The Kimball graphic. (Kimball, Brule County, Dakota [S.D.]) 1883-1905, 1896-09-19

right. l remember your saying once that
there is u fatality about good resolutions
that they are always made too late. Mine
certainly Were"
GOOD resolutions arc simply q useless at
tempt to iyaerfere with scientific laws.
Tneir origin is pure vanity. Their result is
absolutely nil. They give us, now and
then, some of those luxurious sterile emo
tions that have u certain charm for US. That
is all that can be said for them"
"Harry, cried Dorian Gray, coming over
and sitting down beside him, .'why is it that
l can not feel this tragedy as much us I
want tot Idon't think l am heartless. Do
youl"
You have done too many foolish things
III your life to be entitled to give yourself
that namc, Dorian, !" answered Lord Henry.
with his sweet, melancholy smile.
The lad frowned. 81 don't like that OK
PLANTATION, Harry, he r%ejoined, ''but I I'M
glad you don't think l am heartless. / am
nothing of the kind. l know 1 am not. And
yet must admit that this thing that has
happened does not affect mo as it should.
IL seems to me to be simply like q wonder
1ul ending to q wonderful play. 1t has all
the terrible beauty of q great tragedy, a
tragedy in which l took part, but by which
l nave not peen wounded" .
"lti Is an interesting question: said Lord
henry, who found an exquisite pleasure in
playing on the lads unconscious egotism-
"an extremely interesting question. l
fancy that the explanation is this. 1t often
happens that tho real tragedies of life occur
In such an inartistic manner that they hurt
US by their crude violence, their abso-
lutte indifference, their absurd want of
| Jnnanfnr fhn,,, ,,%;.. l,-l- r 49, r1n-
AFFECT us Just as vulgarity affects us. They
give us an impression of sheer brute force,
and we revolt against that. Sometimes,
however, q tragedy that has artistic ele-
ments of beauty crosses our lives. II these
elements of beauty are real, the whole thing
simply appeals to our sense of dramatic
effect. Suddenly we find that VIC arc no
longer the actors, but the spectators Of tho
play. Or rather VIC are both. We watch
ourselves, and the mere wonder of the
spectacle enthralls us. In the present case,
what is it that really happenedl Some ono
has killed herself for love of you. l wish I
had ever had such an experience. 1t would
have made me in love with love for the rest
OF m Wife. The people who have adored
me-there have not been very many, but
there have been ~some-have always insisted
on living on, long aftor 1 had ceased to care
Tor them, or they to care for me. They
have becomes stout and tedious, ard when l
meet them they go IN at once for reminis-
cences. TIL awful memory of womani
What a fearful thing it is! And what an
utter intellectual stagnation it reveals!
One should absorb the color of life. but one
should never remember its details. Details
are always vulgar.
"Of course, now and then things linger.
I once wore nothing but violets all through
one season, as mourning for o romance that
would not die. Ultimately, however, it did
die. forgot what killed it. l think it was
her proposing to sacrifice the whole for me.
That is always a dreadful moment. 1t fills
one with tho telro: of eternity. Well
would you believe itl-a week age Ut Lady
Hampshire's, / found myself seated ut din
ner 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. 1hnl buried my romance in o bed
OF poppios. She dragged it out again, and
assured me that l had spoiled her life. I
am bound to state that she ate an enormous
dinner. so / did not feel any anxiety. But
what q lack Of taste she showed! The one
charm of 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 1t. If they were allowed to have
their way, every comedy would have a tragic
ending, and every tragedy would eliminate
In a farce. They are charmingly artificial,
but they have no sense Of art. You are
more ortunate than I am. l assure YOU,
Dorian, that not one of the women l 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 colors. Never
trust a woman who wears q mauve, what
ever her ago may be, or a woman over thirty
five who is fond of pink ribbons. It al.
ways means thatthey have a history. Others
find q great consolation In suddenly dis.
covering tho good qualities of their hus-
bands. They tiaunt their coniugal felicity
in ones face, as if it was the most fasci.
mating Of sins. Religion consoles ono Its
mysteries have all the charm of a filtration,
Il woman once told me; and I can quite
understand it. Besides, nothing makes one
so vain as being told that ono is q sinner.
There is really no end to the consultations
that women find in modern life. Indeed, ]
have not mentioned tho most important one
of all"
"What is that, Harry2" said Dorian Gray,
listlessly.
ooh, the obvious ono. Taking some ono
else's admircr when one loses one's own. In
good society that always whitewashes n
woman. But really, Dorian, how different
Sibyl yanc must havo been from oil the
women one meets There is something to
mo quito beautiful about her death. 1 I'M
glad | am living in n century when such
| ,,n,,ln,,. lH-.~. rIN,,, ~ -,n .nl..,.
in the reality of the things that shallow,
fashionable people play with, such as ru-
nance, passion, and love"
II was terribly cruel to her. You forget
that
81 believe that women appreciate cruelty
moro than anything else. They have won
derfuily primitive instincts. We have
emancipated them, but they remain slaves
looking for their masters all the same.
They love being dominated. l am sure you
We're splendid. I nave never seen you
angry, but l can fancy how delightful you
looked. And, after all, you said something
to me tho day before yesterday that seemed
to me at the time to be merely f%anciful, but
that l see now was absolutely true, and it
explains everything"
what was that, Harryl"
You said to me that Sibyl Vane repre-
scented to you all the hcroines of romance
that she wa Desdemona one night, and
Ophclia the other; that she died Us Juliet, she
came to life as Imogen."
"She will never come to life again now"
murmurcd tho lad, burying his face in his
hands.
"No, she wiz never como to life. She has
played her lust part. But you must think
of that lonely death in the tawdry dressing
room simply as u strange lurid fragment from
some Jacobean tragedy, as u 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 n dream, q phantom that Aittod
through S%hakspearc's plays and left them
l~ovelier for its presence, q reed through,
which Shakspeare's music sounded richer
and more full Of Joy. The moment she
touched actual life, she marred III and it
marred her, and so she passed away. Mourn
for Ophelia, if you like. Put ashes on your
head because Cordelia was %stranglea. Cry
out against Heaven because the daughter of