“Goodbye little yellow bird.” #THREE.

FOLLOW UP FROM PREVIOUS CHAPTER…..

The weight of unspoken emotions hung heavy in the air as Harry and I departed, leaving Basil to his thoughts. A palpable gloom had settled over him, like a shroud cast over a dying flame. I knew that he harbored deep feelings for me, feelings that went beyond mere friendship or admiration. The thought of losing me to marriage, to the bonds of matrimony and the conventions of society, was a prospect that filled him with a sense of despair.

As I glanced back, I saw the look of sorrow etched on his face, a mixture of pain and resignation that tugged at my heartstrings. He felt that I was slipping away from him, that our bond was being severed by the inexorable tide of life. The crowded streets, once vibrant and alive, now seemed to blur and fade into the background as his eyes darkened, clouded by the tears of unspoken longing.

In that moment, I knew that our relationship would never be the same, that the marriage would create an insurmountable chasm between us. Life had indeed come between us, with all its complexities and cruel necessities. I felt a pang of regret, of sorrow, but it was too late to turn back now. I was bound to Sibyl, and Basil was left to navigate the treacherous waters of his own heart.

Later that evening……Basil rejoined us.

“What a place to find one’s divinity in!” said Lord Henry.

“Yes!” an I answered with delight. “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.”

“I understand what you mean, and I believe in this girl. Any one you love must be marvelous, 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.”

The warmth of true friendship! Basil's words, infused with his characteristic kindness and generosity of spirit, filled my heart with joy and gratitude. To have friends like him and Harry, who saw the best in me, who believed in me, and who stood by me through thick and thin, was a true blessing. And Sybil Vane, my beloved, my soon-to-be wife, whose innocence and beauty had captivated me, body and soul. I felt a surge of happiness, of contentment, as I thought of her, of the life we would build together. Basil's words had touched a chord within me, and for a moment, I felt at peace, free from the turmoil of my own desires and doubts.

In that instant, I truly believed that I was doing the right thing, that I was following my heart, and that Sybil and I would live happily ever after. The future seemed bright, full of promise and possibility, and I was eager to embark on this new chapter of my life, with my friends by my side and the love of my life waiting for me. Little did I know, however, that fate had other plans in store for me.

The blissful ignorance of youth! As I basked in the warmth of Basil's approval and Harry's cynical admiration, I felt invincible, convinced that my love for Sybil would conquer all. I envisioned a future filled with laughter, art, and passion, with Sybil as my partner, my muse, and my everything. In my mind's eye, I saw us strolling through gardens of roses, hand in hand, our love growing stronger with each passing day. I pictured us hosting salons, where the cream of society would gather to marvel at Sybil's beauty and my wit. I envisioned a life of elegance, refinement, and beauty, with Sybil as the shining star at its center.

But beneath the surface, the seeds of doubt and desire were already sown. Harry's words, though laced with humor, had planted a subtle seed of uncertainty in my mind. Would Sybil truly be content with the life I offered? Would she be able to navigate the complexities of my world? And what of my own desires, my own needs? Would they be met in this marriage? For now, however, I pushed these thoughts aside, choosing to bask in the glow of my love for Sybil and the approval of my friends. The future would unfold as it would, and I was ready to face it, armed with my youth, my charm, and my unwavering conviction in the power of love.

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, I sat 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 color. It took away all the life from the verse. It made the passion unreal.

I grew pale as I watched her in horror. I was puzzled and anxious. Neither of my friends dared to say anything to me. 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 be paint 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.”

The sting of Harry's words, like a lash to my soul! "She can't act," he said, so casually, so callously. But it was not the criticism that cut deepest, it was the doubt that crept in, like a thief in the night, stealing away my illusions. Was Sybil truly the genius I believed her to be, or had I been blinded by my own infatuation?

I thought of her performances on stage, her passion, her fire, her ability to transport me to a world of emotions and dreams. Was it art, or was it mere artifice? Had I been duped by my own desires, my own romantic notions of love and beauty? The uncertainty gnawed at my heart, like a rodent at the roots of a once-mighty tree. And yet, I couldn't bear the thought of doubting Sybil, of questioning the authenticity of her talent. I wanted to believe in her, to believe in the beauty and magic of her art. But Harry's words had planted a seed of doubt, and I knew that I would never look at Sybil in the same way again. The question was, would I be able to reconcile my love for her with the harsh realities of her profession?

The torment of uncertainty! As I stood there, frozen in doubt, I felt the weight of my own desires bearing down upon me. I wanted Sybil to be a genius, a star that shone brightly in the firmament of art. I wanted to be her partner, her confidant, her everything. But Harry's words had awakened a nagging voice within me, a voice that whispered doubts and fears, that questioned the very foundation of our love. “She can’t act.” These words felt like a thousand swords upon my heart. The horror I felt. The shame!

I thought of all the times Sybil had mesmerized me with her performances, her presence on stage both captivating and ethereal. Had I been blinded by my love for her? Had I seen only what I wanted to see, and not what truly was? The more I thought about it, the more my mind became a maelstrom of conflicting emotions, a whirlpool of love, doubt, and uncertainty. I knew I had to see her again, to talk to her, to understand her. I had to know if she was truly the woman I thought she was, or if I had been living a lie. The thought of confronting her, of possibly discovering that my illusions were just that, was daunting, but I knew I had to take the risk. For my own sake, for my own sanity, I had to know the truth.

“I am going to see the play through,” I answered , 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,” I 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.” Said Basil.

“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,” I cried. “I want to be alone. Basil, you must go. Ah! can’t you see that my heart is breaking?” The hot tears came to my eyes. My lips trembled, and rushing to the back of the box, them I leaned up against the wall, hiding my face in my cold trembling 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. I rushed back to my seat. I was 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 groans.                

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

Sibyl Vane on Stage