It was clear to him that the experimental method was
the only method by which one could arrive at any scientific
analysis of the passions; and certainly Dorian Gray
was a subject made to his hand, and seemed to promise
rich and fruitful results. His sudden mad love
for Sibyl Vane was a psychological phenomenon of no
small interest. There was no doubt that curiosity
had much to do with it, curiosity and the desire for
new experiences, yet it was not a simple, but rather
a very complex passion. What there was in it
of the purely sensuous instinct of boyhood had been
transformed by the workings of the imagination, changed
into something that seemed to the lad himself to be
remote from sense, and was for that very reason all
the more dangerous. It was the passions about
whose origin we deceived ourselves that tyrannized
most strongly over us. Our weakest motives were
those of whose nature we were conscious. It often
happened that when we thought we were experimenting
on others we were really experimenting on ourselves.
While Lord Henry sat dreaming on these things, a knock
came to the door, and his valet entered and reminded
him it was time to dress for dinner. He got up
and looked out into the street. The sunset had
smitten into scarlet gold the upper windows of the
houses opposite. The panes glowed like plates
of heated metal. The sky above was like a faded
rose. He thought of his friend’s young
fiery-coloured life and wondered how it was all going
to end.
When he arrived home, about half-past twelve o’clock,
he saw a telegram lying on the hall table. He
opened it and found it was from Dorian Gray.
It was to tell him that he was engaged to be married
to Sibyl Vane.
CHAPTER 5
“Mother, Mother, I am so happy!” whispered
the girl, burying her face in the lap of the faded,
tired-looking woman who, with back turned to the shrill
intrusive light, was sitting in the one arm-chair
that their dingy sitting-room contained. “I
am so happy!” she repeated, “and you must
be happy, too!”
Mrs. Vane winced and put her thin, bismuth-whitened
hands on her daughter’s head. “Happy!”
she echoed, “I am only happy, Sibyl, when I
see you act. You must not think of anything but
your acting. Mr. Isaacs has been very good to
us, and we owe him money.”
The girl looked up and pouted. “Money,
Mother?” she cried, “what does money matter?
Love is more than money.”
“Mr. Isaacs has advanced us fifty pounds to
pay off our debts and to get a proper outfit for James.
You must not forget that, Sibyl. Fifty pounds
is a very large sum. Mr. Isaacs has been most
considerate.”
“He is not a gentleman, Mother, and I hate the
way he talks to me,” said the girl, rising to
her feet and going over to the window.
“I don’t know how we could manage without
him,” answered the elder woman querulously.
Sibyl Vane tossed her head and laughed. “We
don’t want him any more, Mother. Prince
Charming rules life for us now.” Then she
paused. A rose shook in her blood and shadowed
her cheeks. Quick breath parted the petals of
her lips. They trembled. Some southern
wind of passion swept over her and stirred the dainty
folds of her dress. “I love him,”
she said simply.
