The Picture of Dorian Gray

ulous 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

e 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 ea

nd one's divinity i

h 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

e not!" exclaimed Lord Henry, who was scanning the

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

rrifies me. But here is the orchestra. It is quite dreadful, but it only lasts for about five minutes. Then the curtain ri

. 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 pa

p 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 bo

ed no sign of joy when her eyes rested o

ou do wrong you

ly devotion

ands that pilgrim

alm is holy p

e voice was exquisite, but from the point of view of tone it was absolutely false. It w

. Neither of his friends dared to say anything to him. She seemed t

he balcony scene of the second act. They waited for

giness of her acting was unbearable, and grew worse as she went on. Her gestures became abs

e mask of night

aiden blush be

hou hast heard m

een taught to recite by some second-rate professor of elocution. W

h I joy

of this cont

, too unadvise

ghtning, which

"It lightens."

ve by summer's

uteous flower w

not nervousness. Indeed, so far from being nervous, she was absolute

got restless, and began to talk loudly and to whistle. The Jew manager, who was standing at the b

Lord Henry got up from his chair and put on his coat. "She is qu

n a hard bitter voice. "I am awfully sorry that I have ma

s Vane was ill," interrupted Hallwa

callous and cold. She has entirely altered. Last night she was a gre

one you love, Dorian. Love is

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 noth

ee that my heart is breaking?" The hot tears came to his eyes. His lips trembled, and rus

h a strange tenderness in his voice, an

e, and proud, and indifferent. The play dragged on, and seemed interminable. Half of the audience went out, tramping in heavy boots and l

tanding there alone, with a look of triumph on her face. Her eyes were lit with an exquisite fi

xpression of infinite joy came over her. "Ho

"Horribly! It was dreadful. Are you ill? You have n

music in her voice, as though it were sweeter than honey to the red petals of h

what?" he as

hy I shall always be bad. Why

When you are ill you shouldn't act. You make yours

he was transfigured with joy. An e

ness 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,

and turned away his face. "You h

to him, and with her little fingers stroked his hair. She knelt down and pre

hadows 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

together, and her voice seemed to catch in her throat. "Yo

o you. You do it so wel

face, came across the room to him. She put her hand upon his arm and

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

ar voice. "I don't wish to be unkind, but I c

s stretched blindly out, and appeared to be seeking for him. He turned o

king houses. Women with hoarse voices and harsh laughter had called after him. Drunkards had reeled by, cursing and chattering to th

aggons. 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

re, with its blank, close-shuttered windows and its staring blinds. The sky was pure opal now, and the roofs of the houses glistened like

n 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 somewh

ey 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 quive

ids, one of Lord Henry's many presents to him, glanced hurriedly into its

of any change when he looked into the actual painting, and yet there was no doubt that the who

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

emembered 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

life, and told his story. It had taught him to love his own beauty. Wou

had passed had left phantoms behind it. Suddenly there had fallen upon his brain that tin

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 p

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 f