"There is no necessity," rejoined his companion."Life has always poppies in her hands.Of course, now and then things linger.I once wore nothing but violets all through one season, as a form of artistic mourning for a romance that would not die.Ultimately, however, it did die.I forget what killed it.I think it was her proposing to sacrifice the whole world for me.That is always a dreadful moment.It fills one with the terror of eternity.Well--would you believe it?--a week ago, at Lady Hampshire's, I found myself seated at dinner next the lady in question, and she insisted on going over the whole thing again, and digging up the past, and raking up the future.I had buried my romance in a bed of asphodel.She dragged it out again and assured me that I had spoiled her life.I am bound to state that she ate an enormous dinner, so I did not feel any anxiety.But what a lack of taste she showed! The one charm of the past is that it is the past.But women never know when the curtain has fallen.They always want a sixth act, and as soon as the interest of the play is entirely over, they propose to continue it.If they were allowed their own way, every comedy would have a tragic ending, and every tragedy would culminate in a farce.They are charmingly artificial, but they have no sense of art.
You are more fortunate than I am.I assure you, Dorian, that not one of the women I have known would have done for me what Sibyl Vane did for you.
Ordinary women always console themselves.Some of them do it by going in for sentimental colours.Never trust a woman who wears mauve, whatever her age may be, or a woman over thirty-five who is fond of pink ribbons.
It always means that they have a history.Others find a great consolation in suddenly discovering the good qualities of their husbands.They flaunt their conjugal felicity in one's face, as if it were the most fascinating of sins.Religion consoles some.Its mysteries have all the charm of a flirtation, a woman once told me, and I can quite understand it.Besides, nothing makes one so vain as being told that one is a sinner.Conscience makes egotists of us all.Yes; there is really no end to the consolations that women find in modern life.Indeed, I have not mentioned the most important one.""What is that, Harry?" said the lad listlessly.
"Oh, the obvious consolation.Taking some one else's admirer when one loses one's own.In good society that always whitewashes a woman.But really, Dorian, how different Sibyl Vane must have been from all the women one meets! There is something to me quite beautiful about her death.Iam glad I am living in a century when such wonders happen.They make one believe in the reality of the things we all play with, such as romance, passion, and love.""I was terribly cruel to her.You forget that.""I am afraid that women appreciate cruelty, downright cruelty, more than anything else.They have wonderfully primitive instincts.We have emancipated them, but they remain slaves looking for their masters, all the same.They love being dominated.I am sure you were splendid.Ihave never seen you really and absolutely angry, but I can fancy how delightful you looked.And, after all, you said something to me the day before yesterday that seemed to me at the time to be merely fanciful, but that I see now was absolutely true, and it holds the key to everything.""What was that, Harry?"
"You said to me that Sibyl Vane represented to you all the heroines of romance--that she was Desdemona one night, and Ophelia the other; that if she died as Juliet, she came to life as Imogen.""She will never come to life again now," muttered the lad, burying his face in his hands.
"No, she will never come to life.She has played her last part.
But you must think of that lonely death in the tawdry dressing-room simply as a strange lurid fragment from some Jacobean tragedy, as a wonderful scene from Webster, or Ford, or Cyril Tourneur.The girl never really lived, and so she has never really died.To you at least she was always a dream, a phantom that flitted through Shakespeare's plays and left them lovelier for its presence, a reed through which Shakespeare's music sounded richer and more full of joy.The moment she touched actual life, she marred it, and it marred her, and so she passed away.Mourn for Ophelia, if you like.
Put ashes on your head because Cordelia was strangled.Cry out against Heaven because the daughter of Brabantio died.But don't waste your tears over Sibyl Vane.She was less real than they are."There was a silence.The evening darkened in the room.Noiselessly, and with silver feet, the shadows crept in from the garden.The colours faded wearily out of things.
After some time Dorian Gray looked up."You have explained me to myself, Harry," he murmured with something of a sigh of relief."I felt all that you have said, but somehow I was afraid of it, and I could not express it to myself.How well you know me! But we will not talk again of what has happened.It has been a marvellous experience.That is all.
I wonder if life has still in store for me anything as marvellous.""Life has everything in store for you, Dorian.There is nothing that you, with your extraordinary good looks, will not be able to do.""But suppose, Harry, I became haggard, and old, and wrinkled?
What then?"
