Chapter 7

The theatre was crowded that night. It was terribly hot and there were young people shouting to each other from across seats. Women were laughing loudly and their voices sounded horrible. People were eating oranges and drinking from bottles. Their voices were horribly shrill and discordant.

“What a place to find the perfect girl in!” said Lord Henry.

“Yes!” answered Dorian Gray. “It was here I found her. When you see her act, you will forget that you are in London. People in this theatre know nothing about acting, but even they change when she comes on stage. These ugly people become quite different when she appears. They sit silently and watch her. They weep and laugh as she wills them to do.”

“I understand what you mean, Dorian,” said the painter, “and I believe in this girl. Anyone you love must be wonderful. This marriage is quite right. I did not think so at first, but I admit it now.”

“Thanks, Basil,” answered Dorian Gray. “I knew that you would understand me. In a few minutes 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.”

Sibyl Vane stepped on to the stage. The crowd shouted and called her name. Yes, she was certainly lovely to look at – one of the loveliest creatures, Lord Henry thought. Basil Hallward leaped to his feet and began to applaud. Dorian Gray sat staring at her like he was in a dream. Lord Henry peered through his glasses, murmuring, “Charming! charming!”

But Sibyl was acting badly. Something was wrong when she spoke, there was no emotion in her voice. 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.

A quarter of an hour later, Lord Henry whispered to Hallward, “She’s one of the loveliest girls I have ever seen. But she is a terrible actress.”

Dorian Gray’s face turned white as he watched her speak, “She was so different tonight! Now she was not Juliet but a very bad actress who did not understand Shakespeare’s words.”

Even the crowd became bored and began to talk loudly. The only person who did not seem to notice was the actress herself.

When the second act was over, 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’m sorry, Harry. I don’t know what’s wrong. I am going to stay until the end,” answered Dorian in a cold voice. “I am awfully sorry that I have made you waste an evening, Harry. I apologize to you both.”

“My dear Dorian, perhaps Miss Vane is ill,” said Hallward. “We will come some other night.”

“She has entirely altered,” said Dorian, “Last night she was a great artist.”

“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 do you want? Who cares if your wife can’t act. She’s beautiful. That’s enough. Dorian, you must not stay here any longer. It is not good for one’s morals to see bad acting.”

“Go away, Harry,” cried Dorian, “I want to be alone. Can’t you see that my heart is breaking?” Hot tears came to his eyes as Lord Henry and Hallward left the theatre.

When it was over, Dorian Gray rushed to see Sibyl Vane. The girl was standing there alone, with a look of extraordinary happiness on her face.

“How badly I acted tonight, Dorian!” she cried.

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

The girl smiled, “Dorian, don’t you understand?”

“Understand what?” he asked, angrily.

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

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

“Dorian, Dorian,” she cried, “before I knew you, acting was the one important thing in my life. It was only in the theatre that I lived. I thought that it was all true. Tonight, 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. I saw that I was playing at love. Our love for each other is the only true love. I cannot act anymore because I have found true love. How can I act like Juliet when I do not feel her love? I only feel my love for you, Dorian. Take me away with you, Dorian! I don’t want to be an actress any more.”

He threw himself down on the sofa, and turned away his face.

“You have killed my love for you. I loved you because I thought you were a great actress. I thought you would be famous and have my name. Now I see that you are nothing but a pretty face.”

Sybil’s face turned white. She walked up to Dorian and tried to touch his arm.

“Dorian, you can’t be serious.”

“Don’t touch me. You have spoiled the romance of my life. You are not who I thought you were.”

The girl grew white, and trembled. “You are not serious, Dorian? You are acting?” she whispered, putting her hand on his arm.

He pushed her back. “Acting! I leave that to you. You do it so well,” he answered bitterly. “I am going,” he said at last in his calm clear voice. “I don’t wish to be unkind, but I can’t see you again. You have disappointed me. I will never see you again, I will never think of you, I will never speak to you again.” He turned on his heel and left the room. In a few moments he was out of the theatre.

After walking the streets of London all night, he arrived home just after sunrise. As he passed through the library, he saw the portrait that Basil Hallward had painted of him. He stared at it in surprise and walked on into his bedroom. He took his coat off and stood next to his bed. A few moments later he returned to the picture and looked at it closely. In the poor light the face seemed to have changed a little. Now the mouth looked cruel. It was certainly strange.

He walked to the window and opened the curtains. The light changed the room, but the face stayed the same.

Going back to his bedroom, he found a small mirror that had been a present from Lord Henry. 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.

He began to think. Suddenly he remembered what he had said in Basil Halhvard’s house 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. But such things were impossible. It was terrible even to think about them. And, yet, there was the picture in front of him. The picture Basil had painted of him, which was on Dorian’s library wall, looked different. There was a cruel expression in the mouth. It looked the way he might look alter he had done something horrible.

But 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 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 hate his own soul? Would he ever look at it again?

He would save himself! He would not see Lord Henry again. He would go back to Sibyl Vane, marry her and try to love her again. She had suffered more than he had. Poor child! He had been selfish and cruel to her. They would be happy together. His life with her would be beautiful and pure.

Dorian remembered the wish he had made at Basil’s. He had said that he wished the picture would grow old and ugly while he remained young and beautiful. But could such things come true? Dorian didn’t think so. But what about the picture? It had changed. Was it because of the way he had acted towards Sybil?

Dorian was tired. He did not want to look at the picture any more. He put a screen in front of it and then went to bed.

“How horrible!” he said to himself, and he walked across to the window and opened it. When he stepped out on to the grass he took a deep breath. He thought only of Sibyl. A faint echo of his love came back to him. He repeated her name over and over again.

Chapter 8

It was long past noon when he awoke. His servant brought him a cup of tea and some letters. One of them was from Lord Henry, and had been brought by hand that morning. He put it to one side.

“Monsieur has well slept this morning,” said the servant, smiling.

“What o’clock is it, Victor?” asked Dorian Gray.

“One hour and a quarter, Monsieur.”

How late it was! He went into the library for breakfast feeling perfectly happy. Then he saw the open window and the covered portrait. Was it all true? Had the portrait really changed? Or had it been simply his own imagination? But he remembered that cruel mouth so clearly.

Dorian Gray sent his servant away and locked all the doors. Then he pulled the cover off the painting, and saw himself face to face. It was true. The portrait had changed.

For hours he did not know what to do or think. Finally, he went over to the table and wrote a passionate letter to the girl he had loved. He asked her to forgive him for the terrible things he had said to her.

Suddenly he heard a knock on the door, and he heard Lord Henry’s voice outside, “My dear boy, I must see you. Let me in at once.”

He made no answer, but remained quite still. The knocking continued and grew louder. Yes, it was better to let Lord Henry in. He would explain to him the new life he was going to lead. He jumped up, covered the picture and opened the door,

“I am sorry about 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 boy.

“Yes, of course,” answered Lord Henry, sitting down and slowly pulling off his yellow gloves. “It is terrible, but you are not to blame. Tell me, did you go behind and see her after it was over?”

“Yes.”

“I felt sure that you had. Did you have an argument?”

“I was cruel, Harry – terribly cruel. But it is all right now. I am not sorry for anything that has happened. It has taught me to know myself better.”

“Oh, Dorian, I am so glad that you see it that way.”

“I want to be good, Harry. I don’t want my soul to be ugly. I am going to marry Sibyl Vane.”

“Marry Sibyl Vane!” cried Lord Henry, standing up, and staring at him in surprise, “But, my dear Dorian —”

“Yes, Harry, I know what you are going to say. Something dreadful about marriage. Don’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. Sibyl will be my wife!”

“Your wife! Dorian!… Didn’t you get my letter? I wrote to you this morning.”

“Your letter? Oh, yes, I remember. I have not read it yet, Harry.”

“You know nothing yet then?”

“What do you mean?”

Lord Henry walked across the room and sat down next to Dorian. “Dorian,” he said, “my letter was to tell you that Sibyl Vane is dead.”

A cry of pain came from the boy’s lips and he jumped to his feet. “Dead! Sibyl is dead! It is not true! It is a horrible lie! How dare you say it?”

“It is true. Dorian,” said Lord Henry. “It is in all the morning newspapers. The police will be asking questions, and you must keep your name out of any scandal. Things like that make a man fashionable in Paris. But in London they are a disaster for any gentleman. I suppose they don’t know your name at the theatre? If they don’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. Finally he said in a strange voice, “Harry, did you say that the police are asking questions? What did you mean by that? Did Sibyl —? Oh, Harry this is terrible!”

“I have no doubt it was not an accident, Dorian, though it must be described that way officially. She had swallowed something by mistake, some dreadful thing they use at theatres.”

“Harry, Harry, it is terrible!” cried the boy.

“Yes; it is very tragic, of course, but it is nothing to do with you. She was seventeen. She looked such a child, and seemed to know so little about acting. Come with me to dinner, and after we will go to the opera.”

“The opera? How can I go to the opera when the woman I loved has died because of me.”

“That’s exactly why you should go. Dorian, this is not your fault. Life is full of tragedies. You are young and good-looking. Sybil Vane is in your past. Think of the future. You can do anything.”

“So I have murdered Sibyl Vane,” said Dorian Gray, half to himself. “Yet the roses are not less lovely. The birds still sing happily in my garden. And tonight I will have dinner with you and go to the opera. How dramatic life is! My first passionate love letter was to a dead girl. She was everything to me. And now she is dead. My God! My God! Harry, what shall I do? Yet why is it that I cannot feel this tragedy as much as I want to? I don’t think I am heartless. Do you?”

“You have done too many foolish things in the last fortnight to be heartless, Dorian,” answered Lord Henry, with his sweet, sad smile.

The boy frowned. “I don’t like that explanation, Harry,” he said, “but I am glad you don’t think I am heartless.”

“A woman has killed herself for the love of you,” said Lord Henry. “That is very beautiful.”

They were silent. The evening darkened in the room. After some time Dorian Gray looked up. “How well you know me! But we will not talk again of what has happened. It has been something wonderful. That is all. Now, I have to dress, Harry. I feel too tired to eat anything, but I will join you later.”

As Lord Henry closed the door behind him Dorian rushed to the portrait and tore off the cover. 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. Tears came to his eyes as he remembered her. He brushed them away and looked again at the picture.

He felt the time had come to choose, or had he already chosen? Yes, life had decided that for him. The portrait was going to carry his shame: that was all.

Dorian wanted to believe that Sybil’s death was not his fault. He did not want to feel guilty or evil. Lord Henry’s words made him feel better. Why shouldn’t he go to the opera, he thought. If the picture of him was going to change after every evil act he did and he was going to stay young and beautiful, why should he care?

An hour later he was at the opera, and Lord Henry was sitting beside him.