“To be good is to be in harmony with one’s self,” he replied,touching the thin stem of his glass with his pale, fine-pointed fingers.“Discord is to be forced to be in harmony with others. One’s own life—that is the important thing.As for the lives of one’s neighbours, if one 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 the higher aim.Modern morality consists in accepting the standard of one’s age.I consider that for any man of culture to accept the standard of his age is a form of the grossest immorality. ”
“But, surely, if one lives merely for one’s self, 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 the poor 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 “My dear fellow, mediæval art is charming,but mediæval emotions are out of date. One can use them in fiction, of course.But then the only things that one can use in fiction are the things that one has ceased to use in fact.Believe me, no civilized man ever regrets a pleasure,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 some fruits.“Being adored is a nuisance. Women treat us just as humanity treats its gods. They worship us,and are always bothering us to do something for them.”
“I should have said that whatever they ask for 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,” cried Hallward.
“Nothing is ever quite true,” said Lord Henry.
“This is,” interrupted Dorian. “You must admit, Harry,that women give to men the very gold of their lives.”
“Possibly,” he sighed, “but they invariably want 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 from carrying 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 a perfect pleasure. It is exquisite,and it leaves one unsatisfied. 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 the lad, taking a light from a fire-breathing silver dragon that the waiter had placed on the table.“Let us go down to the theatre. When Sibyl comes on the stage you will have a new ideal of life.She will represent something to you that you 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 only room 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 it seemed to him to be better than many other things that might have happened.After a few minutes, they all passed downstairs. He drove off by himself, as had been arranged,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 flaring streets became blurred to his eyes. When the cab drew up at the theatre,it seemed to him that he had grown years older.
CHAPTER VII.
For some reason or other, the house was crowded that night,and the fat Jew manager who met them at the door was beaming from ear to ear with an oily tremulous smile.He escorted them to their box with a sort of pompous humility,waving his fat jewelled hands and talking at the top of his voice.Dorian Gray loathed him more than ever.He felt as if he had come to look for Miranda and had been met by Caliban. Lord Henry,upon the other hand, rather liked him. At least he declared he did,and insisted on shaking him by the hand and assuring him that he was proud to meet a man who had discovered a real genius and gone bankrupt over a poet.Hallward amused himself with watching the faces in the pit. The heat was terribly oppressive,and the huge sunlight flamed like a monstrous dahlia with petals of yellow fire.The youths in the gallery had taken off their coats and waistcoats and hung them over the side.They talked to each other across the theatre and shared their oranges with the tawdry girls who sat beside them.Some women were laughing in the pit. Their voices were horribly shrill and discordant.The sound of the popping of corks came from the bar.
“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, become quite different when she is on the stage.They sit silently and watch her. They weep and laugh as she wills them to do.She makes them as responsive as a violin. She spiritualizes them,and one feels that they are of the same flesh and blood as one’s self.”
“The same flesh and blood as one’s self!Oh, I hope not!” exclaimed Lord Henry, who was scanning the occupants of the gallery through his opera-glass.
“Don’t pay any attention to him, Dorian,” said the painter. “I understand what you mean,and I believe in this girl. Any one you love must be marvellous,and any girl who has the effect you describe must be fine and noble.To spiritualize one’s age—that is something worth doing.If this girl can give a soul to those who have lived without one,if she can create the sense of beauty in people whose lives have been sordid and ugly,if she can strip them of their selfishness and lend them tears for sorrows that are not their own,she is worthy of all your adoration, worthy of the adoration of the world.This marriage is quite right. I did not think so at first, but I admit it now.The gods made Sibyl Vane for you. Without her you would have been incomplete.”
“Thanks, Basil,” answered Dorian Gray, pressing his hand. “I knew that you would understand me.Harry is so cynical, he terrifies me. But here is the orchestra. It is quite dreadful,but it only lasts for about five minutes. Then the curtain rises,and you will see the girl to whom I am going to give all my life,to whom I have given everything that is good in me.”
A quarter of an hour afterwards, amidst an extraordinary turmoil of applause,Sibyl Vane stepped on to the stage. Yes,she was certainly lovely to look at—one of the loveliest creatures, Lord Henry thought,that he had ever seen. There was something of the fawn in her shy grace and startled eyes.A faint blush, like the shadow of a rose in a mirror of silver,came to her cheeks as she glanced at the crowded enthusiastic house.She stepped back a few paces and her lips seemed to tremble.Basil Hallward leaped to his feet and began to applaud. Motionless, and as one in a dream,sat Dorian Gray, gazing at her. Lord Henry peered through his glasses, murmuring, “Charming!charming!”
The scene was the hall of Capulet’s house,and Romeo in his pilgrim’s dress had entered with Mercutio and his other friends. The band,such as it was, struck up a few bars of music, and the dance began. Through the crowd of ungainly,shabbily dressed actors, Sibyl Vane moved like a creature from a finer world. Her body swayed,while she danced, as a plant sways in the water.The curves of her throat were the curves of a white lily.Her hands seemed to be made of cool ivory.
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 too much, 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 thoroughly artificial manner.The voice was exquisite, but from the point of view of tone it was absolutely false.It was wrong in colour. It took away all the life from the verse. It made the passion unreal.
Dorian Gray grew pale as he watched her. He was puzzled and anxious.Neither of his friends dared to say anything to him.She seemed to them to be absolutely incompetent. They were horribly disappointed.
Yet they felt that the true test of any Juliet is the balcony scene of the second act.They waited for that. If she failed there, there was nothing in her.
She looked charming as she came out in the moonlight. That could not be denied.But the staginess of her acting was unbearable, and grew worse as she went on.Her gestures became absurdly artificial. She overemphasized everything that she had to say. The beautiful passage—
Thou knowest the mask of night is on my face,Else would a maiden blush bepaint my cheek For that which thou hast heard me speak to-night—
was declaimed with the painful precision of a schoolgirl who has been taught to recite by some second-rate professor of elocution.When she leaned over the balcony and came to those wonderful lines—
Although I joy in thee, I have no joy of this contract to-night: It is too rash, too unadvised,too sudden; Too like the lightning, 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 when next 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 the pit and gallery lost their interest in the play.They got restless, and began to talk loudly and to whistle. The Jew manager,who was standing at the back of the dress-circle, stamped and swore with rage.The only person unmoved was the girl herself.
When the second act was over, there came a storm of hisses,and Lord Henry got up from his chair and put on his coat. “She is quite beautiful, Dorian,” he said, “but she can’t act. Let us go.”
“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 callous and cold.She has entirely altered. Last night she was a great artist.This evening she is merely a commonplace mediocre actress.”
“Don’t talk like that about any one you love, 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 bad acting. Besides,I don’t suppose you will want your wife to act,so what does it matter if she plays Juliet like a wooden doll?She is very lovely, and if she knows as little about life as she does about acting,she will be a delightful experience. There are only two kinds of people who are really fascinating—people who know absolutely everything,and people who know absolutely nothing. Good heavens, my dear boy, don’t look so tragic!The secret of remaining young is never to have an emotion that is unbecoming.Come to the club with Basil and myself.We will smoke cigarettes and drink to the beauty of Sibyl Vane. She is beautiful. What more can you want?”
“Go away, Harry,” cried the lad. “I want to be alone. Basil, you must go. Ah!can’t you see that my heart is breaking?” The hot tears came to his eyes. His lips trembled, and rushing to the back of the box,he leaned up against the wall, hiding his face in his hands.
“Let us go, Basil,” said Lord Henry with a strange tenderness in his voice,and the two young men passed out together.
A few moments afterwards the footlights flared up and the curtain rose on the third act.Dorian Gray went back to his seat. He looked pale, and proud, and indifferent. The play dragged on,and seemed interminable. Half of the audience went out, tramping in heavy boots and laughing.The whole thing was a _fiasco_. The last act was played to almost empty benches.The curtain went down on a titter and some groans.
As soon as it was over, Dorian Gray rushed behind the scenes into the greenroom.The girl was standing there alone, with a look of triumph on her face.Her eyes were lit with an exquisite fire. There was a radiance about her.Her parted lips were smiling over some secret of their own.
When he entered, she looked at him, and an expression of infinite joy came over her. “How badly I acted to-night, Dorian!” she cried.
“Horribly!” he answered, gazing at her in amazement. “Horribly!It was dreadful. Are you ill?You have no idea what it was. You have no idea what I suffered.”
The girl smiled. “Dorian,” she answered, lingering over his name with long-drawn music in her voice,as though it were sweeter than honey to the red petals of her mouth. “Dorian,you should have understood. But you understand now, don’t you?”
“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 knew you, acting was the one reality of my life.It was only in the theatre that I lived. I thought that it was all true.I was Rosalind one night and Portia the other. The joy of Beatrice was my joy,and the sorrows of Cordelia were mine also. I believed in everything.The common people who acted with me seemed to me to be godlike. The painted scenes were my world.I knew nothing but shadows, and I thought them real. You came—oh, my beautiful love!—and you freed my soul from prison. You taught me what reality really is. To-night,for the first time in my life, I saw through the hollowness, the sham,the silliness of the empty pageant in which I had always played. To-night, for the first time,I became conscious that the Romeo was hideous, and old, and painted,that the moonlight in the orchard was false, that the scenery was vulgar,and that the words I had to speak were unreal, were not my words, were not what I wanted to say.You had brought me something higher, something of which all art is but a reflection.You had made me understand what love really is. My love!My love!Prince Charming!Prince of life!I have grown sick of shadows. You are more to me than all art can ever be.What have I to do with the puppets of a play?When I came on to-night, I could not understand how it was that everything had gone from me.I thought that I was going to be wonderful. I found that I could do nothing.Suddenly it dawned on my soul what it all meant. The knowledge was exquisite to me.I heard them hissing, and I smiled. What could they know of love such as ours?Take me away, Dorian—take me away with you, where we can be quite alone. I hate the stage.I might mimic a passion that I do not feel, but I cannot mimic one that burns me like fire. Oh,Dorian, Dorian, you understand now what it signifies?Even if I could do it, it would be profanation for me to play at being in love. You have made me see that.”
He flung himself down on the sofa and turned 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 little fingers stroked his hair. She knelt down and pressed his hands to her lips.He drew them away, and a shudder ran through him.
Then he leaped up and went to the door. “Yes,” he cried, “you have killed my love.You used to stir my imagination. Now you don’t even stir my curiosity.You simply produce no effect. I loved you because you were marvellous,because you had genius and intellect, because you realized the dreams of great poets and gave shape and substance to the shadows of art.You have thrown it all away. You are shallow and stupid. My God!how mad I was to love you!What a fool I have been!You are nothing to me now. I will never see you again. I will never think of you.I will never mention your name. You don’t know what you were to me, once. Why, once ... Oh, I can’t bear to think of it!I wish I had never laid eyes upon you!You have spoiled the romance of my life. How little you can know of love, if you say it mars your art!Without your art, you are nothing. I would have made you famous, splendid, magnificent.The world would have worshipped you, and you would have borne my name. What are you now?A third-rate actress with a pretty face.”
The girl grew white, and trembled. She clenched her hands together,and her voice seemed to catch in her throat. “You are not serious, Dorian?” she murmured. “You are acting.”
“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 across the room to him. She put her hand upon his arm and looked into his eyes. He thrust her back. “Don’t touch me!” he cried.
A low moan broke from her, and she flung herself at his feet and lay there like a trampled flower. “Dorian, Dorian, don’t leave me!” she whispered. “I am so sorry I didn’t act well. I was thinking of you all the time.But I will try—indeed, I will try. It came so suddenly across me, my love for you.I think I should never have known it if you had not kissed me—if we had not kissed each other.Kiss me again, my love. Don’t go away from me. I couldn’t bear it. Oh!don’t go away from me. My brother ... No; never mind. He didn’t mean it. He was in jest.... But you, oh!can’t you forgive me for to-night?I will work so hard and try to improve. Don’t be cruel to me,because I love you better than anything in the world. After all,it is only once that I have not pleased you. But you are quite right, Dorian.I should have shown myself more of an artist. It was foolish of me, and yet I couldn’t help it. Oh,don’t leave me, don’t leave me.” A fit of passionate sobbing choked her.She crouched on the floor like a wounded thing, and Dorian Gray, with his beautiful eyes,looked down at her, and his chiselled lips curled in exquisite disdain.There is always something ridiculous about the emotions of people whom one has ceased to love.Sibyl Vane seemed to him to be absurdly melodramatic. Her tears and sobs annoyed him.
“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 lit streets, past gaunt,black-shadowed archways and evil-looking houses.Women with hoarse voices and harsh laughter had called after him. Drunkards had reeled by,cursing and chattering to themselves like monstrous apes.He had seen grotesque children huddled upon door-steps,and heard shrieks and oaths from gloomy courts.
As the dawn was just breaking, he found himself close to Covent Garden. The darkness lifted, and,flushed with faint fires, the sky hollowed itself into a perfect pearl.Huge carts filled with nodding lilies rumbled slowly down the polished empty street.The air was heavy with the perfume of the flowers,and their beauty seemed to bring him an anodyne for his pain.He followed into the market and watched the men unloading their waggons.A white-smocked carter offered him some cherries. He thanked him,wondered why he refused to accept any money for them, and began to eat them listlessly.They had been plucked at midnight, and the coldness of the moon had entered into them.A long line of boys carrying crates of striped tulips, and of yellow and red roses,defiled in front of him, threading their way through the huge, jade-green piles of vegetables.Under the portico, with its grey, sun-bleached pillars,loitered a troop of draggled bareheaded girls, waiting for the auction to be over.Others crowded round the swinging doors of the coffee-house in the piazza.The heavy cart-horses slipped and stamped upon the rough stones, shaking their bells and trappings.Some of the drivers were lying asleep on a pile of sacks. Iris-necked and pink-footed, the pigeons ran about picking up seeds.
After a little while, he hailed a hansom and drove home.For a few moments he loitered upon the doorstep, looking round at the silent square,with its blank, close-shuttered windows and its staring blinds. The sky was pure opal now,and the roofs of the houses glistened like silver against it.From some chimney opposite a thin wreath of smoke was rising. It curled, a violet riband, through the nacre-coloured air.
In the huge gilt Venetian lantern, spoil of some Doge’s barge,that hung from the ceiling of the great, oak-panelled hall of entrance,lights were still burning from three flickering jets: thin blue petals of flame they seemed,rimmed with white fire. He turned them out and, having thrown his hat and cape on the table,passed through the library towards the door of his bedroom,a large octagonal chamber on the ground floor that, in his new-born feeling for luxury,he had just had decorated for himself and hung with some curious Renaissance tapestries that had been discovered stored in a disused attic at Selby Royal.As he was turning the handle of the door,his eye fell upon the portrait Basil Hallward had painted of him.He started back as if in surprise. Then he went on into his own room, looking somewhat puzzled.After he had taken the button-hole out of his coat, he seemed to hesitate. Finally, he came back,went over to the picture, and examined it.In the dim arrested light that struggled through the cream-coloured silk blinds,the face appeared to him to be a little changed. The expression looked different.One would have said that there was a touch of cruelty in the mouth. It was certainly strange.
He turned round and, walking to the window, drew up the blind.The bright dawn flooded the room and swept the fantastic shadows into dusky corners,where they lay shuddering. But the strange expression that he had noticed in the face of the portrait seemed to linger there,to be more intensified even. The quivering ardent sunlight showed him the lines of cruelty round the mouth as clearly as if he had been looking into a mirror after he had done some dreadful thing.
He winced and, taking up from the table an oval glass framed in ivory Cupids,one of Lord Henry’s many presents to him, glanced hurriedly into its polished depths.No line like that warped his red lips. What did it mean?
He rubbed his eyes, and came close to the picture, and examined it again.There were no signs of any change when he looked into the actual painting,and yet there was no doubt that the whole expression had altered.It was not a mere fancy of his own. The thing was horribly apparent.
He threw himself into a chair and began to think.Suddenly there flashed across his mind what he had said in Basil Hallward’s studio the day the picture had been finished.Yes, he remembered it perfectly. He had uttered a mad wish that he himself might remain young,and the portrait grow old; that his own beauty might be untarnished,and the face on the canvas bear the burden of his passions and his sins;that the painted image might be seared with the lines of suffering and thought,and that he might keep all the delicate bloom and loveliness of his then just conscious boyhood. Surely his wish had not been fulfilled?Such things were impossible. It seemed monstrous even to think of them. And, yet,there was the picture before him, with the touch of cruelty in the mouth.
Cruelty!Had he been cruel?It was the girl’s fault, not his. He had dreamed of her as a great artist,had given his love to her because he had thought her great. Then she had disappointed him.She had been shallow and unworthy. And, yet, a feeling of infinite regret came over him,as he thought of her lying at his feet sobbing like a little child.He remembered with what callousness he had watched her. Why had he been made like that?Why had such a soul been given to him?But he had suffered also. During the three terrible hours that the play had lasted,he had lived centuries of pain, aeon upon aeon of torture. His life was well worth hers.She had marred him for a moment, if he had wounded her for an age. Besides,women were better suited to bear sorrow than men. They lived on their emotions.They only thought of their emotions. When they took lovers,it was merely to have some one with whom they could have scenes. Lord Henry had told him that,and Lord Henry knew what women were. Why should he trouble about Sibyl Vane?She was nothing to him now.
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 brain that 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 beautiful marred face and its cruel smile.Its bright hair gleamed in the early sunlight. Its blue eyes met his own. A sense of infinite pity,not for himself, but for the painted image of himself, came over him. It had altered already,and would alter more. Its gold would wither into grey. Its red and white roses would die.For every sin that he committed, a stain would fleck and wreck its fairness. But he would not sin.The picture, changed or unchanged, would be to him the visible emblem of conscience.He would resist temptation. He would not see Lord Henry any more—would not, at any rate,listen to those subtle poisonous theories that in Basil Hallward’s garden had first stirred within him the passion for impossible things.He would go back to Sibyl Vane, make her amends, marry her, try to love her again. Yes,it was his duty to do so. She must have suffered more than he had. Poor child!He had been selfish and cruel to her. The fascination that she had exercised over him would return.They would be happy together. His life with her would be beautiful and pure.
He got up from his chair and drew a large screen right in front of the portrait,shuddering as he glanced at it. “How horrible!” he murmured to himself, and he walked across to the window and opened it.When he stepped out on to the grass, he drew a deep breath.The fresh morning air seemed to drive away all his sombre passions. He thought only of Sibyl.A faint echo of his love came back to him. He repeated her name over and over again.The birds that were singing in the dew-drenched garden seemed to be telling the flowers about her.
CHAPTER VIII.
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 came in softly with a cup of tea, and a pile of letters,on a small tray of old Sevres china, and drew back the olive-satin curtains,with their shimmering blue lining, that hung in front of the three tall windows.
“Monsieur has well slept this morning,” he said, smiling.
“What o’clock is it, Victor?” asked Dorian Gray drowsily.
“One hour and a quarter, Monsieur.”
How late it was!He sat up, and having sipped some tea, turned over his letters. One of them was from Lord Henry,and had been brought by hand that morning. He hesitated for a moment, and then put it aside.The others he opened listlessly. They contained the usual collection of cards,invitations to dinner, tickets for private views, programmes of charity concerts,and the like that are showered on fashionable young men every morning during the season.There was a rather heavy bill for a chased silver Louis-Quinze toilet-set that he had not yet had the courage to send on to his guardians,who were extremely old-fashioned people and did not realize that we live in an age when unnecessary things are our only necessities;and there were several very courteously worded communications from Jermyn Street money-lenders offering to advance any sum of money at a moment’s notice and at the most reasonable rates of interest.