Chapter 1

21 min

The studio was filled with the rich odour of roses, and when the light summer wind stirred amidst the trees of the garden, there came through the open door the heavy scent of the lilac, or the more delicate perfume of the pink-flowering thorn.

The studio was filled with the rich scent of roses. When a light summer breeze stirred the garden trees, the heavy scent of lilacs drifted through the open door, or the more delicate fragrance of the pink-flowering hawthorn.

From the corner of the divan of Persian saddle-bags on which he was lying, smoking, as was his custom, innumerable cigarettes, Lord Henry Wotton could just catch the gleam of the honey-sweet and honey-coloured blossoms of a laburnum, whose tremulous branches seemed hardly able to bear the burden of a beauty so flamelike as theirs; and now and then the fantastic shadows of birds in flight flitted across the long tussore-silk curtains that were stretched in front of the huge window, producing a kind of momentary Japanese effect, and making him think of those pallid, jade-faced painters of Tokyo who, through the medium of an art that is necessarily immobile, seek to convey the sense of swiftness and motion. The sullen murmur of the bees shouldering their way through the long unmown grass, or circling with monotonous insistence round the dusty gilt horns of the straggling woodbine, seemed to make the stillness more oppressive. The dim roar of London was like the bourdon note of a distant organ.

Lord Henry Wotton lay in the corner of a couch made from Persian saddle-bags. As usual, he was smoking countless cigarettes. He could just see the gleam of a laburnum’s honey-sweet, honey-colored blossoms. Its trembling branches seemed hardly able to bear the weight of their own flame-like beauty. Now and then, the fanciful shadows of birds in flight flickered across the long tussore-silk curtains covering the huge window. The effect was briefly Japanese. It made him think of those pale, jade-faced painters of Tokyo. Through an art that must remain still, they try to capture speed and movement. The low, gloomy hum of bees seemed to make the stillness more oppressive. They pushed through the long, uncut grass or circled endlessly around the dusty golden trumpets of the sprawling honeysuckle. The faint roar of London was like the deep drone of a distant organ.

In the centre of the room, clamped to an upright easel, stood the full-length portrait of a young man of extraordinary personal beauty, and in front of it, some little distance away, was sitting the artist himself, Basil Hallward, whose sudden disappearance some years ago caused, at the time, such public excitement and gave rise to so many strange conjectures.

In the center of the room, a full-length portrait was clamped to an upright easel. It showed a remarkably beautiful young man. A short distance in front of the portrait sat the artist, Basil Hallward. His sudden disappearance some years ago caused great public excitement at the time and gave rise to many strange speculations.

As the painter looked at the gracious and comely form he had so skilfully mirrored in his art, a smile of pleasure passed across his face, and seemed about to linger there. But he suddenly started up, and closing his eyes, placed his fingers upon the lids, as though he sought to imprison within his brain some curious dream from which he feared he might awake.

The painter looked at the graceful, beautiful figure he had so skillfully captured in his art. A smile of pleasure crossed his face and seemed likely to linger. But he suddenly stood up and closed his eyes. He pressed his fingers against his eyelids, as if trying to trap a strange dream in his mind. He seemed afraid he might wake from it.

“It is your best work, Basil, the best thing you have ever done,” said Lord Henry languidly. “You must certainly send it next year to the Grosvenor. The Academy is too large and too vulgar. Whenever I have gone there, there have been either so many people that I have not been able to see the pictures, which was dreadful, or so many pictures that I have not been able to see the people, which was worse. The Grosvenor is really the only place.”

“This is your best work, Basil, the best thing you have ever done,” said Lord Henry lazily. “You must send it to the Grosvenor next year. The Academy is too large and too vulgar. Whenever I have gone there, one of two things has happened. Either there were so many people that I couldn't see the pictures, which was dreadful. Or there were so many pictures that I couldn't see the people, which was worse. The Grosvenor is really the only place.”

“I don’t think I shall send it anywhere,” he answered, tossing his head back in that odd way that used to make his friends laugh at him at Oxford. “No, I won’t send it anywhere.”

“I don’t think I’ll send it anywhere,” he answered. He tossed his head back in that odd way that used to make his friends at Oxford laugh at him. “No, I won’t send it anywhere.”

Lord Henry elevated his eyebrows and looked at him in amazement through the thin blue wreaths of smoke that curled up in such fanciful whorls from his heavy, opium-tainted cigarette. “Not send it anywhere? My dear fellow, why? Have you any reason? What odd chaps you painters are! You do anything in the world to gain a reputation. As soon as you have one, you seem to want to throw it away. It is silly of you, for there is only one thing in the world worse than being talked about, and that is not being talked about. A portrait like this would set you far above all the young men in England, and make the old men quite jealous, if old men are ever capable of any emotion.”

Lord Henry raised his eyebrows and looked at him in amazement through the thin blue smoke. It rose in fanciful curls from his strong, opium-laced cigarette. “Not send it anywhere? My dear fellow, why? Do you have a reason? You painters are such odd fellows! You’ll do anything to gain a reputation. As soon as you have one, you seem to want to throw it away. That’s silly, because there’s only one thing in the world worse than being talked about, and that’s not being talked about. A portrait like this would put you far above all the young men in England. It would make the old men quite jealous, too, if old men are capable of feeling anything at all.”

“I know you will laugh at me,” he replied, “but I really can’t exhibit it. I have put too much of myself into it.”

“I know you’ll laugh at me,” he replied, “but I really can’t show it. I’ve put too much of myself into it.”

Lord Henry stretched himself out on the divan and laughed.

Lord Henry stretched out on the sofa and laughed.

“Yes, I knew you would; but it is quite true, all the same.”

“Yes, I knew you would, but it’s still quite true.”

“Too much of yourself in it! Upon my word, Basil, I didn’t know you were so vain; and I really can’t see any resemblance between you, with your rugged strong face and your coal-black hair, and this young Adonis, who looks as if he was made out of ivory and rose-leaves. Why, my dear Basil, he is a Narcissus, and you—well, of course you have an intellectual expression and all that. But beauty, real beauty, ends where an intellectual expression begins. Intellect is in itself a mode of exaggeration, and destroys the harmony of any face. The moment one sits down to think, one becomes all nose, or all forehead, or something horrid. Look at the successful men in any of the learned professions. How perfectly hideous they are! Except, of course, in the Church. But then in the Church they don’t think. A bishop keeps on saying at the age of eighty what he was told to say when he was a boy of eighteen, and as a natural consequence he always looks absolutely delightful. Your mysterious young friend, whose name you have never told me, but whose picture really fascinates me, never thinks. I feel quite sure of that. He is some brainless beautiful creature who should be always here in winter when we have no flowers to look at, and always here in summer when we want something to chill our intelligence. Don’t flatter yourself, Basil: you are not in the least like him.”

“Too much of yourself in it! Honestly, Basil, I didn’t know you were so vain. I can’t see any resemblance between you and this young Adonis. You have a rugged, strong face and coal-black hair. He looks as if he were made of ivory and rose petals. My dear Basil, he is a Narcissus. You, well, of course you have an intellectual expression and all that. But beauty, real beauty, ends where an intellectual expression begins. Intellect is a kind of exaggeration in itself. It destroys the harmony of any face. The moment a person sits down to think, they become all nose, or all forehead, or something horrible. Look at the successful men in any of the professions that require learning. How utterly ugly they are! Except, of course, in the Church. But then, in the Church, they don’t think. A bishop at eighty keeps saying what he was told to say at eighteen. As a natural result, he always looks absolutely delightful. You’ve never told me your mysterious young friend’s name, but his portrait fascinates me. He never thinks. I’m quite sure of it. He’s some brainless, beautiful creature who should always be here in winter, when we have no flowers to look at. He should also be here in summer, when we want something to cool our minds. Don’t flatter yourself, Basil: you don’t look at all like him.”

“You don’t understand me, Harry,” answered the artist. “Of course I am not like him. I know that perfectly well. Indeed, I should be sorry to look like him. You shrug your shoulders? I am telling you the truth. There is a fatality about all physical and intellectual distinction, the sort of fatality that seems to dog through history the faltering steps of kings. It is better not to be different from one’s fellows. The ugly and the stupid have the best of it in this world. They can sit at their ease and gape at the play. If they know nothing of victory, they are at least spared the knowledge of defeat. They live as we all should live—undisturbed, indifferent, and without disquiet. They neither bring ruin upon others, nor ever receive it from alien hands. Your rank and wealth, Harry; my brains, such as they are—my art, whatever it may be worth; Dorian Gray’s good looks—we shall all suffer for what the gods have given us, suffer terribly.”

“You don’t understand me, Harry,” the artist replied. “Of course I’m not like him. I know that perfectly well. In fact, I’d be sorry to look like him. You’re shrugging your shoulders? I’m telling you the truth. All exceptional beauty and intelligence carry a kind of doom. It’s the kind that seems to haunt kings as they stumble through history. It’s better not to be different from other people. The ugly and the stupid have the best of it in this world. They can sit comfortably and stare at the play. If they never know victory, at least they’re spared the experience of defeat. They live as we all should live, undisturbed, indifferent, and free from worry. They neither ruin others nor suffer ruin at other people’s hands. You have your rank and wealth, Harry. I have my brains, such as they are, and my art, whatever it may be worth. Dorian Gray has his good looks. We shall all suffer for what the gods have given us. We shall suffer terribly.”

“Dorian Gray? Is that his name?” asked Lord Henry, walking across the studio towards Basil Hallward.

“Dorian Gray? Is that his name?” asked Lord Henry, walking across the studio toward Basil Hallward.

“Yes, that is his name. I didn’t intend to tell it to you.”

“Yes, that's his name. I didn't mean to tell you his name.”

“But why not?”

“Oh, I can’t explain. When I like people immensely, I never tell their names to any one. It is like surrendering a part of them. I have grown to love secrecy. It seems to be the one thing that can make modern life mysterious or marvellous to us. The commonest thing is delightful if one only hides it. When I leave town now I never tell my people where I am going. If I did, I would lose all my pleasure. It is a silly habit, I dare say, but somehow it seems to bring a great deal of romance into one’s life. I suppose you think me awfully foolish about it?”

“Oh, I can’t explain. When I like people immensely, I never tell anyone their names. It feels like giving up a part of them. I’ve grown to love secrecy. It seems to be the only thing that can make modern life mysterious or marvelous to us. Even the most ordinary thing is delightful if you keep it secret. Now, when I leave town, I never tell my family where I’m going. If I did, I would lose all my pleasure. It’s a silly habit, I suppose, but somehow it seems to bring a lot of romance into my life. I suppose you think I’m terribly foolish about it?”

“Not at all,” answered Lord Henry, “not at all, my dear Basil. You seem to forget that I am married, and the one charm of marriage is that it makes a life of deception absolutely necessary for both parties. I never know where my wife is, and my wife never knows what I am doing. When we meet—we do meet occasionally, when we dine out together, or go down to the Duke’s—we tell each other the most absurd stories with the most serious faces. My wife is very good at it—much better, in fact, than I am. She never gets confused over her dates, and I always do. But when she does find me out, she makes no row at all. I sometimes wish she would; but she merely laughs at me.”

“Not at all,” replied Lord Henry. “Not at all, my dear Basil. You seem to forget that I am married. The one charm of marriage is that it makes deception absolutely necessary for both people. I never know where my wife is, and she never knows what I am doing. We do meet occasionally, when we dine out together or visit the Duke. When we meet, we tell each other the most absurd stories with perfectly serious faces. My wife is very good at telling them, much better than I am, in fact. She never gets her dates mixed up, and I always do. But when she does catch me, she makes no fuss at all. Sometimes I wish she would, but she merely laughs at me.”

“I hate the way you talk about your married life, Harry,” said Basil Hallward, strolling towards the door that led into the garden. “I believe that you are really a very good husband, but that you are thoroughly ashamed of your own virtues. You are an extraordinary fellow. You never say a moral thing, and you never do a wrong thing. Your cynicism is simply a pose.”

“I hate the way you talk about your married life, Harry,” said Basil Hallward, walking toward the garden door. “I believe you are really a very good husband, but you are deeply ashamed of your own virtues. You are an extraordinary man. You never say anything moral, and you never do anything wrong. Your cynicism is just an act.”

“Being natural is simply a pose, and the most irritating pose I know,” cried Lord Henry, laughing; and the two young men went out into the garden together and ensconced themselves on a long bamboo seat that stood in the shade of a tall laurel bush. The sunlight slipped over the polished leaves. In the grass, white daisies were tremulous.

“Being natural is simply a pose, and the most irritating pose I know,” Lord Henry said with a laugh. The two young men went out into the garden together. They settled on a long bamboo bench in the shade of a tall laurel bush. Sunlight slipped over the glossy leaves. White daisies trembled in the grass.

After a pause, Lord Henry pulled out his watch. “I am afraid I must be going, Basil,” he murmured, “and before I go, I insist on your answering a question I put to you some time ago.”

After a pause, Lord Henry took out his watch. “I’m afraid I have to go, Basil,” he murmured. “But before I go, I insist that you answer a question I asked you some time ago.”

“What is that?” said the painter, keeping his eyes fixed on the ground.

“What is that?” said the painter, keeping his eyes on the ground.

“You know quite well.”

“You know very well.”

“I do not, Harry.”

“I don't, Harry.”

“Well, I will tell you what it is. I want you to explain to me why you won’t exhibit Dorian Gray’s picture. I want the real reason.”

“Well, I’ll tell you. I want you to explain why you won’t display Dorian Gray’s picture. I want the real reason.”

“I told you the real reason.”

“No, you did not. You said it was because there was too much of yourself in it. Now, that is childish.”

“No, you didn’t. You said it was because there was too much of yourself in it. That’s childish.”

“Harry,” said Basil Hallward, looking him straight in the face, “every portrait that is painted with feeling is a portrait of the artist, not of the sitter. The sitter is merely the accident, the occasion. It is not he who is revealed by the painter; it is rather the painter who, on the coloured canvas, reveals himself. The reason I will not exhibit this picture is that I am afraid that I have shown in it the secret of my own soul.”

“Harry,” said Basil Hallward, looking him straight in the face, “every portrait painted with feeling is a portrait of the artist, not the sitter. The sitter is merely incidental, the occasion for the painting. The painter does not reveal the sitter. Rather, the painter reveals himself on the colored canvas. I will not exhibit this picture because I am afraid I have shown the secret of my own soul in it.”

Lord Henry laughed. “And what is that?” he asked.

“I will tell you,” said Hallward; but an expression of perplexity came over his face.

“I will tell you,” said Hallward. But a puzzled look came over his face.

“I am all expectation, Basil,” continued his companion, glancing at him.

“I can hardly wait, Basil,” his companion continued, glancing at him.

“Oh, there is really very little to tell, Harry,” answered the painter; “and I am afraid you will hardly understand it. Perhaps you will hardly believe it.”

“Oh, there really isn't much to tell, Harry,” the painter replied. “And I'm afraid you'll hardly understand it. Perhaps you'll hardly believe it.”

Lord Henry smiled, and leaning down, plucked a pink-petalled daisy from the grass and examined it. “I am quite sure I shall understand it,” he replied, gazing intently at the little golden, white-feathered disk, “and as for believing things, I can believe anything, provided that it is quite incredible.”

Lord Henry smiled, bent down, and picked a pink-petaled daisy from the grass. He examined it closely. “I’m quite sure I’ll understand it,” he replied, gazing intently at its small golden center and feathery white petals. “And as for believing things, I can believe anything, as long as it’s completely unbelievable.”

The wind shook some blossoms from the trees, and the heavy lilac-blooms, with their clustering stars, moved to and fro in the languid air. A grasshopper began to chirrup by the wall, and like a blue thread a long thin dragon-fly floated past on its brown gauze wings. Lord Henry felt as if he could hear Basil Hallward’s heart beating, and wondered what was coming.

The wind shook some blossoms from the trees. The heavy lilac blooms, with their clusters of stars, swayed in the still air. A grasshopper began to chirp by the wall. A long, thin dragonfly floated past like a blue thread, its brown wings as delicate as gauze. Lord Henry felt as if he could hear Basil Hallward’s heart beating and wondered what was coming.

“The story is simply this,” said the painter after some time. “Two months ago I went to a crush at Lady Brandon’s. You know we poor artists have to show ourselves in society from time to time, just to remind the public that we are not savages. With an evening coat and a white tie, as you told me once, anybody, even a stock-broker, can gain a reputation for being civilized. Well, after I had been in the room about ten minutes, talking to huge overdressed dowagers and tedious academicians, I suddenly became conscious that some one was looking at me. I turned half-way round and saw Dorian Gray for the first time. When our eyes met, I felt that I was growing pale. A curious sensation of terror came over me. I knew that I had come face to face with some one whose mere personality was so fascinating that, if I allowed it to do so, it would absorb my whole nature, my whole soul, my very art itself. I did not want any external influence in my life. You know yourself, Harry, how independent I am by nature. I have always been my own master; had at least always been so, till I met Dorian Gray. Then—but I don’t know how to explain it to you. Something seemed to tell me that I was on the verge of a terrible crisis in my life. I had a strange feeling that fate had in store for me exquisite joys and exquisite sorrows. I grew afraid and turned to quit the room. It was not conscience that made me do so: it was a sort of cowardice. I take no credit to myself for trying to escape.”

“The story is simple,” said the painter after a while. “Two months ago, I went to a crowded party at Lady Brandon’s. You know, we poor artists have to appear in society from time to time. We have to remind the public that we are not savages. As you once told me, anyone can gain a reputation for being civilized with an evening coat and a white tie. Even a stockbroker. “Well, I had been in the room for about ten minutes. I was talking to enormous, overdressed widows and boring academics when I suddenly felt someone looking at me. I turned halfway around and saw Dorian Gray for the first time. When our eyes met, I felt myself growing pale. A strange feeling of terror came over me. I knew I had come face to face with someone whose personality alone was fascinating enough to consume me. If I allowed it, he would absorb my whole nature, my whole soul, my very art. “I didn’t want any outside influence in my life. You know how independent I am by nature, Harry. I have always been my own master. Or at least I had always been, until I met Dorian Gray. Then, well, I don’t know how to explain it to you. Something seemed to tell me that my life was on the brink of a terrible crisis. I had a strange feeling that fate had exquisite joys and exquisite sorrows in store for me. I grew afraid and turned to leave the room. It wasn’t my conscience that made me do it. It was a kind of cowardice. I take no credit for trying to escape.”

“Conscience and cowardice are really the same things, Basil. Conscience is the trade-name of the firm. That is all.”

“Conscience and cowardice are really the same thing, Basil. Conscience is just the company’s brand name. That is all.”

“I don’t believe that, Harry, and I don’t believe you do either. However, whatever was my motive—and it may have been pride, for I used to be very proud—I certainly struggled to the door. There, of course, I stumbled against Lady Brandon. ‘You are not going to run away so soon, Mr. Hallward?’ she screamed out. You know her curiously shrill voice?”

“I don’t believe that, Harry, and I don’t believe you do either. Whatever my motive was, I did struggle to the door. It may have been pride, since I used to be very proud. There, of course, I bumped into Lady Brandon. ‘You’re not going to run away so soon, Mr. Hallward?’ she screamed. You know her strangely shrill voice?”

“Yes; she is a peacock in everything but beauty,” said Lord Henry, pulling the daisy to bits with his long nervous fingers.

“Yes, she is a peacock in every way except her beauty,” said Lord Henry, pulling the daisy apart with his long, nervous fingers.

“I could not get rid of her. She brought me up to royalties, and people with stars and garters, and elderly ladies with gigantic tiaras and parrot noses. She spoke of me as her dearest friend. I had only met her once before, but she took it into her head to lionize me. I believe some picture of mine had made a great success at the time, at least had been chattered about in the penny newspapers, which is the nineteenth-century standard of immortality. Suddenly I found myself face to face with the young man whose personality had so strangely stirred me. We were quite close, almost touching. Our eyes met again. It was reckless of me, but I asked Lady Brandon to introduce me to him. Perhaps it was not so reckless, after all. It was simply inevitable. We would have spoken to each other without any introduction. I am sure of that. Dorian told me so afterwards. He, too, felt that we were destined to know each other.”

“I couldn’t get rid of her. She brought me over to royalty, people wearing stars and garters, and elderly ladies with enormous tiaras and parrot noses. She called me her dearest friend. I had only met her once before, but she had decided to make a celebrity of me. I believe one of my paintings had been a great success around then. At least, the penny newspapers had talked about it, which is the nineteenth-century standard of immortality. Suddenly, I found myself face to face with the young man whose personality had affected me so strangely. We were very close, almost touching. Our eyes met again. It was reckless of me, but I asked Lady Brandon to introduce me to him. Perhaps it wasn’t so reckless after all. It was simply inevitable. We would have spoken to each other without an introduction. I’m sure of that. Dorian told me so afterward. He, too, felt that we were destined to know each other.”

“And how did Lady Brandon describe this wonderful young man?” asked his companion. “I know she goes in for giving a rapid précis of all her guests. I remember her bringing me up to a truculent and red-faced old gentleman covered all over with orders and ribbons, and hissing into my ear, in a tragic whisper which must have been perfectly audible to everybody in the room, the most astounding details. I simply fled. I like to find out people for myself. But Lady Brandon treats her guests exactly as an auctioneer treats his goods. She either explains them entirely away, or tells one everything about them except what one wants to know.”

“And how did Lady Brandon describe this wonderful young man?” his companion asked. “I know she likes to give a quick summary of all her guests. I remember her bringing me up to a hostile, red-faced old gentleman covered in medals and ribbons. She hissed the most astonishing details into my ear in a dramatic whisper. Everyone in the room must have been able to hear her. I simply fled. I like to find out about people for myself. But Lady Brandon treats her guests just as an auctioneer treats his goods. She either explains them away entirely, or tells you everything about them except what you want to know.”

“Poor Lady Brandon! You are hard on her, Harry!” said Hallward listlessly.

“Poor Lady Brandon! You’re being hard on her, Harry!” said Hallward without enthusiasm.

“My dear fellow, she tried to found a salon, and only succeeded in opening a restaurant. How could I admire her? But tell me, what did she say about Mr. Dorian Gray?”

“My dear friend, she tried to start a salon, but all she managed to open was a restaurant. How could I admire her? But tell me, what did she say about Mr. Dorian Gray?”

“Oh, something like, ‘Charming boy—poor dear mother and I absolutely inseparable. Quite forget what he does—afraid he—doesn’t do anything—oh, yes, plays the piano—or is it the violin, dear Mr. Gray?’ Neither of us could help laughing, and we became friends at once.”

“Oh, something like, ‘Charming boy. His poor dear mother and I were absolutely inseparable. I can’t quite remember what he does. I’m afraid he doesn’t do anything. Oh, yes, he plays the piano. Or is it the violin, dear Mr. Gray?’ Neither of us could help laughing, and we became friends right away.”

“Laughter is not at all a bad beginning for a friendship, and it is far the best ending for one,” said the young lord, plucking another daisy.

“Laughter is not a bad way to begin a friendship at all, and it is by far the best way to end one,” said the young lord, plucking another daisy.

Hallward shook his head. “You don’t understand what friendship is, Harry,” he murmured—“or what enmity is, for that matter. You like every one; that is to say, you are indifferent to every one.”

Hallward shook his head. “You don’t understand what friendship is, Harry,” he murmured. “Or what being an enemy means, for that matter. You like everyone. That is, you don’t care about anyone.”

“How horribly unjust of you!” cried Lord Henry, tilting his hat back and looking up at the little clouds that, like ravelled skeins of glossy white silk, were drifting across the hollowed turquoise of the summer sky. “Yes; horribly unjust of you. I make a great difference between people. I choose my friends for their good looks, my acquaintances for their good characters, and my enemies for their good intellects. A man cannot be too careful in the choice of his enemies. I have not got one who is a fool. They are all men of some intellectual power, and consequently they all appreciate me. Is that very vain of me? I think it is rather vain.”

“How terribly unfair of you!” cried Lord Henry, tilting his hat back and looking up at the little clouds. They drifted across the deep turquoise summer sky like loose strands of glossy white silk. “Yes, terribly unfair of you. I make a great distinction between people. I choose my friends for their good looks, my acquaintances for their good character, and my enemies for their intelligence. A man can never be too careful when choosing his enemies. I don’t have a single enemy who is a fool. They all have some intellectual ability, and so they all appreciate me. Is that very vain of me? I think it’s rather vain.”

“I should think it was, Harry. But according to your category I must be merely an acquaintance.”

“I would think so, Harry. But by your definition, I must be just an acquaintance.”

“My dear old Basil, you are much more than an acquaintance.”

“My dear old Basil, you are much more than someone I know.”

“And much less than a friend. A sort of brother, I suppose?”

“And much less than a friend. Like a brother, I suppose?”

“Oh, brothers! I don’t care for brothers. My elder brother won’t die, and my younger brothers seem never to do anything else.”

“Oh, brothers! I don’t like brothers. My older brother won’t die, and my younger brothers seem to do nothing but die.”

“Harry!” exclaimed Hallward, frowning.

“Harry!” Hallward exclaimed, frowning.

“My dear fellow, I am not quite serious. But I can’t help detesting my relations. I suppose it comes from the fact that none of us can stand other people having the same faults as ourselves. I quite sympathize with the rage of the English democracy against what they call the vices of the upper orders. The masses feel that drunkenness, stupidity, and immorality should be their own special property, and that if any one of us makes an ass of himself, he is poaching on their preserves. When poor Southwark got into the divorce court, their indignation was quite magnificent. And yet I don’t suppose that ten per cent of the proletariat live correctly.”

“My dear fellow, I’m not entirely serious. But I can’t help hating my relatives. I suppose none of us can stand seeing our own faults in other people. I quite sympathize with the anger of ordinary English people at what they call the vices of the upper classes. The masses feel that drunkenness, stupidity, and immorality should belong to them alone. They think that if any of us makes a fool of himself, he’s trespassing on their territory. When poor Southwark ended up in divorce court, their outrage was magnificent. And yet I don’t suppose even ten percent of the working class live properly.”

“I don’t agree with a single word that you have said, and, what is more, Harry, I feel sure you don’t either.”

“I don’t agree with a single word you’ve said. And, Harry, I’m sure you don’t agree with it either.”

Lord Henry stroked his pointed brown beard and tapped the toe of his patent-leather boot with a tasselled ebony cane. “How English you are Basil! That is the second time you have made that observation. If one puts forward an idea to a true Englishman—always a rash thing to do—he never dreams of considering whether the idea is right or wrong. The only thing he considers of any importance is whether one believes it oneself. Now, the value of an idea has nothing whatsoever to do with the sincerity of the man who expresses it. Indeed, the probabilities are that the more insincere the man is, the more purely intellectual will the idea be, as in that case it will not be coloured by either his wants, his desires, or his prejudices. However, I don’t propose to discuss politics, sociology, or metaphysics with you. I like persons better than principles, and I like persons with no principles better than anything else in the world. Tell me more about Mr. Dorian Gray. How often do you see him?”

Lord Henry stroked his pointed brown beard and tapped his patent leather boot with an ebony cane decorated with tassels. “How English you are, Basil! That’s the second time you’ve said that. If you suggest an idea to a true Englishman, which is always a risky thing to do, he never thinks about whether it’s right or wrong. All he cares about is whether you believe it yourself. But the value of an idea has nothing at all to do with how sincere the person expressing it is. In fact, the less sincere the person, the more likely the idea is to be purely intellectual. In that case, his needs, desires, and prejudices won’t color it. However, I don’t intend to discuss politics, sociology, or metaphysics with you. I like people more than principles, and I like people with no principles more than anything else in the world. Tell me more about Mr. Dorian Gray. How often do you see him?”

“Every day. I couldn’t be happy if I didn’t see him every day. He is absolutely necessary to me.”

“Every day. I couldn’t be happy if I didn’t see him every day. I absolutely need him.”

“How extraordinary! I thought you would never care for anything but your art.”

“How surprising! I thought you would never care about anything but your art.”

“He is all my art to me now,” said the painter gravely. “I sometimes think, Harry, that there are only two eras of any importance in the world’s history. The first is the appearance of a new medium for art, and the second is the appearance of a new personality for art also. What the invention of oil-painting was to the Venetians, the face of Antinous was to late Greek sculpture, and the face of Dorian Gray will some day be to me. It is not merely that I paint from him, draw from him, sketch from him. Of course, I have done all that. But he is much more to me than a model or a sitter. I won’t tell you that I am dissatisfied with what I have done of him, or that his beauty is such that art cannot express it. There is nothing that art cannot express, and I know that the work I have done, since I met Dorian Gray, is good work, is the best work of my life. But in some curious way—I wonder will you understand me?—his personality has suggested to me an entirely new manner in art, an entirely new mode of style. I see things differently, I think of them differently. I can now recreate life in a way that was hidden from me before. ‘A dream of form in days of thought’—who is it who says that? I forget; but it is what Dorian Gray has been to me. The merely visible presence of this lad—for he seems to me little more than a lad, though he is really over twenty—his merely visible presence—ah! I wonder can you realize all that that means? Unconsciously he defines for me the lines of a fresh school, a school that is to have in it all the passion of the romantic spirit, all the perfection of the spirit that is Greek. The harmony of soul and body—how much that is! We in our madness have separated the two, and have invented a realism that is vulgar, an ideality that is void. Harry! if you only knew what Dorian Gray is to me! You remember that landscape of mine, for which Agnew offered me such a huge price but which I would not part with? It is one of the best things I have ever done. And why is it so? Because, while I was painting it, Dorian Gray sat beside me. Some subtle influence passed from him to me, and for the first time in my life I saw in the plain woodland the wonder I had always looked for and always missed.”

“He is all my art to me now,” said the painter seriously. “I sometimes think, Harry, that only two eras really matter in the world’s history. The first is the appearance of a new medium for art. The second is the appearance of a new personality for art. Oil painting transformed art for the Venetians, and the face of Antinous did the same for late Greek sculpture. One day, the face of Dorian Gray will do the same for me. “It is not just that I paint him, draw him, and sketch him. Of course, I have done all that. But he is much more to me than a model or a sitter. I won’t say that I am dissatisfied with the work I have done of him. Nor will I say that his beauty is beyond the power of art to express. There is nothing that art cannot express. And I know that my work since meeting Dorian Gray is good. It is the best work of my life. But his personality has somehow suggested a completely new way of making art, a completely new style. I wonder if you understand me. I see things differently, and I think about them differently. I can now recreate life in a way that was hidden from me before. ‘A dream of form in days of thought.’ Who says that? I forget. But that is what Dorian Gray has been to me. “Just being able to see this young man means so much. He seems little more than a boy to me, though he is really over twenty. Just being able to see him. Ah, I wonder if you can understand all that means? Without knowing it, he shows me the outlines of a new school of art. It will have all the passion of the romantic spirit and all the perfection of the Greek spirit. The harmony of soul and body. How much that means! In our madness, we have separated the two. We have invented a realism that is vulgar and an idealism that is empty. “Harry! If only you knew what Dorian Gray is to me! Do you remember my landscape? Agnew offered me a huge price for it, but I would not part with it. It is one of the best things I have ever done. And why is that? Because Dorian Gray sat beside me while I was painting it. Some subtle influence passed from him to me. For the first time in my life, I saw wonder in the ordinary woods. I had always looked for that wonder and always failed to find it.”

“Basil, this is extraordinary! I must see Dorian Gray.”

“Basil, this is amazing! I have to see Dorian Gray.”

Hallward got up from the seat and walked up and down the garden. After some time he came back. “Harry,” he said, “Dorian Gray is to me simply a motive in art. You might see nothing in him. I see everything in him. He is never more present in my work than when no image of him is there. He is a suggestion, as I have said, of a new manner. I find him in the curves of certain lines, in the loveliness and subtleties of certain colours. That is all.”

Hallward got up from his seat and walked back and forth through the garden. After a while, he came back. “Harry,” he said, “Dorian Gray is simply an inspiration for my art. You might see nothing in him. I see everything in him. He is never more present in my work than when there is no image of him in it. As I have said, he suggests a new style to me. I find him in the curves of certain lines, in the beauty and subtle shades of certain colors. That is all.”

“Then why won’t you exhibit his portrait?” asked Lord Henry.

“Then why won’t you show his portrait?” asked Lord Henry.

“Because, without intending it, I have put into it some expression of all this curious artistic idolatry, of which, of course, I have never cared to speak to him. He knows nothing about it. He shall never know anything about it. But the world might guess it, and I will not bare my soul to their shallow prying eyes. My heart shall never be put under their microscope. There is too much of myself in the thing, Harry—too much of myself!”

“Because, without meaning to, I have put some expression of all this strange artistic worship into it. Of course, I have never wanted to speak to him about that worship. He knows nothing about it. He will never know anything about it. But the world might guess, and I will not expose my soul to their shallow, prying eyes. My heart will never be put under their microscope. There is too much of myself in it, Harry. Too much of myself!”

“Poets are not so scrupulous as you are. They know how useful passion is for publication. Nowadays a broken heart will run to many editions.”

“Poets are not as particular about these things as you are. They know how useful passion is for getting published. These days, a broken heart can sell through many editions.”

“I hate them for it,” cried Hallward. “An artist should create beautiful things, but should put nothing of his own life into them. We live in an age when men treat art as if it were meant to be a form of autobiography. We have lost the abstract sense of beauty. Some day I will show the world what it is; and for that reason the world shall never see my portrait of Dorian Gray.”

“I hate them for it,” cried Hallward. “An artist should create beautiful things, but should put nothing of his own life into them. We live in an age when men treat art as if it were meant to be autobiography. We have lost our sense of beauty as something separate from life. Someday I will show the world what that means. For that reason, the world will never see my portrait of Dorian Gray.”

“I think you are wrong, Basil, but I won’t argue with you. It is only the intellectually lost who ever argue. Tell me, is Dorian Gray very fond of you?”

“I think you’re wrong, Basil, but I won’t argue with you. Only people who are intellectually lost ever argue. Tell me, is Dorian Gray very fond of you?”

The painter considered for a few moments. “He likes me,” he answered after a pause; “I know he likes me. Of course I flatter him dreadfully. I find a strange pleasure in saying things to him that I know I shall be sorry for having said. As a rule, he is charming to me, and we sit in the studio and talk of a thousand things. Now and then, however, he is horribly thoughtless, and seems to take a real delight in giving me pain. Then I feel, Harry, that I have given away my whole soul to some one who treats it as if it were a flower to put in his coat, a bit of decoration to charm his vanity, an ornament for a summer’s day.”

The painter thought for a few moments. “He likes me,” he said after a pause. “I know he likes me. Of course, I flatter him terribly. I take a strange pleasure in saying things to him that I know I’ll regret. Usually, he is charming to me, and we sit in the studio and talk about a thousand things. But now and then, he is terribly thoughtless and seems to take real pleasure in hurting me. Then I feel, Harry, that I’ve given my whole soul to someone who treats it like a flower for his coat. He treats it like a decoration to flatter his vanity, an ornament for a summer’s day.”

“Days in summer, Basil, are apt to linger,” murmured Lord Henry. “Perhaps you will tire sooner than he will. It is a sad thing to think of, but there is no doubt that genius lasts longer than beauty. That accounts for the fact that we all take such pains to over-educate ourselves. In the wild struggle for existence, we want to have something that endures, and so we fill our minds with rubbish and facts, in the silly hope of keeping our place. The thoroughly well-informed man—that is the modern ideal. And the mind of the thoroughly well-informed man is a dreadful thing. It is like a bric-à-brac shop, all monsters and dust, with everything priced above its proper value. I think you will tire first, all the same. Some day you will look at your friend, and he will seem to you to be a little out of drawing, or you won’t like his tone of colour, or something. You will bitterly reproach him in your own heart, and seriously think that he has behaved very badly to you. The next time he calls, you will be perfectly cold and indifferent. It will be a great pity, for it will alter you. What you have told me is quite a romance, a romance of art one might call it, and the worst of having a romance of any kind is that it leaves one so unromantic.”

“Summer days tend to linger, Basil,” murmured Lord Henry. “Perhaps you will grow tired of him sooner than he will grow tired of you. It is sad to think about, but there is no doubt that genius lasts longer than beauty. That explains why we all take such pains to overeducate ourselves. In the fierce struggle for survival, we want something that lasts. So we fill our minds with rubbish and facts, hoping foolishly to keep our place. The thoroughly well-informed man is the modern ideal. And his mind is a dreadful thing. It is like a bric-à-brac shop, full of monsters and dust, with everything priced above its real value. “Even so, I think you will grow tired of him first. One day you will look at your friend, and he will seem a little badly drawn. Or you will dislike the tone of his coloring, or something like that. In your heart, you will bitterly blame him and seriously think he has treated you very badly. The next time he visits, you will be perfectly cold and indifferent. That will be a great pity, because it will change you. What you have told me is quite a romance. One might call it a romance of art. And the worst thing about any kind of romance is that it leaves you so unromantic.”

“Harry, don’t talk like that. As long as I live, the personality of Dorian Gray will dominate me. You can’t feel what I feel. You change too often.”

“Harry, don’t talk like that. As long as I live, Dorian Gray’s personality will dominate me. You can’t feel what I feel. You change too often.”

“Ah, my dear Basil, that is exactly why I can feel it. Those who are faithful know only the trivial side of love: it is the faithless who know love’s tragedies.” And Lord Henry struck a light on a dainty silver case and began to smoke a cigarette with a self-conscious and satisfied air, as if he had summed up the world in a phrase. There was a rustle of chirruping sparrows in the green lacquer leaves of the ivy, and the blue cloud-shadows chased themselves across the grass like swallows. How pleasant it was in the garden! And how delightful other people’s emotions were!—much more delightful than their ideas, it seemed to him. One’s own soul, and the passions of one’s friends—those were the fascinating things in life. He pictured to himself with silent amusement the tedious luncheon that he had missed by staying so long with Basil Hallward. Had he gone to his aunt’s, he would have been sure to have met Lord Goodbody there, and the whole conversation would have been about the feeding of the poor and the necessity for model lodging-houses. Each class would have preached the importance of those virtues, for whose exercise there was no necessity in their own lives. The rich would have spoken on the value of thrift, and the idle grown eloquent over the dignity of labour. It was charming to have escaped all that! As he thought of his aunt, an idea seemed to strike him. He turned to Hallward and said, “My dear fellow, I have just remembered.”

“Ah, my dear Basil, that is exactly why I can feel it. Faithful people know only the trivial side of love. Those who are unfaithful know love’s tragedies.” Lord Henry struck a match on a delicate silver case and began to smoke a cigarette. He looked self-conscious and pleased with himself, as if he had summed up the world in a single phrase. Sparrows chirped and rustled among the glossy green ivy leaves. Blue cloud shadows chased one another across the grass like swallows. How pleasant the garden was! And how delightful other people’s emotions were! They seemed to him much more delightful than their ideas. A person’s own soul and the passions of their friends were the fascinating things in life. He imagined, with silent amusement, the tedious lunch he had missed by staying so long with Basil Hallward. If he had gone to his aunt’s, he would surely have met Lord Goodbody there. The whole conversation would have been about feeding the poor and the need for model lodging houses. Each class would have preached the importance of virtues it had no need to practice. The rich would have spoken about the value of thrift. The idle would have spoken eloquently about the dignity of work. How lovely to have escaped all that! As he thought of his aunt, an idea seemed to strike him. He turned to Hallward and said, “My dear fellow, I have just remembered.”

“Remembered what, Harry?”

“Where I heard the name of Dorian Gray.”

“Where I heard the name Dorian Gray.”

“Where was it?” asked Hallward, with a slight frown.

“Where was it?” Hallward asked, frowning slightly.

“Don’t look so angry, Basil. It was at my aunt, Lady Agatha’s. She told me she had discovered a wonderful young man who was going to help her in the East End, and that his name was Dorian Gray. I am bound to state that she never told me he was good-looking. Women have no appreciation of good looks; at least, good women have not. She said that he was very earnest and had a beautiful nature. I at once pictured to myself a creature with spectacles and lank hair, horribly freckled, and tramping about on huge feet. I wish I had known it was your friend.”

“Don’t look so angry, Basil. I met him at my aunt Lady Agatha’s. She told me she had found a wonderful young man named Dorian Gray who would help her in the East End. I must say, she never told me he was good-looking. Women don’t appreciate good looks. At least, good women don’t. She said he was very serious and had a beautiful nature. I immediately imagined someone with glasses, limp hair, and terrible freckles, stomping around on huge feet. I wish I had known he was your friend.”

“I am very glad you didn’t, Harry.”

“I’m very glad you didn’t, Harry.”

“Why?”

“I don’t want you to meet him.”

“You don’t want me to meet him?”

“No.”

“Mr. Dorian Gray is in the studio, sir,” said the butler, coming into the garden.

“Mr. Dorian Gray is in the studio, sir,” said the butler as he came into the garden.

“You must introduce me now,” cried Lord Henry, laughing.

“You must introduce me now,” Lord Henry said, laughing.

The painter turned to his servant, who stood blinking in the sunlight. “Ask Mr. Gray to wait, Parker: I shall be in in a few moments.” The man bowed and went up the walk.

The painter turned to his servant, who stood blinking in the sunlight. “Ask Mr. Gray to wait, Parker. I’ll be in shortly.” The man bowed and went up the path.

Then he looked at Lord Henry. “Dorian Gray is my dearest friend,” he said. “He has a simple and a beautiful nature. Your aunt was quite right in what she said of him. Don’t spoil him. Don’t try to influence him. Your influence would be bad. The world is wide, and has many marvellous people in it. Don’t take away from me the one person who gives to my art whatever charm it possesses: my life as an artist depends on him. Mind, Harry, I trust you.” He spoke very slowly, and the words seemed wrung out of him almost against his will.

Then he looked at Lord Henry. “Dorian Gray is my dearest friend,” he said. “He has a simple and beautiful nature. Your aunt was quite right about him. Don’t spoil him. Don’t try to influence him. Your influence would be bad. The world is wide, and it has many wonderful people in it. Don’t take away the one person who gives my art whatever charm it has. My life as an artist depends on him. Remember, Harry, I trust you.” He spoke very slowly, and the words seemed almost forced out of him against his will.

“What nonsense you talk!” said Lord Henry, smiling, and taking Hallward by the arm, he almost led him into the house.

“What nonsense you talk!” said Lord Henry, smiling. He took Hallward by the arm and almost led him into the house.