CHAPTER IV.

e,asmallGreekheadwithplaitedcoilsofdark-brownhair,eyesthatwerevioletwellsofpassion,lipsthatwerelikethepetalsofarose.ShewastheloveliestthingIhadeverseeninmylife.Yousaidtomeoncethatpathosleftyouunmoved,butthatbeauty,merebeauty,couldfillyoureyeswithtears.Itellyou,Harry,Icouldhardlyseethisgirlforthemistoftearsthatcameacrossme.Andhervoice—Ineverheardsuchavoice.Itwasverylowatfirst,withdeepmellownotesthatseemedtofallsinglyuponone’sear.Thenitbecamealittlelouder,andsoundedlikeafluteoradistanthautboy.Inthegarden-sceneithadallthetremulousecstasythatonehearsjustbeforedawnwhennightingalesaresinging.Thereweremoments,lateron,whenithadthewildpassionofviolins.Youknowhowavoicecanstirone.YourvoiceandthevoiceofSibylVanearetwothingsthatIshallneverforget.WhenIclosemyeyes,Ihearthem,andeachofthemsayssomethingdifferent.Idon’tknowwhichtofollow.WhyshouldInotloveher?Harry,Idoloveher.Sheiseverythingtomeinlife.NightafternightIgotoseeherplay.OneeveningsheisRosalind,andthenexteveningsheisImogen.IhaveseenherdieinthegloomofanItaliantomb,suckingthepoisonfromherlover’slips.IhavewatchedherwanderingthroughtheforestofArden,disguisedasaprettyboyinhoseanddoubletanddaintycap.Shehasbeenmad,andhascomeintothepresenceofaguiltyking,andgivenhimruetowearandbitterherbstotasteof.Shehasbeeninnocent,andtheblackhandsofjealousyhavecrushedherreedlikethroat.Ihaveseenherineveryageandineverycostume.Ordinarywomenneverappealtoone’simagination.Theyarelimitedtotheircentury.Noglamourevertransfiguresthem.Oneknowstheirmindsaseasilyasoneknowstheirbonnets.Onecanalwaysfindthem.Thereisnomysteryinanyofthem.Theyrideintheparkinthemorningandchatterattea-partiesintheafternoon.Theyhavetheirstereotypedsmileandtheirfashionablemanner.Theyarequiteobvious.Butanactress!Howdifferentanactressis!Harry!whydidn’tyoutellmethattheonlythingworthlovingisanactress?” “BecauseIhavelovedsomanyofthem,Dorian.” “Oh,yes,horridpeoplewithdyedhairandpaintedfaces.” “Don’trundowndyedhairandpaintedfaces.Thereisanextraordinarycharminthem,sometimes,”saidLordHenry. “IwishnowIhadnottoldyouaboutSibylVane.” “Youcouldnothavehelpedtellingme,Dorian.Allthroughyourlifeyouwilltellmeeverythingyoudo.” “Yes,Harry,Ibelievethatistrue.Icannothelptellingyouthings.Youhaveacuriousinfluenceoverme.IfIeverdidacrime,Iwouldcomeandconfessittoyou.Youwouldunderstandme.” “Peoplelikeyou—thewilfulsunbeamsoflife—don’tcommitcrimes,Dorian.ButIammuchobligedforthecompliment,allthesame.Andnowtellme—reachmethematches,likeagoodboy—thanks—whatareyouractualrelationswithSibylVane?” DorianGrayleapedtohisfeet,withflushedcheeksandburningeyes.“Harry!SibylVaneissacred!” “Itisonlythesacredthingsthatareworthtouching,Dorian,”saidLordHenry,withastrangetouchofpathosinhisvoice.“Butwhyshouldyoubeannoyed?Isupposeshewillbelongtoyousomeday.Whenoneisinlove,onealwaysbeginsbydeceivingone’sself,andonealwaysendsbydeceivingothers.Thatiswhattheworldcallsaromance.Youknowher,atanyrate,Isuppose?” “OfcourseIknowher.OnthefirstnightIwasatthetheatre,thehorridoldJewcameroundtotheboxaftertheperformancewasoverandofferedtotakemebehindthescenesandintroducemetoher.Iwasfuriouswithhim,andtoldhimthatJuliethadbeendeadforhundredsofyearsandthatherbodywaslyinginamarbletombinVerona.Ithink,fromhisblanklookofamazement,thathewasundertheimpressionthatIhadtakentoomuchchampagne,orsomething.” “Iamnotsurprised.” “ThenheaskedmeifIwroteforanyofthenewspapers.ItoldhimIneverevenreadthem.Heseemedterriblydisappointedatthat,andconfidedtomethatallthedramaticcriticswereinaconspiracyagainsthim,andthattheywereeveryoneofthemtobebought.” “Ishouldnotwonderifhewasquiterightthere.But,ontheotherhand,judgingfromtheirappearance,mostofthemcannotbeatallexpensive.” “Well,heseemedtothinktheywerebeyondhismeans,”laughedDorian.“Bythistime,however,thelightswerebeingputoutinthetheatre,andIhadtogo.Hewantedmetotrysomecigarsthathestronglyrecommended.Ideclined.Thenextnight,ofcourse,Iarrivedattheplaceagain.Whenhesawme,hemademealowbowandassuredmethatIwasamunificentpatronofart.Hewasamostoffensivebrute,thoughhehadanextraordinarypassionforShakespeare.Hetoldmeonce,withanairofpride,thathisfivebankruptcieswereentirelydueto‘TheBard,’asheinsistedoncallinghim.Heseemedtothinkitadistinction.” “Itwasadistinction,mydearDorian—agreatdistinction.Mostpeoplebecomebankruptthroughhavinginvestedtooheavilyintheproseoflife.Tohaveruinedone’sselfoverpoetryisanhonour.ButwhendidyoufirstspeaktoMissSibylVane?” “Thethirdnight.ShehadbeenplayingRosalind.Icouldnothelpgoinground.Ihadthrownhersomeflowers,andshehadlookedatme—atleastIfanciedthatshehad.TheoldJewwaspersistent.Heseemeddeterminedtotakemebehind,soIconsented.Itwascuriousmynotwantingtoknowher,wasn’tit?” “NoIdon’tthinkso.” “MydearHarry,why?” “Iwilltellyousomeothertime.NowIwanttoknowaboutthegirl.” “Sibyl?Oh,shewassoshyandsogentle.Thereissomethingofachildabouther.HereyesopenedwideinexquisitewonderwhenItoldherwhatIthoughtofherperformance,andsheseemedquiteunconsciousofherpower.Ithinkwewerebothrathernervous.TheoldJewstoodgrinningatthedoor