CHAPTER IX.

saidDorianGray,“thereisnothingfearfulaboutit.Itisoneofthegreatromantictragediesoftheage.Asarule,peoplewhoactleadthemostcommonplacelives.Theyaregoodhusbands,orfaithfulwives,orsomethingtedious.YouknowwhatImean—middle-classvirtueandallthatkindofthing.HowdifferentSibylwas!Shelivedherfinesttragedy.Shewasalwaysaheroine.Thelastnightsheplayed—thenightyousawher—sheactedbadlybecauseshehadknowntherealityoflove.Whensheknewitsunreality,shedied,asJulietmighthavedied.Shepassedagainintothesphereofart.Thereissomethingofthemartyrabouther.Herdeathhasallthepatheticuselessnessofmartyrdom,allitswastedbeauty.But,asIwassaying,youmustnotthinkIhavenotsuffered.Ifyouhadcomeinyesterdayataparticularmoment—abouthalf-pastfive,perhaps,oraquartertosix—youwouldhavefoundmeintears.EvenHarry,whowashere,whobroughtmethenews,infact,hadnoideawhatIwasgoingthrough.Isufferedimmensely.Thenitpassedaway.Icannotrepeatanemotion.Noonecan,exceptsentimentalists.Andyouareawfullyunjust,Basil.Youcomedownheretoconsoleme.Thatischarmingofyou.Youfindmeconsoled,andyouarefurious.Howlikeasympatheticperson!YouremindmeofastoryHarrytoldmeaboutacertainphilanthropistwhospenttwentyyearsofhislifeintryingtogetsomegrievanceredressed,orsomeunjustlawaltered—Iforgetexactlywhatitwas.Finallyhesucceeded,andnothingcouldexceedhisdisappointment.Hehadabsolutelynothingtodo,almostdiedofennui,andbecameaconfirmedmisanthrope.Andbesides,mydearoldBasil,ifyoureallywanttoconsoleme,teachmerathertoforgetwhathashappened,ortoseeitfromaproperartisticpointofview.WasitnotGautierwhousedtowriteaboutlaconsolationdesarts?Irememberpickingupalittlevellum-coveredbookinyourstudioonedayandchancingonthatdelightfulphrase.Well,IamnotlikethatyoungmanyoutoldmeofwhenweweredownatMarlowtogether,theyoungmanwhousedtosaythatyellowsatincouldconsoleoneforallthemiseriesoflife.Ilovebeautifulthingsthatonecantouchandhandle.Oldbrocades,greenbronzes,lacquer-work,carvedivories,exquisitesurroundings,luxury,pomp—thereismuchtobegotfromallthese.Buttheartistictemperamentthattheycreate,oratanyratereveal,isstillmoretome.Tobecomethespectatorofone’sownlife,asHarrysays,istoescapethesufferingoflife.Iknowyouaresurprisedatmytalkingtoyoulikethis.YouhavenotrealizedhowIhavedeveloped.Iwasaschoolboywhenyouknewme.Iamamannow.Ihavenewpassions,newthoughts,newideas.Iamdifferent,butyoumustnotlikemeless.Iamchanged,butyoumustalwaysbemyfriend.Ofcourse,IamveryfondofHarry.ButIknowthatyouarebetterthanheis.Youarenotstronger—youaretoomuchafraidoflife—butyouarebetter.Andhowhappyweusedtobetogether!Don’tleaveme,Basil,anddon’tquarrelwithme.IamwhatIam.Thereisnothingmoretobesaid.” Thepainterfeltstrangelymoved.Theladwasinfinitelydeartohim,andhispersonalityhadbeenthegreatturningpointinhisart.Hecouldnotbeartheideaofreproachinghimanymore.Afterall,hisindifferencewasprobablymerelyamoodthatwouldpassaway.Therewassomuchinhimthatwasgood,somuchinhimthatwasnoble. “Well,Dorian,”hesaidatlength,withasadsmile,“Iwon’tspeaktoyouagainaboutthishorriblething,afterto-day.Ionlytrustyournamewon’tbementionedinconnectionwithit.Theinquestistotakeplacethisafternoon.Havetheysummonedyou?” Dorianshookhishead,andalookofannoyancepassedoverhisfaceatthementionoftheword“inquest.”Therewassomethingsocrudeandvulgarabouteverythingofthekind.“Theydon’tknowmyname,”heanswered. “Butsurelyshedid?” “OnlymyChristianname,andthatIamquitesureshenevermentionedtoanyone.Shetoldmeoncethattheywerea