At half-past twelve next day Lord Henry Wotton strolled from Curzon
Street over to the Albany to call on his uncle, Lord Fermor, a genial
if somewhat rough-mannered old bachelor, whom the outside world called
selfish because it derived no particular benefit from him, but who was
considered generous by Society as he fed the people who amused him.
His father had been our ambassador at Madrid when Isabella was young
and Prim unthought of, but had retired from the diplomatic service in a
capricious moment of annoyance on not being offered the Embassy at
Paris, a post to which he considered that he was fully entitled by
reason of his birth, his indolence, the good English of his dispatches,
and his inordinate passion for pleasure.  The son, who had been his
father's secretary, had resigned along with his chief, somewhat
foolishly as was thought at the time, and on succeeding some months
later to the title, had set himself to the serious study of the great
aristocratic art of doing absolutely nothing.  He had two large town
houses, but preferred to live in chambers as it was less trouble, and
took most of his meals at his club.  He paid some attention to the
management of his collieries in the Midland counties, excusing himself
for this taint of industry on the ground that the one advantage of
having coal was that it enabled a gentleman to afford the decency of
burning wood on his own hearth.  In politics he was a Tory, except when
the Tories were in office, during which period he roundly abused them
for being a pack of Radicals.  He was a hero to his valet, who bullied
him, and a terror to most of his relations, whom he bullied in turn.
Only England could have produced him, and he always said that the
country was going to the dogs.  His principles were out of date, but
there was a good deal to be said for his prejudices.

When Lord Henry entered the room, he found his uncle sitting in a rough
shooting-coat, smoking a cheroot and grumbling over _The Times_.  "Well,
Harry," said the old gentleman, "what brings you out so early?  I
thought you dandies never got up till two, and were not visible till
five."

"Pure family affection, I assure you, Uncle George.  I want to get
something out of you."

"Money, I suppose," said Lord Fermor, making a wry face.  "Well, sit
down and tell me all about it.  Young people, nowadays, imagine that
money is everything."

"Yes," murmured Lord Henry, settling his button-hole in his coat; "and
when they grow older they know it.  But I don't want money.  It is only
people who pay their bills who want that, Uncle George, and I never pay
mine.  Credit is the capital of a younger son, and one lives charmingly
upon it.  Besides, I always deal with Dartmoor's tradesmen, and
consequently they never bother me.  What I want is information:  not
useful information, of course; useless information."

"Well, I can tell you anything that is in an English Blue Book, Harry,
although those fellows nowadays write a lot of nonsense.  When I was in
the Diplomatic, things were much better.  But I hear they let them in
now by examination.  What can you expect?  Examinations, sir, are pure
humbug from beginning to end.  If a man is a gentleman, he knows quite
enough, and if he is not a gentleman, whatever he knows is bad for him."

"Mr. Dorian Gray does not belong to Blue Books, Uncle George," said
Lord Henry languidly.

"Mr. Dorian Gray?  Who is he?" asked Lord Fermor, knitting his bushy
white eyebrows.

"That is what I have come to learn, Uncle George.  Or rather, I know
who he is.  He is the last Lord Kelso's grandson.  His mother was a
Devereux, Lady Margaret Devereux.  I want you to tell me about his
mother.  What was she like?  Whom did she marry?  You have known nearly
everybody in your time, so you might have known her.  I am very much
interested in Mr. Gray at present.  I have only just met him."

"Kelso's grandson!" echoed the old gentleman.  "Kelso's grandson! ...
Of course.... I knew his mother intimately.  I believe I was at her
christening.  She was an extraordinarily beautiful girl, Margaret
Devereux, and made all the men frantic by running away with a penniless
young fellow--a mere nobody, sir, a subaltern in a foot regiment, or
something of that kind.  Certainly.  I remember the whole thing as if
it happened yesterday.  The poor chap was killed in a duel at Spa a few
months after the marriage.  There was an ugly story about it.  They
said Kelso got some rascally adventurer, some Belgian brute, to insult
his son-in-law in public--paid him, sir, to do it, paid him--and that
the fellow spitted his man as if he had been a pigeon.  The thing was
hushed up, but, egad, Kelso ate his chop alone at the club for some
time afterwards.  He brought his daughter back with him, I was told,
and she never spoke to him again.  Oh, yes; it was a bad business.  The
girl died, too, died within a year.  So she left a son, did she?  I had
forgotten that.  What sort of boy is he?  If he is like his mother, he
must be a good-looking chap."

"He is very good-looking," assented Lord Henry.

"I hope he will fall into proper hands," continued the old man.  "He
should have a pot of money waiting for him if Kelso did the right thing
by him.  His mother had money, too.  All the Selby property came to
her, through her grandfather.  Her grandfather hated Kelso, thought him
a mean dog.  He was, too.  Came to Madrid once when I was there.  Egad,
I was ashamed of him.  The Queen used to ask me about the English noble
who was always quarrelling with the cabmen about their fares.  They
made quite a story of it.  I didn't dare show my face at Court for a
month.  I hope he treated his grandson better than he did the jarvies."

"I don't know," answered Lord Henry.  "I fancy that the boy will be
well off.  He is not of age yet.  He has Selby, I know.  He told me so.
And ... his mother was very beautiful?"

"Margaret Devereux was one of the loveliest creatures I ever saw,
Harry.  What on earth induced her to behave as she did, I never could
understand.  She could have married anybody she chose.  Carlington was
mad after her.  She was romantic, though.  All the women of that family
were.  The men were a poor lot, but, egad! the women were wonderful.
Carlington went on his knees to her.  Told me so himself.  She laughed
at him, and there wasn't a girl in London at the time who wasn't after
him.  And by the way, Harry, talking about silly marriages, what is
this humbug your father tells me about Dartmoor wanting to marry an
American?  Ain't English girls good enough for him?"

"It is rather fashionable to marry Americans just now, Uncle George."

"I'll back English women against the world, Harry," said Lord Fermor,
striking the table with his fist.

"The betting is on the Americans."

"They don't last, I am told," muttered his uncle.

"A long engagement exhausts them, but they are capital at a
steeplechase.  They take things flying.  I don't think Dartmoor has a
chance."

"Who are her people?" grumbled the old gentleman.  "Has she got any?"

Lord Henry shook his head.  "American girls are as clever at concealing
their parents, as English women are at concealing their past," he said,
rising to go.

"They are pork-packers, I suppose?"

"I hope so, Uncle George, for Dartmoor's sake.  I am told that
pork-packing is the most lucrative profession in America, after
politics."

"Is she pretty?"

"She behaves as if she was beautiful.  Most American women do.  It is
the secret of their charm."

"Why can't these American women stay in their own country?  They are
always telling us that it is the paradise for women."

"It is.  That is the reason why, like Eve, they are so excessively
anxious to get out of it," said Lord Henry.  "Good-bye, Uncle George.
I shall be late for lunch, if I stop any longer.  Thanks for giving me
the information I wanted.  I always like to know everything about my
new friends, and nothing about my old ones."

"Where are you lunching, Harry?"

"At Aunt Agatha's. I have asked myself and Mr. Gray.  He is her latest
_protege_."

"Humph! tell your Aunt Agatha, Harry, not to bother me any more with
her charity appeals.  I am sick of them.  Why, the good woman thinks
that I have nothing to do but to write cheques for her silly fads."

"All right, Uncle George, I'll tell her, but it won't have any effect.
Philanthropic people lose all sense of humanity.  It is their
distinguishing characteristic."

The old gentleman growled approvingly and rang the bell for his
servant.  Lord Henry passed up the low arcade into Burlington Street
and turned his steps in the direction of Berkeley Square.

So that was the story of Dorian Gray's parentage.  Crudely as it had
been told to him, it had yet stirred him by its suggestion of a
strange, almost modern romance.  A beautiful woman risking everything
for a mad passion.  A few wild weeks of happiness cut short by a
hideous, treacherous crime.  Months of voiceless agony, and then a
child born in pain.  The mother snatched away by death, the boy left to
solitude and the tyranny of an old and loveless man.  Yes; it was an
interesting background.  It posed the lad, made him more perfect, as it
were.  Behind every exquisite thing that existed, there was something
tragic.  Worlds had to be in travail, that the meanest flower might
blow.... And how charming he had been at dinner the night before, as
with startled eyes and lips parted in frightened pleasure he had sat
opposite to him at the club, the red candleshades staining to a richer
rose the wakening wonder of his face.  Talking to him was like playing
upon an exquisite violin.  He answered to every touch and thrill of the
bow.... There was something terribly enthralling in the exercise of
influence.  No other activity was like it.  To project one's soul into
some gracious form, and let it tarry there for a moment; to hear one's
own intellectual views echoed back to one with all the added music of
passion and youth; to convey one's temperament into another as though
it were a subtle fluid or a strange perfume: there was a real joy in
that--perhaps the most satisfying joy left to us in an age so limited
and vulgar as our own, an age grossly carnal in its pleasures, and
grossly common in its aims.... He was a marvellous type, too, this lad,
whom by so curious a chance he had met in Basil's studio, or could be
fashioned into a marvellous type, at any rate.  Grace was his, and the
white purity of boyhood, and beauty such as old Greek marbles kept for
us.  There was nothing that one could not do with him.  He could be
made a Titan or a toy.  What a pity it was that such beauty was
destined to fade! ...  And Basil?  From a psychological point of view,
how interesting he was!  The new manner in art, the fresh mode of
looking at life, suggested so strangely by the merely visible presence
of one who was unconscious of it all; the silent spirit that dwelt in
dim woodland, and walked unseen in open field, suddenly showing
herself, Dryadlike and not afraid, because in his soul who sought for
her there had been wakened that wonderful vision to which alone are
wonderful things revealed; the mere shapes and patterns of things
becoming, as it were, refined, and gaining a kind of symbolical value,
as though they were themselves patterns of some other and more perfect
form whose shadow they made real:  how strange it all was!  He
remembered something like it in history.  Was it not Plato, that artist
in thought, who had first analyzed it?  Was it not Buonarotti who had
carved it in the coloured marbles of a sonnet-sequence? But in our own
century it was strange.... Yes; he would try to be to Dorian Gray
what, without knowing it, the lad was to the painter who had fashioned
the wonderful portrait.  He would seek to dominate him--had already,
indeed, half done so.  He would make that wonderful spirit his own.
There was something fascinating in this son of love and death.

Suddenly he stopped and glanced up at the houses.  He found that he had
passed his aunt's some distance, and, smiling to himself, turned back.
When he entered the somewhat sombre hall, the butler told him that they
had gone in to lunch.  He gave one of the footmen his hat and stick and
passed into the dining-room.

"Late as usual, Harry," cried his aunt, shaking her head at him.

He invented a facile excuse, and having taken the vacant seat next to
her, looked round to see who was there.  Dorian bowed to him shyly from
the end of the table, a flush of pleasure stealing into his cheek.
Opposite was the Duchess of Harley, a lady of admirable good-nature and
good temper, much liked by every one who knew her, and of those ample
architectural proportions that in women who are not duchesses are
described by contemporary historians as stoutness.  Next to her sat, on
her right, Sir Thomas Burdon, a Radical member of Parliament, who
followed his leader in public life and in private life followed the
best cooks, dining with the Tories and thinking with the Liberals, in
accordance with a wise and well-known rule.  The post on her left was
occupied by Mr. Erskine of Treadley, an old gentleman of considerable
charm and culture, who had fallen, however, into bad habits of silence,
having, as he explained once to Lady Agatha, said everything that he
had to say before he was thirty.  His own neighbour was Mrs. Vandeleur,
one of his aunt's oldest friends, a perfect saint amongst women, but so
dreadfully dowdy that she reminded one of a badly bound hymn-book.
Fortunately for him she had on the other side Lord Faudel, a most
intelligent middle-aged mediocrity, as bald as a ministerial statement
in the House of Commons, with whom she was conversing in that intensely
earnest manner which is the one unpardonable error, as he remarked once
himself, that all really good people fall into, and from which none of
them ever quite escape.

"We are talking about poor Dartmoor, Lord Henry," cried the duchess,
nodding pleasantly to him across the table.  "Do you think he will
really marry this fascinating young person?"

"I believe she has made up her mind to propose to him, Duchess."

"How dreadful!" exclaimed Lady Agatha.  "Really, some one should
interfere."

"I am told, on excellent authority, that her father keeps an American
dry-goods store," said Sir Thomas Burdon, looking supercilious.

"My uncle has already suggested pork-packing, Sir Thomas."

"Dry-goods! What are American dry-goods?" asked the duchess, raising
her large hands in wonder and accentuating the verb.

"American novels," answered Lord Henry, helping himself to some quail.

The duchess looked puzzled.

"Don't mind him, my dear," whispered Lady Agatha.  "He never means
anything that he says."

"When America was discovered," said the Radical member--and he began to
give some wearisome facts.  Like all people who try to exhaust a
subject, he exhausted his listeners.  The duchess sighed and exercised
her privilege of interruption.  "I wish to goodness it never had been
discovered at all!" she exclaimed.  "Really, our girls have no chance
nowadays.  It is most unfair."

"Perhaps, after all, America never has been discovered," said Mr.
Erskine; "I myself would say that it had merely been detected."

"Oh! but I have seen specimens of the inhabitants," answered the
duchess vaguely.  "I must confess that most of them are extremely
pretty.  And they dress well, too.  They get all their dresses in
Paris.  I wish I could afford to do the same."

"They say that when good Americans die they go to Paris," chuckled Sir
Thomas, who had a large wardrobe of Humour's cast-off clothes.

"Really!  And where do bad Americans go to when they die?" inquired the
duchess.

"They go to America," murmured Lord Henry.

Sir Thomas frowned.  "I am afraid that your nephew is prejudiced
against that great country," he said to Lady Agatha.  "I have travelled
all over it in cars provided by the directors, who, in such matters,
are extremely civil.  I assure you that it is an education to visit it."

"But must we really see Chicago in order to be educated?" asked Mr.
Erskine plaintively.  "I don't feel up to the journey."

Sir Thomas waved his hand.  "Mr. Erskine of Treadley has the world on
his shelves. We practical men like to see things, not to read about
them. The Americans are an extremely interesting people. They are
absolutely reasonable. I think that is their distinguishing
characteristic. Yes, Mr. Erskine, an absolutely reasonable people. I
assure you there is no nonsense about the Americans."

"How dreadful!" cried Lord Henry.  "I can stand brute force, but brute
reason is quite unbearable.  There is something unfair about its use.
It is hitting below the intellect."

"I do not understand you," said Sir Thomas, growing rather red.

"I do, Lord Henry," murmured Mr. Erskine, with a smile.

"Paradoxes are all very well in their way...." rejoined the baronet.

"Was that a paradox?" asked Mr. Erskine.  "I did not think so.  Perhaps
it was.  Well, the way of paradoxes is the way of truth.  To test
reality we must see it on the tight rope.  When the verities become
acrobats, we can judge them."

"Dear me!" said Lady Agatha, "how you men argue!  I am sure I never can
make out what you are talking about.  Oh!  Harry, I am quite vexed with
you.  Why do you try to persuade our nice Mr. Dorian Gray to give up
the East End?  I assure you he would be quite invaluable.  They would
love his playing."

"I want him to play to me," cried Lord Henry, smiling, and he looked
down the table and caught a bright answering glance.

"But they are so unhappy in Whitechapel," continued Lady Agatha.

"I can sympathize with everything except suffering," said Lord Henry,
shrugging his shoulders.  "I cannot sympathize with that.  It is too
ugly, too horrible, too distressing.  There is something terribly
morbid in the modern sympathy with pain.  One should sympathize with
the colour, the beauty, the joy of life.  The less said about life's
sores, the better."

"Still, the East End is a very important problem," remarked Sir Thomas
with a grave shake of the head.

"Quite so," answered the young lord.  "It is the problem of slavery,
and we try to solve it by amusing the slaves."

The politician looked at him keenly.  "What change do you propose,
then?" he asked.

Lord Henry laughed.  "I don't desire to change anything in England
except the weather," he answered.  "I am quite content with philosophic
contemplation.  But, as the nineteenth century has gone bankrupt
through an over-expenditure of sympathy, I would suggest that we should
appeal to science to put us straight.  The advantage of the emotions is
that they lead us astray, and the advantage of science is that it is
not emotional."

"But we have such grave responsibilities," ventured Mrs. Vandeleur
timidly.

"Terribly grave," echoed Lady Agatha.

Lord Henry looked over at Mr. Erskine.  "Humanity takes itself too
seriously.  It is the world's original sin.  If the caveman had known
how to laugh, history would have been different."

"You are really very comforting," warbled the duchess.  "I have always
felt rather guilty when I came to see your dear aunt, for I take no
interest at all in the East End.  For the future I shall be able to
look her in the face without a blush."

"A blush is very becoming, Duchess," remarked Lord Henry.

"Only when one is young," she answered.  "When an old woman like myself
blushes, it is a very bad sign.  Ah!  Lord Henry, I wish you would tell
me how to become young again."

He thought for a moment.  "Can you remember any great error that you
committed in your early days, Duchess?" he asked, looking at her across
the table.

"A great many, I fear," she cried.

"Then commit them over again," he said gravely.  "To get back one's
youth, one has merely to repeat one's follies."

"A delightful theory!" she exclaimed.  "I must put it into practice."

"A dangerous theory!" came from Sir Thomas's tight lips.  Lady Agatha
shook her head, but could not help being amused.  Mr. Erskine listened.

"Yes," he continued, "that is one of the great secrets of life.
Nowadays most people die of a sort of creeping common sense, and
discover when it is too late that the only things one never regrets are
one's mistakes."

A laugh ran round the table.

He played with the idea and grew wilful; tossed it into the air and
transformed it; let it escape and recaptured it; made it iridescent
with fancy and winged it with paradox.  The praise of folly, as he went
on, soared into a philosophy, and philosophy herself became young, and
catching the mad music of pleasure, wearing, one might fancy, her
wine-stained robe and wreath of ivy, danced like a Bacchante over the
hills of life, and mocked the slow Silenus for being sober.  Facts fled
before her like frightened forest things.  Her white feet trod the huge
press at which wise Omar sits, till the seething grape-juice rose round
her bare limbs in waves of purple bubbles, or crawled in red foam over
the vat's black, dripping, sloping sides.  It was an extraordinary
improvisation.  He felt that the eyes of Dorian Gray were fixed on him,
and the consciousness that amongst his audience there was one whose
temperament he wished to fascinate seemed to give his wit keenness and
to lend colour to his imagination.  He was brilliant, fantastic,
irresponsible.  He charmed his listeners out of themselves, and they
followed his pipe, laughing.  Dorian Gray never took his gaze off him,
but sat like one under a spell, smiles chasing each other over his lips
and wonder growing grave in his darkening eyes.

At last, liveried in the costume of the age, reality entered the room
in the shape of a servant to tell the duchess that her carriage was
waiting.  She wrung her hands in mock despair.  "How annoying!" she
cried.  "I must go.  I have to call for my husband at the club, to take
him to some absurd meeting at Willis's Rooms, where he is going to be
in the chair.  If I am late he is sure to be furious, and I couldn't
have a scene in this bonnet.  It is far too fragile.  A harsh word
would ruin it.  No, I must go, dear Agatha.  Good-bye, Lord Henry, you
are quite delightful and dreadfully demoralizing.  I am sure I don't
know what to say about your views.  You must come and dine with us some
night.  Tuesday?  Are you disengaged Tuesday?"

"For you I would throw over anybody, Duchess," said Lord Henry with a
bow.

"Ah! that is very nice, and very wrong of you," she cried; "so mind you
come"; and she swept out of the room, followed by Lady Agatha and the
other ladies.

When Lord Henry had sat down again, Mr. Erskine moved round, and taking
a chair close to him, placed his hand upon his arm.

"You talk books away," he said; "why don't you write one?"

"I am too fond of reading books to care to write them, Mr. Erskine.  I
should like to write a novel certainly, a novel that would be as lovely
as a Persian carpet and as unreal.  But there is no literary public in
England for anything except newspapers, primers, and encyclopaedias.
Of all people in the world the English have the least sense of the
beauty of literature."

"I fear you are right," answered Mr. Erskine.  "I myself used to have
literary ambitions, but I gave them up long ago.  And now, my dear
young friend, if you will allow me to call you so, may I ask if you
really meant all that you said to us at lunch?"

"I quite forget what I said," smiled Lord Henry.  "Was it all very bad?"

"Very bad indeed.  In fact I consider you extremely dangerous, and if
anything happens to our good duchess, we shall all look on you as being
primarily responsible.  But I should like to talk to you about life.
The generation into which I was born was tedious.  Some day, when you
are tired of London, come down to Treadley and expound to me your
philosophy of pleasure over some admirable Burgundy I am fortunate
enough to possess."

"I shall be charmed.  A visit to Treadley would be a great privilege.
It has a perfect host, and a perfect library."

"You will complete it," answered the old gentleman with a courteous
bow.  "And now I must bid good-bye to your excellent aunt.  I am due at
the Athenaeum.  It is the hour when we sleep there."

"All of you, Mr. Erskine?"

"Forty of us, in forty arm-chairs. We are practising for an English
Academy of Letters."

Lord Henry laughed and rose.  "I am going to the park," he cried.

As he was passing out of the door, Dorian Gray touched him on the arm.
"Let me come with you," he murmured.

"But I thought you had promised Basil Hallward to go and see him,"
answered Lord Henry.

"I would sooner come with you; yes, I feel I must come with you.  Do
let me.  And you will promise to talk to me all the time?  No one talks
so wonderfully as you do."

"Ah!  I have talked quite enough for to-day," said Lord Henry, smiling.
"All I want now is to look at life.  You may come and look at it with
me, if you care to."

The next day, at "half-past twelve", Lord Henry visits his uncle, the grumpy Lord George Fermor, to learn what he can about Dorian Gray's past. Lord Fermor is old and idle, having spent most of his life moving apathetically through London's aristocratic social circles, devoting himself "to the serious study of the great aristocratic art of doing absolutely nothing." He is therefore an ideal resource for information concerning people's private lives. All Lord Henry has to do is mention that Dorian "is the last Lord Kelso's grandson." Lord Fermor informs his nephew that Dorian's mother was Margaret Devereux, the beautiful daughter of Lord Kelso, who upset her father and caused a scandal by eloping with a poor man of a lower class. Lord Kelso, a bitter man, sought his revenge by paying a young Belgian to insult his unwanted son-in-law. Dorian's father was apparently killed in the resulting fight, and his mother died only several months later. The specific conditions of the deaths are never disclosed. Custody of Dorian fell to Lord Kelso, who was socially ostracized for causing the whole ordeal. Kelso was notoriously mean-spirited and quarrelsome, always making scenes by viciously haggling with cabmen and the like. Henry leaves Lord Fermor's home to attend a luncheon at the house of his aunt, Lady Agatha. On the way, he reflects on how fascinating he finds the story of Dorian's origin, thinking that it makes his life "a strange, almost modern, romance." Henry is excited by the prospect of shaping the young man's personality by opening his eyes to the world of sensuality that Henry is so devoted to. He thinks that the boy "could be fashioned into a marvelous type," and that "He would dominate him...He would make that wonderful spirit his own." At this point, we learn just how manipulative Henry truly is. Henry arrives at the lunch gathering rather late, as is his custom. Once at the table, he soon dominates the conversation, impressing the guests with the cleverness of his speech and playfully offending them with the beliefs that "To get back one's youth, one has merely to repeat one's follies," and that people "discover when it is too late that the only things one never regrets are one's mistakes." The man's charming tirade is described in terms of juggling and acrobatics. Dorian is among the guests, and Henry is performing primarily for his sake. His efforts are not in vain: once the lunch is finished, Dorian approaches him with words of admiration, saying that "No one talks so wonderfully as you do." He accompanies Lord Henry to the park instead of calling on Basil as he had promised.

Instead of being driven by friendly affection, Henry is interested in Dorian as an artistic or scientific project.  Dorian's purity and innocence are, to him, a blank canvas on which he can paint a personality so as to lead Dorian towards a lifestyle that Henry finds artistically pleasing.  This is a prominent thread in the novel's thematic exploration of the relationship between life and art.  That Henry refers to Dorian's early life as "a strange, almost modern, romance" is indicative of the man's need to view life in artistic, as opposed to ethical, terms. Henry fancies himself an artist, a sculptor or painter of personalities; he uses his charm, wit, and scandalous views as his paintbrush or chisel.  Nevertheless, as curious as he is to see Dorian's character evolve into its own fascinating shape, Henry's deepest motivation is unabashedly selfish and vain.  He wants to "be to Dorian Gray what, without knowing it, the lad was to the painter."  He wants to be adored, and to turn Dorian into a more physically attractive version of himself.  This echoes the belief expressed in the preface that "the only excuse for making a useless  thing is that one admires it intensely."  However, although he certainly admires it, Henry's "art" is fundamentally flawed according to the first line of the preface: "To reveal art and conceal the artist is art's aim."  Henry wants his "art"  to reveal the "artist" .  This suggests another major theme that explores the value of superficiality and the discrepancy between one's interior self and how one is perceived by others. As far plot development, this chapter offers very little.  We learn crucial information about Dorian's past, facts that inform our assessment of his character, making him seem more tragic and romantic than he might otherwise.  However, most of its pages are devoted to a colorful description of the people and the conversation at Lady Agatha's lunch table.  Indeed, Henry's conversational acrobatics in this chapter are the closest example we have of Wilde's own conversational style. However, this is not to suggest that the content of this chapter is extraneous.  All of Henry's witticisms also reverberate strongly with the major themes of the novel.  For instance, Henry remarks that he "can sympathise with everything, except suffering...One should sympathise with the colour, the beauty, the joy of life. The less said about life's sores the better."  This sentiment, of course, exemplifies Dorian's later outlook on life, when his "sores" are concealed within the portrait. Henry also states that "I can stand brute force, but brute reason is quite unbearable. There is something unfair about its use. It is hitting below the intellect."  Witty word play aside, this is a pithy expression of a central tenet of the Victorian Age's "New Hedonism."  Feelings, sensations, and emotions were considered important, not cold intellectualism. Once again, Henry voices a notion that will dominate Dorian's actions later in the novel.

The next day, Lord Henry goes to visit his crotchety old uncle George, with the intent of finding out about Dorian's background. It seems that Uncle George is something of a society gossip, underneath his gruff exterior. We learn that Dorian's the grandson of one Lord Kelso, an old acquaintance of Uncle George's; Dorian's mother, Kelso's daughter, was Lady Margaret Devereux, who was incredibly beautiful. Lady Margaret apparently fell passionately in love and married a guy far below her social rank, and rumor has it that Lord Kelso arranged for his son-in-law to be killed in a duel. Uncle George imagines that Lord Kelso probably left his grandson a huge fortune when he died--so Dorian's probably rolling in dough . The conversation veers off into idle gossip about some guy named Dartmoor and his American fiancee. Lord Henry heads out and walks over to Aunt Agatha's house for lunch. As he walks, he muses over the tragic, romantic story of Dorian's parents. He thinks again about how very marvelous and special Dorian is, and decides that he wants to do for Dorian what Dorian did for Basil--that is, change the way the boy sees the world entirely. Lord Henry notices that, in his thoughtful daze, he's passed his aunt's house. When he finally reaches his destination, he's late, and gets told off by Aunt Agatha. The dining room is full of notable visitors, including the Duchess of Harley, Sir Thomas Burdon , and Mr. Erskine , among other luminaries. Dorian is also there. The conversation here is also about Dartmoor and his American sweetheart. The genteel gathering is rather puzzled by Americans, especially by American women, who are all the rage at the moment. Lord Henry quickly assumes control of the whole conversation, and entertains the table with his extravagant ideas. Everyone is totally charmed by him, none more than Dorian. The luncheon ends when the Duchess, followed by the other ladies, leaves. Mr. Erskine pulls Lord Henry aside, asking why he doesn't write a book; he invites Henry to come visit him at his home, Treadley, sometime. Even though he's supposed to hang out with Basil, Dorian asks if he can accompany Lord Henry, so he can listen to Henry talk some more. Henry agrees, but says that he's talked enough for today--the two friends go to the park to "look at life."

As the chapter opens, it is half-past noon the next day. Lord Henry calls on his uncle, Lord Fermor, to learn about Dorian's heritage. The uncle is a delightful old curmudgeon -- wealthy, cynical, and very knowledgeable about everyone else's private business. He and Lord Henry get along well, and the old man is pleased to tell him all about Dorian's past. Dorian is the grandson of Lord Kelso and the son of Kelso's daughter, Margaret Devereux. Lady Margaret was an extremely beautiful woman who displeased her father by marrying beneath her; she married a penniless, low-level soldier, as Lord Fermor recalls. Kelso reportedly hired "some Belgian brute" to insult the husband and lure him into a duel, in which he was killed. Lady Margaret was with child: Dorian. She died within a year or so of the duel. Kelso is dead and probably left his fortune to Dorian. The mother had money of her own, so Dorian should be well off financially. After some casual conversation about the charming, deceptive nature of American girls, Lord Henry is off to his Aunt Agatha's for lunch. Dorian also attends the luncheon, and Lord Henry dominates the conversation, delighting his audience at the table with a number of aphorisms -- for example, "I can sympathize with everything except suffering." To an aging duchess, he suggests, "To get back one's youth, one has merely to repeat one's follies." Lord Henry then launches into a triumphant monologue in praise of folly that echoes his speech to Dorian the day before in Basil's garden. After the luncheon, Lord Henry and Dorian leave together.

The chief contribution of this entertaining chapter is that the reader learns about Dorian's background. Fermor's details about Dorian's troubled family establish the young man as a romantic and tragic figure. The only other important information that the reader gets in this chapter is about the relationship between Dorian and Lord Henry, which appears to be solidifying quickly. Early in the chapter, Lord Henry recalls that talking with Dorian the night before had been like "playing upon an exquisite violin." He likens his influence on Dorian to a sculptor's shaping of a statue out of beautiful marble. Lord Henry is not subtle about his motives toward Dorian: "He would seek to dominate him -- had already, indeed, half done so." Readers should note the ironic contrast of Lord Henry's speeches and his actions. In Chapter 2, he advises Dorian that all influence is bad because it corrupts a person's true spirit; in this chapter, he willfully states that he intends to influence Dorian's development. At the end of the chapter, Dorian has fallen fully under the spell of Lord Henry's influence. For example, Dorian backs out of his afternoon appointment with Basil, saying, "I would sooner come with you ; yes, I feel I must come with you." The luncheon, which spans the bulk of the chapter and does little to progress the plot or enlighten the reader, seems to have been devised to entertain the reader and show off Lord Henry's clever table talk. Lord Henry is witty, but it is no accident that friends of Wilde recognized several of the author's favorite lines as they came out of Lord Henry's mouth. Glossary indolence laziness. Isabella refers to Isabella II , Queen of Spain from 1833 until the revolution of 1868. Prim D. Juan Prim  was a military leader and statesman in Spain who played a major role in deposing Queen Isabella in 1868. collieries coal mines. English Blue Book an official publication of the British government, so called for the color of its covers; a social registry. subaltern the lowest rank of military officer. jarvies slang for cabmen. protege French, a person whose training and welfare are under the influence of a mentor. Dryad Greek mythology, a wood nymph. Plato , Greek philosopher. Buonarotti Michelangelo Buonarotti, better known as simply "Michelangelo" , Italian painter, sculptor, and architect. supercilious disdainful, scornful, acting superior.

Shortly after his first meeting with Dorian Gray, Lord Henry visits his uncle, Lord Fermor, a "genial if somewhat rough-mannered" old nobleman. When Lord Henry asks his uncle about Dorian Gray's past, the old man tells him that Dorian comes from an unhappy family with a dark, tangled history. He relates that Dorian's mother, a noblewoman, eloped with a poor soldier; the woman's father, a villainous old lord, arranged to have his daughter's husband killed just before Dorian was born. The grieving widow died soon thereafter, leaving Dorian to be raised by a loveless tyrant. With this information, Lord Henry becomes increasingly fascinated with Dorian; he finds the story romantic and delights in the thought that he might influence the young man, making "that wonderful spirit his own. Shortly thereafter, Lord Henry goes to dine at the home of his aunt, Lady Agatha, where several of London's elite upper class--Dorian included--have gathered. Lord Henry scandalizes the group by going on at length about the virtues of hedonism and selfishness and mocking his aunt's philanthropic efforts. I can sympathize with everything," he remarks at one point, "except suffering. He insists that one's life should be spent appreciating beauty and seeking out pleasure rather than searching for ways to alleviate pain and tragedy. Many of the guests are appalled by his selfishness, but he is so clever and witty that they are charmed in spite of themselves. Dorian Gray is particularly fascinated, so much so that he leaves with Lord Henry and abandons his earlier plans to visit Basil

The Picture of Dorian Gray is a curious mixture of different genres. It displays Wilde's incomparable talent for social comedy and satire, even as it veers toward the formula for Gothic literature. Gothic fiction, which was tremendously popular in the late eighteenth and early nineteenth centuries, focused on tales of romance, cruelty, and horror. By the end of the nineteenth century, the formula had changed considerably, but these basic tenets remained intact. Dorian's mysterious and melodramatic heritage alludes to conventions of the Gothic novel: his wicked grandfather, his parents' cursed elopement, his father's murder, and his mother's early death represent a type of moody romance popular among Gothic authors. As the critic Donald Lawler points out, Dorian's ancestry is identical to that of the main characters in three of Wilde's short stories. The first two chapters of the novel show Lord Henry's powers of seduction, but in Chapters Three and Four Lord Henry himself is seduced. Strictly speaking, it is not a person who draws Lord Henry in, but the possibility of having a profound effect on a person, namely Dorian: "there was something terribly enthralling in the exercise of influence." To project his soul onto Dorian and seize his spirit just as Dorian has seized Basil's imagination becomes Lord Henry's greatest desire. In Lord Henry's mind, life and art are not only connected but interchangeable. By molding Dorian into "a marvellous type" of boy, Lord Henry believes that he is countering the effects of "an age so limited and vulgar" as his own. He imagines that he will take his place among such masters as the great Italian artist Michelangelo, with whom he shares the imperative to create something of beauty. The fact that Lord Henry considers the life of another human being a viable medium for artistic expression indicates "he new manner in art" that Wilde so tirelessly advocated. Indeed, many readers might find Lord Henry heartless, given his willingness to watch Dorian's development with practically no thought of consequence. After all, Dorian's beauty is all that matters to him, and "t was no matter  how it all ended, or was destined to end." This behavior merely links Lord Henry to the tenets of aestheticism, whereby beauty is of primary importance, and vice and virtue--as Wilde states in the novel's preface--are nothing more than "materials for an art." If the opening chapters position the three main characters in a triangular relationship, wherein Lord Henry and Basil vie for Dorian's soul and affections, Lord Henry quickly wins at the end of Chapter Three. In Dorian's declaration that he will miss his appointment with Basil in order to hear Lord Henry speak, we see that Lord Henry's hopes to dominate and influence the young man have more or less been fulfilled. Dorian gives his affections over largely because of Lord Henry's conversational skill; he asks Lord Henry to "promise to talk to me all the time." Indeed, Lord Henry is a great talker, a wonderful philosopher of "the new Hedonism," but, unlike Dorian, he acts on nothing that would damage his respectable reputation or life.


One afternoon, a month later, Dorian Gray was reclining in a luxurious
arm-chair, in the little library of Lord Henry's house in Mayfair.  It
was, in its way, a very charming room, with its high panelled
wainscoting of olive-stained oak, its cream-coloured frieze and ceiling
of raised plasterwork, and its brickdust felt carpet strewn with silk,
long-fringed Persian rugs.  On a tiny satinwood table stood a statuette
by Clodion, and beside it lay a copy of Les Cent Nouvelles, bound for
Margaret of Valois by Clovis Eve and powdered with the gilt daisies
that Queen had selected for her device.  Some large blue china jars and
parrot-tulips were ranged on the mantelshelf, and through the small
leaded panes of the window streamed the apricot-coloured light of a
summer day in London.

Lord Henry had not yet come in.  He was always late on principle, his
principle being that punctuality is the thief of time.  So the lad was
looking rather sulky, as with listless fingers he turned over the pages
of an elaborately illustrated edition of Manon Lescaut that he had
found in one of the book-cases. The formal monotonous ticking of the
Louis Quatorze clock annoyed him.  Once or twice he thought of going
away.

At last he heard a step outside, and the door opened.  "How late you
are, Harry!" he murmured.

"I am afraid it is not Harry, Mr. Gray," answered a shrill voice.

He glanced quickly round and rose to his feet.  "I beg your pardon.  I
thought--"

"You thought it was my husband.  It is only his wife.  You must let me
introduce myself.  I know you quite well by your photographs.  I think
my husband has got seventeen of them."

"Not seventeen, Lady Henry?"

"Well, eighteen, then.  And I saw you with him the other night at the
opera."  She laughed nervously as she spoke, and watched him with her
vague forget-me-not eyes.  She was a curious woman, whose dresses
always looked as if they had been designed in a rage and put on in a
tempest.  She was usually in love with somebody, and, as her passion
was never returned, she had kept all her illusions.  She tried to look
picturesque, but only succeeded in being untidy.  Her name was
Victoria, and she had a perfect mania for going to church.

"That was at Lohengrin, Lady Henry, I think?"

"Yes; it was at dear Lohengrin.  I like Wagner's music better than
anybody's. It is so loud that one can talk the whole time without other
people hearing what one says.  That is a great advantage, don't you
think so, Mr. Gray?"

The same nervous staccato laugh broke from her thin lips, and her
fingers began to play with a long tortoise-shell paper-knife.

Dorian smiled and shook his head:  "I am afraid I don't think so, Lady
Henry.  I never talk during music--at least, during good music.  If one
hears bad music, it is one's duty to drown it in conversation."

"Ah! that is one of Harry's views, isn't it, Mr. Gray?  I always hear
Harry's views from his friends.  It is the only way I get to know of
them.  But you must not think I don't like good music.  I adore it, but
I am afraid of it.  It makes me too romantic.  I have simply worshipped
pianists--two at a time, sometimes, Harry tells me.  I don't know what
it is about them.  Perhaps it is that they are foreigners.  They all
are, ain't they?  Even those that are born in England become foreigners
after a time, don't they?  It is so clever of them, and such a
compliment to art.  Makes it quite cosmopolitan, doesn't it?  You have
never been to any of my parties, have you, Mr. Gray?  You must come.  I
can't afford orchids, but I spare no expense in foreigners.  They make
one's rooms look so picturesque.  But here is Harry!  Harry, I came in
to look for you, to ask you something--I forget what it was--and I
found Mr. Gray here.  We have had such a pleasant chat about music.  We
have quite the same ideas.  No; I think our ideas are quite different.
But he has been most pleasant.  I am so glad I've seen him."

"I am charmed, my love, quite charmed," said Lord Henry, elevating his
dark, crescent-shaped eyebrows and looking at them both with an amused
smile.  "So sorry I am late, Dorian.  I went to look after a piece of
old brocade in Wardour Street and had to bargain for hours for it.
Nowadays people know the price of everything and the value of nothing."

"I am afraid I must be going," exclaimed Lady Henry, breaking an
awkward silence with her silly sudden laugh.  "I have promised to drive
with the duchess.  Good-bye, Mr. Gray.  Good-bye, Harry.  You are
dining out, I suppose?  So am I. Perhaps I shall see you at Lady
Thornbury's."

"I dare say, my dear," said Lord Henry, shutting the door behind her
as, looking like a bird of paradise that had been out all night in the
rain, she flitted out of the room, leaving a faint odour of
frangipanni.  Then he lit a cigarette and flung himself down on the
sofa.

"Never marry a woman with straw-coloured hair, Dorian," he said after a
few puffs.

"Why, Harry?"

"Because they are so sentimental."

"But I like sentimental people."

"Never marry at all, Dorian.  Men marry because they are tired; women,
because they are curious:  both are disappointed."

"I don't think I am likely to marry, Harry.  I am too much in love.
That is one of your aphorisms.  I am putting it into practice, as I do
everything that you say."

"Who are you in love with?" asked Lord Henry after a pause.

"With an actress," said Dorian Gray, blushing.

Lord Henry shrugged his shoulders.  "That is a rather commonplace
_debut_."

"You would not say so if you saw her, Harry."

"Who is she?"

"Her name is Sibyl Vane."

"Never heard of her."

"No one has.  People will some day, however.  She is a genius."

"My dear boy, no woman is a genius.  Women are a decorative sex.  They
never have anything to say, but they say it charmingly.  Women
represent the triumph of matter over mind, just as men represent the
triumph of mind over morals."

"Harry, how can you?"

"My dear Dorian, it is quite true.  I am analysing women at present, so
I ought to know.  The subject is not so abstruse as I thought it was.
I find that, ultimately, there are only two kinds of women, the plain
and the coloured.  The plain women are very useful.  If you want to
gain a reputation for respectability, you have merely to take them down
to supper.  The other women are very charming.  They commit one
mistake, however.  They paint in order to try and look young.  Our
grandmothers painted in order to try and talk brilliantly.  _Rouge_ and
_esprit_ used to go together.  That is all over now.  As long as a woman
can look ten years younger than her own daughter, she is perfectly
satisfied.  As for conversation, there are only five women in London
worth talking to, and two of these can't be admitted into decent
society.  However, tell me about your genius.  How long have you known
her?"

"Ah!  Harry, your views terrify me."

"Never mind that.  How long have you known her?"

"About three weeks."

"And where did you come across her?"

"I will tell you, Harry, but you mustn't be unsympathetic about it.
After all, it never would have happened if I had not met you.  You
filled me with a wild desire to know everything about life.  For days
after I met you, something seemed to throb in my veins.  As I lounged
in the park, or strolled down Piccadilly, I used to look at every one
who passed me and wonder, with a mad curiosity, what sort of lives they
led.  Some of them fascinated me.  Others filled me with terror.  There
was an exquisite poison in the air.  I had a passion for sensations....
Well, one evening about seven o'clock, I determined to go out in search
of some adventure.  I felt that this grey monstrous London of ours,
with its myriads of people, its sordid sinners, and its splendid sins,
as you once phrased it, must have something in store for me.  I fancied
a thousand things.  The mere danger gave me a sense of delight.  I
remembered what you had said to me on that wonderful evening when we
first dined together, about the search for beauty being the real secret
of life.  I don't know what I expected, but I went out and wandered
eastward, soon losing my way in a labyrinth of grimy streets and black
grassless squares.  About half-past eight I passed by an absurd little
theatre, with great flaring gas-jets and gaudy play-bills.  A hideous
Jew, in the most amazing waistcoat I ever beheld in my life, was
standing at the entrance, smoking a vile cigar.  He had greasy
ringlets, and an enormous diamond blazed in the centre of a soiled
shirt. 'Have a box, my Lord?' he said, when he saw me, and he took off
his hat with an air of gorgeous servility.  There was something about
him, Harry, that amused me.  He was such a monster.  You will laugh at
me, I know, but I really went in and paid a whole guinea for the
stage-box. To the present day I can't make out why I did so; and yet if
I hadn't--my dear Harry, if I hadn't--I should have missed the greatest
romance of my life.  I see you are laughing.  It is horrid of you!"

"I am not laughing, Dorian; at least I am not laughing at you.  But you
should not say the greatest romance of your life.  You should say the
first romance of your life.  You will always be loved, and you will
always be in love with love.  A _grande passion_ is the privilege of
people who have nothing to do.  That is the one use of the idle classes
of a country.  Don't be afraid.  There are exquisite things in store
for you.  This is merely the beginning."

"Do you think my nature so shallow?" cried Dorian Gray angrily.

"No; I think your nature so deep."

"How do you mean?"

"My dear boy, the people who love only once in their lives are really
the shallow people.  What they call their loyalty, and their fidelity,
I call either the lethargy of custom or their lack of imagination.
Faithfulness is to the emotional life what consistency is to the life
of the intellect--simply a confession of failure.  Faithfulness!  I
must analyse it some day.  The passion for property is in it.  There
are many things that we would throw away if we were not afraid that
others might pick them up.  But I don't want to interrupt you.  Go on
with your story."

"Well, I found myself seated in a horrid little private box, with a
vulgar drop-scene staring me in the face.  I looked out from behind the
curtain and surveyed the house.  It was a tawdry affair, all Cupids and
cornucopias, like a third-rate wedding-cake. The gallery and pit were
fairly full, but the two rows of dingy stalls were quite empty, and
there was hardly a person in what I suppose they called the
dress-circle.  Women went about with oranges and ginger-beer, and there
was a terrible consumption of nuts going on."

"It must have been just like the palmy days of the British drama."

"Just like, I should fancy, and very depressing.  I began to wonder
what on earth I should do when I caught sight of the play-bill.  What
do you think the play was, Harry?"

"I should think 'The Idiot Boy', or 'Dumb but Innocent'.  Our fathers
used to like that sort of piece, I believe.  The longer I live, Dorian,
the more keenly I feel that whatever was good enough for our fathers is
not good enough for us.  In art, as in politics, _les grandperes ont
toujours tort_."

"This play was good enough for us, Harry.  It was Romeo and Juliet.  I
must admit that I was rather annoyed at the idea of seeing Shakespeare
done in such a wretched hole of a place.  Still, I felt interested, in
a sort of way.  At any rate, I determined to wait for the first act.
There was a dreadful orchestra, presided over by a young Hebrew who sat
at a cracked piano, that nearly drove me away, but at last the
drop-scene was drawn up and the play began.  Romeo was a stout elderly
gentleman, with corked eyebrows, a husky tragedy voice, and a figure
like a beer-barrel. Mercutio was almost as bad.  He was played by the
low-comedian, who had introduced gags of his own and was on most
friendly terms with the pit.  They were both as grotesque as the
scenery, and that looked as if it had come out of a country-booth. But
Juliet!  Harry, imagine a girl, hardly seventeen years of age, with a
little, flowerlike face, a small Greek head with plaited coils of
dark-brown hair, eyes that were violet wells of passion, lips that were
like the petals of a rose.  She was the loveliest thing I had ever seen
in my life.  You said to me once that pathos left you unmoved, but that
beauty, mere beauty, could fill your eyes with tears.  I tell you,
Harry, I could hardly see this girl for the mist of tears that came
across me.  And her voice--I never heard such a voice.  It was very low
at first, with deep mellow notes that seemed to fall singly upon one's
ear.  Then it became a little louder, and sounded like a flute or a
distant hautboy.  In the garden-scene it had all the tremulous ecstasy
that one hears just before dawn when nightingales are singing.  There
were moments, later on, when it had the wild passion of violins.  You
know how a voice can stir one.  Your voice and the voice of Sibyl Vane
are two things that I shall never forget.  When I close my eyes, I hear
them, and each of them says something different.  I don't know which to
follow.  Why should I not love her?  Harry, I do love her.  She is
everything to me in life.  Night after night I go to see her play.  One
evening she is Rosalind, and the next evening she is Imogen.  I have
seen her die in the gloom of an Italian tomb, sucking the poison from
her lover's lips.  I have watched her wandering through the forest of
Arden, disguised as a pretty boy in hose and doublet and dainty cap.
She has been mad, and has come into the presence of a guilty king, and
given him rue to wear and bitter herbs to taste of.  She has been
innocent, and the black hands of jealousy have crushed her reedlike
throat.  I have seen her in every age and in every costume.  Ordinary
women never appeal to one's imagination.  They are limited to their
century.  No glamour ever transfigures them.  One knows their minds as
easily as one knows their bonnets.  One can always find them.  There is
no mystery in any of them.  They ride in the park in the morning and
chatter at tea-parties in the afternoon.  They have their stereotyped
smile and their fashionable manner.  They are quite obvious.  But an
actress!  How different an actress is!  Harry! why didn't you tell me
that the only thing worth loving is an actress?"

"Because I have loved so many of them, Dorian."

"Oh, yes, horrid people with dyed hair and painted faces."

"Don't run down dyed hair and painted faces.  There is an extraordinary
charm in them, sometimes," said Lord Henry.

"I wish now I had not told you about Sibyl Vane."

"You could not have helped telling me, Dorian.  All through your life
you will tell me everything you do."

"Yes, Harry, I believe that is true.  I cannot help telling you things.
You have a curious influence over me.  If I ever did a crime, I would
come and confess it to you.  You would understand me."

"People like you--the wilful sunbeams of life--don't commit crimes,
Dorian.  But I am much obliged for the compliment, all the same.  And
now tell me--reach me the matches, like a good boy--thanks--what are
your actual relations with Sibyl Vane?"

Dorian Gray leaped to his feet, with flushed cheeks and burning eyes.
"Harry!  Sibyl Vane is sacred!"

"It is only the sacred things that are worth touching, Dorian," said
Lord Henry, with a strange touch of pathos in his voice.  "But why
should you be annoyed?  I suppose she will belong to you some day.
When one is in love, one always begins by deceiving one's self, and one
always ends by deceiving others.  That is what the world calls a
romance.  You know her, at any rate, I suppose?"

"Of course I know her.  On the first night I was at the theatre, the
horrid old Jew came round to the box after the performance was over and
offered to take me behind the scenes and introduce me to her.  I was
furious with him, and told him that Juliet had been dead for hundreds
of years and that her body was lying in a marble tomb in Verona.  I
think, from his blank look of amazement, that he was under the
impression that I had taken too much champagne, or something."

"I am not surprised."

"Then he asked me if I wrote for any of the newspapers.  I told him I
never even read them.  He seemed terribly disappointed at that, and
confided to me that all the dramatic critics were in a conspiracy
against him, and that they were every one of them to be bought."

"I should not wonder if he was quite right there.  But, on the other
hand, judging from their appearance, most of them cannot be at all
expensive."

"Well, he seemed to think they were beyond his means," laughed Dorian.
"By this time, however, the lights were being put out in the theatre,
and I had to go.  He wanted me to try some cigars that he strongly
recommended.  I declined.  The next night, of course, I arrived at the
place again.  When he saw me, he made me a low bow and assured me that
I was a munificent patron of art.  He was a most offensive brute,
though he had an extraordinary passion for Shakespeare.  He told me
once, with an air of pride, that his five bankruptcies were entirely
due to 'The Bard,' as he insisted on calling him.  He seemed to think
it a distinction."

"It was a distinction, my dear Dorian--a great distinction.  Most
people become bankrupt through having invested too heavily in the prose
of life.  To have ruined one's self over poetry is an honour.  But when
did you first speak to Miss Sibyl Vane?"

"The third night.  She had been playing Rosalind.  I could not help
going round.  I had thrown her some flowers, and she had looked at
me--at least I fancied that she had.  The old Jew was persistent.  He
seemed determined to take me behind, so I consented.  It was curious my
not wanting to know her, wasn't it?"

"No; I don't think so."

"My dear Harry, why?"

"I will tell you some other time.  Now I want to know about the girl."

"Sibyl?  Oh, she was so shy and so gentle.  There is something of a
child about her.  Her eyes opened wide in exquisite wonder when I told
her what I thought of her performance, and she seemed quite unconscious
of her power.  I think we were both rather nervous.  The old Jew stood
grinning at the doorway of the dusty greenroom, making elaborate
speeches about us both, while we stood looking at each other like
children.  He would insist on calling me 'My Lord,' so I had to assure
Sibyl that I was not anything of the kind.  She said quite simply to
me, 'You look more like a prince.  I must call you Prince Charming.'"

"Upon my word, Dorian, Miss Sibyl knows how to pay compliments."

"You don't understand her, Harry.  She regarded me merely as a person
in a play.  She knows nothing of life.  She lives with her mother, a
faded tired woman who played Lady Capulet in a sort of magenta
dressing-wrapper on the first night, and looks as if she had seen
better days."

"I know that look.  It depresses me," murmured Lord Henry, examining
his rings.

"The Jew wanted to tell me her history, but I said it did not interest
me."

"You were quite right.  There is always something infinitely mean about
other people's tragedies."

"Sibyl is the only thing I care about.  What is it to me where she came
from?  From her little head to her little feet, she is absolutely and
entirely divine.  Every night of my life I go to see her act, and every
night she is more marvellous."

"That is the reason, I suppose, that you never dine with me now.  I
thought you must have some curious romance on hand.  You have; but it
is not quite what I expected."

"My dear Harry, we either lunch or sup together every day, and I have
been to the opera with you several times," said Dorian, opening his
blue eyes in wonder.

"You always come dreadfully late."

"Well, I can't help going to see Sibyl play," he cried, "even if it is
only for a single act.  I get hungry for her presence; and when I think
of the wonderful soul that is hidden away in that little ivory body, I
am filled with awe."

"You can dine with me to-night, Dorian, can't you?"

He shook his head.  "To-night she is Imogen," he answered, "and
to-morrow night she will be Juliet."

"When is she Sibyl Vane?"

"Never."

"I congratulate you."

"How horrid you are!  She is all the great heroines of the world in
one.  She is more than an individual.  You laugh, but I tell you she
has genius.  I love her, and I must make her love me.  You, who know
all the secrets of life, tell me how to charm Sibyl Vane to love me!  I
want to make Romeo jealous.  I want the dead lovers of the world to
hear our laughter and grow sad.  I want a breath of our passion to stir
their dust into consciousness, to wake their ashes into pain.  My God,
Harry, how I worship her!"  He was walking up and down the room as he
spoke.  Hectic spots of red burned on his cheeks.  He was terribly
excited.

Lord Henry watched him with a subtle sense of pleasure.  How different
he was now from the shy frightened boy he had met in Basil Hallward's
studio!  His nature had developed like a flower, had borne blossoms of
scarlet flame.  Out of its secret hiding-place had crept his soul, and
desire had come to meet it on the way.

"And what do you propose to do?" said Lord Henry at last.

"I want you and Basil to come with me some night and see her act.  I
have not the slightest fear of the result.  You are certain to
acknowledge her genius.  Then we must get her out of the Jew's hands.
She is bound to him for three years--at least for two years and eight
months--from the present time.  I shall have to pay him something, of
course.  When all that is settled, I shall take a West End theatre and
bring her out properly.  She will make the world as mad as she has made
me."

"That would be impossible, my dear boy."

"Yes, she will.  She has not merely art, consummate art-instinct, in
her, but she has personality also; and you have often told me that it
is personalities, not principles, that move the age."

"Well, what night shall we go?"

"Let me see.  To-day is Tuesday.  Let us fix to-morrow. She plays
Juliet to-morrow."

"All right.  The Bristol at eight o'clock; and I will get Basil."

"Not eight, Harry, please.  Half-past six.  We must be there before the
curtain rises.  You must see her in the first act, where she meets
Romeo."

"Half-past six!  What an hour!  It will be like having a meat-tea, or
reading an English novel.  It must be seven.  No gentleman dines before
seven.  Shall you see Basil between this and then?  Or shall I write to
him?"

"Dear Basil!  I have not laid eyes on him for a week.  It is rather
horrid of me, as he has sent me my portrait in the most wonderful
frame, specially designed by himself, and, though I am a little jealous
of the picture for being a whole month younger than I am, I must admit
that I delight in it.  Perhaps you had better write to him.  I don't
want to see him alone.  He says things that annoy me.  He gives me good
advice."

Lord Henry smiled.  "People are very fond of giving away what they need
most themselves.  It is what I call the depth of generosity."

"Oh, Basil is the best of fellows, but he seems to me to be just a bit
of a Philistine.  Since I have known you, Harry, I have discovered
that."

"Basil, my dear boy, puts everything that is charming in him into his
work.  The consequence is that he has nothing left for life but his
prejudices, his principles, and his common sense.  The only artists I
have ever known who are personally delightful are bad artists.  Good
artists exist simply in what they make, and consequently are perfectly
uninteresting in what they are.  A great poet, a really great poet, is
the most unpoetical of all creatures.  But inferior poets are
absolutely fascinating.  The worse their rhymes are, the more
picturesque they look.  The mere fact of having published a book of
second-rate sonnets makes a man quite irresistible.  He lives the
poetry that he cannot write.  The others write the poetry that they
dare not realize."

"I wonder is that really so, Harry?" said Dorian Gray, putting some
perfume on his handkerchief out of a large, gold-topped bottle that
stood on the table.  "It must be, if you say it.  And now I am off.
Imogen is waiting for me.  Don't forget about to-morrow. Good-bye."

As he left the room, Lord Henry's heavy eyelids drooped, and he began
to think.  Certainly few people had ever interested him so much as
Dorian Gray, and yet the lad's mad adoration of some one else caused
him not the slightest pang of annoyance or jealousy.  He was pleased by
it.  It made him a more interesting study.  He had been always
enthralled by the methods of natural science, but the ordinary
subject-matter of that science had seemed to him trivial and of no
import.  And so he had begun by vivisecting himself, as he had ended by
vivisecting others.  Human life--that appeared to him the one thing
worth investigating.  Compared to it there was nothing else of any
value.  It was true that as one watched life in its curious crucible of
pain and pleasure, one could not wear over one's face a mask of glass,
nor keep the sulphurous fumes from troubling the brain and making the
imagination turbid with monstrous fancies and misshapen dreams.  There
were poisons so subtle that to know their properties one had to sicken
of them.  There were maladies so strange that one had to pass through
them if one sought to understand their nature.  And, yet, what a great
reward one received!  How wonderful the whole world became to one!  To
note the curious hard logic of passion, and the emotional coloured life
of the intellect--to observe where they met, and where they separated,
at what point they were in unison, and at what point they were at
discord--there was a delight in that!  What matter what the cost was?
One could never pay too high a price for any sensation.

He was conscious--and the thought brought a gleam of pleasure into his
brown agate eyes--that it was through certain words of his, musical
words said with musical utterance, that Dorian Gray's soul had turned
to this white girl and bowed in worship before her.  To a large extent
the lad was his own creation.  He had made him premature.  That was
something.  Ordinary people waited till life disclosed to them its
secrets, but to the few, to the elect, the mysteries of life were
revealed before the veil was drawn away.  Sometimes this was the effect
of art, and chiefly of the art of literature, which dealt immediately
with the passions and the intellect.  But now and then a complex
personality took the place and assumed the office of art, was indeed,
in its way, a real work of art, life having its elaborate masterpieces,
just as poetry has, or sculpture, or painting.

Yes, the lad was premature.  He was gathering his harvest while it was
yet spring.  The pulse and passion of youth were in him, but he was
becoming self-conscious. It was delightful to watch him.  With his
beautiful face, and his beautiful soul, he was a thing to wonder at.
It was no matter how it all ended, or was destined to end.  He was like
one of those gracious figures in a pageant or a play, whose joys seem
to be remote from one, but whose sorrows stir one's sense of beauty,
and whose wounds are like red roses.

Soul and body, body and soul--how mysterious they were!  There was
animalism in the soul, and the body had its moments of spirituality.
The senses could refine, and the intellect could degrade.  Who could
say where the fleshly impulse ceased, or the psychical impulse began?
How shallow were the arbitrary definitions of ordinary psychologists!
And yet how difficult to decide between the claims of the various
schools!  Was the soul a shadow seated in the house of sin?  Or was the
body really in the soul, as Giordano Bruno thought?  The separation of
spirit from matter was a mystery, and the union of spirit with matter
was a mystery also.

He began to wonder whether we could ever make psychology so absolute a
science that each little spring of life would be revealed to us.  As it
was, we always misunderstood ourselves and rarely understood others.
Experience was of no ethical value.  It was merely the name men gave to
their mistakes.  Moralists had, as a rule, regarded it as a mode of
warning, had claimed for it a certain ethical efficacy in the formation
of character, had praised it as something that taught us what to follow
and showed us what to avoid.  But there was no motive power in
experience.  It was as little of an active cause as conscience itself.
All that it really demonstrated was that our future would be the same
as our past, and that the sin we had done once, and with loathing, we
would do many times, and with joy.

It was clear to him that the experimental method was the only method by
which one could arrive at any scientific analysis of the passions; and
certainly Dorian Gray was a subject made to his hand, and seemed to
promise rich and fruitful results.  His sudden mad love for Sibyl Vane
was a psychological phenomenon of no small interest.  There was no
doubt that curiosity had much to do with it, curiosity and the desire
for new experiences, yet it was not a simple, but rather a very complex
passion.  What there was in it of the purely sensuous instinct of
boyhood had been transformed by the workings of the imagination,
changed into something that seemed to the lad himself to be remote from
sense, and was for that very reason all the more dangerous.  It was the
passions about whose origin we deceived ourselves that tyrannized most
strongly over us.  Our weakest motives were those of whose nature we
were conscious.  It often happened that when we thought we were
experimenting on others we were really experimenting on ourselves.

While Lord Henry sat dreaming on these things, a knock came to the
door, and his valet entered and reminded him it was time to dress for
dinner.  He got up and looked out into the street.  The sunset had
smitten into scarlet gold the upper windows of the houses opposite.
The panes glowed like plates of heated metal.  The sky above was like a
faded rose.  He thought of his friend's young fiery-coloured life and
wondered how it was all going to end.

When he arrived home, about half-past twelve o'clock, he saw a telegram
lying on the hall table.  He opened it and found it was from Dorian
Gray.  It was to tell him that he was engaged to be married to Sibyl
Vane.

A month later, Dorian pays a visit to Henry, finding his wife at home. She is pleased to meet the man with whom her husband has become so preoccupied. After Dorian's comment that one is obligated to engage in conversation when bad music is being performed, she remarks that "that is one of Harry's views...I always hear Harry's views from his friends, that is the only way I get to know them." Henry arrives, and his wife exits. Henry tells Dorian never to marry a woman as sentimental as his wife, a trait which he blames on the fairness of her hair. Dorian delivers the news that he has come to share: he is in love with a girl named Sibyl Vane. She is an actress who plays all of the young leading female roles at a theater devoted solely to Shakespeare's works. The theater and the rest of the cast are of very poor quality, but Sibyl is apparently a brilliant actress and stunningly beautiful. Dorian went backstage to meet her after the third performance he had attended, and found her to be completely unaware of her own skill, seemingly unable to separate real life from that of the stage. He tells Henry that she prefers to call him "Prince Charming," because, as Dorian says, "She regarded me merely as a person in a play. She knows nothing of life." This purity and naivete is indescribably charming to Dorian: he has fallen madly in love, and tells Henry that he worships Sibyl and that she is the only thing that matters to him. Dorian convinces Henry to come with him to see her play Juliet in the next day's production. Henry says that he will invite Basil. At the mention of the painter's name, Dorian remarks that he feels guilty for having ignored the painter for several weeks, since he appreciates the masterful portrait despite being "a little jealous of the picture for being a whole month younger than I am." The conversation turns towards the character of artists, and Henry insists that the better the artist, the duller his personality, and that only truly terrible artists are worth spending time with. Dorian eventually takes his leave. Later that night, Henry returns home to find a telegram from Dorian informing him that he and Sibyl are engaged to be married.

This chapter describes a key moment in the development of Dorian's personality.  Henry is not jealous of Dorian's fascination with another person, but pays careful attention to Dorian's impression of his own emotional state.  Recognizing his influence at work on the boy brings "a gleam of pleasure into his brown agate eyes"; he is like an artist proudly admiring his work.  Henry's views are elucidated by the statement that "a complex personality...was indeed, in its way, a real work of art."  Henry's beliefs are delivered in the voice of the narrator; this technique, called "free indirect discourse", is one that Wilde frequently used. The nature of Dorian's love reflects Henry's devotion to life as art.  Sibyl is described as almost completely devoid of her own personality, and only able to behave as if she is in a play.  Dorian is in love with the characters she plays, with her talent, and with her beauty, but not with her.  He values everything superficial about her, as is revealed when she tries to show her true self to him. Early in their conversation, after telling Henry how much he treasures his words and trusts his judgment, Dorian states, "If ever I did a crime I would confess it to you.  You would understand me."  This boldly foreshadows later events in the novel, and is also an indication of the commencement of Dorian's degradation.  The young man that was innocent and good-hearted only a month before now freely considers criminal actions for the sake of having a new sensation, without giving a single thought to the possibility of a guilty conscience. Dorian criticizes Sibyl for treating him like a person in a play, but is blind to the fact that he has fallen in love with the characters she plays, and hardly even knows the girl herself.  Dorian has begun to whole-heartedly devote himself to artistic ideals, mistakenly assuming that they are his reality.  Indeed, when Sibyl begins to show a glimmer of the person behind her characters, Dorian's reaction is not very pleasant.  Earlier, however, he doesn't even hesitate to propose to a girl he hardly knows; a testament to his misguided devotion to artistry and artifice. Henry realizes the error of Dorian's ways, but instead of pointing them out for the sake of his friend's well-being, he anticipates the fun he will have observing the repercussions. Dorian's blossoming self-centeredness is a successful manifestation of Henry's influence.  Interestingly, this is the first chapter in which Dorian actually has more dialogue than Henry. Until this point, we have witnessed Dorian's reactions only through Henry's eyes, and through narrative comments.  Dorian only actually begins to take the spotlight once his corruption is underway.

A month later, we find Dorian hanging out alone at Lord Henry's house in Mayfair, a ritzy London neighborhood. He's waiting for Lord Henry, who's always late. For the first time, Dorian encounters the other Wotton--Lord Henry's shrill wife, Victoria. Lady Victoria is a totally ridiculous creature; she tries to be stylish, but just ends up looking foolish. Unlike her husband, she has no appreciation for art, or any of the finer things in life; instead, she's totally shallow. Fortunately, Lord Henry arrives to save Dorian from his wife. Once she's gone, Henry tells Dorian never to get married . Dorian tells Henry that he'll never get married--after all, he's too much in love. This is big news. Henry wants to know all the details, and Dorian obliges. Dorian's flame is an actress named Sibyl Vane--he claims she's a genius, even though Henry says irritatingly that women can't be geniuses. Ignoring Henry's misogyny, Dorian goes on with his story. He first discovered Sibyl three weeks ago; it actually all started with Lord Henry himself, who got Dorian thinking about all the different people out there in London, whose lives all fascinated the boy all of a sudden. As he was wandering around the city one day, he stumbled upon a sketchy little theatre, where a Jewish manager lures him inside. There, he finds what he calls "the greatest romance of life." Here, Henry interjects--Dorian's too young to identify this relationship in such hyperbolic terms, and should remember that he'll always be loved, and that this is just the beginning. Only loving one person is simply too dull for Henry, and he thinks the same is true for Dorian. Dorian continues. In the tacky, dingy theatre, he discovers that the play is Romeo and Juliet. The actors, for the most part, are miserable, unattractive, and untalented. However, Juliet is a different story. The actress playing her is the most beautiful thing Dorian has ever seen--she's just seventeen, and she's so beautiful it brings tears to Dorian's eyes. Her voice is so thrilling it even gives Lord Henry's gorgeous pipes a run for their money. Sibyl Vane totally fascinates Dorian, and he's amazed by how she changes into a different person with every role she plays. He raves over how great it is to be in love with an actress. Lord Henry immediately shoots him down cynically, asking what exactly the deal is between Dorian and Sibyl. To put it bluntly, are they getting it on? Dorian is appalled at his friend's crudity, and exclaims that Sibyl is sacred--again, Henry doesn't buy this argument. Back to the story--after the play is over, the manager tries to convince Dorian to come backstage and meet Sibyl, but he refuses. Dorian returns to the theatre the next night, and the next. Finally, he feels ready to go and meet her. In real life, Sibyl is a complete innocent; she doesn't even realize how talented she is. She falls for Dorian immediately, and dubs him "Prince Charming." We find out that every night since then, Dorian has gone to see Sibyl act. Henry peevishly comments that this explains why Dorian hasn't been paying him enough attention recently . Henry asks Dorian to dinner, but instead, Dorian insists that he has to go see Sibyl perform again. Dorian is in a fit of excitement--Henry notices that something has blossomed within his young friend. Dorian asks Henry to come to the theatre with Basil one night to see Sibyl. He intends to rescue her from the dreadful place she's performing in, and set her up at a posh theatre in the West End . The friends set their dinner and theatre date for the next day, then digress slightly to talk of Basil--ever since he's been chilling with Henry, Dorian finds Basil a little lacking. Dorian rushes off to the theatre in a tizzy, and Henry stays at home, pondering the wonders of human nature... specifically Dorian's. He muses that Dorian is really his creation, since Henry's influence made the boy what he is now. Henry goes on to coldly evaluate his "experiment" with Dorian's personality--there's something rather chilling in the way Henry looks at Dorian as a kind of lab rat, through whom he's trying to figure out the workings of the human soul and body. Finally, Henry gets ready to go out for the evening; as he leaves, he thinks again about Dorian's splendid life, and wonders ominously how it will end. When Henry gets home that night, he finds a telegram with the news that Dorian and Sibyl are engaged.

A month later, Dorian waits for Lord Henry in Henry's library at Mayfair. He is sulking and annoyed until someone at the door interrupts his mood. It is not Lord Henry, but his wife. Lady Henry is familiar with Dorian, having seen Lord Henry's photographs of the young man and having noticed Dorian with Lord Henry recently at the opera. In her brief appearance, Lady Henry seems as witty as her husband and equally indifferent toward convention. Lord Henry enters, complaining about the hours he has spent trying to bargain for a piece of elegant fabric: "Nowadays people know the price of everything and the value of nothing." After Lady Henry leaves, he comments lightly on the disappointments of marriage, and Dorian volunteers that he doubts that he will ever marry because he is too much in love with an actress named Sibyl Vane. He recounts his discovery of Sibyl in "an absurd little theatre" in the East End of London. He had gone out one evening to seek adventure, recalling Lord Henry's advice that the search for beauty was "the real secret of life." In front of a theatre was a "hideous Jew," named Mr. Isaacs. Dorian was so amused with the man that he paid an entire guinea for a private theatre box. The play was Shakespeare's Romeo and Juliet. When Juliet, played by Sibyl Vane, walked onto the stage, her voice and performance were as magnificent as her appearance, and Dorian was immediately smitten. After that first night, he returned to the theatre every evening to see Sibyl Vane excel in various leading roles. Lord Henry offers a few skeptical remarks about Dorian's dramatic description of his newfound love, but he does not oppose his young friend's choice to love the actress. Dorian is concerned that Lord Henry will assume that all actresses are "horrid people with dyed hair and painted faces." In one of his better comebacks, Lord Henry quietly advises, "Don't run down dyed hair and painted faces." The love-struck Dorian tells of meeting Sibyl Vane, who immediately dubbed him "Prince Charming." He laments that the actress is bound to work for Mr. Isaacs, vowing to liberate her and present her properly at a more reputable West End theatre. As Dorian describes Sibyl and his love for her, Dorian admits that he is entranced partly because Sibyl Vane is an actress and, thus, a different woman every night. He confesses his love for Sibyl, calling her a "genius," and in the next breath states that he doesn't really care who she is or where she came from. From his own description, Dorian's "love" for Sibyl has more to do with the affectations of her profession than with her as a person. Lord Henry remains detached about Dorian's romance. However, he does agree to meet Dorian and Basil for dinner and to see Sibyl Vane in a play the next evening. Dorian leaves for the theatre, and Lord Henry muses on the situation. He feels "not the slightest pang of annoyance or jealousy" that Sibyl may intervene in their growing friendship; rather, these new developments make his protege "a more interesting study." Eventually, his valet interrupts this reverie, and Lord Henry dresses to go out for dinner. When he returns home after midnight, he finds a telegram on the hall table. It is from Dorian: He is engaged to be married to Sibyl Vane.

Of primary interest in this chapter is the development of Dorian's character. Throughout the first three chapters, Lord Henry was the center of attention; Dorian was little more than a pretty face who envied his own portrait and was devoted to his mentor. In Chapter 4, however, Dorian begins to take over the novel. He comes into his own as a character, beginning to drive the plot of the story by acting independently of Lord Henry. His pronouncements, however, echo Lord Henry's, an indication that he is still very much under Lord Henry's influence. At least twice, the reader hears that an adage spoken by the protege -- Dorian -- was originally spoken by the mentor -- Lord Henry. However, Dorian's relationship with Sibyl Vane, superficial and immature as it may be, illustrates a burgeoning independence. It will soon lead to crisis and force more changes on the title character. Dorian has not just fallen in love with an actress; he has fallen in love with her performances. He does not know the girl at all; yet, by the end of the chapter, they are engaged to be married. His ambition is not to build a relationship but to develop a star. If Dorian has learned nothing else from Lord Henry, he has learned the joy of manipulation. He wants to become Sibyl Vane's agent, not her husband. That Dorian's first love is so flawed with selfishness and manipulation is a bright indicator of the emerging dark side of his nature. As for Lord Henry, he may not be jealous of Dorian's love interest, but he is somewhat skeptical. He feels that Dorian is "premature," noting early on that an actress is a "rather commonplace debut" for a young man entering the world of romance, but he quickly drops that approach when he sees how intensely in love Dorian is. Lord Henry is wise enough to avoid confrontation. However, he must be stunned by the telegram announcing the engagement. A modern audience might find one disturbing factor in the chapter. Mr. Isaacs, who runs the theatre and holds Sibyl Vane under contract, is described in such flagrantly racist terms that the reader cannot ignore them. Someone might argue, in Wilde's defense, that he describes one specific Jew, not necessarily a stereotype. A better defense is that Dorian is speaking, not Wilde, and the crude, racist observations may be early indications of Dorian's character. Certainly, the young man can be superficial. It may be unfair to conclude that the narrator's views are Wilde's views. However, either way, anti-Semitism was thriving in nineteenth-century England as well as in much of the rest of Europe, as witnessed in Charles Dickens' portrayal of Fagin in Oliver Twist or in the real-life Dreyfus affair in France. Glossary Louis Quatorze Louis XIV , King of France , known as "the Sun King." The novel's reference is to a style of furniture. Wagner Wilhelm Richard Wagner , German poet and composer, known for his stirring, nationalistic music. brocade a heavy fabric interwoven with a raised design. frangipanni  a tropical American shrub with fragrant flowers; perfume from or resembling the flowers. debut French, meaning "beginning" or "coming out." abstruse difficult to understand; obscure. rouge French, meaning "red," "lipstick," or "rouge"; artificial blush for facial cheeks. espirit French, "spirit" or "wit"; usually spelled "esprit." Piccadilly a thoroughfare in London running from the Haymarket to Hyde Park Corner. myriad a large, indefinite number. les grandperes ont toujours tort French, meaning "Grandfathers are always wrong." hautboy an oboe. Juliet the leading female role in William Shakespeare's  Romeo and Juliet. Rosalind a leading role in William Shakespeare's As You Like It. munificent very generous. greenroom a waiting room or lounge in a theatre, used by performers when off-stage. Lady Capulet the mother of Juliet in William Shakespeare's Romeo and Juliet. Giordano Bruno  Italian philosopher. staccato here, rapid, short, crisp words. efficacy ability to produce a specific effect.

One month later, while waiting in Lord Henry's home for his host to arrive, Dorian discusses music with Lord Henry's wife, Victoria. When Lord Henry arrives, Dorian rushes to him, eager to share the news that he has fallen in love. The girl, he reports, is Sibyl Vane, an actress who plays Shakespeare's heroines in repertoire in a cheap London theater. Dorian admits to discovering her while wandering through the slums: inspired by Lord Henry's advice to "know everything about life," he had entered a playhouse. Despite the tawdriness of the locale and his disdain for the theater owner, Dorian decided that the star, Sibyl Vane, was the finest actress he had ever seen. After several trips to the theater, the owner insisted that Dorian meet Ms. Vane, who, awed by the attentions of such a handsome gentleman, declared that she would refer to him as "Prince Charming. Lord Henry, amused by this development, agrees to accompany Dorian to see Sibyl Vane play the lead in Romeo and Juliet the following night. Basil is to join them, and Dorian remarks that Basil sent him his portrait, framed, a few days earlier. After Dorian leaves, Lord Henry muses on his influence over the young man, reflecting on how fascinating the psychology of another human being can be. He then dresses and goes out to dinner. He comes home late that night and finds a telegram from Dorian waiting for him. It states that he is engaged to be married to Sibyl Vane