CHAPTER VIII.

erthanthat.Shelookedsuchachild,andseemedtoknowsolittleaboutacting.Dorian,youmustn’tletthisthinggetonyournerves.Youmustcomeanddinewithme,andafterwardswewilllookinattheopera.ItisaPattinight,andeverybodywillbethere.Youcancometomysister’sbox.Shehasgotsomesmartwomenwithher.” “SoIhavemurderedSibylVane,”saidDorianGray,halftohimself,“murderedherassurelyasifIhadcutherlittlethroatwithaknife.Yettherosesarenotlesslovelyforallthat.Thebirdssingjustashappilyinmygarden.Andto-nightIamtodinewithyou,andthengoontotheopera,andsupsomewhere,Isuppose,afterwards.Howextraordinarilydramaticlifeis!IfIhadreadallthisinabook,Harry,IthinkIwouldhaveweptoverit.Somehow,nowthatithashappenedactually,andtome,itseemsfartoowonderfulfortears.Hereisthefirstpassionatelove-letterIhaveeverwritteninmylife.Strange,thatmyfirstpassionatelove-lettershouldhavebeenaddressedtoadeadgirl.Cantheyfeel,Iwonder,thosewhitesilentpeoplewecallthedead?Sibyl!Canshefeel,orknow,orlisten?Oh,Harry,howIlovedheronce!Itseemsyearsagotomenow.Shewaseverythingtome.Thencamethatdreadfulnight—wasitreallyonlylastnight?—whensheplayedsobadly,andmyheartalmostbroke.Sheexplaineditalltome.Itwasterriblypathetic.ButIwasnotmovedabit.Ithoughthershallow.Suddenlysomethinghappenedthatmademeafraid.Ican’ttellyouwhatitwas,butitwasterrible.IsaidIwouldgobacktoher.IfeltIhaddonewrong.Andnowsheisdead.MyGod!MyGod!Harry,whatshallIdo?Youdon’tknowthedangerIamin,andthereisnothingtokeepmestraight.Shewouldhavedonethatforme.Shehadnorighttokillherself.Itwasselfishofher.” “MydearDorian,”answeredLordHenry,takingacigarettefromhiscaseandproducingagold-lattenmatchbox,“theonlywayawomancaneverreformamanisbyboringhimsocompletelythathelosesallpossibleinterestinlife.Ifyouhadmarriedthisgirl,youwouldhavebeenwretched.Ofcourse,youwouldhavetreatedherkindly.Onecanalwaysbekindtopeopleaboutwhomonecaresnothing.Butshewouldhavesoonfoundoutthatyouwereabsolutelyindifferenttoher.Andwhenawomanfindsthatoutaboutherhusband,sheeitherbecomesdreadfullydowdy,orwearsverysmartbonnetsthatsomeotherwoman’shusbandhastopayfor.Isaynothingaboutthesocialmistake,whichwouldhavebeenabject—which,ofcourse,Iwouldnothaveallowed—butIassureyouthatinanycasethewholethingwouldhavebeenanabsolutefailure.” “Isupposeitwould,”mutteredthelad,walkingupanddowntheroomandlookinghorriblypale.“ButIthoughtitwasmyduty.Itisnotmyfaultthatthisterribletragedyhaspreventedmydoingwhatwasright.Irememberyoursayingoncethatthereisafatalityaboutgoodresolutions—thattheyarealwaysmadetoolate.Minecertainlywere.” “Goodresolutionsareuselessattemptstointerferewithscientificlaws.Theiroriginispurevanity.Theirresultisabsolutelynil.Theygiveus,nowandthen,someofthoseluxurioussterileemotionsthathaveacertaincharmfortheweak.Thatisallthatcanbesaidforthem.Theyaresimplychequesthatmendrawonabankwheretheyhavenoaccount.” “Harry,”criedDorianGray,comingoverandsittingdownbesidehim,“whyisitthatIcannotfeelthistragedyasmuchasIwantto?Idon’tthinkIamheartless.Doyou?” “Youhavedonetoomanyfoolishthingsduringthelastfortnighttobeentitledtogiveyourselfthatname,Dorian,”answeredLordHenrywithhissweetmelancholysmile. Theladfrowned.“Idon’tlikethatexplanation,Harry,”herejoined,“butIamgladyoudon’tthinkIamheartless.Iamnothingofthekind.IknowIamnot.AndyetImustadmitthatthisthingthathashappeneddoesnotaffectmeasitshould.Itseemstometobesimplylikeawonderfulendingtoawonderfulplay.IthasalltheterriblebeautyofaGreektragedy,atragedyinwhichItookagreatpart,butbywhichIhavenotbeenwounded.” “Itisaninterestingquestion,”saidLordHenry,whofoundanexquisitepleasureinplayingonthelad’sunconsciousegotism,“anextremelyinterestingquestion.Ifancythatthetrueexplanationisthis:Itoftenhappensthattherealtragediesoflifeoccurinsuchaninartisticmannerthattheyhurtusbytheircrudeviolence,theirabsoluteincoherence,theirabsurdwantofmeaning,theirentirelackofstyle.Theyaffectusjustasvulgarityaffectsus.Theygiveusanimpressionofsheerbruteforce,andwerevoltagainstthat.Sometimes,however,atragedythatpossessesartisticelementsofbeautycrossesourlives.Iftheseelementsofbeautyarereal,thewholethingsimplyappealstooursenseofdramaticeffect.Suddenlywefindthatwearenolongertheactors,butthespectatorsoftheplay.Orratherweareboth.Wewatchourselves,andthemerewonderofthespectacleenthrallsus.Inthepresentcase,whatisitthathasreallyhappened?Someonehaskilledherselfforloveofyou.IwishthatIhadeverhadsuchanexperience.Itwouldhavemademeinlovewithlovefortherestofmylife.Thepeoplewhohaveadoredme—therehavenotbeenverymany,buttherehavebeensome—havealwaysinsistedonlivingon,longafterIhadceasedtocareforthem,ortheytocareforme.Theyhavebecomestoutandtedious,andwhenImeetthem,theygoinatonceforreminiscences.Thatawfulmemoryofwoman!Whatafearfulthingitis!Andwhatanutterintellectualstagna