ed to fall singly upon one's
ear. Then it became a little louder, and sounded like a flute or a
distant hautboy. In the garden-scene it had all the tremulous ecstasy
that one hears just before dawn when nightingales are singing. There
were moments, later on, when it had the wild passion of violins. You
know how a voice can stir one. Your voice and the voice of Sibyl Vane
are two things that I shall never forget. When I close my eyes, I hear
them, and each of them says something different. I don't know which to
follow. Why should I not love her? Harry, I do love her. She is
everything to me in life. Night after night I go to see her play. One
evening she is Rosalind, and the next evening she is Imogen. I have
seen her die in the gloom of an Italian tomb, sucking the poison from
her lover's lips. I have watched her wandering through the forest of
Arden, disguised as a pretty boy in hose and doublet and dainty cap.
She has been mad, and has come into the presence of a guilty king, and
given him rue to wear and bitter herbs to taste of. She has been
innocent, and the black hands of jealousy have crushed her reedlike
throat. I have seen her in every age and in every costume. Ordinary
women never appeal to one's imagination. They are limited to their
century. No glamour ever transfigures them. One knows their minds as
easily as one knows their bonnets. One can always find them. There is
no mystery in any of them. They ride in the park in the morning and
chatter at tea-parties in the afternoon. They have their stereotyped
smile and their fashionable manner. They are quite obvious. But an
actress! How different an actress is! Harry! why didn't you tell me
that the only thing worth loving is an actress?"

"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," said Lord Henry.

"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 confess 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,