reality to things. I may mention that she was not the woman's only
child. There is a son, a charming fellow, I believe. But he is not on
the stage. He is a sailor, or something. And now, tell me about yourself
and what you are painting."

"You went to the opera?" said Hallward, speaking very slowly and with a
strained touch of pain in his voice. "You went to the opera while Sibyl
Vane was lying dead in some sordid lodging? You can talk to me of other
women being charming, and of Patti singing divinely, before the girl you
loved has even the quiet of a grave to sleep in? Why, man, there are
horrors in store for that little white body of hers!"

"Stop, Basil! I won't hear it!" cried Dorian, leaping to his feet. "You
must not tell me about things. What is done is done. What is past is past."

"You call yesterday the past?"

"What has the actual lapse of time got to do with it? It is only shallow
people who require years to get rid of an emotion. A man who is master
of himself can end a sorrow as easily as he can invent a pleasure. I
don't want to be at the mercy of my emotions. I want to use them, to
enjoy them, and to dominate them."

"Dorian, this is horrible! Something has changed you completely. You
look exactly the same wonderful boy who, day after day, used to come
down to my studio to sit for his picture. But you were simple, natural,
and affectionate then. You were the most unspoiled creature in the whole
world. Now, I don't know what has come over you. You talk as if you had
no heart, no pity in you. It is all Harry's influence. I see that."

The lad flushed up and, going to the window, looked out for a few
moments on the green, flickering, sun-lashed garden. "I owe a great deal
to Harry, Basil," he said at last, "more than I owe to you. You only
taught me to be vain."

"Well, I am punished for that, Dorian--or shall be some day."

"I don't know what you mean, Basil," he exclaimed, turning round. "I
don't know what you want. What do you want?"

"I want the Dorian Gray I used to paint," said the artist sadly.

"Basil," said the lad, going over to him and putting his hand on his
shoulder, "you have come too late. Yesterday, when I heard that Sibyl
Vane had killed herself--"

"Killed herself! Good heavens! is there no doubt about that?" cried
Hallward, looking up at him with an expression of horror.

"My dear Basil! Surely you don't think it was a vulgar accident? Of
course she killed herself."

The elder man buried his face in his hands. "How fearful," he muttered,
and a shudder ran through him.

"No," said Dorian Gray, "there is nothing fearful about it. It is one of
the great romantic tragedies of the age. As a rule, people who act lead
the most commonplace lives. They are good husbands, or faithful wives,
or something tedious. You know what I mean--middle-class virtue and all
that kind of thing. How different Sibyl was! She lived her finest
tragedy. She was always a heroine. The last night she played-- the night
you saw her--she acted badly because she had known the reality of love.
When she knew its unreality, she died, as Juliet might have died. She
passed again into the sphere of art. There is something of the martyr
about her. Her death has all the pathetic uselessness of martyrdom, all
its wasted beauty. But, as I was saying, you must not think I have not
suffered. If you had come in yesterday at a particular moment-- about
half-past five, perhaps, or a quarter to six-- you would have found me
in tears. Even Harry, who was here, who brought me the news, in fact,
had no idea what I was going through. I suffered immensely. Then it
passed away. I cannot repeat an emotion. No one can, except
sentimentalists. And you are awfully unjust, Basil. You come down here
to console me. That is charming of you. You find me consoled, and you
are furious. How like a sympathetic person! You remind me of a story
Harry told me about a certain philanthropist who spent twenty years of
his life in trying to get some grievance redressed, or some unjust law
altered--I forget exactly what it was. Finally he succeeded, and nothing
could exceed his disappointment. He had absolutely nothing to do, almost
died of ennui, and became a confirmed misanthrope. And besides, my dear
old Basil, if you really want to console me, teach me rather to forget
what has happened, or to see it from a proper artistic point of view.
Was it not Gautier who used to write about la consolation des arts? I
remember picking up a little vellum-covered book in your studio one day
and chancing on that delightful phrase. Well, I am not like that young
man you told me of when we were down at Marlow together, the young man
who used to say that yellow satin could console one for all the miseries
of life. I love beautiful things that one can touch and handle. Old
brocades, green bronzes, lacquer-work, carved ivories, exquisite
surroundings, luxury, pomp--there is much to be got from all these. But
the artistic temperament that they create, or at any rate reveal, is
still more to me. To become the spectator of one's own life, as Harry
says, is to escape the suffering of life. I know you are surprised at my
talking to you like this. You have not realized how I have developed. I
was a schoolboy when you knew me. I am a man now. I have new passions,
new thoughts, new ideas. I am different, but you must not like me less.
I am changed, but you must always be my friend. Of course, I am very
fond of Harry. But I know that you are better than he is. You are not
stronger-- you are too much afraid of life--but you are better. And how
happy we used to be together! Don't leave me, Basil, and don't quarrel
with me. I am what I am. There is nothing more to be said."


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