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The
lad
frowned
.
"
I
do
n't
like
that
explanation
,
Harry
,
"
he
rejoined
,
"
but
I
am
glad
you
do
n't
think
I
am
heartless
.
I
am
nothing
of
the
kind
.
I
know
I
am
not
.
And
yet
I
must
admit
that
this
thing
that
has
happened
does
not
affect
me
as
it
should
.
It
seems
to
me
to
be
simply
like
a
wonderful
ending
to
a
wonderful
play
.
It
has
all
the
terrible
beauty
of
a
Greek
tragedy
,
a
tragedy
in
which
I
took
a
great
part
,
but
by
which
I
have
not
been
wounded
.
"
"
It
is
an
interesting
question
,
"
said
Lord
Henry
,
who
found
an
exquisite
pleasure
in
playing
on
the
lad
's
unconscious
egotism
--
"
an
extremely
interesting
question
.
I
fancy
that
the
true
explanation
is
this
.
It
often
happens
that
the
real
tragedies
of
life
occur
in
such
an
inartistic
manner
that
they
hurt
us
by
their
crude
violence
,
their
absolute
incoherence
,
their
absurd
want
of
meaning
,
their
entire
lack
of
style
.
They
affect
us
just
as
vulgarity
affects
us
.
They
give
us
an
impression
of
sheer
brute
force
,
and
we
revolt
against
that
.
Sometimes
,
however
,
a
tragedy
that
possesses
artistic
elements
of
beauty
crosses
our
lives
.
If
these
elements
of
beauty
are
real
,
the
whole
thing
simply
appeals
to
our
sense
of
dramatic
effect
.
Suddenly
we
find
that
we
are
no
longer
the
actors
,
but
the
spectators
of
the
play
.
Or
rather
we
are
both
.
We
watch
ourselves
,
and
the
mere
wonder
of
the
spectacle
enthralls
us
.
In
the
present
case
,
what
is
it
that
has
really
happened
?
Someone
has
killed
herself
for
love
of
you
.
I
wish
that
I
had
ever
had
such
an
experience
.
It
would
have
made
me
in
love
with
love
for
the
rest
of
my
life
.
The
people
who
have
adored
me
--
there
have
not
been
very
many
,
but
there
have
been
some
--
have
always
insisted
on
living
on
,
long
after
I
had
ceased
to
care
for
them
,
or
they
to
care
for
me
.
They
have
become
stout
and
tedious
,
and
when
I
meet
them
they
go
in
at
once
for
reminiscences
.
That
awful
memory
of
woman
!
What
a
fearful
thing
it
is
!
And
what
an
utter
intellectual
stagnation
it
reveals
!
One
should
absorb
the
colour
of
life
,
but
one
should
never
remember
its
details
.
Details
are
always
vulgar
.
"
"
I
must
sow
poppies
in
my
garden
,
"
sighed
Dorian
.
"
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
someone
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
.
I
am
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
.
"
