The Collected Works of Oscar Wilde: 250+ Titles in One Edition. Оскар Уайльд

      “Because I have loved so many of them, Dorian.”

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

      “Don’t run down dyed hair and painted faces. There is an extraordinary charm in them, sometimes.”

      “I wish now I had not told you about Sibyl Vane.”

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

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

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

      Dorian Gray leaped to his feet, with flushed cheeks and burning eyes.

       “Harry, Sibyl Vane is sacred!”

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

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

      “I am not surprised.”

      “I was not surprised either. Then he asked me if I wrote for any of the newspapers. I told him I never even read them. He seemed terribly disappointed at that, and confided to me that all the dramatic critics were in a conspiracy against him, and that they were all to be bought.”

      “I believe he was quite right there. But, on the other hand, most of them are not at all expensive.”

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

      “It was a distinction, my dear Dorian, — a great distinction. But when did you first speak to Miss Sibyl Vane?”

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

      “No; I don’t think so.”

      “My dear Harry, why?”

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

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

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

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

      “I know that look. It always depresses me.”

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

      “You were quite right. There is always something infinitely mean about other people’s tragedies.”

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

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

      “My dear Harry, we either lunch or sup together every day, and I have been to the Opera with you several times.”

      “You always come dreadfully late.”

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

      “You can dine with me tonight, Dorian, can’t you?”

      He shook his head. “Tonight she is Imogen,” he answered, “and tomorrow night she will be Juliet.”

      “When is she Sibyl Vane?”

      “Never.”

      “I congratulate you.”

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

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

      “And what do you propose to do?” said Lord Henry, at last.

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

      “Impossible, my dear boy!”

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

      “Well, what night shall we go?”

      “Let me see. To-day is Tuesday. Let us fix tomorrow. She plays

       Juliet tomorrow.”

      “All right. The Bristol at eight o’clock; and I will get Basil.”

      “Not