“Goodbye little yellow bird.” #TWO.
FOLLOW UP FROM PREVIOUS CHAPTER…..
“She regarded me merely as a person in a play. She knows nothing of life. She lives with her mother, a faded tired woman who played Lady Capulet in a sort of magenta dressing-wrapper on the first night, and looks as if she had seen better days. The Jew wanted to tell me her history, but I said it did not interest me. Sibyl is the only thing I care about. What is it to me where she came from? From her little head to her little feet, she is absolutely and entirely divine. Every night of my life I go to see her act, and every night she is more marvelous.”
“That is the reason, I suppose, that you never dine with me now. I thought you must have some curious romance on hand. You have; but it is not quite what I expected.”
“My dear Harry, we either lunch or sup together every day, and I have been to the opera with you several times,” I murmured.
“You always come dreadfully late.” Harry replied.
“Well, I can’t help going to see Sibyl play,” I cried, “even if it is only for a single act. I get hungry for her presence; and when I think of the wonderful soul that is hidden away in that little ivory body, I am filled with awe.”
“You can dine with me to-night, Dorian, can’t you?”
The pangs of conscience, how they can beset us at the most inopportune moments! Like a faint whisper in the darkness, my guilty conscience had been stirring, a disquieting presence that refused to be silenced. As I stood, poised on the brink of response, I could feel the weight of my own culpability, the knowledge that I was not entirely innocent in the matter at hand. It was as though the eyes of the world were upon me, piercing my very soul, and I felt the familiar flush of shame rising to my cheeks. I shook my head. “To-night she is Imogen, and to-morrow night she will be Juliet.”
Harry laughed, “When is she Sibyl Vane?”
“Never!” I cried firmly.
“I congratulate you, Dorian.”
“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!” As I walked up and down the room as I spoke. Hectic spots of red burned on my cheeks. I was terribly excited. So excited to finally have a love that I could call my own.
The piercing gaze of Lord Henry, how it seemed to bore into my very being, to behold the subtle transformations that had taken place within me. I could sense his fascination, his almost clinical interest in observing the unfolding of my nature, like a botanist studying the rare and exotic bloom. The shy, tremulous boy he had once known had vanished, replaced by a creature of unbridled passion and desire.
As I stood before him, I felt the weight of my own metamorphosis, the shedding of innocence and the blossoming of a more sinister, yet intoxicating, beauty. My soul, once hidden away, had emerged from its secret recesses, like a dark and wondrous flower, its petals unfolding to reveal the depths of my own desires. The fire that burned within me, a flame of unquenchable longing, seemed to dance in my eyes, casting a spell of fascination over all who beheld me.
Lord Henry's eyes gleamed with a knowing light, a comprehension that spoke of his own familiarity with the shadows that lurked within. He saw the change in me, the awakening of a new and terrible beauty, and he was drawn to it, like a moth to the flame that would consume it. And I, in turn, was drawn to the darkness that lurked within him, the two of us bound together by our mutual fascination with the abyss that lay within.
“And what do you propose to do?” said Lord Henry at last.
“I want you and Basil to come with me some night and see her act. I have not the slightest fear of the result. You are certain to acknowledge her genius. Then we must get her out of the Jew’s hands. She is bound to him for three years—at least for two years and eight months—from the present time. I shall have to pay him something, of course. When all that is settled, I shall take a West End theatre and bring her out properly. She will make the world as mad as she has made me.”
“That would be impossible, my dear boy.”
“Yes, she will.” I said fervently.
“Well, what night shall we go?”
“Let me see. To-day is Tuesday. Let us fix to-morrow. She plays Juliet to-morrow.”
“All right. The Bristol at eight o’clock; and I will get Basil.”
“Not eight, Harry, please. Half-past six. We must be there before the curtain rises. You must see her in the first act, where she meets Romeo.”
“Half-past six! What an hour! It will be like having a meat-tea, or reading an English novel. It must be seven. No gentleman dines before seven.”
***
The telegram, a harbinger of unexpected tidings, lay waiting like a whispered secret on the hall table. Lord Henry's eyes scanned the message, his brow furrowing in surprise as he read the words that seemed to leap off the page. "Engaged to be married to Sibyl Vane," he murmured to himself, a wry smile spreading across his lips. The notion was almost...amusing.
He couldn't help but think of me, the boy who had once been so enthralled by the whims of his own desires, now bound by the ties of matrimony to a young woman of questionable virtue. The irony was not lost on him. Dorian, the golden boy, the darling of society, tied down to a chorus girl from the East End. It was a deliciously absurd notion, and Lord Henry couldn't help but chuckle to himself as he contemplated the potential consequences of such a union. And yet, beneath the amusement, a flicker of concern danced in the shadow of his mind. My infatuation with Sibyl Vane was genuine, he knew, but was it enough to sustain a lifetime of marriage? Lord Henry's thoughts were a jumble of contradictions as he pondered the fate of his dear friend, now bound to the altar by ties of love and duty. He would have to pay me a visit, to offer his congratulations and perhaps, to subtly probe the depths of his friend's commitment to this new and potentially disastrous path he had chosen.
***
The tender sentiments of a woman in love! Sybil Vane's words danced in her mind like a sweet melody, a paean to the object of her affection, of me, her Prince Charming. "To see him is to worship him; to know him is to trust him." She felt it in her very bones, the certainty that she had found her soulmate in the charming and handsome young nobleman. His eyes, like sapphires shining bright, had captured her heart, and his words, like honeyed nectar, had sweet-talked her into believing that she was the only woman in the world.
In her mind's eye, she saw a future filled with laughter, romance, and adventure, with me by her side, her partner in every sense. The stage, once her passion, now seemed secondary to the drama of their love. She would give it all up for me, the spotlight, the applause, the adoration of the crowd. For her Prince Charming's love, she would be content to be his quiet, devoted wife, his confidante, his everything.
But little did she know, nor did I know at the time, the man she loved was not entirely what he seemed. Behind the mask of innocence and beauty, I hid secrets and desires that would shake the very foundations of her world.
***
“My dear Harry, my dear Basil, you must both congratulate me!” I said rushing in, throwing off my evening cape with its satin-lined wings and shaking each of my 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.” I was flushed with excitement and pleasure.
“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 my 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 I inserted 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-colored 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 tonight. 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-colored 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.”
“Have you seen her today?” asked Lord Henry.
I shook my head with a “no”. “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. 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. 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.”
TO BE CONTINUED…..
Note: Many quoted scenes and conversations from the book “The picture of Dorian Gray.” https://www.gutenberg.org/files/174/174-h/174-h.htm#chap04
Dorian Gray meets Sibyl Vane backstage.
