Soul and body, body and soul--how mysterious they were! There was
animalism in the soul, and the body had its moments of spirituality. The
senses could refine, and the intellect could degrade. Who could say
where the fleshly impulse ceased, or the psychical impulse began? How
shallow were the arbitrary definitions of ordinary psychologists! And
yet how difficult to decide between the claims of the various schools!
Was the soul a shadow seated in the house of sin? Or was the body really
in the soul, as Giordano Bruno thought? The separation of spirit from
matter was a mystery, and the union of spirit with matter was a mystery
also.

He began to wonder whether we could ever make psychology so absolute a
science that each little spring of life would be revealed to us. As it
was, we always misunderstood ourselves and rarely understood others.
Experience was of no ethical value. It was merely the name men gave to
their mistakes. Moralists had, as a rule, regarded it as a mode of
warning, had claimed for it a certain ethical efficacy in the formation
of character, had praised it as something that taught us what to follow
and showed us what to avoid. But there was no motive power in
experience. It was as little of an active cause as conscience itself.
All that it really demonstrated was that our future would be the same as
our past, and that the sin we had done once, and with loathing, we would
do many times, and with joy.

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.

"Foolish child! foolish child!" was the parrot-phrase flung in answer.
The waving of crooked, false-jewelled fingers gave grotesqueness to the
words.

The girl laughed again. The joy of a caged bird was in her voice. Her
eyes caught the melody and echoed it in radiance, then closed for a
moment, as though to hide their secret. When they opened, the mist of a
dream had passed across them.

Thin-lipped wisdom spoke at her from the worn chair, hinted at prudence,
quoted from that book of cowardice whose author apes the name of common
sense. She did not listen. She was free in her prison of passion. Her
prince, Prince Charming, was with her. She had called on memory to
remake him. She had sent her soul to search for him, and it had brought
him back. His kiss burned again upon her mouth. Her eyelids were warm


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