feat_summary_path: finished_summaries/shmoop/The Picture of Dorian Gray/section_5_part_0.txt
feat_book_id: The Picture of Dorian Gray.chapter 6
feat_summary_id: chapter 6
feat_summary: {"name": "Chapter 6", "url": "https://web.archive.org/web/20210304030722/https://www.shmoop.com/study-guides/literature/picture-dorian-gray/summary/chapter-6", "summary": "The next night, Henry and Basil get to the restaurant before Dorian, and they take advantage of the opportunity to discuss Dorian's sudden engagement. Basil doesn't approve, but Henry looks at it lightly as a part of his experiment. He hopes that marriage won't ruin Dorian, and that the boy will marry Sibyl, love her madly for a little while, and move on. Dorian shows up in the middle of this heated discussion. He's in a jolly mood, and he recounts the story of his engagement to Sibyl. The night before, Dorian watched Sibyl perform in As You Like It, and was overwhelmed by his adoration for her. Backstage after the show, they kissed and exchanged vows of love. Back to the present--Basil is slowly won over by this story, convinced that Dorian really is in love with the girl. Henry is still incredulous and, as usual, expresses his cynical viewpoint. Dorian laughs Henry off, saying that being with Sibyl undoes everything Henry's done to him--she makes him forget all of Henry's \"poisonous\" theories about life and love. Henry goes off on another of his philosophical binges, this time about goodness, morality, and women. He basically thinks that everyone should just be concerned with themselves and their own pleasures. Basil and Dorian disagree, but Henry persists in putting forth his ideas. Oh yeah, and he also thinks that women are pretty worthless--in his estimation, they're always hanging on to men, preventing them from attaining greatness. Dorian promises that Henry will feel different about all of this once he's seen Sibyl Vane. Henry demurs, admitting that it's possible that he'll be really taken with her. They leave in Henry's carriage, and poor Basil has to follow in a cab. During his solitary ride, Basil is saddened by the feeling that Dorian is lost to him forever--the marriage will drive them apart. However, he reasons, it's better than some things that could have happened to his young friend...", "analysis": ""}
text: 
  "I suppose you have heard the news, Basil?" said Lord Henry that
  evening as Hallward was shown into a little private room at the Bristol
  where dinner had been laid for three.
  
  "No, Harry," answered the artist, giving his hat and coat to the bowing
  waiter.  "What is it?  Nothing about politics, I hope!  They don't
  interest me.  There is hardly a single person in the House of Commons
  worth painting, though many of them would be the better for a little
  whitewashing."
  
  "Dorian Gray is engaged to be married," said Lord Henry, watching him
  as he spoke.
  
  Hallward started and then frowned.  "Dorian engaged to be married!" he
  cried.  "Impossible!"
  
  "It is perfectly true."
  
  "To whom?"
  
  "To some little actress or other."
  
  "I can't believe it.  Dorian is far too sensible."
  
  "Dorian is far too wise not to do foolish things now and then, my dear
  Basil."
  
  "Marriage is hardly a thing that one can do now and then, Harry."
  
  "Except in America," rejoined Lord Henry languidly.  "But I didn't say
  he was married.  I said he was engaged to be married.  There is a great
  difference.  I have a distinct remembrance of being married, but I have
  no recollection at all of being engaged.  I am inclined to think that I
  never was engaged."
  
  "But think of Dorian's birth, and position, and wealth.  It would be
  absurd for him to marry so much beneath him."
  
  "If you want to make him marry this girl, tell him that, Basil.  He is
  sure to do it, then.  Whenever a man does a thoroughly stupid thing, it
  is always from the noblest motives."
  
  "I hope the girl is good, Harry.  I don't want to see Dorian tied to
  some vile creature, who might degrade his nature and ruin his
  intellect."
  
  "Oh, she is better than good--she is beautiful," murmured Lord Henry,
  sipping a glass of vermouth and orange-bitters. "Dorian says she is
  beautiful, and he is not often wrong about things of that kind.  Your
  portrait of him has quickened his appreciation of the personal
  appearance of other people.  It has had that excellent effect, amongst
  others.  We are to see her to-night, if that boy doesn't forget his
  appointment."
  
  "Are you serious?"
  
  "Quite serious, Basil.  I should be miserable if I thought I should
  ever be more serious than I am at the present moment."
  
  "But do you approve of it, Harry?" asked the painter, walking up and
  down the room and biting his lip.  "You can't approve of it, possibly.
  It is some silly infatuation."
  
  "I never approve, or disapprove, of anything now.  It is an absurd
  attitude to take towards life.  We are not sent into the world to air
  our moral prejudices.  I never take any notice of what common people
  say, and I never interfere with what charming people do.  If a
  personality fascinates me, whatever mode of expression that personality
  selects is absolutely delightful to me.  Dorian Gray falls in love with
  a beautiful girl who acts Juliet, and proposes to marry her.  Why not?
  If he wedded Messalina, he would be none the less interesting.  You
  know I am not a champion of marriage.  The real drawback to marriage is
  that it makes one unselfish.  And unselfish people are colourless.
  They lack individuality.  Still, there are certain temperaments that
  marriage makes more complex.  They retain their egotism, and add to it
  many other egos.  They are forced to have more than one life.  They
  become more highly organized, and to be highly organized is, I should
  fancy, the object of man's existence.  Besides, every experience is of
  value, and whatever one may say against marriage, it is certainly an
  experience.  I hope that Dorian Gray will make this girl his wife,
  passionately adore her for six months, and then suddenly become
  fascinated by some one else.  He would be a wonderful study."
  
  "You don't mean a single word of all that, Harry; you know you don't.
  If Dorian Gray's life were spoiled, no one would be sorrier than
  yourself.  You are much better than you pretend to be."
  
  Lord Henry laughed.  "The reason we all like to think so well of others
  is that we are all afraid for ourselves.  The basis of optimism is
  sheer terror.  We think that we are generous because we credit our
  neighbour with the possession of those virtues that are likely to be a
  benefit to us.  We praise the banker that we may overdraw our account,
  and find good qualities in the highwayman in the hope that he may spare
  our pockets.  I mean everything that I have said.  I have the greatest
  contempt for optimism.  As for a spoiled life, no life is spoiled but
  one whose growth is arrested.  If you want to mar a nature, you have
  merely to reform it.  As for marriage, of course that would be silly,
  but there are other and more interesting bonds between men and women.
  I will certainly encourage them.  They have the charm of being
  fashionable.  But here is Dorian himself.  He will tell you more than I
  can."
  
  "My dear Harry, my dear Basil, you must both congratulate me!" said the
  lad, throwing off his evening cape with its satin-lined wings and
  shaking each of his friends by the hand in turn.  "I have never been so
  happy.  Of course, it is sudden--all really delightful things are.  And
  yet it seems to me to be the one thing I have been looking for all my
  life." He was flushed with excitement and pleasure, and looked
  extraordinarily handsome.
  
  "I hope you will always be very happy, Dorian," said Hallward, "but I
  don't quite forgive you for not having let me know of your engagement.
  You let Harry know."
  
  "And I don't forgive you for being late for dinner," broke in Lord
  Henry, putting his hand on the lad's shoulder and smiling as he spoke.
  "Come, let us sit down and try what the new _chef_ here is like, and then
  you will tell us how it all came about."
  
  "There is really not much to tell," cried Dorian as they took their
  seats at the small round table.  "What happened was simply this.  After
  I left you yesterday evening, Harry, I dressed, had some dinner at that
  little Italian restaurant in Rupert Street you introduced me to, and
  went down at eight o'clock to the theatre.  Sibyl was playing Rosalind.
  Of course, the scenery was dreadful and the Orlando absurd.  But Sibyl!
  You should have seen her!  When she came on in her boy's clothes, she
  was perfectly wonderful.  She wore a moss-coloured velvet jerkin with
  cinnamon sleeves, slim, brown, cross-gartered hose, a dainty little
  green cap with a hawk's feather caught in a jewel, and a hooded cloak
  lined with dull red.  She had never seemed to me more exquisite.  She
  had all the delicate grace of that Tanagra figurine that you have in
  your studio, Basil.  Her hair clustered round her face like dark leaves
  round a pale rose.  As for her acting--well, you shall see her
  to-night. She is simply a born artist.  I sat in the dingy box
  absolutely enthralled.  I forgot that I was in London and in the
  nineteenth century.  I was away with my love in a forest that no man
  had ever seen.  After the performance was over, I went behind and spoke
  to her.  As we were sitting together, suddenly there came into her eyes
  a look that I had never seen there before.  My lips moved towards hers.
  We kissed each other.  I can't describe to you what I felt at that
  moment.  It seemed to me that all my life had been narrowed to one
  perfect point of rose-coloured joy.  She trembled all over and shook
  like a white narcissus.  Then she flung herself on her knees and kissed
  my hands.  I feel that I should not tell you all this, but I can't help
  it.  Of course, our engagement is a dead secret.  She has not even told
  her own mother.  I don't know what my guardians will say.  Lord Radley
  is sure to be furious.  I don't care.  I shall be of age in less than a
  year, and then I can do what I like.  I have been right, Basil, haven't
  I, to take my love out of poetry and to find my wife in Shakespeare's
  plays?  Lips that Shakespeare taught to speak have whispered their
  secret in my ear.  I have had the arms of Rosalind around me, and
  kissed Juliet on the mouth."
  
  "Yes, Dorian, I suppose you were right," said Hallward slowly.
  
  "Have you seen her to-day?" asked Lord Henry.
  
  Dorian Gray shook his head.  "I left her in the forest of Arden; I
  shall find her in an orchard in Verona."
  
  Lord Henry sipped his champagne in a meditative manner.  "At what
  particular point did you mention the word marriage, Dorian?  And what
  did she say in answer?  Perhaps you forgot all about it."
  
  "My dear Harry, I did not treat it as a business transaction, and I did
  not make any formal proposal.  I told her that I loved her, and she
  said she was not worthy to be my wife.  Not worthy!  Why, the whole
  world is nothing to me compared with her."
  
  "Women are wonderfully practical," murmured Lord Henry, "much more
  practical than we are.  In situations of that kind we often forget to
  say anything about marriage, and they always remind us."
  
  Hallward laid his hand upon his arm.  "Don't, Harry.  You have annoyed
  Dorian.  He is not like other men.  He would never bring misery upon
  any one.  His nature is too fine for that."
  
  Lord Henry looked across the table.  "Dorian is never annoyed with me,"
  he answered.  "I asked the question for the best reason possible, for
  the only reason, indeed, that excuses one for asking any
  question--simple curiosity.  I have a theory that it is always the
  women who propose to us, and not we who propose to the women.  Except,
  of course, in middle-class life.  But then the middle classes are not
  modern."
  
  Dorian Gray laughed, and tossed his head.  "You are quite incorrigible,
  Harry; but I don't mind.  It is impossible to be angry with you.  When
  you see Sibyl Vane, you will feel that the man who could wrong her
  would be a beast, a beast without a heart.  I cannot understand how any
  one can wish to shame the thing he loves.  I love Sibyl Vane.  I want
  to place her on a pedestal of gold and to see the world worship the
  woman who is mine.  What is marriage?  An irrevocable vow.  You mock at
  it for that.  Ah! don't mock.  It is an irrevocable vow that I want to
  take.  Her trust makes me faithful, her belief makes me good.  When I
  am with her, I regret all that you have taught me.  I become different
  from what you have known me to be.  I am changed, and the mere touch of
  Sibyl Vane's hand makes me forget you and all your wrong, fascinating,
  poisonous, delightful theories."
  
  "And those are ...?" asked Lord Henry, helping himself to some salad.
  
  "Oh, your theories about life, your theories about love, your theories
  about pleasure.  All your theories, in fact, Harry."
  
  "Pleasure is the only thing worth having a theory about," he answered
  in his slow melodious voice.  "But I am afraid I cannot claim my theory
  as my own.  It belongs to Nature, not to me.  Pleasure is Nature's
  test, her sign of approval.  When we are happy, we are always good, but
  when we are good, we are not always happy."
  
  "Ah! but what do you mean by good?" cried Basil Hallward.
  
  "Yes," echoed Dorian, leaning back in his chair and looking at Lord
  Henry over the heavy clusters of purple-lipped irises that stood in the
  centre of the table, "what do you mean by good, Harry?"
  
  "To be good is to be in harmony with one's self," he replied, touching
  the thin stem of his glass with his pale, fine-pointed fingers.
  "Discord is to be forced to be in harmony with others.  One's own
  life--that is the important thing.  As for the lives of one's
  neighbours, if one wishes to be a prig or a Puritan, one can flaunt
  one's moral views about them, but they are not one's concern.  Besides,
  individualism has really the higher aim.  Modern morality consists in
  accepting the standard of one's age.  I consider that for any man of
  culture to accept the standard of his age is a form of the grossest
  immorality."
  
  "But, surely, if one lives merely for one's self, Harry, one pays a
  terrible price for doing so?" suggested the painter.
  
  "Yes, we are overcharged for everything nowadays.  I should fancy that
  the real tragedy of the poor is that they can afford nothing but
  self-denial. Beautiful sins, like beautiful things, are the privilege
  of the rich."
  
  "One has to pay in other ways but money."
  
  "What sort of ways, Basil?"
  
  "Oh!  I should fancy in remorse, in suffering, in ... well, in the
  consciousness of degradation."
  
  Lord Henry shrugged his shoulders.  "My dear fellow, mediaeval art is
  charming, but mediaeval emotions are out of date.  One can use them in
  fiction, of course.  But then the only things that one can use in
  fiction are the things that one has ceased to use in fact.  Believe me,
  no civilized man ever regrets a pleasure, and no uncivilized man ever
  knows what a pleasure is."
  
  "I know what pleasure is," cried Dorian Gray.  "It is to adore some
  one."
  
  "That is certainly better than being adored," he answered, toying with
  some fruits.  "Being adored is a nuisance.  Women treat us just as
  humanity treats its gods.  They worship us, and are always bothering us
  to do something for them."
  
  "I should have said that whatever they ask for they had first given to
  us," murmured the lad gravely.  "They create love in our natures.  They
  have a right to demand it back."
  
  "That is quite true, Dorian," cried Hallward.
  
  "Nothing is ever quite true," said Lord Henry.
  
  "This is," interrupted Dorian.  "You must admit, Harry, that women give
  to men the very gold of their lives."
  
  "Possibly," he sighed, "but they invariably want it back in such very
  small change.  That is the worry.  Women, as some witty Frenchman once
  put it, inspire us with the desire to do masterpieces and always
  prevent us from carrying them out."
  
  "Harry, you are dreadful!  I don't know why I like you so much."
  
  "You will always like me, Dorian," he replied.  "Will you have some
  coffee, you fellows?  Waiter, bring coffee, and _fine-champagne_, and
  some cigarettes.  No, don't mind the cigarettes--I have some.  Basil, I
  can't allow you to smoke cigars.  You must have a cigarette.  A
  cigarette is the perfect type of a perfect pleasure.  It is exquisite,
  and it leaves one unsatisfied.  What more can one want?  Yes, Dorian,
  you will always be fond of me.  I represent to you all the sins you
  have never had the courage to commit."
  
  "What nonsense you talk, Harry!" cried the lad, taking a light from a
  fire-breathing silver dragon that the waiter had placed on the table.
  "Let us go down to the theatre.  When Sibyl comes on the stage you will
  have a new ideal of life.  She will represent something to you that you
  have never known."
  
  "I have known everything," said Lord Henry, with a tired look in his
  eyes, "but I am always ready for a new emotion.  I am afraid, however,
  that, for me at any rate, there is no such thing.  Still, your
  wonderful girl may thrill me.  I love acting.  It is so much more real
  than life.  Let us go.  Dorian, you will come with me.  I am so sorry,
  Basil, but there is only room for two in the brougham.  You must follow
  us in a hansom."
  
  They got up and put on their coats, sipping their coffee standing.  The
  painter was silent and preoccupied.  There was a gloom over him.  He
  could not bear this marriage, and yet it seemed to him to be better
  than many other things that might have happened.  After a few minutes,
  they all passed downstairs.  He drove off by himself, as had been
  arranged, and watched the flashing lights of the little brougham in
  front of him.  A strange sense of loss came over him.  He felt that
  Dorian Gray would never again be to him all that he had been in the
  past.  Life had come between them.... His eyes darkened, and the
  crowded flaring streets became blurred to his eyes.  When the cab drew
  up at the theatre, it seemed to him that he had grown years older.
  
  
  
feat_summary_name: Chapter 6
target: The next night, Henry and Basil get to the restaurant before Dorian, and they take advantage of the opportunity to discuss Dorian's sudden engagement. Basil doesn't approve, but Henry looks at it lightly as a part of his experiment. He hopes that marriage won't ruin Dorian, and that the boy will marry Sibyl, love her madly for a little while, and move on. Dorian shows up in the middle of this heated discussion. He's in a jolly mood, and he recounts the story of his engagement to Sibyl. The night before, Dorian watched Sibyl perform in As You Like It, and was overwhelmed by his adoration for her. Backstage after the show, they kissed and exchanged vows of love. Back to the present--Basil is slowly won over by this story, convinced that Dorian really is in love with the girl. Henry is still incredulous and, as usual, expresses his cynical viewpoint. Dorian laughs Henry off, saying that being with Sibyl undoes everything Henry's done to him--she makes him forget all of Henry's "poisonous" theories about life and love. Henry goes off on another of his philosophical binges, this time about goodness, morality, and women. He basically thinks that everyone should just be concerned with themselves and their own pleasures. Basil and Dorian disagree, but Henry persists in putting forth his ideas. Oh yeah, and he also thinks that women are pretty worthless--in his estimation, they're always hanging on to men, preventing them from attaining greatness. Dorian promises that Henry will feel different about all of this once he's seen Sibyl Vane. Henry demurs, admitting that it's possible that he'll be really taken with her. They leave in Henry's carriage, and poor Basil has to follow in a cab. During his solitary ride, Basil is saddened by the feeling that Dorian is lost to him forever--the marriage will drive them apart. However, he reasons, it's better than some things that could have happened to his young friend...