| 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 came softly in 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 slept well 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 realise 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 . After about ten minutes he got up , and throwing on an elaborate dressing-gown of silk-embroidered cashmere wool , passed into the onyx-paved bathroom . The cool water refreshed him after his long sleep . He seemed to have forgotten all that he had gone through . A dim sense of having taken part in some strange tragedy came to him once or twice , but there was the unreality of a dream about it . As soon as he was dressed , he went into the library and sat down to a light French breakfast that had been laid out for him on a small round table close to the open window . 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 he started . " 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 imagination that 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 some day . It would make him smile . And yet , how vivid was his recollection of the whole thing ! First in the dim twilight , and then in the bright dawn , he had seen the touch of cruelty round the warped lips . He almost dreaded his valet leaving the room . He knew that when he was alone he would have to examine the portrait . He was afraid of certainty . When the coffee and cigarettes had been brought 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 , " he said with a sigh . The man bowed and retired . Then he rose from the table , lit a cigarette , and flung himself down on a luxuriously cushioned couch that stood facing the screen . The screen was an old one , of gilt Spanish leather , stamped and wrought with a rather florid Louis-Quatorze pattern . He scanned it curiously , wondering if ever before 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 deadlier chance , 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 , and always with no small wonder , he found himself at first gazing at the portrait with a feeling of almost scientific interest . That such a change should have taken place was incredible to him . And yet it was a fact . Was there some subtle affinity between the chemical atoms that shaped themselves into form and colour on the canvas and the soul that was within him ? Could it be that what that soul thought , they realised ? – that what it dreamed , they made true ? Or was there some other , more terrible reason ? He shuddered , and felt afraid , and , going back 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 , how cruel , he had been to Sibyl Vane . It was not too late to make reparation for that . She could still be his wife . His unreal and selfish love would yield to some higher influence , would be transformed into some nobler passion , and the portrait that Basil Hallward had painted of him would be a guide to him through life , would be to him what holiness is to some , and conscience 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 the degradation of sin . Here was an ever-present sign of the ruin men brought upon their souls . Three o'clock struck , and four , and the half-hour rang its double chime , but Dorian Gray did not stir . He was trying to gather up the scarlet threads of life and to weave them into a pattern ; to find his way through the sanguine labyrinth of passion through which he was wandering . He did not know what to do , or what to think . Finally , he went over to the table and wrote a passionate letter to the girl he had loved , imploring her forgiveness and accusing himself of madness . He covered page after page with wild words of 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 , that gives us absolution . When Dorian had finished the letter , he felt 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 ca n't bear your shutting yourself up like this . " He made no answer at first , but remained quite still . The knocking still continued and grew louder . 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 it became necessary to quarrel , to part if parting was inevitable . He jumped up , drew the screen hastily across the picture , and unlocked the door . " I am so sorry for it all , Dorian , " said Lord Henry as he entered . " But you must not think too much about it . " " Do you mean about Sibyl Vane ? " asked the lad . " 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 has happened . 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 in remorse 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 . Do n't sneer at it , Harry , any more – at least not before me . I want to be good . I ca n'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 to say . Something dreadful about marriage . Do n't say it . Do n't ever say things of that kind to me again . 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 ! ... Did n'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 would n't like . You cut life to pieces with your epigrams . " " You know nothing then ? " " What do you mean ? " Lord Henry walked across the room , and sitting down by Dorian Gray , took both his hands in his own and held them tightly . " Dorian , " he said , " my letter – do n't be frightened – 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 in Paris . But in London people are so prejudiced . Here , one should never make one 's début with a scandal . One should reserve that to give an interest to one 's old age . I suppose they do n't know your name at the theatre ? If they do n't , it is all right . Did any one see you going round to her room ? 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 ca n'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 the theatre with her mother , about half-past twelve or so , she said she had forgotten something upstairs . They waited some time for her , but she did not come down again . They ultimately found her lying dead on the floor of her dressing-room . She had swallowed something by mistake , some dreadful thing they use at theatres . I do n't know what it was , but it had either prussic acid or white lead in it . I should fancy it was prussic acid , as she seems to have died instantaneously . " " Harry , Harry , it is terrible ! " cried the lad . " Yes ; it is very tragic , of course , but you must not get yourself mixed up in it . I see by the Standard that she was seventeen . I should have thought she was almost younger than that . She looked such a child , and seemed to know so little about acting . Dorian , you must n't let this thing get on your nerves . You must come and dine with me , and afterwards we will look in at the opera . It is a Patti night , and everybody will be there . You can come to my sister 's box . She has got some smart women with her . " " So I have murdered Sibyl Vane , " said Dorian Gray , half to himself , " murdered her as surely as if I had cut her little throat with a knife . Yet the roses are not less lovely for all that . The birds sing just as happily in my garden . And to-night I am to dine with you , and then 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 , I think 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 I have 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 silent people 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 it really 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 me afraid . I ca n't tell you what it was , but it was terrible . 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 do n't know the danger I am in , and there 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 only way a woman can ever reform a man is by boring him so completely that he loses all possible interest in life . If you had married this girl , you would have been wretched . Of course , you would have treated her kindly . One can always be kind to people about whom one cares nothing . But she would have soon found out that you were absolutely indifferent to her . And when a woman finds that out about her husband , she either becomes dreadfully dowdy , or wears very smart bonnets that some 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 I assure 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 terrible tragedy has prevented my doing what was right . I remember your saying once that there is a fatality about good resolutions – that they are always made too late . Mine certainly were . " " Good resolutions are useless attempts to interfere with scientific laws . Their origin is pure vanity . Their result is absolutely nil . They give us , now and then , some of those luxurious 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 a bank where they have no account . " " Harry , " cried Dorian Gray , coming over and sitting down beside him , " why is it that I cannot feel this tragedy as much as I want to ? I do n't think I am heartless . Do you ? " " You have done too many foolish things during the last fortnight to be entitled to give yourself that name , Dorian , " answered Lord Henry with his sweet melancholy smile . The lad frowned . " I do n't like that explanation , Harry , " he rejoined , " but I am glad you do n't think I am 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 it should . It seems to me to be simply like a wonderful ending to a wonderful play . It has all the terrible beauty of a Greek tragedy , a tragedy in which I took a great part , but by which I have not been wounded . " " It is an interesting question , " said Lord Henry , 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 manner that they hurt us by their crude violence , their absolute incoherence , their absurd want of meaning , their entire lack of style . They affect us just as vulgarity affects us . They give us an impression of sheer brute force , and we revolt against that . Sometimes , however , a tragedy that possesses artistic elements of beauty crosses our lives . If these elements of beauty are real , the whole 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 of you . I wish that I had ever had such an experience . It would have made me in love with love for the rest of my life . The people who have adored me – there have not 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 , and when 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 stagnation it reveals ! One should absorb the colour of life , but one should never remember its details . Details are always vulgar . " " I must sow poppies in my garden , " sighed Dorian . " There is no necessity , " rejoined his companion . " 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 mourning for 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 , at Lady Hampshire 's , I found myself seated at dinner next the lady in question , and she insisted on going over the whole thing again , and digging up the past , and raking up the future . I had buried my romance in a bed of asphodel . She dragged it out again and assured me that I had spoiled her life . I am bound to state that she ate an enormous 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 soon as the interest of the play is entirely over , they propose to continue it . If they were allowed their own way , every comedy 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 me what Sibyl Vane did for you . Ordinary women always console themselves . Some of them do it by going in for sentimental 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 their husbands . They flaunt their conjugal felicity in one 's face , as if it were the most fascinating of sins . Religion consoles some . Its mysteries have all the charm of a flirtation , 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 modern life . Indeed , I have not mentioned the most important one . " " What is that , Harry ? " said the lad listlessly . " Oh , the obvious consolation . Taking some one else 's admirer when one loses one 's own . In good society that always whitewashes a woman . But really , Dorian , how different Sibyl Vane 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 when such wonders happen . They make one believe in the reality of the things 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 remain slaves looking for their masters , all the same . They love being dominated . I am sure you were splendid . I have never seen you really and absolutely angry , but I can fancy how delightful you looked . And , after all , you said something to me the day before yesterday that seemed to me at the time to be merely fanciful , but that I see now was absolutely true , and it holds the key to everything . " " What was that , Harry ? " " You said to me that Sibyl Vane represented to you all the heroines of romance – that she was Desdemona one night , and Ophelia the 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 in the tawdry dressing-room simply as a strange lurid fragment from some Jacobean tragedy , as a wonderful scene from Webster , or Ford , or Cyril Tourneur . The girl never really lived , and so she has never really died . To you at least she was always a dream , a phantom that flitted through Shakespeare 's plays and left them lovelier for its presence , a reed through which Shakespeare 's music sounded richer and more full of joy . The moment she touched actual life , she marred 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 do n'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 , the shadows 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 somehow I 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 has happened . It has been a marvellous experience . That is all . I wonder if life has still in store for me anything as marvellous . " " Life has everything in store for you , Dorian . There is nothing that you , with your extraordinary 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 to fight 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 be beautiful . We cannot spare you . And now you had better dress and drive down to 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 wo n't come and dine . " " I do n'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 our friendship , 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 , Dorian Gray touched the bell , and in a few minutes Victor appeared with the lamps and drew the blinds down . He waited impatiently for him to go . The man seemed to take an interminable time over everything . As soon as he had left , he rushed to the screen and drew it back . No ; there was no further change in the picture . It had received the news of Sibyl Vane 's death before he had known of it himself . It was conscious of the events of life as they occurred . The vicious cruelty that marred the fine lines of the mouth had , no doubt , appeared at the very moment that the girl had drunk the poison , whatever it was . Or was it indifferent to results ? Did it merely take cognizance of what passed within the soul ? He wondered , and hoped that some day he would 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 last scene ? 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 the sacrifice she had made of her life . He would not think any more of what she had made him go through , on that horrible night at the theatre . When he thought of her , it would be as a wonderful tragic figure sent on to the world 's stage to show the supreme reality of love . A wonderful tragic figure ? Tears came to his eyes as he remembered her childlike 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 for making 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 , pleasures subtle 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 he thought of the desecration that was in store for the fair face on the canvas . Once , in boyish mockery of Narcissus , he had kissed , or feigned to kiss , those painted lips that now smiled so cruelly at him . Morning after morning he had sat before the portrait wondering at its beauty , almost enamoured of it , as it seemed to him at times . Was it to alter now with every mood to which he yielded ? Was it to become a monstrous and loathsome thing , to be hidden away in a locked room , to be shut out from the sunlight that had so 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 between him 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 about life , would surrender the chance of remaining always young , however fantastic that 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 influence upon a living organism , might not thought exercise an influence upon dead and inorganic things ? Nay , without thought or conscious desire , might not things external to ourselves vibrate in unison with our moods and passions , 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 in watching it . He would be able to follow his mind into its secret places . This portrait would be to him the most magical of mirrors . As it had revealed to him his own body , so it would reveal to him his own soul . And when winter came upon it , he would still be standing where spring trembles on the verge of summer . When the blood crept from its face , and left behind a pallid mask of chalk with leaden eyes , he would keep the glamour of boyhood . Not one blossom of his loveliness would ever fade . Not one pulse of his life would ever weaken . Like the gods of the Greeks , he would be strong , and fleet , and joyous . What did it matter what happened to the coloured image on the canvas ? He would be safe . That was everything . He drew the screen back into its former place 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 Lord Henry was leaning over his chair . |