"Mother, Mother, I am so happy!" whispered the girl, burying her face
in the lap of the faded, tired-looking woman who, with back turned to
the shrill intrusive light, was sitting in the one arm-chair that their
dingy sitting-room contained.  "I am so happy!" she repeated, "and you
must be happy, too!"

Mrs. Vane winced and put her thin, bismuth-whitened hands on her
daughter's head.  "Happy!" she echoed, "I am only happy, Sibyl, when I
see you act.  You must not think of anything but your acting.  Mr.
Isaacs has been very good to us, and we owe him money."

The girl looked up and pouted.  "Money, Mother?" she cried, "what does
money matter?  Love is more than money."

"Mr. Isaacs has advanced us fifty pounds to pay off our debts and to
get a proper outfit for James.  You must not forget that, Sibyl.  Fifty
pounds is a very large sum.  Mr. Isaacs has been most considerate."

"He is not a gentleman, Mother, and I hate the way he talks to me,"
said the girl, rising to her feet and going over to the window.

"I don't know how we could manage without him," answered the elder
woman querulously.

Sibyl Vane tossed her head and laughed.  "We don't want him any more,
Mother.  Prince Charming rules life for us now." Then she paused.  A
rose shook in her blood and shadowed her cheeks.  Quick breath parted
the petals of her lips.  They trembled.  Some southern wind of passion
swept over her and stirred the dainty folds of her dress.  "I love
him," she said simply.

"Foolish child! foolish child!" was the parrot-phrase flung in answer.
The waving of crooked, false-jewelled fingers gave grotesqueness to the
words.

The girl laughed again.  The joy of a caged bird was in her voice.  Her
eyes caught the melody and echoed it in radiance, then closed for a
moment, as though to hide their secret.  When they opened, the mist of
a dream had passed across them.

Thin-lipped wisdom spoke at her from the worn chair, hinted at
prudence, quoted from that book of cowardice whose author apes the name
of common sense.  She did not listen.  She was free in her prison of
passion.  Her prince, Prince Charming, was with her.  She had called on
memory to remake him.  She had sent her soul to search for him, and it
had brought him back.  His kiss burned again upon her mouth.  Her
eyelids were warm with his breath.

Then wisdom altered its method and spoke of espial and discovery.  This
young man might be rich.  If so, marriage should be thought of.
Against the shell of her ear broke the waves of worldly cunning.  The
arrows of craft shot by her.  She saw the thin lips moving, and smiled.

Suddenly she felt the need to speak.  The wordy silence troubled her.
"Mother, Mother," she cried, "why does he love me so much?  I know why
I love him.  I love him because he is like what love himself should be.
But what does he see in me?  I am not worthy of him.  And yet--why, I
cannot tell--though I feel so much beneath him, I don't feel humble.  I
feel proud, terribly proud.  Mother, did you love my father as I love
Prince Charming?"

The elder woman grew pale beneath the coarse powder that daubed her
cheeks, and her dry lips twitched with a spasm of pain.  Sybil rushed
to her, flung her arms round her neck, and kissed her.  "Forgive me,
Mother.  I know it pains you to talk about our father.  But it only
pains you because you loved him so much.  Don't look so sad.  I am as
happy to-day as you were twenty years ago.  Ah! let me be happy for
ever!"

"My child, you are far too young to think of falling in love.  Besides,
what do you know of this young man?  You don't even know his name.  The
whole thing is most inconvenient, and really, when James is going away
to Australia, and I have so much to think of, I must say that you
should have shown more consideration.  However, as I said before, if he
is rich ..."

"Ah!  Mother, Mother, let me be happy!"

Mrs. Vane glanced at her, and with one of those false theatrical
gestures that so often become a mode of second nature to a
stage-player, clasped her in her arms.  At this moment, the door opened
and a young lad with rough brown hair came into the room.  He was
thick-set of figure, and his hands and feet were large and somewhat
clumsy in movement.  He was not so finely bred as his sister.  One
would hardly have guessed the close relationship that existed between
them.  Mrs. Vane fixed her eyes on him and intensified her smile.  She
mentally elevated her son to the dignity of an audience.  She felt sure
that the _tableau_ was interesting.

"You might keep some of your kisses for me, Sibyl, I think," said the
lad with a good-natured grumble.

"Ah! but you don't like being kissed, Jim," she cried.  "You are a
dreadful old bear."  And she ran across the room and hugged him.

James Vane looked into his sister's face with tenderness.  "I want you
to come out with me for a walk, Sibyl.  I don't suppose I shall ever
see this horrid London again.  I am sure I don't want to."

"My son, don't say such dreadful things," murmured Mrs. Vane, taking up
a tawdry theatrical dress, with a sigh, and beginning to patch it.  She
felt a little disappointed that he had not joined the group.  It would
have increased the theatrical picturesqueness of the situation.

"Why not, Mother?  I mean it."

"You pain me, my son.  I trust you will return from Australia in a
position of affluence.  I believe there is no society of any kind in
the Colonies--nothing that I would call society--so when you have made
your fortune, you must come back and assert yourself in London."

"Society!" muttered the lad.  "I don't want to know anything about
that.  I should like to make some money to take you and Sibyl off the
stage.  I hate it."

"Oh, Jim!" said Sibyl, laughing, "how unkind of you!  But are you
really going for a walk with me?  That will be nice!  I was afraid you
were going to say good-bye to some of your friends--to Tom Hardy, who
gave you that hideous pipe, or Ned Langton, who makes fun of you for
smoking it.  It is very sweet of you to let me have your last
afternoon.  Where shall we go?  Let us go to the park."

"I am too shabby," he answered, frowning.  "Only swell people go to the
park."

"Nonsense, Jim," she whispered, stroking the sleeve of his coat.

He hesitated for a moment.  "Very well," he said at last, "but don't be
too long dressing."  She danced out of the door.  One could hear her
singing as she ran upstairs.  Her little feet pattered overhead.

He walked up and down the room two or three times.  Then he turned to
the still figure in the chair.  "Mother, are my things ready?" he asked.

"Quite ready, James," she answered, keeping her eyes on her work.  For
some months past she had felt ill at ease when she was alone with this
rough stern son of hers.  Her shallow secret nature was troubled when
their eyes met.  She used to wonder if he suspected anything.  The
silence, for he made no other observation, became intolerable to her.
She began to complain.  Women defend themselves by attacking, just as
they attack by sudden and strange surrenders.  "I hope you will be
contented, James, with your sea-faring life," she said.  "You must
remember that it is your own choice.  You might have entered a
solicitor's office.  Solicitors are a very respectable class, and in
the country often dine with the best families."

"I hate offices, and I hate clerks," he replied.  "But you are quite
right.  I have chosen my own life.  All I say is, watch over Sibyl.
Don't let her come to any harm.  Mother, you must watch over her."

"James, you really talk very strangely.  Of course I watch over Sibyl."

"I hear a gentleman comes every night to the theatre and goes behind to
talk to her.  Is that right?  What about that?"

"You are speaking about things you don't understand, James.  In the
profession we are accustomed to receive a great deal of most gratifying
attention.  I myself used to receive many bouquets at one time.  That
was when acting was really understood.  As for Sibyl, I do not know at
present whether her attachment is serious or not.  But there is no
doubt that the young man in question is a perfect gentleman.  He is
always most polite to me.  Besides, he has the appearance of being
rich, and the flowers he sends are lovely."

"You don't know his name, though," said the lad harshly.

"No," answered his mother with a placid expression in her face.  "He
has not yet revealed his real name.  I think it is quite romantic of
him.  He is probably a member of the aristocracy."

James Vane bit his lip.  "Watch over Sibyl, Mother," he cried, "watch
over her."

"My son, you distress me very much.  Sibyl is always under my special
care.  Of course, if this gentleman is wealthy, there is no reason why
she should not contract an alliance with him.  I trust he is one of the
aristocracy.  He has all the appearance of it, I must say.  It might be
a most brilliant marriage for Sibyl.  They would make a charming
couple.  His good looks are really quite remarkable; everybody notices
them."

The lad muttered something to himself and drummed on the window-pane
with his coarse fingers.  He had just turned round to say something
when the door opened and Sibyl ran in.

"How serious you both are!" she cried.  "What is the matter?"

"Nothing," he answered.  "I suppose one must be serious sometimes.
Good-bye, Mother; I will have my dinner at five o'clock. Everything is
packed, except my shirts, so you need not trouble."

"Good-bye, my son," she answered with a bow of strained stateliness.

She was extremely annoyed at the tone he had adopted with her, and
there was something in his look that had made her feel afraid.

"Kiss me, Mother," said the girl.  Her flowerlike lips touched the
withered cheek and warmed its frost.

"My child! my child!" cried Mrs. Vane, looking up to the ceiling in
search of an imaginary gallery.

"Come, Sibyl," said her brother impatiently.  He hated his mother's
affectations.

They went out into the flickering, wind-blown sunlight and strolled
down the dreary Euston Road.  The passersby glanced in wonder at the
sullen heavy youth who, in coarse, ill-fitting clothes, was in the
company of such a graceful, refined-looking girl.  He was like a common
gardener walking with a rose.

Jim frowned from time to time when he caught the inquisitive glance of
some stranger.  He had that dislike of being stared at, which comes on
geniuses late in life and never leaves the commonplace.  Sibyl,
however, was quite unconscious of the effect she was producing.  Her
love was trembling in laughter on her lips.  She was thinking of Prince
Charming, and, that she might think of him all the more, she did not
talk of him, but prattled on about the ship in which Jim was going to
sail, about the gold he was certain to find, about the wonderful
heiress whose life he was to save from the wicked, red-shirted
bushrangers.  For he was not to remain a sailor, or a supercargo, or
whatever he was going to be.  Oh, no!  A sailor's existence was
dreadful.  Fancy being cooped up in a horrid ship, with the hoarse,
hump-backed waves trying to get in, and a black wind blowing the masts
down and tearing the sails into long screaming ribands!  He was to
leave the vessel at Melbourne, bid a polite good-bye to the captain,
and go off at once to the gold-fields. Before a week was over he was to
come across a large nugget of pure gold, the largest nugget that had
ever been discovered, and bring it down to the coast in a waggon
guarded by six mounted policemen.  The bushrangers were to attack them
three times, and be defeated with immense slaughter.  Or, no.  He was
not to go to the gold-fields at all.  They were horrid places, where
men got intoxicated, and shot each other in bar-rooms, and used bad
language.  He was to be a nice sheep-farmer, and one evening, as he was
riding home, he was to see the beautiful heiress being carried off by a
robber on a black horse, and give chase, and rescue her.  Of course,
she would fall in love with him, and he with her, and they would get
married, and come home, and live in an immense house in London.  Yes,
there were delightful things in store for him.  But he must be very
good, and not lose his temper, or spend his money foolishly.  She was
only a year older than he was, but she knew so much more of life.  He
must be sure, also, to write to her by every mail, and to say his
prayers each night before he went to sleep.  God was very good, and
would watch over him.  She would pray for him, too, and in a few years
he would come back quite rich and happy.

The lad listened sulkily to her and made no answer.  He was heart-sick
at leaving home.

Yet it was not this alone that made him gloomy and morose.
Inexperienced though he was, he had still a strong sense of the danger
of Sibyl's position.  This young dandy who was making love to her could
mean her no good.  He was a gentleman, and he hated him for that, hated
him through some curious race-instinct for which he could not account,
and which for that reason was all the more dominant within him.  He was
conscious also of the shallowness and vanity of his mother's nature,
and in that saw infinite peril for Sibyl and Sibyl's happiness.
Children begin by loving their parents; as they grow older they judge
them; sometimes they forgive them.

His mother!  He had something on his mind to ask of her, something that
he had brooded on for many months of silence.  A chance phrase that he
had heard at the theatre, a whispered sneer that had reached his ears
one night as he waited at the stage-door, had set loose a train of
horrible thoughts.  He remembered it as if it had been the lash of a
hunting-crop across his face.  His brows knit together into a wedge-like
furrow, and with a twitch of pain he bit his underlip.

"You are not listening to a word I am saying, Jim," cried Sibyl, "and I
am making the most delightful plans for your future.  Do say something."

"What do you want me to say?"

"Oh! that you will be a good boy and not forget us," she answered,
smiling at him.

He shrugged his shoulders.  "You are more likely to forget me than I am
to forget you, Sibyl."

She flushed.  "What do you mean, Jim?" she asked.

"You have a new friend, I hear.  Who is he?  Why have you not told me
about him?  He means you no good."

"Stop, Jim!" she exclaimed.  "You must not say anything against him.  I
love him."

"Why, you don't even know his name," answered the lad.  "Who is he?  I
have a right to know."

"He is called Prince Charming.  Don't you like the name.  Oh! you silly
boy! you should never forget it.  If you only saw him, you would think
him the most wonderful person in the world.  Some day you will meet
him--when you come back from Australia.  You will like him so much.
Everybody likes him, and I ... love him.  I wish you could come to the
theatre to-night. He is going to be there, and I am to play Juliet.
Oh! how I shall play it!  Fancy, Jim, to be in love and play Juliet!
To have him sitting there!  To play for his delight!  I am afraid I may
frighten the company, frighten or enthrall them.  To be in love is to
surpass one's self.  Poor dreadful Mr. Isaacs will be shouting 'genius'
to his loafers at the bar.  He has preached me as a dogma; to-night he
will announce me as a revelation.  I feel it.  And it is all his, his
only, Prince Charming, my wonderful lover, my god of graces.  But I am
poor beside him.  Poor?  What does that matter?  When poverty creeps in
at the door, love flies in through the window.  Our proverbs want
rewriting.  They were made in winter, and it is summer now; spring-time
for me, I think, a very dance of blossoms in blue skies."

"He is a gentleman," said the lad sullenly.

"A prince!" she cried musically.  "What more do you want?"

"He wants to enslave you."

"I shudder at the thought of being free."

"I want you to beware of him."

"To see him is to worship him; to know him is to trust him."

"Sibyl, you are mad about him."

She laughed and took his arm.  "You dear old Jim, you talk as if you
were a hundred.  Some day you will be in love yourself.  Then you will
know what it is.  Don't look so sulky.  Surely you should be glad to
think that, though you are going away, you leave me happier than I have
ever been before.  Life has been hard for us both, terribly hard and
difficult.  But it will be different now.  You are going to a new
world, and I have found one.  Here are two chairs; let us sit down and
see the smart people go by."

They took their seats amidst a crowd of watchers.  The tulip-beds
across the road flamed like throbbing rings of fire.  A white
dust--tremulous cloud of orris-root it seemed--hung in the panting air.
The brightly coloured parasols danced and dipped like monstrous
butterflies.

She made her brother talk of himself, his hopes, his prospects.  He
spoke slowly and with effort.  They passed words to each other as
players at a game pass counters.  Sibyl felt oppressed.  She could not
communicate her joy.  A faint smile curving that sullen mouth was all
the echo she could win.  After some time she became silent.  Suddenly
she caught a glimpse of golden hair and laughing lips, and in an open
carriage with two ladies Dorian Gray drove past.

She started to her feet.  "There he is!" she cried.

"Who?" said Jim Vane.

"Prince Charming," she answered, looking after the victoria.

He jumped up and seized her roughly by the arm.  "Show him to me.
Which is he?  Point him out.  I must see him!" he exclaimed; but at
that moment the Duke of Berwick's four-in-hand came between, and when
it had left the space clear, the carriage had swept out of the park.

"He is gone," murmured Sibyl sadly.  "I wish you had seen him."

"I wish I had, for as sure as there is a God in heaven, if he ever does
you any wrong, I shall kill him."

She looked at him in horror.  He repeated his words.  They cut the air
like a dagger.  The people round began to gape.  A lady standing close
to her tittered.

"Come away, Jim; come away," she whispered.  He followed her doggedly
as she passed through the crowd.  He felt glad at what he had said.

When they reached the Achilles Statue, she turned round.  There was
pity in her eyes that became laughter on her lips.  She shook her head
at him.  "You are foolish, Jim, utterly foolish; a bad-tempered boy,
that is all.  How can you say such horrible things?  You don't know
what you are talking about.  You are simply jealous and unkind.  Ah!  I
wish you would fall in love.  Love makes people good, and what you said
was wicked."

"I am sixteen," he answered, "and I know what I am about.  Mother is no
help to you.  She doesn't understand how to look after you.  I wish now
that I was not going to Australia at all.  I have a great mind to chuck
the whole thing up.  I would, if my articles hadn't been signed."

"Oh, don't be so serious, Jim.  You are like one of the heroes of those
silly melodramas Mother used to be so fond of acting in.  I am not
going to quarrel with you.  I have seen him, and oh! to see him is
perfect happiness.  We won't quarrel.  I know you would never harm any
one I love, would you?"

"Not as long as you love him, I suppose," was the sullen answer.

"I shall love him for ever!" she cried.

"And he?"

"For ever, too!"

"He had better."

She shrank from him.  Then she laughed and put her hand on his arm.  He
was merely a boy.

At the Marble Arch they hailed an omnibus, which left them close to
their shabby home in the Euston Road.  It was after five o'clock, and
Sibyl had to lie down for a couple of hours before acting.  Jim
insisted that she should do so.  He said that he would sooner part with
her when their mother was not present.  She would be sure to make a
scene, and he detested scenes of every kind.

In Sybil's own room they parted.  There was jealousy in the lad's
heart, and a fierce murderous hatred of the stranger who, as it seemed
to him, had come between them.  Yet, when her arms were flung round his
neck, and her fingers strayed through his hair, he softened and kissed
her with real affection.  There were tears in his eyes as he went
downstairs.

His mother was waiting for him below.  She grumbled at his
unpunctuality, as he entered.  He made no answer, but sat down to his
meagre meal.  The flies buzzed round the table and crawled over the
stained cloth.  Through the rumble of omnibuses, and the clatter of
street-cabs, he could hear the droning voice devouring each minute that
was left to him.

After some time, he thrust away his plate and put his head in his
hands.  He felt that he had a right to know.  It should have been told
to him before, if it was as he suspected.  Leaden with fear, his mother
watched him.  Words dropped mechanically from her lips.  A tattered
lace handkerchief twitched in her fingers.  When the clock struck six,
he got up and went to the door.  Then he turned back and looked at her.
Their eyes met.  In hers he saw a wild appeal for mercy.  It enraged
him.

"Mother, I have something to ask you," he said.  Her eyes wandered
vaguely about the room.  She made no answer.  "Tell me the truth.  I
have a right to know.  Were you married to my father?"

She heaved a deep sigh.  It was a sigh of relief.  The terrible moment,
the moment that night and day, for weeks and months, she had dreaded,
had come at last, and yet she felt no terror.  Indeed, in some measure
it was a disappointment to her.  The vulgar directness of the question
called for a direct answer.  The situation had not been gradually led
up to.  It was crude.  It reminded her of a bad rehearsal.

"No," she answered, wondering at the harsh simplicity of life.

"My father was a scoundrel then!" cried the lad, clenching his fists.

She shook her head.  "I knew he was not free.  We loved each other very
much.  If he had lived, he would have made provision for us.  Don't
speak against him, my son.  He was your father, and a gentleman.
Indeed, he was highly connected."

An oath broke from his lips.  "I don't care for myself," he exclaimed,
"but don't let Sibyl.... It is a gentleman, isn't it, who is in love
with her, or says he is?  Highly connected, too, I suppose."

For a moment a hideous sense of humiliation came over the woman.  Her
head drooped.  She wiped her eyes with shaking hands.  "Sibyl has a
mother," she murmured; "I had none."

The lad was touched.  He went towards her, and stooping down, he kissed
her.  "I am sorry if I have pained you by asking about my father," he
said, "but I could not help it.  I must go now.  Good-bye. Don't forget
that you will have only one child now to look after, and believe me
that if this man wrongs my sister, I will find out who he is, track him
down, and kill him like a dog.  I swear it."

The exaggerated folly of the threat, the passionate gesture that
accompanied it, the mad melodramatic words, made life seem more vivid
to her.  She was familiar with the atmosphere.  She breathed more
freely, and for the first time for many months she really admired her
son.  She would have liked to have continued the scene on the same
emotional scale, but he cut her short.  Trunks had to be carried down
and mufflers looked for.  The lodging-house drudge bustled in and out.
There was the bargaining with the cabman.  The moment was lost in
vulgar details.  It was with a renewed feeling of disappointment that
she waved the tattered lace handkerchief from the window, as her son
drove away.  She was conscious that a great opportunity had been
wasted.  She consoled herself by telling Sibyl how desolate she felt
her life would be, now that she had only one child to look after.  She
remembered the phrase.  It had pleased her.  Of the threat she said
nothing.  It was vividly and dramatically expressed.  She felt that
they would all laugh at it some day.

Sibyl Vane tells her mother all about her love for Dorian, but only refers to him as "Prince Charming," since she has promised not to disclose his true name to anyone. Mrs Vane is greatly distressed over her daughter's well-being and the family's financial status. She reminds Sibyl that they owe money to Mr Isaacs, the theater owner, but Sibyl doesn't care about anything but her Prince Charming. Mrs Vane is full of affectations, always seeming to behave as if she is on stage. Sibyl's younger brother James enters, wanting to walk with his sister and bid farewell to his mother, as he is leaving for Australia to become a sailor. James is not an actor, and hates the city and the stage. He is a very serious, stocky young man. It is his hope that he will never have to return to London, and will make enough money to keep his mother and sister from having to act. When Sibyl leaves to prepare for their walk, James urges his mother to protect her. He is very jealous, protective of his sister, and suspicious of the situation, since Sibyl doesn't even seem to know her suitor's name. Mrs Vane reminds her son that Prince Charming is a gentleman, and that it could be a very profitable marriage for the family. Sibyl returns, and the siblings leave. On their walk, other people stare at them because Sibyl's beauty contrasts with James's stocky, disheveled appearance. Sibyl romanticizes her brother's life as a sailor: she is sure that he will find gold in a distant land, fight off robbers, and rescue a beautiful heiress. James is distressed about his sister's affair, and tells her that he doesn't trust her suitor. Sibyl defends Dorian, always referring to him as "Prince Charming", and tells James that he will only understand her feelings once he falls in love himself. Sibyl spots Dorian riding by and James runs to see what he looks like, but the carriage drives off. James states, "I wish I had , for as sure as there is a God in heaven, if he ever does you any wrong, I shall kill him." Sibyl scolds her brother for being bad-tempered, and doesn't take his threat seriously. After returning home for dinner, James tells his mother that "if this man ever wrongs my sister, I will find out who he is, track him down, and kill him like a dog." The melodrama of the statement and the theatrical manner of its delivery make Mrs Vane admire her son, because she is only truly comfortable when life mimics the theater. James's departure, however, disappoints her, because the potentially heart-jerking farewell "was lost in vulgar details" of haggling with a cab driver.

This is one of the few chapters in the novel that does not focus primarily on Dorian or Lord Henry. Like the preface, and all of the later chapters dealing with James Vane, this chapter was absent from the original version of the novel printed in Lippincott's Monthly.  This fact is made apparent from the tone of writing: by introducing three new characters that barely interact with the main players of the story, this chapter seems to deviate from the plot. However, Wilde does use the Vanes to further explore the complex relationship between life and art.  Sibyl and her mother both seem to be stuck in theatrical mentalities.  This is most striking in the character of Mrs Vane, who is actually disappointed when the events in her life don't live up to the melodrama of the theater.  She appreciates Sibyl's love-stricken outbursts because they are worthy of the stage.  When James enters their room, "she mentally elevated her son to the dignity of an audience.  She felt sure that the tableau was interesting."  She is disappointed with the farewell of her only son, because "It was crude.  It reminded her of a bad rehearsal."  To Mrs Vane, life has become a shadow of her art. Sibyl is similarly afflicted, but to a lesser degree.  The theatricality of her actions can be attributed to her naivetA and the intensity of her love for Dorian.  This love exists in the real world, and thus saves Sibyl from the need to feel that she is constantly in a play.  Ironically, this desire to live in the "real world" and experience true love eventually leads to her death. The threats made by James, which are dismissed by Sibyl as byproducts of the over-zealousness of youth, return to haunt Dorian in the later chapters .  James comes to represent the inescapable consequences of Dorian's past transgressions.  The threats that Sibyl finds so harmless and endearing prove to be earnest declarations of intent. When Dorian drives by in a carriage, unseen by James but noticed by Sibyl, Wilde is emphasizing the discrepency between their social classes.  Dorian rides in an expensive carriage, while the Vanes walk the filthy streets.  This discrepency is the source of much of James's rage and frustration, and also Sibyl's tragically idealistic hopes for a better life.

Sibyl and her mother are at home in their dingy house, a world away from Lord Henry's luxurious abode. Sibyl is totally infatuated with Dorian, and love is the only thing on her young, naive mind. Sibyl's world-weary mother, however, has other things on her mind--she's cynical, and is more concerned with things like money than Sybil's innocent adoration. Sibyl asks her mother if she was ever this in love with her absent father; obviously, this hits close to home. We have to wonder what Sibyl's mother was like in her youth--was she as naive and optimistic as her daughter? The narrator informs us rather cruelly of how "second-rate" and ridiculously theatrical Mrs. Vane is, playing up the fact that she's always conscious of how her actions look, even when her audience is just her children. When Sibyl's brother, James, enters the room, their mother pauses dramatically with her arms around Sibyl for theatrical effect. James and Sibyl are obviously quite close. He's leaving for Australia to try and make some money, and he wants to take Sibyl out for one last walk. The siblings agree to go to the park. While Sibyl's upstairs changing, James grills his mother about his sister's mysterious suitor. We gather that Mrs. Vane thinks highly of Dorian, who she calls a "perfect gentleman." James is unconvinced, and makes his mother promise to look after the girl. Sibyl and James go off on their walk, leaving their obnoxious mother behind. Compared to Sibyl, James is a horse of a different color. He's much more suspicious of people, and is a lot more street-smart than his dreamy sister. Sibyl goes on and on about her vision of James' idyllic future in Australia, but all the while, he's worrying about Dorian's intentions towards his sister. After all, Sibyl and Mrs. Vane don't even know Dorian's name yet. Who knows if he's trustworthy? James comes out and warns Sibyl to be careful, but she laughs him off, saying that Dorian is Prince Charming, and can do no wrong. The siblings sit on a park bench, watching the wealthy people go by. Suddenly, Dorian drives past in a carriage. Sibyl and James strain to see him, but, before James catches a glimpse, the carriage is gone. James is torn between his love for his sister and his resentment of this mysterious Prince Charming. He promises not to hurt Dorian as long as Sibyl still loves him. At home, James and Sibyl say their goodbyes. Even though James is resentful and jealous of the strange suitor, he's still terribly sad to leave home--after all, he's just sixteen. After leaving Sibyl in her room, James goes to see his mother. He demands to know whether or not she was married to their father--it turns out, she wasn't. We find out that he was also a gentleman, like Dorian, and he couldn't make an honest woman of her--he died without leaving them anything. James again insists that his mother take good care of Sibyl, and says that if her suitor does anything to hurt her, he'll come back and kill him. Mrs. Vane is secretly thrilled by the melodramatic ring of this threat--it actually cheers her up, despite the fact that her son is leaving home for a strange country. She feels like things are looking up.

The following day, Sibyl Vane and her mother discuss the girl's relationship with "Prince Charming." Sibyl is elated and wants her mother to share her joy. She is in love. Mrs. Vane's attitude is more realistic and down-to-earth. She wants her daughter to think of her career. The situation is complicated by the fact that the Vanes owe Mr. Isaacs fifty pounds, a good deal of money, as Mrs. Vane points out. On the other hand, Mrs. Vane is willing to consider marriage for Sibyl if it turns out that Dorian is wealthy. Sibyl has all the idealistic enthusiasm of an innocent seven-teen-year-old. In one of Wilde's more effective metaphors, he says that the "joy of a caged bird was in her voice." Sibyl does not want to hear about Mr. Isaacs or money. What is money compared to love? She wonders only what "Prince Charming" sees in her. The Vanes still do not even know Dorian's name. Sibyl's sixteen-year-old brother, James, who is about to sail for Australia, enters the room. He is very angry -- toward London, toward England's class system, toward the life that he lives. Mrs. Vane feels ill at ease around her son, fearing that he might suspect some secret that she keeps. Sibyl, however, is even more girlish, sweet, and innocent around her brother. Lovingly calling him "a dreadful old bear," she is delighted that he will go for a walk with her in the park on his last afternoon at home. For his part, James is very protective of Sibyl and repeatedly warns his mother to watch over the girl in his absence. During their walk in the park, James is brooding and angry; Sibyl dreams of "Prince Charming" and fantasizes aloud, in a somewhat childlike manner, about the great success that her brother is to be. James hates the "young dandy" who is courting his sister, hates him the more because he is a "gentleman." He warns his sister that the man wants to enslave her and repeatedly threatens to kill the "gentleman" if he does Sibyl any wrong. James is especially angry when Dorian suddenly passes through the park in an open carriage, but only Sibyl actually sees him. James is also angry with his mother. At the theatre one night, months before, he had heard "a whispered sneer" about her. After James and Sibyl return from their walk, he confronts his mother. He wants to know if she and his father were actually married. The crude situation reminds the melodramatic Mrs. Vane of a bad rehearsal. She simply says, "No." James accuses the father of being a scoundrel. Mrs. Vane defends the man, now dead. She knew that he was "not free" when she got involved with him. He would have taken care of her and the children had he lived. He was, after all, a "gentleman." James insists that Sibyl never be told about the father and notes that his sister's suitor is another "gentleman." He repeats that he will track down Sibyl's "gentleman" caller and "kill him like a dog" if he wrongs the girl, a threat that becomes very important later in the book.

The absence of Dorian or Lord Henry from this chapter may make it seem like filler, a chance for the reader to catch a breath after the whirlwind engagement announcement that ended the previous chapter. However, this short chapter serves an important function in the novel; it introduces and describes characters and sets up events that will be developed later in the story. Sibyl is the ingenue, an innocent girl, and the reader would be hard pressed to find another character in the book as sweet or innocent or wholesome. She is no match for the jaded, sophisticated world of Lord Henry and Dorian. Her pure joy at being in love provides poignant contrast to the manipulative intentions that Dorian calls "love." It is little wonder that James is enraged at the thought of any harm coming to his sister. He is the adventurer, off to see the world, but the reader has to suspect that all the anger about class distinction and all those threats about killing people might eventually come to something. Mrs. Vane is the fallen woman with a crusty exterior but a good heart. She was ill-treated by the wealthy, privileged, married man who fathered her children. Because Sibyl has fallen in love with a gentleman just as her mother did, the reader can't help but wonder if her romance will end as tragically as her mother's. Mr. Isaacs, whom Wilde introduced in an earlier chapter, is the creditor to whom the Vane family is indebted. When Sibyl says that Isaacs is not a gentleman and that she hates the way that he talks to her, the reader needs no further explanation of his character. Sibyl and her mother live in desperate circumstances, and Sibyl could easily fall hopelessly, blindly in love with a young man as charming as her Prince. The only thing missing from this list of characters is the suitor -- Dorian. Will he be the hero, a true gentleman who saves the family and carries off Sibyl to live happily ever after? Or will he be a cad? Glossary bismuth a white, crystalline, metallic element used in alloys to form castings; here, used as powder. querulous expressing complaint. tableau French, "picture"; a scene on stage in which the actors remain silent and motionless as if in a picture. affluence a plentiful supply of wealth or goods. super-cargo an officer on a merchant ship who is in charge of the cargo. morose gloomy; very melancholy; sullen. dogma a system of beliefs supported by authority. victoria a low, light, four-wheeled carriage for two with a folding top and an elevated driver's seat in front. four-in-hand a vehicle, pulled by four horses, driven by one person. Achilles the hero of Homer's Iliad. articles the articles of agreement, or contract, signed by James, to undergo the journey to Australia. drudgee a person who does tedious or menial labor.

At the Vane household, Sibyl Vane is deliriously happy over her romance with Dorian Gray. Mrs. Vane, her mother, is less enthusiastic, and she alternately worries over Dorian's intentions and hopes that her daughter will benefit from his obvious wealth. Sibyl's brother, James, is also rather cautious regarding the match. As a sailor preparing to depart for Australia, James arrives to say his good-byes and warns his mother that she must watch over Sibyl. Mrs. Vane assures him that admirers such as Dorian Gray are not uncommon to actresses, and that there is no reason not to "contract an alliance" with one so wealthy. Impatient with his mother's "affectations," James takes Sibyl on a walk. Rather than discuss her Prince Charming, Sibyl chatters on about the adventures James is certain to find in Australia. She imagines him discovering gold but then, thinking this life too dangerous, states that he will be better off as a quiet sheep farmer. James cannot shake the feeling that he is leaving his sister at an inopportune time. He doubts both Dorian's intentions and his mother's ability to protect Sibyl from them. Finally, James asks Sibyl about her suitor. He warns her against Dorian, and Sibyl carries on about the ecstasy of her new love. As the two sit and watch "the smart people go by," Sibyl sees Dorian pass in an open carriage. She points him out, but he is gone before James sees him. James swears fiercely that if Dorian ever wrongs her, he will track down her "Prince Charming" and kill him. Sibyl pledges undying devotion to Dorian. Later that night, James confronts his mother, asking her whether she was ever married to his father. Mrs. Vane answers no, and James begs her not to let Sibyl meet the same fate. Before departing, James again pledges to kill Dorian should Sibyl ever come to harm by him

Critical reception of The Picture of Dorian Gray was mixed, with many readers condemning the novel as decadent or unmanly. The relationship between Lord Henry and Dorian, as well the one of Basil and Dorian, is clearly homoerotic, and must have shocked readers who valued Victorian respectability. Although Wilde stops short of stating that Basil and Lord Henry have sexual feelings for Dorian, the language he uses to describe their devotion to Dorian is unmistakably the language of deep, romantic intimacy. Wilde's language of irony facilitates dodging direct statements; in one scene, for example, although the ostensible topic of conversation is Dorian as a subject for portraits, the exchange between Basil and Lord Henry betrays the romantic nature of Basil's feelings:  "Tell me more about Mr Dorian Gray. How often do you see him?" "Every day. I couldn't be happy if I didn't see him everyday. He is absolutely necessary to me."  Men do have relationships with women in the novel--Dorian falls in love with Sibyl and Lord Henry himself is married--but the novel's heterosexual relationships prove to be rather superficial and short-lived. If the novel is homoerotic, it is also misogynistic. Victoria Wotton, like most of the women in the novel, is depicted with no real depth: she is briefly  introduced, never to be heard from again. The most significant female character in the novel is Sibyl, who seems to fulfill Lord Henry's observation that "omen are a decorative sex." There is precious little substance to Sibyl's character, as becomes clear in following chapters when she so easily gives up her greatest talent in order to pursue a relationship with Dorian. In this section, as she strolls through the park with James, she emerges as a rather foolishly romantic young woman. She is perfectly content to fall in love with a stranger whom she knows only by the fairy-tale name with which she has christened him. Indeed, Sibyl is little more than a placeholder in a prefabricated romance. Dorian says nearly as much when he describes the thrill of seeing her placed "on a pedestal of gold . . . to see the world worship the woman who is mine." This sentiment confirms Lord Henry's ego-driven philosophy of women as ornaments as well as the male-centered focus of Wilde's narrative gaze: men--particularly their relationships and the influence they bring to bear upon one another--matter most in The Picture of Dorian Gray. More important than Lord Henry's philosophy of the role of women, however, is his insistence on the necessity of individualism. As a mode of thinking, individualism took center stage during the nineteenth century. It was first celebrated by the Romantics, who, in the early 1800s, decided that free and spontaneous expression of the self was the true source of art and literature. The Romantics rejected the eighteenth-century sensibility that sought to imitate and reproduce the classical models of ancient Greece and Rome, which were perceived as too stylized to allow for the expression of anything genuine or relevant. Holding the self as the center of creation, Romanticism inevitably emphasized personal freedom, sensory experience, and the special status of the artist. By the time Wilde wrote The Picture of Dorian Gray, however, the romantic belief that man could realize these things in himself by returning to nature had largely faded. Indeed, Wilde's novel marks an interesting shift in the changing philosophy of the times. For although the residue of the Romantic movement can be seen in Dorian's story--Lord Henry advocates that nothing should hinder the freedom of the artistic individual's development--the means by which that development occurs in the story is noticeably different. In the world of The Picture of Dorian Gray, art is to be made by submerging oneself in society rather than escaping from it.


"I suppose you have heard the news, Basil?" said Lord Henry that
evening as Hallward was shown into a little private room at the Bristol
where dinner had been laid for three.

"No, Harry," answered the artist, giving his hat and coat to the bowing
waiter.  "What is it?  Nothing about politics, I hope!  They don't
interest me.  There is hardly a single person in the House of Commons
worth painting, though many of them would be the better for a little
whitewashing."

"Dorian Gray is engaged to be married," said Lord Henry, watching him
as he spoke.

Hallward started and then frowned.  "Dorian engaged to be married!" he
cried.  "Impossible!"

"It is perfectly true."

"To whom?"

"To some little actress or other."

"I can't believe it.  Dorian is far too sensible."

"Dorian is far too wise not to do foolish things now and then, my dear
Basil."

"Marriage is hardly a thing that one can do now and then, Harry."

"Except in America," rejoined Lord Henry languidly.  "But I didn't say
he was married.  I said he was engaged to be married.  There is a great
difference.  I have a distinct remembrance of being married, but I have
no recollection at all of being engaged.  I am inclined to think that I
never was engaged."

"But think of Dorian's birth, and position, and wealth.  It would be
absurd for him to marry so much beneath him."

"If you want to make him marry this girl, tell him that, Basil.  He is
sure to do it, then.  Whenever a man does a thoroughly stupid thing, it
is always from the noblest motives."

"I hope the girl is good, Harry.  I don't want to see Dorian tied to
some vile creature, who might degrade his nature and ruin his
intellect."

"Oh, she is better than good--she is beautiful," murmured Lord Henry,
sipping a glass of vermouth and orange-bitters. "Dorian says she is
beautiful, and he is not often wrong about things of that kind.  Your
portrait of him has quickened his appreciation of the personal
appearance of other people.  It has had that excellent effect, amongst
others.  We are to see her to-night, if that boy doesn't forget his
appointment."

"Are you serious?"

"Quite serious, Basil.  I should be miserable if I thought I should
ever be more serious than I am at the present moment."

"But do you approve of it, Harry?" asked the painter, walking up and
down the room and biting his lip.  "You can't approve of it, possibly.
It is some silly infatuation."

"I never approve, or disapprove, of anything now.  It is an absurd
attitude to take towards life.  We are not sent into the world to air
our moral prejudices.  I never take any notice of what common people
say, and I never interfere with what charming people do.  If a
personality fascinates me, whatever mode of expression that personality
selects is absolutely delightful to me.  Dorian Gray falls in love with
a beautiful girl who acts Juliet, and proposes to marry her.  Why not?
If he wedded Messalina, he would be none the less interesting.  You
know I am not a champion of marriage.  The real drawback to marriage is
that it makes one unselfish.  And unselfish people are colourless.
They lack individuality.  Still, there are certain temperaments that
marriage makes more complex.  They retain their egotism, and add to it
many other egos.  They are forced to have more than one life.  They
become more highly organized, and to be highly organized is, I should
fancy, the object of man's existence.  Besides, every experience is of
value, and whatever one may say against marriage, it is certainly an
experience.  I hope that Dorian Gray will make this girl his wife,
passionately adore her for six months, and then suddenly become
fascinated by some one else.  He would be a wonderful study."

"You don't mean a single word of all that, Harry; you know you don't.
If Dorian Gray's life were spoiled, no one would be sorrier than
yourself.  You are much better than you pretend to be."

Lord Henry laughed.  "The reason we all like to think so well of others
is that we are all afraid for ourselves.  The basis of optimism is
sheer terror.  We think that we are generous because we credit our
neighbour with the possession of those virtues that are likely to be a
benefit to us.  We praise the banker that we may overdraw our account,
and find good qualities in the highwayman in the hope that he may spare
our pockets.  I mean everything that I have said.  I have the greatest
contempt for optimism.  As for a spoiled life, no life is spoiled but
one whose growth is arrested.  If you want to mar a nature, you have
merely to reform it.  As for marriage, of course that would be silly,
but there are other and more interesting bonds between men and women.
I will certainly encourage them.  They have the charm of being
fashionable.  But here is Dorian himself.  He will tell you more than I
can."

"My dear Harry, my dear Basil, you must both congratulate me!" said the
lad, throwing off his evening cape with its satin-lined wings and
shaking each of his friends by the hand in turn.  "I have never been so
happy.  Of course, it is sudden--all really delightful things are.  And
yet it seems to me to be the one thing I have been looking for all my
life." He was flushed with excitement and pleasure, and looked
extraordinarily handsome.

"I hope you will always be very happy, Dorian," said Hallward, "but I
don't quite forgive you for not having let me know of your engagement.
You let Harry know."

"And I don't forgive you for being late for dinner," broke in Lord
Henry, putting his hand on the lad's shoulder and smiling as he spoke.
"Come, let us sit down and try what the new _chef_ here is like, and then
you will tell us how it all came about."

"There is really not much to tell," cried Dorian as they took their
seats at the small round table.  "What happened was simply this.  After
I left you yesterday evening, Harry, I dressed, had some dinner at that
little Italian restaurant in Rupert Street you introduced me to, and
went down at eight o'clock to the theatre.  Sibyl was playing Rosalind.
Of course, the scenery was dreadful and the Orlando absurd.  But Sibyl!
You should have seen her!  When she came on in her boy's clothes, she
was perfectly wonderful.  She wore a moss-coloured velvet jerkin with
cinnamon sleeves, slim, brown, cross-gartered hose, a dainty little
green cap with a hawk's feather caught in a jewel, and a hooded cloak
lined with dull red.  She had never seemed to me more exquisite.  She
had all the delicate grace of that Tanagra figurine that you have in
your studio, Basil.  Her hair clustered round her face like dark leaves
round a pale rose.  As for her acting--well, you shall see her
to-night. She is simply a born artist.  I sat in the dingy box
absolutely enthralled.  I forgot that I was in London and in the
nineteenth century.  I was away with my love in a forest that no man
had ever seen.  After the performance was over, I went behind and spoke
to her.  As we were sitting together, suddenly there came into her eyes
a look that I had never seen there before.  My lips moved towards hers.
We kissed each other.  I can't describe to you what I felt at that
moment.  It seemed to me that all my life had been narrowed to one
perfect point of rose-coloured joy.  She trembled all over and shook
like a white narcissus.  Then she flung herself on her knees and kissed
my hands.  I feel that I should not tell you all this, but I can't help
it.  Of course, our engagement is a dead secret.  She has not even told
her own mother.  I don't know what my guardians will say.  Lord Radley
is sure to be furious.  I don't care.  I shall be of age in less than a
year, and then I can do what I like.  I have been right, Basil, haven't
I, to take my love out of poetry and to find my wife in Shakespeare's
plays?  Lips that Shakespeare taught to speak have whispered their
secret in my ear.  I have had the arms of Rosalind around me, and
kissed Juliet on the mouth."

"Yes, Dorian, I suppose you were right," said Hallward slowly.

"Have you seen her to-day?" asked Lord Henry.

Dorian Gray shook his head.  "I left her in the forest of Arden; I
shall find her in an orchard in Verona."

Lord Henry sipped his champagne in a meditative manner.  "At what
particular point did you mention the word marriage, Dorian?  And what
did she say in answer?  Perhaps you forgot all about it."

"My dear Harry, I did not treat it as a business transaction, and I did
not make any formal proposal.  I told her that I loved her, and she
said she was not worthy to be my wife.  Not worthy!  Why, the whole
world is nothing to me compared with her."

"Women are wonderfully practical," murmured Lord Henry, "much more
practical than we are.  In situations of that kind we often forget to
say anything about marriage, and they always remind us."

Hallward laid his hand upon his arm.  "Don't, Harry.  You have annoyed
Dorian.  He is not like other men.  He would never bring misery upon
any one.  His nature is too fine for that."

Lord Henry looked across the table.  "Dorian is never annoyed with me,"
he answered.  "I asked the question for the best reason possible, for
the only reason, indeed, that excuses one for asking any
question--simple curiosity.  I have a theory that it is always the
women who propose to us, and not we who propose to the women.  Except,
of course, in middle-class life.  But then the middle classes are not
modern."

Dorian Gray laughed, and tossed his head.  "You are quite incorrigible,
Harry; but I don't mind.  It is impossible to be angry with you.  When
you see Sibyl Vane, you will feel that the man who could wrong her
would be a beast, a beast without a heart.  I cannot understand how any
one can wish to shame the thing he loves.  I love Sibyl Vane.  I want
to place her on a pedestal of gold and to see the world worship the
woman who is mine.  What is marriage?  An irrevocable vow.  You mock at
it for that.  Ah! don't mock.  It is an irrevocable vow that I want to
take.  Her trust makes me faithful, her belief makes me good.  When I
am with her, I regret all that you have taught me.  I become different
from what you have known me to be.  I am changed, and the mere touch of
Sibyl Vane's hand makes me forget you and all your wrong, fascinating,
poisonous, delightful theories."

"And those are ...?" asked Lord Henry, helping himself to some salad.

"Oh, your theories about life, your theories about love, your theories
about pleasure.  All your theories, in fact, Harry."

"Pleasure is the only thing worth having a theory about," he answered
in his slow melodious voice.  "But I am afraid I cannot claim my theory
as my own.  It belongs to Nature, not to me.  Pleasure is Nature's
test, her sign of approval.  When we are happy, we are always good, but
when we are good, we are not always happy."

"Ah! but what do you mean by good?" cried Basil Hallward.

"Yes," echoed Dorian, leaning back in his chair and looking at Lord
Henry over the heavy clusters of purple-lipped irises that stood in the
centre of the table, "what do you mean by good, Harry?"

"To be good is to be in harmony with one's self," he replied, touching
the thin stem of his glass with his pale, fine-pointed fingers.
"Discord is to be forced to be in harmony with others.  One's own
life--that is the important thing.  As for the lives of one's
neighbours, if one wishes to be a prig or a Puritan, one can flaunt
one's moral views about them, but they are not one's concern.  Besides,
individualism has really the higher aim.  Modern morality consists in
accepting the standard of one's age.  I consider that for any man of
culture to accept the standard of his age is a form of the grossest
immorality."

"But, surely, if one lives merely for one's self, Harry, one pays a
terrible price for doing so?" suggested the painter.

"Yes, we are overcharged for everything nowadays.  I should fancy that
the real tragedy of the poor is that they can afford nothing but
self-denial. Beautiful sins, like beautiful things, are the privilege
of the rich."

"One has to pay in other ways but money."

"What sort of ways, Basil?"

"Oh!  I should fancy in remorse, in suffering, in ... well, in the
consciousness of degradation."

Lord Henry shrugged his shoulders.  "My dear fellow, mediaeval art is
charming, but mediaeval emotions are out of date.  One can use them in
fiction, of course.  But then the only things that one can use in
fiction are the things that one has ceased to use in fact.  Believe me,
no civilized man ever regrets a pleasure, and no uncivilized man ever
knows what a pleasure is."

"I know what pleasure is," cried Dorian Gray.  "It is to adore some
one."

"That is certainly better than being adored," he answered, toying with
some fruits.  "Being adored is a nuisance.  Women treat us just as
humanity treats its gods.  They worship us, and are always bothering us
to do something for them."

"I should have said that whatever they ask for they had first given to
us," murmured the lad gravely.  "They create love in our natures.  They
have a right to demand it back."

"That is quite true, Dorian," cried Hallward.

"Nothing is ever quite true," said Lord Henry.

"This is," interrupted Dorian.  "You must admit, Harry, that women give
to men the very gold of their lives."

"Possibly," he sighed, "but they invariably want it back in such very
small change.  That is the worry.  Women, as some witty Frenchman once
put it, inspire us with the desire to do masterpieces and always
prevent us from carrying them out."

"Harry, you are dreadful!  I don't know why I like you so much."

"You will always like me, Dorian," he replied.  "Will you have some
coffee, you fellows?  Waiter, bring coffee, and _fine-champagne_, and
some cigarettes.  No, don't mind the cigarettes--I have some.  Basil, I
can't allow you to smoke cigars.  You must have a cigarette.  A
cigarette is the perfect type of a perfect pleasure.  It is exquisite,
and it leaves one unsatisfied.  What more can one want?  Yes, Dorian,
you will always be fond of me.  I represent to you all the sins you
have never had the courage to commit."

"What nonsense you talk, Harry!" cried the lad, taking a light from a
fire-breathing silver dragon that the waiter had placed on the table.
"Let us go down to the theatre.  When Sibyl comes on the stage you will
have a new ideal of life.  She will represent something to you that you
have never known."

"I have known everything," said Lord Henry, with a tired look in his
eyes, "but I am always ready for a new emotion.  I am afraid, however,
that, for me at any rate, there is no such thing.  Still, your
wonderful girl may thrill me.  I love acting.  It is so much more real
than life.  Let us go.  Dorian, you will come with me.  I am so sorry,
Basil, but there is only room for two in the brougham.  You must follow
us in a hansom."

They got up and put on their coats, sipping their coffee standing.  The
painter was silent and preoccupied.  There was a gloom over him.  He
could not bear this marriage, and yet it seemed to him to be better
than many other things that might have happened.  After a few minutes,
they all passed downstairs.  He drove off by himself, as had been
arranged, and watched the flashing lights of the little brougham in
front of him.  A strange sense of loss came over him.  He felt that
Dorian Gray would never again be to him all that he had been in the
past.  Life had come between them.... His eyes darkened, and the
crowded flaring streets became blurred to his eyes.  When the cab drew
up at the theatre, it seemed to him that he had grown years older.

For some reason or other, the house was crowded that night, and the fat
Jew manager who met them at the door was beaming from ear to ear with
an oily tremulous smile.  He escorted them to their box with a sort of
pompous humility, waving his fat jewelled hands and talking at the top
of his voice.  Dorian Gray loathed him more than ever.  He felt as if
he had come to look for Miranda and had been met by Caliban.  Lord
Henry, upon the other hand, rather liked him.  At least he declared he
did, and insisted on shaking him by the hand and assuring him that he
was proud to meet a man who had discovered a real genius and gone
bankrupt over a poet.  Hallward amused himself with watching the faces
in the pit.  The heat was terribly oppressive, and the huge sunlight
flamed like a monstrous dahlia with petals of yellow fire.  The youths
in the gallery had taken off their coats and waistcoats and hung them
over the side.  They talked to each other across the theatre and shared
their oranges with the tawdry girls who sat beside them.  Some women
were laughing in the pit.  Their voices were horribly shrill and
discordant.  The sound of the popping of corks came from the bar.

"What a place to find one's divinity in!" said Lord Henry.

"Yes!" answered Dorian Gray.  "It was here I found her, and she is
divine beyond all living things.  When she acts, you will forget
everything.  These common rough people, with their coarse faces and
brutal gestures, become quite different when she is on the stage.  They
sit silently and watch her.  They weep and laugh as she wills them to
do.  She makes them as responsive as a violin.  She spiritualizes them,
and one feels that they are of the same flesh and blood as one's self."

"The same flesh and blood as one's self!  Oh, I hope not!" exclaimed
Lord Henry, who was scanning the occupants of the gallery through his
opera-glass.

"Don't pay any attention to him, Dorian," said the painter.  "I
understand what you mean, and I believe in this girl.  Any one you love
must be marvellous, and any girl who has the effect you describe must
be fine and noble.  To spiritualize one's age--that is something worth
doing.  If this girl can give a soul to those who have lived without
one, if she can create the sense of beauty in people whose lives have
been sordid and ugly, if she can strip them of their selfishness and
lend them tears for sorrows that are not their own, she is worthy of
all your adoration, worthy of the adoration of the world.  This
marriage is quite right.  I did not think so at first, but I admit it
now.  The gods made Sibyl Vane for you.  Without her you would have
been incomplete."

"Thanks, Basil," answered Dorian Gray, pressing his hand.  "I knew that
you would understand me.  Harry is so cynical, he terrifies me.  But
here is the orchestra.  It is quite dreadful, but it only lasts for
about five minutes.  Then the curtain rises, and you will see the girl
to whom I am going to give all my life, to whom I have given everything
that is good in me."

A quarter of an hour afterwards, amidst an extraordinary turmoil of
applause, Sibyl Vane stepped on to the stage.  Yes, she was certainly
lovely to look at--one of the loveliest creatures, Lord Henry thought,
that he had ever seen.  There was something of the fawn in her shy
grace and startled eyes.  A faint blush, like the shadow of a rose in a
mirror of silver, came to her cheeks as she glanced at the crowded
enthusiastic house.  She stepped back a few paces and her lips seemed
to tremble.  Basil Hallward leaped to his feet and began to applaud.
Motionless, and as one in a dream, sat Dorian Gray, gazing at her.
Lord Henry peered through his glasses, murmuring, "Charming! charming!"

The scene was the hall of Capulet's house, and Romeo in his pilgrim's
dress had entered with Mercutio and his other friends.  The band, such
as it was, struck up a few bars of music, and the dance began.  Through
the crowd of ungainly, shabbily dressed actors, Sibyl Vane moved like a
creature from a finer world.  Her body swayed, while she danced, as a
plant sways in the water.  The curves of her throat were the curves of
a white lily.  Her hands seemed to be made of cool ivory.

Yet she was curiously listless.  She showed no sign of joy when her
eyes rested on Romeo.  The few words she had to speak--

    Good pilgrim, you do wrong your hand too much,
        Which mannerly devotion shows in this;
    For saints have hands that pilgrims' hands do touch,
        And palm to palm is holy palmers' kiss--

with the brief dialogue that follows, were spoken in a thoroughly
artificial manner.  The voice was exquisite, but from the point of view
of tone it was absolutely false.  It was wrong in colour.  It took away
all the life from the verse.  It made the passion unreal.

Dorian Gray grew pale as he watched her.  He was puzzled and anxious.
Neither of his friends dared to say anything to him.  She seemed to
them to be absolutely incompetent.  They were horribly disappointed.

Yet they felt that the true test of any Juliet is the balcony scene of
the second act.  They waited for that.  If she failed there, there was
nothing in her.

She looked charming as she came out in the moonlight.  That could not
be denied.  But the staginess of her acting was unbearable, and grew
worse as she went on.  Her gestures became absurdly artificial.  She
overemphasized everything that she had to say.  The beautiful passage--

    Thou knowest the mask of night is on my face,
    Else would a maiden blush bepaint my cheek
    For that which thou hast heard me speak to-night--

was declaimed with the painful precision of a schoolgirl who has been
taught to recite by some second-rate professor of elocution. When she
leaned over the balcony and came to those wonderful lines--

        Although I joy in thee,
    I have no joy of this contract to-night:
    It is too rash, too unadvised, too sudden;
    Too like the lightning, which doth cease to be
    Ere one can say, "It lightens."  Sweet, good-night!
    This bud of love by summer's ripening breath
    May prove a beauteous flower when next we meet--

she spoke the words as though they conveyed no meaning to her. It was
not nervousness. Indeed, so far from being nervous, she was absolutely
self-contained. It was simply bad art. She was a complete failure.

Even the common uneducated audience of the pit and gallery lost their
interest in the play. They got restless, and began to talk loudly and
to whistle. The Jew manager, who was standing at the back of the
dress-circle, stamped and swore with rage. The only person unmoved was
the girl herself.

When the second act was over, there came a storm of hisses, and Lord
Henry got up from his chair and put on his coat.  "She is quite
beautiful, Dorian," he said, "but she can't act.  Let us go."

"I am going to see the play through," answered the lad, in a hard
bitter voice.  "I am awfully sorry that I have made you waste an
evening, Harry.  I apologize to you both."

"My dear Dorian, I should think Miss Vane was ill," interrupted
Hallward.  "We will come some other night."

"I wish she were ill," he rejoined.  "But she seems to me to be simply
callous and cold.  She has entirely altered.  Last night she was a
great artist.  This evening she is merely a commonplace mediocre
actress."

"Don't talk like that about any one you love, Dorian.  Love is a more
wonderful thing than art."

"They are both simply forms of imitation," remarked Lord Henry.  "But
do let us go.  Dorian, you must not stay here any longer.  It is not
good for one's morals to see bad acting.  Besides, I don't suppose you
will want your wife to act, so what does it matter if she plays Juliet
like a wooden doll?  She is very lovely, and if she knows as little
about life as she does about acting, she will be a delightful
experience.  There are only two kinds of people who are really
fascinating--people who know absolutely everything, and people who know
absolutely nothing.  Good heavens, my dear boy, don't look so tragic!
The secret of remaining young is never to have an emotion that is
unbecoming.  Come to the club with Basil and myself.  We will smoke
cigarettes and drink to the beauty of Sibyl Vane.  She is beautiful.
What more can you want?"

"Go away, Harry," cried the lad.  "I want to be alone.  Basil, you must
go.  Ah! can't you see that my heart is breaking?"  The hot tears came
to his eyes.  His lips trembled, and rushing to the back of the box, he
leaned up against the wall, hiding his face in his hands.

"Let us go, Basil," said Lord Henry with a strange tenderness in his
voice, and the two young men passed out together.

A few moments afterwards the footlights flared up and the curtain rose
on the third act.  Dorian Gray went back to his seat.  He looked pale,
and proud, and indifferent.  The play dragged on, and seemed
interminable.  Half of the audience went out, tramping in heavy boots
and laughing.  The whole thing was a _fiasco_.  The last act was played
to almost empty benches.  The curtain went down on a titter and some
groans.

As soon as it was over, Dorian Gray rushed behind the scenes into the
greenroom.  The girl was standing there alone, with a look of triumph
on her face.  Her eyes were lit with an exquisite fire.  There was a
radiance about her.  Her parted lips were smiling over some secret of
their own.

When he entered, she looked at him, and an expression of infinite joy
came over her.  "How badly I acted to-night, Dorian!" she cried.

"Horribly!" he answered, gazing at her in amazement.  "Horribly!  It
was dreadful.  Are you ill?  You have no idea what it was.  You have no
idea what I suffered."

The girl smiled.  "Dorian," she answered, lingering over his name with
long-drawn music in her voice, as though it were sweeter than honey to
the red petals of her mouth.  "Dorian, you should have understood.  But
you understand now, don't you?"

"Understand what?" he asked, angrily.

"Why I was so bad to-night. Why I shall always be bad.  Why I shall
never act well again."

He shrugged his shoulders.  "You are ill, I suppose.  When you are ill
you shouldn't act.  You make yourself ridiculous.  My friends were
bored.  I was bored."

She seemed not to listen to him.  She was transfigured with joy.  An
ecstasy of happiness dominated her.

"Dorian, Dorian," she cried, "before I knew you, acting was the one
reality of my life.  It was only in the theatre that I lived.  I
thought that it was all true.  I was Rosalind one night and Portia the
other.  The joy of Beatrice was my joy, and the sorrows of Cordelia
were mine also.  I believed in everything.  The common people who acted
with me seemed to me to be godlike.  The painted scenes were my world.
I knew nothing but shadows, and I thought them real.  You came--oh, my
beautiful love!--and you freed my soul from prison.  You taught me what
reality really is.  To-night, for the first time in my life, I saw
through the hollowness, the sham, the silliness of the empty pageant in
which I had always played.  To-night, for the first time, I became
conscious that the Romeo was hideous, and old, and painted, that the
moonlight in the orchard was false, that the scenery was vulgar, and
that the words I had to speak were unreal, were not my words, were not
what I wanted to say.  You had brought me something higher, something
of which all art is but a reflection.  You had made me understand what
love really is.  My love!  My love!  Prince Charming!  Prince of life!
I have grown sick of shadows.  You are more to me than all art can ever
be.  What have I to do with the puppets of a play?  When I came on
to-night, I could not understand how it was that everything had gone
from me.  I thought that I was going to be wonderful.  I found that I
could do nothing.  Suddenly it dawned on my soul what it all meant.
The knowledge was exquisite to me.  I heard them hissing, and I smiled.
What could they know of love such as ours?  Take me away, Dorian--take
me away with you, where we can be quite alone.  I hate the stage.  I
might mimic a passion that I do not feel, but I cannot mimic one that
burns me like fire.  Oh, Dorian, Dorian, you understand now what it
signifies?  Even if I could do it, it would be profanation for me to
play at being in love.  You have made me see that."

He flung himself down on the sofa and turned away his face.  "You have
killed my love," he muttered.

She looked at him in wonder and laughed.  He made no answer.  She came
across to him, and with her little fingers stroked his hair.  She knelt
down and pressed his hands to her lips.  He drew them away, and a
shudder ran through him.

Then he leaped up and went to the door.  "Yes," he cried, "you have
killed my love.  You used to stir my imagination.  Now you don't even
stir my curiosity.  You simply produce no effect.  I loved you because
you were marvellous, because you had genius and intellect, because you
realized the dreams of great poets and gave shape and substance to the
shadows of art.  You have thrown it all away.  You are shallow and
stupid.  My God! how mad I was to love you!  What a fool I have been!
You are nothing to me now.  I will never see you again.  I will never
think of you.  I will never mention your name.  You don't know what you
were to me, once.  Why, once ... Oh, I can't bear to think of it!  I
wish I had never laid eyes upon you!  You have spoiled the romance of
my life.  How little you can know of love, if you say it mars your art!
Without your art, you are nothing.  I would have made you famous,
splendid, magnificent.  The world would have worshipped you, and you
would have borne my name.  What are you now?  A third-rate actress with
a pretty face."

The girl grew white, and trembled.  She clenched her hands together,
and her voice seemed to catch in her throat.  "You are not serious,
Dorian?" she murmured.  "You are acting."

"Acting!  I leave that to you.  You do it so well," he answered
bitterly.

She rose from her knees and, with a piteous expression of pain in her
face, came across the room to him.  She put her hand upon his arm and
looked into his eyes.  He thrust her back.  "Don't touch me!" he cried.

A low moan broke from her, and she flung herself at his feet and lay
there like a trampled flower.  "Dorian, Dorian, don't leave me!" she
whispered.  "I am so sorry I didn't act well.  I was thinking of you
all the time.  But I will try--indeed, I will try.  It came so suddenly
across me, my love for you.  I think I should never have known it if
you had not kissed me--if we had not kissed each other.  Kiss me again,
my love.  Don't go away from me.  I couldn't bear it.  Oh! don't go
away from me.  My brother ... No; never mind.  He didn't mean it.  He
was in jest.... But you, oh! can't you forgive me for to-night? I will
work so hard and try to improve.  Don't be cruel to me, because I love
you better than anything in the world.  After all, it is only once that
I have not pleased you.  But you are quite right, Dorian.  I should
have shown myself more of an artist.  It was foolish of me, and yet I
couldn't help it.  Oh, don't leave me, don't leave me." A fit of
passionate sobbing choked her.  She crouched on the floor like a
wounded thing, and Dorian Gray, with his beautiful eyes, looked down at
her, and his chiselled lips curled in exquisite disdain.  There is
always something ridiculous about the emotions of people whom one has
ceased to love.  Sibyl Vane seemed to him to be absurdly melodramatic.
Her tears and sobs annoyed him.

"I am going," he said at last in his calm clear voice.  "I don't wish
to be unkind, but I can't see you again.  You have disappointed me."

She wept silently, and made no answer, but crept nearer.  Her little
hands stretched blindly out, and appeared to be seeking for him.  He
turned on his heel and left the room.  In a few moments he was out of
the theatre.

Where he went to he hardly knew.  He remembered wandering through dimly
lit streets, past gaunt, black-shadowed archways and evil-looking
houses.  Women with hoarse voices and harsh laughter had called after
him.  Drunkards had reeled by, cursing and chattering to themselves
like monstrous apes.  He had seen grotesque children huddled upon
door-steps, and heard shrieks and oaths from gloomy courts.

As the dawn was just breaking, he found himself close to Covent Garden.
The darkness lifted, and, flushed with faint fires, the sky hollowed
itself into a perfect pearl.  Huge carts filled with nodding lilies
rumbled slowly down the polished empty street.  The air was heavy with
the perfume of the flowers, and their beauty seemed to bring him an
anodyne for his pain.  He followed into the market and watched the men
unloading their waggons.  A white-smocked carter offered him some
cherries.  He thanked him, wondered why he refused to accept any money
for them, and began to eat them listlessly.  They had been plucked at
midnight, and the coldness of the moon had entered into them.  A long
line of boys carrying crates of striped tulips, and of yellow and red
roses, defiled in front of him, threading their way through the huge,
jade-green piles of vegetables.  Under the portico, with its grey,
sun-bleached pillars, loitered a troop of draggled bareheaded girls,
waiting for the auction to be over.  Others crowded round the swinging
doors of the coffee-house in the piazza.  The heavy cart-horses slipped
and stamped upon the rough stones, shaking their bells and trappings.
Some of the drivers were lying asleep on a pile of sacks.  Iris-necked
and pink-footed, the pigeons ran about picking up seeds.

After a little while, he hailed a hansom and drove home.  For a few
moments he loitered upon the doorstep, looking round at the silent
square, with its blank, close-shuttered windows and its staring blinds.
The sky was pure opal now, and the roofs of the houses glistened like
silver against it.  From some chimney opposite a thin wreath of smoke
was rising.  It curled, a violet riband, through the nacre-coloured air.

In the huge gilt Venetian lantern, spoil of some Doge's barge, that
hung from the ceiling of the great, oak-panelled hall of entrance,
lights were still burning from three flickering jets: thin blue petals
of flame they seemed, rimmed with white fire.  He turned them out and,
having thrown his hat and cape on the table, passed through the library
towards the door of his bedroom, a large octagonal chamber on the
ground floor that, in his new-born feeling for luxury, he had just had
decorated for himself and hung with some curious Renaissance tapestries
that had been discovered stored in a disused attic at Selby Royal.  As
he was turning the handle of the door, his eye fell upon the portrait
Basil Hallward had painted of him.  He started back as if in surprise.
Then he went on into his own room, looking somewhat puzzled.  After he
had taken the button-hole out of his coat, he seemed to hesitate.
Finally, he came back, went over to the picture, and examined it.  In
the dim arrested light that struggled through the cream-coloured silk
blinds, the face appeared to him to be a little changed.  The
expression looked different.  One would have said that there was a
touch of cruelty in the mouth.  It was certainly strange.

He turned round and, walking to the window, drew up the blind.  The
bright dawn flooded the room and swept the fantastic shadows into dusky
corners, where they lay shuddering.  But the strange expression that he
had noticed in the face of the portrait seemed to linger there, to be
more intensified even.  The quivering ardent sunlight showed him the
lines of cruelty round the mouth as clearly as if he had been looking
into a mirror after he had done some dreadful thing.

He winced and, taking up from the table an oval glass framed in ivory
Cupids, one of Lord Henry's many presents to him, glanced hurriedly
into its polished depths.  No line like that warped his red lips.  What
did it mean?

He rubbed his eyes, and came close to the picture, and examined it
again.  There were no signs of any change when he looked into the
actual painting, and yet there was no doubt that the whole expression
had altered.  It was not a mere fancy of his own.  The thing was
horribly apparent.

He threw himself into a chair and began to think.  Suddenly there
flashed across his mind what he had said in Basil Hallward's studio the
day the picture had been finished.  Yes, he remembered it perfectly.
He had uttered a mad wish that he himself might remain young, and the
portrait grow old; that his own beauty might be untarnished, and the
face on the canvas bear the burden of his passions and his sins; that
the painted image might be seared with the lines of suffering and
thought, and that he might keep all the delicate bloom and loveliness
of his then just conscious boyhood.  Surely his wish had not been
fulfilled?  Such things were impossible.  It seemed monstrous even to
think of them.  And, yet, there was the picture before him, with the
touch of cruelty in the mouth.

Cruelty!  Had he been cruel?  It was the girl's fault, not his.  He had
dreamed of her as a great artist, had given his love to her because he
had thought her great.  Then she had disappointed him.  She had been
shallow and unworthy.  And, yet, a feeling of infinite regret came over
him, as he thought of her lying at his feet sobbing like a little
child.  He remembered with what callousness he had watched her.  Why
had he been made like that?  Why had such a soul been given to him?
But he had suffered also.  During the three terrible hours that the
play had lasted, he had lived centuries of pain, aeon upon aeon of
torture.  His life was well worth hers.  She had marred him for a
moment, if he had wounded her for an age.  Besides, women were better
suited to bear sorrow than men.  They lived on their emotions.  They
only thought of their emotions.  When they took lovers, it was merely
to have some one with whom they could have scenes.  Lord Henry had told
him that, and Lord Henry knew what women were.  Why should he trouble
about Sibyl Vane?  She was nothing to him now.

But the picture?  What was he to say of that?  It held the secret of
his life, and told his story.  It had taught him to love his own
beauty.  Would it teach him to loathe his own soul?  Would he ever look
at it again?

No; it was merely an illusion wrought on the troubled senses.  The
horrible night that he had passed had left phantoms behind it.
Suddenly there had fallen upon his brain that tiny scarlet speck that
makes men mad.  The picture had not changed.  It was folly to think so.

Yet it was watching him, with its beautiful marred face and its cruel
smile.  Its bright hair gleamed in the early sunlight.  Its blue eyes
met his own.  A sense of infinite pity, not for himself, but for the
painted image of himself, came over him.  It had altered already, and
would alter more.  Its gold would wither into grey.  Its red and white
roses would die.  For every sin that he committed, a stain would fleck
and wreck its fairness.  But he would not sin.  The picture, changed or
unchanged, would be to him the visible emblem of conscience.  He would
resist temptation.  He would not see Lord Henry any more--would not, at
any rate, listen to those subtle poisonous theories that in Basil
Hallward's garden had first stirred within him the passion for
impossible things.  He would go back to Sibyl Vane, make her amends,
marry her, try to love her again.  Yes, it was his duty to do so.  She
must have suffered more than he had.  Poor child!  He had been selfish
and cruel to her.  The fascination that she had exercised over him
would return.  They would be happy together.  His life with her would
be beautiful and pure.

He got up from his chair and drew a large screen right in front of the
portrait, shuddering as he glanced at it.  "How horrible!" he murmured
to himself, and he walked across to the window and opened it.  When he
stepped out on to the grass, he drew a deep breath.  The fresh morning
air seemed to drive away all his sombre passions.  He thought only of
Sibyl.  A faint echo of his love came back to him.  He repeated her
name over and over again.  The birds that were singing in the
dew-drenched garden seemed to be telling the flowers about her.

Lord Henry and Basil Hallward discuss Dorian's engagement at the painter's house. They are planning to dine with Dorian before going to see Sibyl's performance that night. Basil can't believe that Dorian is really engaged, saying that Dorian "is far too sensible" to make such a rash decision. To this, Henry replies that "Dorian is far too wise not to do foolish things now and then." Basil is taken aback by Henry's detached, artistic fascination with Dorian's life. The artist disapproves of Dorian's actions, and is worried about the boy's emotional health; Henry, however, is delighted, knowing that whatever the outcome is, it will be greatly entertaining. Dorian arrives, insisting that he be congratulated. Basil says that was hurt to hear about the engagement from Henry, and not from Dorian himself. Henry quickly changes the subject. Dorian wants Basil to approve of his actions, saying "I have been right, Basil, haven't I, to take my love out of poetry, and to find my wife in Shakespeare's plays?" Basil reluctantly agrees with Dorian. When Henry cynically remarks about the business-like nature of marriage, Basil objects, saying that Dorian "is not like other men. He would never bring misery upon anyone. His nature is too fine for that." Henry continues to philosophize about the nature of women and how they act when in love. To him, "Women treat us just as humanity treats its gods. They worship us and are always bothering us to do something for them." Dorian is sure that Sibyl's acting will put an end to Henry's cynicism and reconcile all disagreements between the three men. When they see her perform, they will be too overwhelmed by her beauty to consider anything else. The three men leave to see the play, Romeo and Juliet. The theater is surprisingly crowded that night. Once seated in their box, Lord Henry observes the obnoxious, unrefined behavior of the lower-class theatergoers. Basil comforts Dorian against Henry's cynicism. The play begins, and they all note that the orchestra is terrible. Finally, Sibyl appears on stage. She looks beautiful, but acts terribly. Her voice is exquisite, but "from the point of view of tone" is "absolutely false." Dorian is horrified and confused. The other two men are disappointed, but are too polite to make any remarks. Her performance, usually the one saving grace in the theater's otherwise dreadful productions, only gets worse as the play progresses. After the second act, the audience hisses, and Dorian's guests stand to leave. Basil tries to comfort the boy, saying that Sibyl must be ill, and that he shouldn't be upset, since "Love is a more wonderful thing than art" anyway, to which Henry replies that "They are both simply forms of imitation". Dorian is inconsolable. Henry tells him to cheer up, since "the secret of remaining young is never to have an emotion that is unbecoming." The two men leave, and Dorian forces himself to suffer through the rest of the performance. Afterwards, he rushes backstage to confront Sibyl. She is delighted to see him and surprised at his anger, since she had assumed that he would know the reason for her terrible performance. When he demands to be told why she performed badly, she tells him that having met him, she can no longer believe in the theater. Before Dorian, she says, "acting was the one reality of my life," and now he has "freed my soul from prison" and "taught me what reality really is." Having experienced true love, she says, "it would be profanation for me to play at being in love." Dorian is horrified, disgusted, and completely unable to love her anymore. She can't believe it, and when he pulls away from her touch, she falls to the floor, groveling at his feet. Dorian feels repulsion rather than empathy, and leaves her sobbing on the floor. Strangely numb and unable to come to terms with Sibyl's lost talent or his unexpected callousness towards her, Dorian aimlessly wanders the city until dawn. He returns home, where he happens to glance at Basil's portrait, and is puzzled to find that the facial expression is slightly different: there seems to be "a touch of cruelty in the mouth." He rubs his eyes and changes the lighting, but is certain that the picture has changed. The cruelty in the expression reminds him of his cruelty to Sibyl, but he feels wronged for the misery that she has caused him with her bad acting, and consoles himself by thinking that "women were better suited to bear sorrow than men...When they took lovers, it was merely to have someone with whom they could have scenes. Lord Henry told him that, and Lord Henry knew what women were." Unable to make any sense of the picture's transformation, he realizes, after much pondering, that "It held the secret of his life, and told his story...changed or unchanged, would be to him the visible emblem of conscience." Exhausted, he covers the portrait with a screen, and goes to sleep.

Dorian's relationship with Sibyl is the first major casualty of the devotion to sensual pleasure inspired by Lord Henry.  Valuing artistic beauty above all else allows Dorian to confuse his love for Sibyl's acting with a love for Sibyl herself.  She seems to be the perfect wife, because Dorian believes that she can offer him all of Shakespeare's heroines in a single body.  Indeed, Dorian remarks to Basil that he has "had the arms of Rosalind around me, and kissed Juliet on the mouth."  Dorian's love is a means of escaping reality; therefore, Sibyl's awareness of "what reality really is" is unacceptable. His resulting cruelty towards her is the first undeniable mark of the corruption of Dorian's character, and therefore causes the first visible change in his portrait.  He considers the aesthetic pain caused by her poor acting to be on par with Sibyl's emotional devastation at his rejection.  This belief is rooted in the sentiment expressed by Lord Henry before the trio leaves for the play, when he says "I love acting.  It is so much more real than life."  This statement is a clear indication of Henry's continuing influence on Dorian. We are also reminded of the statement in the preface that "Those who go beneath the surface  do so at their peril."  Dorian is not prepared to see the person beneath the surface of Sibyl's acting.  The preface also states that "It is the spectator, and not life, that art really mirrors."  Dorian saw himself reflected in Sibyl's acting, because it was artful, but once her acting is revealed as artless, he can no longer see himself in it, and his feelings for her disappear.  What he thought was love for Sibyl is really a form of vanity; the pain of enduring her poor performance is actually the pain of not seeing his own reflection. In Chapter 7, Dorian undergoes several dramatic changes of character: he transforms from a devoted lover, to a bitter art critic, to a cruel betrayer, and seemingly back to a devoted lover.  This final change is, however, superficial.  He decides to do the honorable thing and marry Sibyl, but only when faced with the possibility of watching the beautiful image in the portrait succumb to degradation.  The corruption of Dorian's soul has begun in earnest, as reflected by the first visible change in the portrait. Interestingly, this chapter marks a turning point in the narrative: the focus switches from Lord Henry to Dorian.  Now that Henry's influence has begun to show its effects, the narrative no longer appears as concerned with Lord Henry himself.  At this point, the story begins to focus solely on Dorian as a corrupt figure.  At the end of the chapter, as Dorian feebly resolves to spend less time with Lord Henry and to marry Sibyl, he is acting more out of vanity than out of love or a true sense of morality; a fact that will be revealed when the portrait fails to change for the better. This is not the last time Dorian will fail to recognize the vanity that lies behind his decisions.