“Goodbye little yellow bird.” #FIVE

FOLLOW UP FROM PREVIOUS CHAPTER…..

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

Cruelty! Had I been cruel? It was the girl’s fault, not mine. I had dreamed of her as a great artist, had given my love to her because I had thought her great. Then she had disappointed me. She had been shallow and unworthy. And, yet, a feeling of infinite regret came over me, as I thought of her lying at my feet sobbing like a little child. I remembered with what callousness I had watched her. Why had I been made like that? Why had such a soul been given to me? But I had suffered also. During the three terrible hours that the play had lasted, I had lived centuries of pain, aeon upon aeon of torture. My life was well worth hers. She had marred me for a moment, if I 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 someone with whom they could have scenes. Lord Henry had told me that, and Lord Henry knew what women were. Why should I trouble about Sibyl Vane? She was nothing to me now.

But the picture? What was I to say of that? It held the secret of my life and told my story. It taught me to love my own beauty. Would it teach me to loathe my own soul? Would I ever look at it again?

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

Yet it was watching me, with its beautiful, marred face and its cruel smile. Its bright hair gleamed in the early sunlight. Its blue eyes met my own. A sense of infinite pity, not for myself, but for the painted image of myself, came over me. 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 I committed, a stain would fleck and wreck its fairness. But I would not sin.                    The picture, changed or unchanged, would be to me the visible emblem of conscience.         I would resist temptation. I would not see Lord Henry anymore—would not, at any rate, listen to those subtle poisonous theories that in Basil Hallward’s garden had first stirred within me the passion for impossible things. I would go back to Sibyl Vane, make her amends, marry her, try to love her again. Yes, it was my duty to do so. She must have suffered more than I had. Poor child! I had been selfish and cruel to her. The fascination that she had exercised over me would return. We would be happy together. My life with her would be beautiful and pure.

I got up from my chair and drew a large screen right in front of the portrait, shuddering as I glanced at it. “How horrible!” I murmured to myself, and I walked across to the window and opened it. When I stepped out on to the grass, I drew a deep breath. The fresh morning air seemed to drive away all my somber passions. I thought only of Sibyl. A faint echo of my love came back to me. I 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.

The haze of slumber still lingered, like a gentle mist that refused to lift. As I slowly came to, I became aware of the softness of my bed, the luxurious linens enveloping me in a cocoon of comfort. But even the opulence of my bedchamber couldn't shake the memories of the previous night's torment.

The scenes replayed in my mind like a macabre puppet show, the strings manipulated by some unseen force. I saw Sybil's face, her eyes sparkling with a fire that had once captivated me, now dimmed by the harsh light of reality. I heard the words of Harry and Basil, their voices echoing in my mind like a refrain, each one striking a discordant note that jarred my very soul.

The torment I'd endured at the theater still lingered, a raw wound that refused to heal. I tossed and turned, my mind racing with thoughts of Sybil, of my own desires and doubts. The morning light, creeping into my room like a gentle thief, brought no solace, only the harsh glare of reality. I knew I couldn't escape the truth forever, that I'd have to face the music, no matter how discordant it might be.

My valet, Victor moved quietly around the room, his footsteps muffled by the plush carpet, as he prepared my morning attire, brought in my letters and tea. I watched him, a detached observer of my own life, wondering how I would face the day ahead. The rituals of my daily routine seemed empty, devoid of meaning, as I struggled to come to terms with the turmoil that churned within me.

The sound of the door opening broke the silence, and I knew it was time to rise. I threw off the covers, the cool morning air enveloping me like a shroud. I stood up, my movements mechanical, and began to dress, the familiar routine a pale comfort against the uncertainty that lay ahead. As I looked in the mirror, I saw a stranger staring back, a reflection of a man torn apart by his own desires and doubts. I knew I had to face the day, but the question was, which mask would I wear?

Having sipped some tea, I turned over my letters. One of them was from Lord Henry and had been brought by hand that morning. I hesitated for a moment and then put it aside. The others I opened listlessly. They contained the usual collection of cards, invitations to dinner, tickets for private views, programs of charity concerts, and the like that are showered on fashionable young men every morning during the season.

As soon as I was dressed, I went into the library and sat down to a light French breakfast that had been laid out for me on a small round table close to the open window. It was an exquisite day. The warm air seemed laden with spices. A bee flew in and buzzed round the blue-dragon bowl that, filled with sulphur-yellow roses, stood before me. I felt perfectly happy. Suddenly my eyes fell on the screen that I had placed in front of the portrait.

Was it all true? Had the portrait really changed? Or had it been simply my own imagination that had made me see a look of evil where there had been a look of joy? Surely a painted canvas could not alter? The thing was absurd. It would serve as a tale to tell Basil someday. It would make him smile. And, yet, how vivid was my recollection of the whole thing! First in the dim twilight, and then in the bright dawn, I had seen the touch of cruelty round the warped lips. I almost dreaded my valet leaving the room. I knew that when I would be alone I would have to examine the portrait. I was afraid of certainty. When the coffee and cigarettes had been brought and Victor turned to go, I felt a wild desire to tell him to remain. As the door was closing behind him, I called him back. Victor stood waiting for his orders. I looked at him for a moment. “I am not at home to anyone, Victor,” I said with a sigh. Victor bowed and retired.

Then I rose from the table, lit a cigarette, and flung myself down on a luxuriously cushioned couch that stood facing the screen. The screen was an old one, of gilt Spanish leather, stamped and wrought with a rather florid Louis-Quatorze pattern. I scanned it curiously, wondering if ever before it had concealed the secret of a man’s life.

Should I move the screen aside, after all? Why not let it stay there? What was the use of knowing? If the thing was true, it would be terrible. If it was not true, why trouble about it? But what if, by some fate or deadlier chance, eyes other than mine spied behind and saw the horrible change? What should I do if Basil Hallward came and asked to look at his own picture? Basil would be sure to do that. No; the thing had to be examined, and at once. Anything would be better than this dreadful state of doubt.

I got up and locked both doors. At least I would be alone when I looked upon the mask of my shame. Then I drew the screen aside and saw myself face to face. It was perfectly true. The portrait had altered.

One thing, however, I felt that it had done for me. It had made me conscious how unjust, how cruel, I had been to Sibyl Vane. It was not too late to make reparation for that. She could still be my wife. My unreal and selfish love would yield to some higher influence, would be transformed into some nobler passion, and the portrait that Basil Hallward had painted of me would be a guide to me through life, would be to me what holiness is to some, and conscience to others, and the fear of God to us all. There were opiates for remorse, drugs that could lull the moral sense to sleep. But here was a visible symbol of the degradation of sin. Here was an ever-present sign of the ruin men brought upon their souls.

Three o’clock struck, and four, and the half-hour rang its double chime, but I did not stir. I was trying to gather up the scarlet threads of life and to weave them into a pattern; to find my way through the sanguine labyrinth of passion through which I was wandering. I did not know what to do, or what to think. Finally, I went over to the table and wrote a passionate letter to the girl I had loved, imploring her forgiveness and accusing myself of temporary madness. I covered page after page with wild words of sorrow and wilder words of pain. There is a luxury in self-reproach. When we blame ourselves, we feel that no one else has a right to blame us. It is the confession, not the priest, that gives us absolution. When I had finished the letter, I felt that I had been forgiven. After all Sybil had nothing else to live for but for my love. Without it, should surely die.  

Suddenly there came a knock to the door, and I heard Lord Henry’s voice outside. “My dear boy, I must see you. Let me in at once. I can’t bear your shutting yourself up like this.”

I made no answer at first, but remained quite still. The knocking still continued and grew louder. Yes, it was better to let Lord Henry in, and to explain to him the new life I was going to lead, to quarrel with him if it became necessary to quarrel, to part if parting was inevitable. I jumped up, drew the screen hastily across the picture, and unlocked the door.

“I am so sorry for it all, Dorian,” said Lord Henry as he entered. “But you must not think too much about it.”

“Do you mean about Sibyl Vane?”

The words spilled out, a mixture of bravado and desperation, as I tried to convince myself, and Lord Henry, that I was unaffected by the events of the previous night. But Lord Henry's piercing gaze saw right through me, his eyes glinting with a knowing light that made me wonder if he could read the turmoil that churned within me.

"Ah, Dorian, Dorian," he said, his voice low and soothing, "you are as changeable as the wind. One moment you're torn apart by doubt, the next you're declaring your undying love. I suppose it's all part of your charm." He paused, studying me intently, his expression a mask of concern and curiosity.

“Yes, of course,” he continued, sinking into a chair and slowly pulling off his yellow gloves. “It is dreadful, from one point of view, but it was not your fault. Tell me, did you go behind and see her, after the play was over?”

“Yes.”

“I felt sure you had. Did you make a scene with her?”

“I was brutal, Harry—perfectly brutal. But it is all right now. I am not sorry for anything that has happened. It has taught me to know myself better.”

“Ah, Dorian, I am so glad you take it in that way! I was afraid I would find you plunged in remorse and tearing that nice golden hair of yours.”

“I have got through all that,” said I, shaking my head and smiling. “I am perfectly happy now. I know what conscience is, to begin with. It is not what you told me it was. It is the divinest thing in us. Don’t sneer at it, Harry, any more—at least not before me. I want to be good. I can’t bear the idea of my soul being hideous.”

“A very charming artistic basis for ethics, Dorian! I congratulate you on it. But how are you going to begin?”

“By marrying Sibyl Vane.”

“Marrying Sibyl Vane!” cried Lord Henry, standing up and looking at me in perplexed amazement. “But, my dear Dorian—”

“Yes, Harry, I know what you are going to say. Something dreadful about marriage. It may go like this….            "By marrying Sibyl Vane! Dorian, you're a man of immense privilege, wealth, and influence. You have the world at your feet, and you're considering marrying an actress, a woman who's been on the stage, exposed to the scrutiny of the public eye. It's not just about your feelings for her, it's about the societal implications, the potential scandal, the whispers and gossip that will follow you everywhere. You're young, Dorian, and you're infatuated. I understand that. But marriage is a lifelong commitment. Can you truly see yourself bound to someone who's been trained to perform, to pretend, to be someone she's not? Can you handle the constant attention, the scrutiny, the pressure to conform to societal expectations?"

Don’t say it. Don’t ever say things of that kind to me again. Two days ago I asked Sibyl to marry me. I am not going to break my word to her. She is to be my wife.”

“Your wife! Dorian! ... Didn’t you get my letter? I wrote to you this morning and sent the note down by my own man.”

“Your letter? Oh, yes, I remember. I have not read it yet, Harry. I was afraid there might be something in it that I wouldn’t like. You cut life to pieces with your epigrams.”

“You know nothing then?”

“What do you mean?”

Lord Henry walked across the room, and sitting down by me, took both my hands in his own and held them tightly. “Dorian,” he said, “my letter—don’t be frightened—was to tell you that Sibyl Vane is dead.”

A cry of pain broke from my lips, as I leaped to my feet, tearing my hands away from Lord Henry’s grasp. “Dead! Sibyl dead! It is not true! It is a horrible lie! How dare you say it?”

“It is quite true, Dorian,” said Lord Henry, gravely. “It is in all the morning papers. I wrote down to you to ask you not to see any one till I came. There will have to be an inquest, of course, and you must not be mixed up in it. Things like that make a man fashionable in Paris. But in London people are so prejudiced. Here, one should never make one’s début with a scandal. One should reserve that to give an interest to one’s old age. I suppose they don’t know your name at the theatre? If they don’t, it is all right. Did any one see you going round to her room? That is an important point.”

I did not answer for a few moments. I was dazed with horror. Finally I stammered, in a stifled voice, “Harry, did you say an inquest? What did you mean by that? Did Sibyl—? Oh, Harry, I can’t bear it! But be quick. Tell me everything at once.”

“I have no doubt it was not an accident, Dorian, though it must be put in that way to the public. It seems that as she was leaving the theatre with her mother, about half-past twelve or so, she said she had forgotten something upstairs. They waited some time for her, but she did not come down again. They ultimately found her lying dead on the floor of her dressing-room. She had swallowed something by mistake, some dreadful thing they use at theatres. I don’t know what it was, but it had either prussic acid or white lead in it. I should fancy it was prussic acid, as she seems to have died instantaneously.”

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