CHAPTER IX.

As he was sitting at breakfast next morning, Basil Hallward was shown

into the room.

“I am so glad I have found you, Dorian,” he said gravely. “I called

last night, and they told me you were at the opera. Of course, I knew

that was impossible. But I wish you had left word where you had really

gone to. I passed a dreadful evening, half afraid that one tragedy

might be followed by another. I think you might have telegraphed for me

when you heard of it first. I read of it quite by chance in a late

edition of _The Globe_ that I picked up at the club. I came here at

once and was miserable at not finding you. I can’t tell you how

heart-broken I am about the whole thing. I know what you must suffer.

But where were you? Did you go down and see the girl’s mother? For a

moment I thought of following you there. They gave the address in the

paper. Somewhere in the Euston Road, isn’t it? But I was afraid of

intruding upon a sorrow that I could not lighten. Poor woman! What a

state she must be in! And her only child, too! What did she say about

it all?”

“My dear Basil, how do I know?” murmured Dorian Gray, sipping some

pale-yellow wine from a delicate, gold-beaded bubble of Venetian glass

and looking dreadfully bored. “I was at the opera. You should have come

on there. I met Lady Gwendolen, Harry’s sister, for the first time. We

were in her box. She is perfectly charming; and Patti sang divinely.

Don’t talk about horrid subjects. If one doesn’t talk about a thing, it

has never happened. It is simply expression, as Harry says, that gives

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