercy of my emotions. i want to use them, to enjoy them, and todominate them." "dorian, this is horrible!something has changed you completely.

you look exactly the same wonderful boywho, day after day, used to come down to my studio to sit for his picture.but you were simple, natural, and affectionate then. you were the most unspoiled creature in thewhole world. now, i don't know what has come over you.you talk as if you had no heart, no pity in it is all harry's influence.i see that." the lad flushed up and, going to thewindow, looked out for a few moments on the green, flickering, sun-lashed garden. "i owe a great deal to harry, basil," hesaid at last, "more than i owe to you.

you only taught me to be vain.""well, i am punished for that, dorian--or shall be some day." "i don't know what you mean, basil," heexclaimed, turning round. "i don't know what you want.what do you want?" "i want the dorian gray i used to paint,"said the artist sadly. "basil," said the lad, going over to himand putting his hand on his shoulder, "you have come too late. yesterday, when i heard that sibyl vane hadkilled herself--" "killed herself!

good heavens! is there no doubt aboutthat?" cried hallward, looking up at him with an expression of horror."my dear basil! surely you don't think it was a vulgaraccident? of course she killed herself."the elder man buried his face in his hands. "how fearful," he muttered, and a shudderran through him. "no," said dorian gray, "there is nothingfearful about it. it is one of the great romantic tragediesof the age. as a rule, people who act lead the mostcommonplace lives. they are good husbands, or faithful wives,or something tedious.

you know what i mean--middle-class virtueand all that kind of thing. how different sibyl was! she lived her finest tragedy.she was always a heroine. the last night she played--the night yousaw her--she acted badly because she had known the reality of love. when she knew its unreality, she died, asjuliet might have died. she passed again into the sphere of art.there is something of the martyr about her. her death has all the pathetic uselessnessof martyrdom, all its wasted beauty. but, as i was saying, you must not think ihave not suffered.

if you had come in yesterday at aparticular moment--about half-past five, perhaps, or a quarter to six--you wouldhave found me in tears. even harry, who was here, who brought methe news, in fact, had no idea what i was going through.i suffered immensely. then it passed away. i cannot repeat an emotion.no one can, except sentimentalists. and you are awfully unjust, basil.you come down here to console me. that is charming of you. you find me consoled, and you are furious.how like a sympathetic person!

you remind me of a story harry told meabout a certain philanthropist who spent twenty years of his life in trying to getsome grievance redressed, or some unjust law altered--i forget exactly what it was. finally he succeeded, and nothing couldexceed his disappointment. he had absolutely nothing to do, almostdied of ennui, and became a confirmed misanthrope. and besides, my dear old basil, if youreally want to console me, teach me rather to forget what has happened, or to see itfrom a proper artistic point of view. was it not gautier who used to write aboutla consolation des arts?

i remember picking up a little vellum-covered book in your studio one day and chancing on that delightful phrase. well, i am not like that young man you toldme of when we were down at marlow together, the young man who used to say that yellowsatin could console one for all the miseries of life. i love beautiful things that one can touchand handle. old brocades, green bronzes, lacquer-work,carved ivories, exquisite surroundings, luxury, pomp--there is much to be got fromall these. but the artistic temperament that theycreate, or at any rate reveal, is still

more to me. to become the spectator of one's own life,as harry says, is to escape the suffering of life.i know you are surprised at my talking to you like this. you have not realized how i have developed.i was a schoolboy when you knew me. i am a man now.i have new passions, new thoughts, new ideas. i am different, but you must not like meless. i am changed, but you must always be myfriend.

of course, i am very fond of harry. but i know that you are better than he is.you are not stronger--you are too much afraid of life--but you are better.and how happy we used to be together! don't leave me, basil, and don't quarrelwith me. i am what i am.there is nothing more to be said." the painter felt strangely moved. the lad was infinitely dear to him, and hispersonality had been the great turning point in his art.he could not bear the idea of reproaching him any more.

after all, his indifference was probablymerely a mood that would pass away. there was so much in him that was good, somuch in him that was noble. "well, dorian," he said at length, with asad smile, "i won't speak to you again about this horrible thing, after to-day.i only trust your name won't be mentioned in connection with it. the inquest is to take place thisafternoon. have they summoned you?" dorian shook his head, and a look ofannoyance passed over his face at the mention of the word "inquest."there was something so crude and vulgar

about everything of the kind. "they don't know my name," he answered."but surely she did?" "only my christian name, and that i amquite sure she never mentioned to any one. she told me once that they were all rathercurious to learn who i was, and that she invariably told them my name was princecharming. it was pretty of her. you must do me a drawing of sibyl, basil.i should like to have something more of her than the memory of a few kisses and somebroken pathetic words." "i will try and do something, dorian, if itwould please you.

but you must come and sit to me yourselfagain. i can't get on without you." "i can never sit to you again, basil.it is impossible!" he exclaimed, starting back.the painter stared at him. "my dear boy, what nonsense!" he cried. "do you mean to say you don't like what idid of you? where is it?why have you pulled the screen in front of it? let me look at it.it is the best thing i have ever done.

do take the screen away, dorian.it is simply disgraceful of your servant hiding my work like that. i felt the room looked different as i camein." "my servant has nothing to do with it,basil. you don't imagine i let him arrange my roomfor me? he settles my flowers for me sometimes--that is all. no; i did it myself. the light was too strong on the portrait.""too strong! surely not, my dear fellow?it is an admirable place for it.

let me see it." and hallward walked towards the corner ofthe room. a cry of terror broke from dorian gray'slips, and he rushed between the painter and the screen. "basil," he said, looking very pale, "youmust not look at it. i don't wish you to.""not look at my own work! you are not serious. why shouldn't i look at it?" exclaimedhallward, laughing. "if you try to look at it, basil, on myword of honour i will never speak to you

again as long as i live. i am quite serious.i don't offer any explanation, and you are not to ask for any.but, remember, if you touch this screen, everything is over between us." hallward was thunderstruck.he looked at dorian gray in absolute amazement.he had never seen him like this before. the lad was actually pallid with rage. his hands were clenched, and the pupils ofhis eyes were like disks of blue fire. he was trembling all over."dorian!"

"don't speak!" "but what is the matter?of course i won't look at it if you don't want me to," he said, rather coldly,turning on his heel and going over towards the window. "but, really, it seems rather absurd that ishouldn't see my own work, especially as i am going to exhibit it in paris in theautumn. i shall probably have to give it anothercoat of varnish before that, so i must see it some day, and why not to-day?""to exhibit it! you want to exhibit it?" exclaimed doriangray, a strange sense of terror creeping

over him.was the world going to be shown his secret? were people to gape at the mystery of hislife? that was impossible.something--he did not know what--had to be done at once. "yes; i don't suppose you will object tothat. georges petit is going to collect all mybest pictures for a special exhibition in the rue de seze, which will open the firstweek in october. the portrait will only be away a month. i should think you could easily spare itfor that time.

in fact, you are sure to be out of town.and if you keep it always behind a screen, you can't care much about it." dorian gray passed his hand over hisforehead. there were beads of perspiration there.he felt that he was on the brink of a horrible danger. "you told me a month ago that you wouldnever exhibit it," he cried. "why have you changed your mind?you people who go in for being consistent have just as many moods as others have. the only difference is that your moods arerather meaningless.

you can't have forgotten that you assuredme most solemnly that nothing in the world would induce you to send it to anyexhibition. you told harry exactly the same thing." he stopped suddenly, and a gleam of lightcame into his eyes. he remembered that lord henry had said tohim once, half seriously and half in jest, "if you want to have a strange quarter ofan hour, get basil to tell you why he won't exhibit your picture. he told me why he wouldn't, and it was arevelation to me." yes, perhaps basil, too, had his secret.he would ask him and try.

"basil," he said, coming over quite closeand looking him straight in the face, "we have each of us a secret.let me know yours, and i shall tell you mine. what was your reason for refusing toexhibit my picture?" the painter shuddered in spite of himself. "dorian, if i told you, you might like meless than you do, and you would certainly laugh at me.i could not bear your doing either of those two things. if you wish me never to look at yourpicture again, i am content.

i have always you to look at. if you wish the best work i have ever doneto be hidden from the world, i am satisfied.your friendship is dearer to me than any fame or reputation." "no, basil, you must tell me," insisteddorian gray. "i think i have a right to know."his feeling of terror had passed away, and curiosity had taken its place. he was determined to find out basilhallward's mystery. "let us sit down, dorian," said thepainter, looking troubled.

"let us sit down. and just answer me one question.have you noticed in the picture something curious?--something that probably at firstdid not strike you, but that revealed itself to you suddenly?" "basil!" cried the lad, clutching the armsof his chair with trembling hands and gazing at him with wild startled eyes."i see you did. don't speak. wait till you hear what i have to say.dorian, from the moment i met you, your personality had the most extraordinaryinfluence over me.

i was dominated, soul, brain, and power, byyou. you became to me the visible incarnation ofthat unseen ideal whose memory haunts us artists like an exquisite dream. i worshipped you.i grew jealous of every one to whom you spoke.i wanted to have you all to myself. i was only happy when i was with you. when you were away from me, you were stillpresent in my art.... of course, i never let you know anythingabout this. it would have been impossible.

you would not have understood it.i hardly understood it myself. i only knew that i had seen perfection faceto face, and that the world had become wonderful to my eyes--too wonderful,perhaps, for in such mad worships there is peril, the peril of losing them, no lessthan the peril of keeping them.... weeks and weeks went on, and i grew moreand more absorbed in you. then came a new development. i had drawn you as paris in dainty armour,and as adonis with huntsman's cloak and polished boar-spear. crowned with heavy lotus-blossoms you hadsat on the prow of adrian's barge, gazing

across the green turbid nile. you had leaned over the still pool of somegreek woodland and seen in the water's silent silver the marvel of your own face.and it had all been what art should be-- unconscious, ideal, and remote. one day, a fatal day i sometimes think, idetermined to paint a wonderful portrait of you as you actually are, not in the costumeof dead ages, but in your own dress and in your own time. whether it was the realism of the method,or the mere wonder of your own personality, thus directly presented to me without mistor veil, i cannot tell.

but i know that as i worked at it, everyflake and film of colour seemed to me to reveal my secret.i grew afraid that others would know of my idolatry. i felt, dorian, that i had told too much,that i had put too much of myself into it. then it was that i resolved never to allowthe picture to be exhibited. you were a little annoyed; but then you didnot realize all that it meant to me. harry, to whom i talked about it, laughedat me. but i did not mind that. when the picture was finished, and i satalone with it, i felt that i was right....

well, after a few days the thing left mystudio, and as soon as i had got rid of the intolerable fascination of its presence, itseemed to me that i had been foolish in imagining that i had seen anything in it, more than that you were extremely good-looking and that i could paint. even now i cannot help feeling that it is amistake to think that the passion one feels in creation is ever really shown in thework one creates. art is always more abstract than we fancy. form and colour tell us of form and colour--that is all. it often seems to me that art conceals theartist far more completely than it ever

reveals him. and so when i got this offer from paris, idetermined to make your portrait the principal thing in my exhibition.it never occurred to me that you would refuse. i see now that you were right.the picture cannot be shown. you must not be angry with me, dorian, forwhat i have told you. as i said to harry, once, you are made tobe worshipped." dorian gray drew a long breath.the colour came back to his cheeks, and a smile played about his lips.

the peril was over.he was safe for the time. yet he could not help feeling infinite pityfor the painter who had just made this strange confession to him, and wondered ifhe himself would ever be so dominated by the personality of a friend. lord henry had the charm of being verydangerous. but that was all.he was too clever and too cynical to be really fond of. would there ever be some one who would fillhim with a strange idolatry? was that one of the things that life had instore?

"it is extraordinary to me, dorian," saidhallward, "that you should have seen this in the portrait.did you really see it?" "i saw something in it," he answered,"something that seemed to me very curious." "well, you don't mind my looking at thething now?" dorian shook his head. "you must not ask me that, basil.i could not possibly let you stand in front of that picture.""you will some day, surely?" "never." "well, perhaps you are right.and now good-bye, dorian.

you have been the one person in my life whohas really influenced my art. whatever i have done that is good, i owe toyou. ah! you don't know what it cost me to tellyou all that i have told you." "my dear basil," said dorian, "what haveyou told me? simply that you felt that you admired metoo much. that is not even a compliment." "it was not intended as a compliment.it was a confession. now that i have made it, something seems tohave gone out of me. perhaps one should never put one's worshipinto words."

"it was a very disappointing confession.""why, what did you expect, dorian? you didn't see anything else in thepicture, did you? there was nothing else to see?""no; there was nothing else to see. why do you ask? but you mustn't talk about worship.it is foolish. you and i are friends, basil, and we mustalways remain so." "you have got harry," said the paintersadly. "oh, harry!" cried the lad, with a rippleof laughter. "harry spends his days in saying what isincredible and his evenings in doing what

is improbable.just the sort of life i would like to lead. but still i don't think i would go to harryif i were in trouble. i would sooner go to you, basil.""you will sit to me again?" "you spoil my life as an artist byrefusing, dorian. no man comes across two ideal things.few come across one." "i can't explain it to you, basil, but imust never sit to you again. there is something fatal about a portrait.it has a life of its own. i will come and have tea with you. that will be just as pleasant.""pleasanter for you, i am afraid," murmured

hallward regretfully."and now good-bye. i am sorry you won't let me look at thepicture once again. but that can't be helped.i quite understand what you feel about it." as he left the room, dorian gray smiled tohimself. poor basil!how little he knew of the true reason! and how strange it was that, instead ofhaving been forced to reveal his own secret, he had succeeded, almost by chance,in wresting a secret from his friend! how much that strange confession explainedto him! the painter's absurd fits of jealousy, hiswild devotion, his extravagant panegyrics,

his curious reticences--he understood themall now, and he felt sorry. there seemed to him to be something tragicin a friendship so coloured by romance. he sighed and touched the bell.the portrait must be hidden away at all costs. he could not run such a risk of discoveryagain. it had been mad of him to have allowed thething to remain, even for an hour, in a room to which any of his friends hadaccess.

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