Chapter 2

24 min

As they entered they saw Dorian Gray. He was seated at the piano, with his back to them, turning over the pages of a volume of Schumann’s “Forest Scenes.” “You must lend me these, Basil,” he cried. “I want to learn them. They are perfectly charming.”

As they entered, they saw Dorian Gray. He was sitting at the piano with his back to them, turning the pages of Schumann’s “Forest Scenes.” “You must lend me this music, Basil,” he cried. “I want to learn the pieces. They are absolutely charming.”

“That entirely depends on how you sit to-day, Dorian.”

“That depends entirely on how you pose today, Dorian.”

“Oh, I am tired of sitting, and I don’t want a life-sized portrait of myself,” answered the lad, swinging round on the music-stool in a wilful, petulant manner. When he caught sight of Lord Henry, a faint blush coloured his cheeks for a moment, and he started up. “I beg your pardon, Basil, but I didn’t know you had any one with you.”

“Oh, I’m tired of sitting, and I don’t want a life-sized portrait of myself,” the young man replied. He spun around on the piano stool, looking stubborn and irritated. When he saw Lord Henry, his cheeks briefly turned pink, and he jumped up. “I’m sorry, Basil, but I didn’t know you had someone with you.”

“This is Lord Henry Wotton, Dorian, an old Oxford friend of mine. I have just been telling him what a capital sitter you were, and now you have spoiled everything.”

“This is Lord Henry Wotton, Dorian. He’s an old friend of mine from Oxford. I was just telling him what a great model you were, and now you’ve spoiled everything.”

“You have not spoiled my pleasure in meeting you, Mr. Gray,” said Lord Henry, stepping forward and extending his hand. “My aunt has often spoken to me about you. You are one of her favourites, and, I am afraid, one of her victims also.”

“You haven't spoiled my pleasure in meeting you, Mr. Gray,” said Lord Henry, stepping forward and offering his hand. “My aunt has often spoken to me about you. You are one of her favorites and, I'm afraid, one of her victims too.”

“I am in Lady Agatha’s black books at present,” answered Dorian with a funny look of penitence. “I promised to go to a club in Whitechapel with her last Tuesday, and I really forgot all about it. We were to have played a duet together—three duets, I believe. I don’t know what she will say to me. I am far too frightened to call.”

“I’m in trouble with Lady Agatha right now,” Dorian replied, looking comically sorry. “I promised to go with her to a club in Whitechapel last Tuesday, and I completely forgot. We were supposed to play a duet together, or three duets, I believe. I don’t know what she’ll say to me. I’m far too frightened to visit her.”

“Oh, I will make your peace with my aunt. She is quite devoted to you. And I don’t think it really matters about your not being there. The audience probably thought it was a duet. When Aunt Agatha sits down to the piano, she makes quite enough noise for two people.”

“Oh, I’ll make things right with my aunt for you. She’s very fond of you. And I don’t think it really matters that you weren’t there. The audience probably thought it was a duet. When Aunt Agatha sits down at the piano, she makes enough noise for two people.”

“That is very horrid to her, and not very nice to me,” answered Dorian, laughing.

“That’s very cruel to her, and not very nice to me,” Dorian replied, laughing.

Lord Henry looked at him. Yes, he was certainly wonderfully handsome, with his finely curved scarlet lips, his frank blue eyes, his crisp gold hair. There was something in his face that made one trust him at once. All the candour of youth was there, as well as all youth’s passionate purity. One felt that he had kept himself unspotted from the world. No wonder Basil Hallward worshipped him.

Lord Henry looked at him. Yes, he was certainly wonderfully handsome. He had finely curved red lips, open blue eyes, and crisp golden hair. Something in his face made people trust him at once. His face showed all the honesty of youth, as well as all its passionate purity. He seemed untouched by the world's corruption. No wonder Basil Hallward worshipped him.

“You are too charming to go in for philanthropy, Mr. Gray—far too charming.” And Lord Henry flung himself down on the divan and opened his cigarette-case.

“You are too charming to get involved in charity, Mr. Gray. Far too charming.” Lord Henry threw himself down on the couch and opened his cigarette case.

The painter had been busy mixing his colours and getting his brushes ready. He was looking worried, and when he heard Lord Henry’s last remark, he glanced at him, hesitated for a moment, and then said, “Harry, I want to finish this picture to-day. Would you think it awfully rude of me if I asked you to go away?”

The painter had been busy mixing his paints and getting his brushes ready. He looked worried. When he heard Lord Henry’s last remark, he glanced at him and hesitated. Then he said, “Harry, I want to finish this painting today. Would you think it terribly rude if I asked you to leave?”

Lord Henry smiled and looked at Dorian Gray. “Am I to go, Mr. Gray?” he asked.

Lord Henry smiled and looked at Dorian Gray. “Should I leave, Mr. Gray?” he asked.

“Oh, please don’t, Lord Henry. I see that Basil is in one of his sulky moods, and I can’t bear him when he sulks. Besides, I want you to tell me why I should not go in for philanthropy.”

“Oh, please don’t, Lord Henry. I can see that Basil is in one of his sulky moods. I can’t stand him when he sulks. Besides, I want you to tell me why I shouldn’t get involved in charity work.”

“I don’t know that I shall tell you that, Mr. Gray. It is so tedious a subject that one would have to talk seriously about it. But I certainly shall not run away, now that you have asked me to stop. You don’t really mind, Basil, do you? You have often told me that you liked your sitters to have some one to chat to.”

“I’m not sure I’ll tell you that, Mr. Gray. It’s such a boring subject that I’d have to talk seriously about it. But I certainly won’t run away now that you’ve asked me to stay. You don’t really mind, Basil, do you? You’ve often told me you like the people posing for you to have someone to chat with.”

Hallward bit his lip. “If Dorian wishes it, of course you must stay. Dorian’s whims are laws to everybody, except himself.”

Hallward bit his lip. “If Dorian wants you to stay, of course you must. Everyone has to obey Dorian’s whims, except Dorian himself.”

Lord Henry took up his hat and gloves. “You are very pressing, Basil, but I am afraid I must go. I have promised to meet a man at the Orleans. Good-bye, Mr. Gray. Come and see me some afternoon in Curzon Street. I am nearly always at home at five o’clock. Write to me when you are coming. I should be sorry to miss you.”

Lord Henry picked up his hat and gloves. “You are very persistent, Basil, but I’m afraid I must go. I’ve promised to meet a man at the Orleans. Goodbye, Mr. Gray. Come and see me one afternoon at Curzon Street. I’m almost always home at five o’clock. Write to tell me when you’re coming. I’d be sorry to miss you.”

“Basil,” cried Dorian Gray, “if Lord Henry Wotton goes, I shall go, too. You never open your lips while you are painting, and it is horribly dull standing on a platform and trying to look pleasant. Ask him to stay. I insist upon it.”

“Basil,” cried Dorian Gray, “if Lord Henry Wotton leaves, I’ll leave too. You never speak while you’re painting. It’s terribly dull to stand on a platform and try to look pleasant. Ask him to stay. I insist.”

“Stay, Harry, to oblige Dorian, and to oblige me,” said Hallward, gazing intently at his picture. “It is quite true, I never talk when I am working, and never listen either, and it must be dreadfully tedious for my unfortunate sitters. I beg you to stay.”

“Stay, Harry, for Dorian’s sake and mine,” said Hallward, staring intently at his painting. “It’s true, I never talk or listen when I’m working. That must be terribly boring for the unfortunate people who sit for me. Please stay.”

“But what about my man at the Orleans?”

The painter laughed. “I don’t think there will be any difficulty about that. Sit down again, Harry. And now, Dorian, get up on the platform, and don’t move about too much, or pay any attention to what Lord Henry says. He has a very bad influence over all his friends, with the single exception of myself.”

The painter laughed. “I don’t think that will be difficult. Sit down again, Harry. Now, Dorian, get up on the platform. Don’t move around too much, and don’t pay attention to what Lord Henry says. He’s a very bad influence on all his friends, except me.”

Dorian Gray stepped up on the dais with the air of a young Greek martyr, and made a little moue of discontent to Lord Henry, to whom he had rather taken a fancy. He was so unlike Basil. They made a delightful contrast. And he had such a beautiful voice. After a few moments he said to him, “Have you really a very bad influence, Lord Henry? As bad as Basil says?”

Dorian Gray stepped onto the platform like a young Greek martyr and gave Lord Henry a little pout of displeasure. Dorian had taken quite a liking to him. Lord Henry was so unlike Basil. The two men made a delightful contrast. And Lord Henry had such a beautiful voice. After a few moments Dorian said to him, “Are you really such a bad influence, Lord Henry? As bad as Basil says?”

“There is no such thing as a good influence, Mr. Gray. All influence is immoral—immoral from the scientific point of view.”

“There is no such thing as a good influence, Mr. Gray. All influence is immoral. From a scientific point of view, it is immoral.”

“Why?”

“Because to influence a person is to give him one’s own soul. He does not think his natural thoughts, or burn with his natural passions. His virtues are not real to him. His sins, if there are such things as sins, are borrowed. He becomes an echo of some one else’s music, an actor of a part that has not been written for him. The aim of life is self-development. To realize one’s nature perfectly—that is what each of us is here for. People are afraid of themselves, nowadays. They have forgotten the highest of all duties, the duty that one owes to one’s self. Of course, they are charitable. They feed the hungry and clothe the beggar. But their own souls starve, and are naked. Courage has gone out of our race. Perhaps we never really had it. The terror of society, which is the basis of morals, the terror of God, which is the secret of religion—these are the two things that govern us. And yet—”

“Because to influence someone is to give them your own soul. They no longer think their own thoughts or burn with their own passions. Their virtues are not real to them. Their sins, if there are such things as sins, are borrowed. They become an echo of someone else’s music, an actor playing a part that was not written for them. The aim of life is to develop ourselves. Each of us is here to fully realize our own nature. People are afraid of themselves these days. They have forgotten the greatest duty of all, the duty they owe themselves. Of course, they are charitable. They feed the hungry and clothe the beggar. But their own souls are starving and naked. Courage has left our race. Perhaps we never really had it. Two things govern us: fear of society, which is the basis of morals, and fear of God, which is the secret of religion. And yet...”

“Just turn your head a little more to the right, Dorian, like a good boy,” said the painter, deep in his work and conscious only that a look had come into the lad’s face that he had never seen there before.

“Just turn your head a little more to the right, Dorian, like a good boy,” said the painter. He was absorbed in his work and noticed only a look on the boy’s face that he had never seen before.

“And yet,” continued Lord Henry, in his low, musical voice, and with that graceful wave of the hand that was always so characteristic of him, and that he had even in his Eton days, “I believe that if one man were to live out his life fully and completely, were to give form to every feeling, expression to every thought, reality to every dream—I believe that the world would gain such a fresh impulse of joy that we would forget all the maladies of mediævalism, and return to the Hellenic ideal—to something finer, richer than the Hellenic ideal, it may be. But the bravest man amongst us is afraid of himself. The mutilation of the savage has its tragic survival in the self-denial that mars our lives. We are punished for our refusals. Every impulse that we strive to strangle broods in the mind and poisons us. The body sins once, and has done with its sin, for action is a mode of purification. Nothing remains then but the recollection of a pleasure, or the luxury of a regret. The only way to get rid of a temptation is to yield to it. Resist it, and your soul grows sick with longing for the things it has forbidden to itself, with desire for what its monstrous laws have made monstrous and unlawful. It has been said that the great events of the world take place in the brain. It is in the brain, and the brain only, that the great sins of the world take place also. You, Mr. Gray, you yourself, with your rose-red youth and your rose-white boyhood, you have had passions that have made you afraid, thoughts that have filled you with terror, day-dreams and sleeping dreams whose mere memory might stain your cheek with shame—”

“And yet,” Lord Henry continued in his low, musical voice, with his graceful wave of the hand. The gesture had always been characteristic of him, even in his Eton days. “I believe one man could live his life fully and completely. He could give shape to every feeling, express every thought, and make every dream real. If he did, I believe the world would gain such a fresh burst of joy that we would forget all the ills of medievalism. We would return to the Greek ideal, or perhaps to something finer and richer. But even the bravest man among us is afraid of himself. “The practice of self-mutilation among so-called savages survives tragically in the self-denial that spoils our lives. We are punished for what we refuse to do. Every impulse we try to suppress lingers in the mind and poisons us. The body sins once and is done with its sin, because acting is a way of cleansing ourselves. Afterward, nothing remains but the memory of a pleasure or the luxury of a regret. “The only way to get rid of a temptation is to give in to it. Resist it, and your soul grows sick with longing for the things it has forbidden itself. It grows sick with desire for what its monstrous laws have made monstrous and forbidden. People have said that the world’s great events take place in the mind. The world’s great sins also take place in the mind, and only in the mind. You, Mr. Gray, with your rose-red youth and your rose-white boyhood, have felt passions that frightened you. You have had thoughts that filled you with terror. You have had daydreams and dreams in sleep that might make you blush with shame just to remember them.”

“Stop!” faltered Dorian Gray, “stop! you bewilder me. I don’t know what to say. There is some answer to you, but I cannot find it. Don’t speak. Let me think. Or, rather, let me try not to think.”

“Stop!” Dorian Gray said unsteadily. “Stop! You’re confusing me. I don’t know what to say. There’s an answer to what you’re saying, but I can’t find it. Don’t speak. Let me think. Or rather, let me try not to think.”

For nearly ten minutes he stood there, motionless, with parted lips and eyes strangely bright. He was dimly conscious that entirely fresh influences were at work within him. Yet they seemed to him to have come really from himself. The few words that Basil’s friend had said to him—words spoken by chance, no doubt, and with wilful paradox in them—had touched some secret chord that had never been touched before, but that he felt was now vibrating and throbbing to curious pulses.

For nearly ten minutes, he stood motionless, his lips parted and his eyes strangely bright. He was vaguely aware that entirely new influences were at work within him. Yet he felt they had really come from himself. Basil’s friend had said a few words to him, no doubt by chance and with deliberate paradox. Those words had touched a secret chord that had never been touched before. Now he felt it vibrating and throbbing with strange pulses.

Music had stirred him like that. Music had troubled him many times. But music was not articulate. It was not a new world, but rather another chaos, that it created in us. Words! Mere words! How terrible they were! How clear, and vivid, and cruel! One could not escape from them. And yet what a subtle magic there was in them! They seemed to be able to give a plastic form to formless things, and to have a music of their own as sweet as that of viol or of lute. Mere words! Was there anything so real as words?

Music had moved him like that. It had stirred him many times. But music could not express things in words. It did not create a new world within us, but rather another kind of chaos. Words! Mere words! How terrible they were! How clear, and vivid, and cruel! There was no escaping them. And yet what a subtle magic they held! They seemed able to give shape to shapeless things. They seemed to have a music of their own, as sweet as that of a viol or a lute. Mere words! Was anything as real as words?

Yes; there had been things in his boyhood that he had not understood. He understood them now. Life suddenly became fiery-coloured to him. It seemed to him that he had been walking in fire. Why had he not known it?

Yes, there had been things in his childhood that he had not understood. He understood them now. Life suddenly seemed full of fiery colors. He felt as though he had been walking in fire. Why had he not known it?

With his subtle smile, Lord Henry watched him. He knew the precise psychological moment when to say nothing. He felt intensely interested. He was amazed at the sudden impression that his words had produced, and, remembering a book that he had read when he was sixteen, a book which had revealed to him much that he had not known before, he wondered whether Dorian Gray was passing through a similar experience. He had merely shot an arrow into the air. Had it hit the mark? How fascinating the lad was!

Lord Henry watched him with a subtle smile. He knew exactly when to say nothing. He was intensely interested. He was amazed by the sudden effect his words had produced. He remembered a book he had read at sixteen, one that had revealed much he had not known before. He wondered whether Dorian Gray was having a similar experience. He had merely shot an arrow into the air. Had it hit its mark? How fascinating the young man was!

Hallward painted away with that marvellous bold touch of his, that had the true refinement and perfect delicacy that in art, at any rate comes only from strength. He was unconscious of the silence.

Hallward kept painting with his wonderfully bold touch. It had a true refinement and perfect delicacy that, in art at least, come only from strength. He was unaware of the silence.

“Basil, I am tired of standing,” cried Dorian Gray suddenly. “I must go out and sit in the garden. The air is stifling here.”

“Basil, I’m tired of standing,” Dorian Gray suddenly cried. “I need to go out and sit in the garden. It’s stifling in here.”

“My dear fellow, I am so sorry. When I am painting, I can’t think of anything else. But you never sat better. You were perfectly still. And I have caught the effect I wanted—the half-parted lips and the bright look in the eyes. I don’t know what Harry has been saying to you, but he has certainly made you have the most wonderful expression. I suppose he has been paying you compliments. You mustn’t believe a word that he says.”

“My dear friend, I’m so sorry. When I’m painting, I can’t think about anything else. But you’ve never posed better. You were perfectly still. And I’ve captured the effect I wanted: your slightly parted lips and the bright look in your eyes. I don’t know what Harry has been saying to you, but he’s certainly given you the most wonderful expression. I suppose he’s been complimenting you. You mustn’t believe a word he says.”

“He has certainly not been paying me compliments. Perhaps that is the reason that I don’t believe anything he has told me.”

“He certainly hasn’t complimented me. Perhaps that’s why I don’t believe anything he’s told me.”

“You know you believe it all,” said Lord Henry, looking at him with his dreamy languorous eyes. “I will go out to the garden with you. It is horribly hot in the studio. Basil, let us have something iced to drink, something with strawberries in it.”

“You know you believe all of it,” said Lord Henry, looking at him with dreamy, relaxed eyes. “I’ll go out to the garden with you. It’s terribly hot in the studio. Basil, let’s have something cold to drink, with strawberries in it.”

“Certainly, Harry. Just touch the bell, and when Parker comes I will tell him what you want. I have got to work up this background, so I will join you later on. Don’t keep Dorian too long. I have never been in better form for painting than I am to-day. This is going to be my masterpiece. It is my masterpiece as it stands.”

“Of course, Harry. Just ring the bell, and when Parker comes, I’ll tell him what you want. I need to work on the background, so I’ll join you later. Don’t keep Dorian too long. I’ve never been in better form for painting than I am today. This painting is going to be my masterpiece. It’s already my masterpiece as it stands.”

Lord Henry went out to the garden and found Dorian Gray burying his face in the great cool lilac-blossoms, feverishly drinking in their perfume as if it had been wine. He came close to him and put his hand upon his shoulder. “You are quite right to do that,” he murmured. “Nothing can cure the soul but the senses, just as nothing can cure the senses but the soul.”

Lord Henry went into the garden and found Dorian Gray burying his face in the large, cool lilac blossoms. Dorian was feverishly breathing in their scent as if it were wine. Lord Henry came close and put his hand on Dorian’s shoulder. “You are quite right to do that,” he murmured. “Nothing can cure the soul but the senses, just as nothing can cure the senses but the soul.”

The lad started and drew back. He was bareheaded, and the leaves had tossed his rebellious curls and tangled all their gilded threads. There was a look of fear in his eyes, such as people have when they are suddenly awakened. His finely chiselled nostrils quivered, and some hidden nerve shook the scarlet of his lips and left them trembling.

The boy startled and drew back. He wore no hat, and the leaves had tousled his unruly curls and tangled all their golden strands. His eyes held the fear of someone suddenly awakened. His finely shaped nostrils quivered, and some hidden nerve made his scarlet lips shake and left them trembling.

“Yes,” continued Lord Henry, “that is one of the great secrets of life—to cure the soul by means of the senses, and the senses by means of the soul. You are a wonderful creation. You know more than you think you know, just as you know less than you want to know.”

“Yes,” Lord Henry continued, “one of life’s great secrets is to heal the soul through the senses, and the senses through the soul. You are a wonderful creation. You know more than you think you know, just as you know less than you want to know.”

Dorian Gray frowned and turned his head away. He could not help liking the tall, graceful young man who was standing by him. His romantic, olive-coloured face and worn expression interested him. There was something in his low languid voice that was absolutely fascinating. His cool, white, flowerlike hands, even, had a curious charm. They moved, as he spoke, like music, and seemed to have a language of their own. But he felt afraid of him, and ashamed of being afraid. Why had it been left for a stranger to reveal him to himself? He had known Basil Hallward for months, but the friendship between them had never altered him. Suddenly there had come some one across his life who seemed to have disclosed to him life’s mystery. And, yet, what was there to be afraid of? He was not a schoolboy or a girl. It was absurd to be frightened.

Dorian Gray frowned and turned his head away. He could not help liking the tall, graceful young man standing beside him. The young man’s romantic, olive-colored face and tired expression interested him. There was something utterly fascinating about his low, leisurely voice. Even his cool, white, flowerlike hands had a curious charm. As he spoke, they moved like music and seemed to have a language of their own. But Dorian was afraid of him and ashamed of being afraid. Why had a stranger been the one to reveal him to himself? He had known Basil Hallward for months, but their friendship had never changed him. Then suddenly someone had entered his life who seemed to have revealed life’s mystery to him. And yet, what was there to fear? He was not a schoolboy or a girl. Being frightened was absurd.

“Let us go and sit in the shade,” said Lord Henry. “Parker has brought out the drinks, and if you stay any longer in this glare, you will be quite spoiled, and Basil will never paint you again. You really must not allow yourself to become sunburnt. It would be unbecoming.”

“Let’s go and sit in the shade,” said Lord Henry. “Parker has brought out the drinks. If you stay in this bright sun any longer, you’ll be completely spoiled, and Basil will never paint you again. You really must not let yourself get sunburned. It wouldn’t look good.”

“What can it matter?” cried Dorian Gray, laughing, as he sat down on the seat at the end of the garden.

“What does it matter?” Dorian Gray cried, laughing as he sat down on the seat at the end of the garden.

“It should matter everything to you, Mr. Gray.”

“It should mean everything to you, Mr. Gray.”

“Why?”

“Because you have the most marvellous youth, and youth is the one thing worth having.”

“Because you have such wonderful youth, and youth is the only thing worth having.”

“I don’t feel that, Lord Henry.”

“I don’t feel that way, Lord Henry.”

“No, you don’t feel it now. Some day, when you are old and wrinkled and ugly, when thought has seared your forehead with its lines, and passion branded your lips with its hideous fires, you will feel it, you will feel it terribly. Now, wherever you go, you charm the world. Will it always be so? ... You have a wonderfully beautiful face, Mr. Gray. Don’t frown. You have. And beauty is a form of genius—is higher, indeed, than genius, as it needs no explanation. It is of the great facts of the world, like sunlight, or spring-time, or the reflection in dark waters of that silver shell we call the moon. It cannot be questioned. It has its divine right of sovereignty. It makes princes of those who have it. You smile? Ah! when you have lost it you won’t smile.... People say sometimes that beauty is only superficial. That may be so, but at least it is not so superficial as thought is. To me, beauty is the wonder of wonders. It is only shallow people who do not judge by appearances. The true mystery of the world is the visible, not the invisible.... Yes, Mr. Gray, the gods have been good to you. But what the gods give they quickly take away. You have only a few years in which to live really, perfectly, and fully. When your youth goes, your beauty will go with it, and then you will suddenly discover that there are no triumphs left for you, or have to content yourself with those mean triumphs that the memory of your past will make more bitter than defeats. Every month as it wanes brings you nearer to something dreadful. Time is jealous of you, and wars against your lilies and your roses. You will become sallow, and hollow-cheeked, and dull-eyed. You will suffer horribly.... Ah! realize your youth while you have it. Don’t squander the gold of your days, listening to the tedious, trying to improve the hopeless failure, or giving away your life to the ignorant, the common, and the vulgar. These are the sickly aims, the false ideals, of our age. Live! Live the wonderful life that is in you! Let nothing be lost upon you. Be always searching for new sensations. Be afraid of nothing.... A new Hedonism—that is what our century wants. You might be its visible symbol. With your personality there is nothing you could not do. The world belongs to you for a season.... The moment I met you I saw that you were quite unconscious of what you really are, of what you really might be. There was so much in you that charmed me that I felt I must tell you something about yourself. I thought how tragic it would be if you were wasted. For there is such a little time that your youth will last—such a little time. The common hill-flowers wither, but they blossom again. The laburnum will be as yellow next June as it is now. In a month there will be purple stars on the clematis, and year after year the green night of its leaves will hold its purple stars. But we never get back our youth. The pulse of joy that beats in us at twenty becomes sluggish. Our limbs fail, our senses rot. We degenerate into hideous puppets, haunted by the memory of the passions of which we were too much afraid, and the exquisite temptations that we had not the courage to yield to. Youth! Youth! There is absolutely nothing in the world but youth!”

“No, you don’t feel it now. Someday, when you are old, wrinkled, and ugly, you will feel it terribly. Thought will have burned lines into your forehead, and passion will have branded your lips with its ugly fires. Now, wherever you go, you charm the world. Will it always be that way? ... You have a wonderfully beautiful face, Mr. Gray. Don’t frown. You do. And beauty is a form of genius. It is even greater than genius, because it needs no explanation. Beauty is one of the great facts of the world. It is like sunlight, spring, or the reflection in dark water of that silver shell we call the moon. Its existence cannot be questioned. It has a divine right to rule. It makes princes of those who possess it. You’re smiling? Ah! You won’t smile when you’ve lost it.... People sometimes say that beauty is only superficial. That may be true, but at least it is not as superficial as thought. To me, beauty is the greatest of all wonders. Only shallow people do not judge by appearances. The true mystery of the world is what we can see, not what we cannot see.... Yes, Mr. Gray, the gods have been good to you. But what the gods give, they quickly take away. You have only a few years to live truly, perfectly, and fully. When your youth goes, your beauty will go with it. Then you will suddenly discover that no triumphs are left for you. Or you will have to settle for petty triumphs. The memory of your past will make those triumphs more bitter than defeats. Every month that passes brings you closer to something dreadful. Time is jealous of you and makes war on your lilies and roses. Your skin will turn yellow, your cheeks will become hollow, and your eyes will grow dull. You will suffer horribly.... Ah! Appreciate your youth while you have it. Don’t waste the gold of your days listening to tedious people. Don’t waste it trying to improve those who are hopeless failures. Don’t give your life away to the ignorant, the ordinary, and the vulgar. These are the unhealthy aims and false ideals of our age. Live! Live the wonderful life that is in you! Let nothing pass you by. Always search for new sensations. Be afraid of nothing.... A new Hedonism is what our century needs. You could be its visible symbol. With your personality, there is nothing you could not do. The world belongs to you for a while.... The moment I met you, I saw that you had no idea what you really are. You had no idea what you could really become. So much about you charmed me that I felt I had to tell you something about yourself. I thought how tragic it would be if you were wasted. Your youth will last such a short time, such a short time. The common flowers on the hills wither, but they bloom again. The laburnum will be as yellow next June as it is now. In a month, purple stars will appear on the clematis. Year after year, the green night of its leaves will hold those purple stars. But we never get our youth back. The pulse of joy that beats in us at twenty slows down. Our limbs fail, our senses decay. We become ugly puppets, haunted by memories of passions we were too afraid to feel. We are haunted, too, by the exquisite temptations we lacked the courage to give in to. Youth! Youth! There is absolutely nothing in the world but youth!”

Dorian Gray listened, open-eyed and wondering. The spray of lilac fell from his hand upon the gravel. A furry bee came and buzzed round it for a moment. Then it began to scramble all over the oval stellated globe of the tiny blossoms. He watched it with that strange interest in trivial things that we try to develop when things of high import make us afraid, or when we are stirred by some new emotion for which we cannot find expression, or when some thought that terrifies us lays sudden siege to the brain and calls on us to yield. After a time the bee flew away. He saw it creeping into the stained trumpet of a Tyrian convolvulus. The flower seemed to quiver, and then swayed gently to and fro.

Dorian Gray listened, wide-eyed with wonder. The sprig of lilac fell from his hand onto the gravel. A fuzzy bee came and buzzed around it for a moment. Then the bee began crawling over the oval cluster of tiny, star-shaped blossoms. He watched with the strange interest in small things that we try to develop when important things frighten us. We also try to develop it when a new emotion stirs us and we cannot express it. Or we do so when a terrifying thought suddenly besieges the mind and demands that we give in. After a while, the bee flew away. He saw it crawl into the colored trumpet of a Tyrian convolvulus. The flower seemed to tremble, then swayed gently back and forth.

Suddenly the painter appeared at the door of the studio and made staccato signs for them to come in. They turned to each other and smiled.

Suddenly, the painter appeared at the studio door and gestured sharply for them to come in. They turned to each other and smiled.

“I am waiting,” he cried. “Do come in. The light is quite perfect, and you can bring your drinks.”

“I’m waiting,” he called. “Please come in. The light is perfect, and you can bring your drinks.”

They rose up and sauntered down the walk together. Two green-and-white butterflies fluttered past them, and in the pear-tree at the corner of the garden a thrush began to sing.

They got up and strolled down the path together. Two green and white butterflies fluttered past them. A thrush began to sing in the pear tree at the corner of the garden.

“You are glad you have met me, Mr. Gray,” said Lord Henry, looking at him.

“You’re glad you’ve met me, Mr. Gray,” said Lord Henry, looking at him.

“Yes, I am glad now. I wonder shall I always be glad?”

“Yes, I’m glad now. I wonder if I’ll always be glad?”

“Always! That is a dreadful word. It makes me shudder when I hear it. Women are so fond of using it. They spoil every romance by trying to make it last for ever. It is a meaningless word, too. The only difference between a caprice and a lifelong passion is that the caprice lasts a little longer.”

“Always! That’s a terrible word. It makes me shudder when I hear it. Women love using it. They ruin every romance by trying to make it last forever. It’s a meaningless word, too. The only difference between a passing whim and a lifelong passion is that the whim lasts a little longer.”

As they entered the studio, Dorian Gray put his hand upon Lord Henry’s arm. “In that case, let our friendship be a caprice,” he murmured, flushing at his own boldness, then stepped up on the platform and resumed his pose.

As they entered the studio, Dorian Gray put his hand on Lord Henry’s arm. “In that case, let our friendship be a whim,” he murmured, blushing at his own boldness. Then he stepped onto the platform and resumed his pose.

Lord Henry flung himself into a large wicker arm-chair and watched him. The sweep and dash of the brush on the canvas made the only sound that broke the stillness, except when, now and then, Hallward stepped back to look at his work from a distance. In the slanting beams that streamed through the open doorway the dust danced and was golden. The heavy scent of the roses seemed to brood over everything.

Lord Henry threw himself into a large wicker armchair and watched him. The brush sweeping across the canvas was the only sound that broke the silence. Now and then, Hallward stepped back to look at his work from a distance. Dust danced in the slanting beams of light from the open doorway, glowing gold. The heavy scent of roses seemed to hang over everything.

After about a quarter of an hour Hallward stopped painting, looked for a long time at Dorian Gray, and then for a long time at the picture, biting the end of one of his huge brushes and frowning. “It is quite finished,” he cried at last, and stooping down he wrote his name in long vermilion letters on the left-hand corner of the canvas.

After about fifteen minutes, Hallward stopped painting. He looked at Dorian Gray for a long time, then at the picture for a long time. He frowned and bit the end of one of his huge brushes. “It is completely finished,” he cried at last. He bent down and wrote his name in long vermilion letters in the left-hand corner of the canvas.

Lord Henry came over and examined the picture. It was certainly a wonderful work of art, and a wonderful likeness as well.

Lord Henry came over and looked closely at the picture. It was certainly a wonderful work of art and a wonderful likeness too.

“My dear fellow, I congratulate you most warmly,” he said. “It is the finest portrait of modern times. Mr. Gray, come over and look at yourself.”

“My friend, I congratulate you warmly,” he said. “It is the finest portrait of modern times. Mr. Gray, come over and look at yourself.”

The lad started, as if awakened from some dream.

The boy jolted, as if waking from a dream.

“Is it really finished?” he murmured, stepping down from the platform.

“Is it really finished?” he said quietly, stepping down from the platform.

“Quite finished,” said the painter. “And you have sat splendidly to-day. I am awfully obliged to you.”

“Completely finished,” said the painter. “And you posed wonderfully today. Thank you very much.”

“That is entirely due to me,” broke in Lord Henry. “Isn’t it, Mr. Gray?”

“That’s entirely thanks to me,” Lord Henry interrupted. “Isn’t it, Mr. Gray?”

Dorian made no answer, but passed listlessly in front of his picture and turned towards it. When he saw it he drew back, and his cheeks flushed for a moment with pleasure. A look of joy came into his eyes, as if he had recognized himself for the first time. He stood there motionless and in wonder, dimly conscious that Hallward was speaking to him, but not catching the meaning of his words. The sense of his own beauty came on him like a revelation. He had never felt it before. Basil Hallward’s compliments had seemed to him to be merely the charming exaggeration of friendship. He had listened to them, laughed at them, forgotten them. They had not influenced his nature. Then had come Lord Henry Wotton with his strange panegyric on youth, his terrible warning of its brevity. That had stirred him at the time, and now, as he stood gazing at the shadow of his own loveliness, the full reality of the description flashed across him. Yes, there would be a day when his face would be wrinkled and wizen, his eyes dim and colourless, the grace of his figure broken and deformed. The scarlet would pass away from his lips and the gold steal from his hair. The life that was to make his soul would mar his body. He would become dreadful, hideous, and uncouth.

Dorian said nothing, but walked listlessly in front of his portrait and turned to look at it. When he saw it, he drew back, and his cheeks flushed with pleasure for a moment. Joy came into his eyes, as if he had recognized himself for the first time. He stood there motionless and amazed. He was vaguely aware that Hallward was speaking to him, but he did not understand his words. The knowledge of his own beauty came to him like a revelation. He had never felt it before. Basil Hallward’s compliments had seemed to him merely the charming exaggerations of a friend. He had listened to them, laughed at them, and forgotten them. They had not affected his nature. Then Lord Henry Wotton had come, with his strange praise of youth and his terrible warning that it would not last. His words had stirred Dorian at the time. Now, as he stood gazing at the image of his own beauty, the full truth of that description struck him. Yes, a day would come when his face would be wrinkled and shriveled, his eyes dull and colorless. His graceful figure would become misshapen and deformed. The red would fade from his lips, and the gold would disappear from his hair. The life that would shape his soul would spoil his body. He would become dreadful, hideous, and ungainly.

As he thought of it, a sharp pang of pain struck through him like a knife and made each delicate fibre of his nature quiver. His eyes deepened into amethyst, and across them came a mist of tears. He felt as if a hand of ice had been laid upon his heart.

As he thought of it, a sharp pain stabbed through him like a knife. Every delicate part of his nature trembled. His eyes deepened to the color of amethyst, and tears clouded them. He felt as if an icy hand had touched his heart.

“Don’t you like it?” cried Hallward at last, stung a little by the lad’s silence, not understanding what it meant.

“Don’t you like it?” Hallward finally cried. The young man’s silence had hurt him a little, and he did not understand what it meant.

“Of course he likes it,” said Lord Henry. “Who wouldn’t like it? It is one of the greatest things in modern art. I will give you anything you like to ask for it. I must have it.”

“Of course he likes it,” said Lord Henry. “Who wouldn’t? It’s one of the greatest works of modern art. I’ll pay whatever you ask for it. I must have it.”

“It is not my property, Harry.”

“It doesn't belong to me, Harry.”

“Whose property is it?”

“Who owns it?”

“Dorian’s, of course,” answered the painter.

“Dorian’s, of course,” said the painter.

“He is a very lucky fellow.”

“He is a very lucky guy.”

“How sad it is!” murmured Dorian Gray with his eyes still fixed upon his own portrait. “How sad it is! I shall grow old, and horrible, and dreadful. But this picture will remain always young. It will never be older than this particular day of June.... If it were only the other way! If it were I who was to be always young, and the picture that was to grow old! For that—for that—I would give everything! Yes, there is nothing in the whole world I would not give! I would give my soul for that!”

“How sad!” murmured Dorian Gray, still staring at his own portrait. “How sad! I will grow old, horrible, and dreadful. But this picture will always stay young. It will never be older than it is on this day in June.... If only it were the other way around! If only I could stay young forever, and the picture could grow old! For that, for that, I would give everything! Yes, there is nothing in the whole world I would not give! I would give my soul for that!”

“You would hardly care for such an arrangement, Basil,” cried Lord Henry, laughing. “It would be rather hard lines on your work.”

“You probably wouldn’t like such an arrangement, Basil,” said Lord Henry, laughing. “It would be rather unfair to your work.”

“I should object very strongly, Harry,” said Hallward.

“I would strongly object, Harry,” said Hallward.

Dorian Gray turned and looked at him. “I believe you would, Basil. You like your art better than your friends. I am no more to you than a green bronze figure. Hardly as much, I dare say.”

Dorian Gray turned and looked at him. “I believe you would, Basil. You like your art more than your friends. I mean no more to you than a green bronze statue. Hardly even that much, I suppose.”

The painter stared in amazement. It was so unlike Dorian to speak like that. What had happened? He seemed quite angry. His face was flushed and his cheeks burning.

The painter stared in amazement. It was so unlike Dorian to speak that way. What had happened? Dorian seemed quite angry. His face was flushed, and his cheeks were burning.

“Yes,” he continued, “I am less to you than your ivory Hermes or your silver Faun. You will like them always. How long will you like me? Till I have my first wrinkle, I suppose. I know, now, that when one loses one’s good looks, whatever they may be, one loses everything. Your picture has taught me that. Lord Henry Wotton is perfectly right. Youth is the only thing worth having. When I find that I am growing old, I shall kill myself.”

“Yes,” he continued, “I mean less to you than your ivory Hermes or your silver Faun. You will always like them. How long will you like me? Until I get my first wrinkle, I suppose. Now I know that when people lose their good looks, whatever those looks may be, they lose everything. Your picture has taught me that. Lord Henry Wotton is absolutely right. Youth is the only thing worth having. When I realize I am growing old, I will kill myself.”

Hallward turned pale and caught his hand. “Dorian! Dorian!” he cried, “don’t talk like that. I have never had such a friend as you, and I shall never have such another. You are not jealous of material things, are you?—you who are finer than any of them!”

Hallward turned pale and grabbed his hand. “Dorian! Dorian!” he cried, “don’t talk like that. I have never had a friend like you, and I never will again. You aren’t jealous of material things, are you? You’re finer than any of them!”

“I am jealous of everything whose beauty does not die. I am jealous of the portrait you have painted of me. Why should it keep what I must lose? Every moment that passes takes something from me and gives something to it. Oh, if it were only the other way! If the picture could change, and I could be always what I am now! Why did you paint it? It will mock me some day—mock me horribly!” The hot tears welled into his eyes; he tore his hand away and, flinging himself on the divan, he buried his face in the cushions, as though he was praying.

“I am jealous of everything whose beauty never fades. I am jealous of the portrait you painted of me. Why should it keep what I must lose? Every moment takes something from me and gives it to the portrait. Oh, if only it were the other way around! If the picture could change, and I could always stay as I am now! Why did you paint it? Someday it will mock me. It will mock me horribly!” Hot tears filled his eyes. He pulled his hand away and threw himself onto the couch. He buried his face in the cushions, as if he were praying.

“This is your doing, Harry,” said the painter bitterly.

“This is your fault, Harry,” the painter said bitterly.

Lord Henry shrugged his shoulders. “It is the real Dorian Gray—that is all.”

Lord Henry shrugged. “It is the real Dorian Gray. That is all.”

“It is not.”

“If it is not, what have I to do with it?”

“If it isn’t, what does it have to do with me?”

“You should have gone away when I asked you,” he muttered.

“You should have left when I asked you to,” he muttered.

“I stayed when you asked me,” was Lord Henry’s answer.

“I stayed when you asked me,” Lord Henry replied.

“Harry, I can’t quarrel with my two best friends at once, but between you both you have made me hate the finest piece of work I have ever done, and I will destroy it. What is it but canvas and colour? I will not let it come across our three lives and mar them.”

“Harry, I can’t argue with my two best friends at once. But between you, you have made me hate the best work I have ever done. I will destroy it. What is it but canvas and paint? I won’t let it come between the three of us and ruin our lives.”

Dorian Gray lifted his golden head from the pillow, and with pallid face and tear-stained eyes, looked at him as he walked over to the deal painting-table that was set beneath the high curtained window. What was he doing there? His fingers were straying about among the litter of tin tubes and dry brushes, seeking for something. Yes, it was for the long palette-knife, with its thin blade of lithe steel. He had found it at last. He was going to rip up the canvas.

Dorian Gray lifted his golden head from the pillow. His face was pale and his eyes were stained with tears. He watched the man walk over to the pine painting table beneath the tall, curtained window. What was he doing there? His fingers searched through the scattered paint tubes and dry brushes. Yes, he was looking for the long palette knife with its thin, flexible steel blade. At last, he found it. He was going to rip up the canvas.

With a stifled sob the lad leaped from the couch, and, rushing over to Hallward, tore the knife out of his hand, and flung it to the end of the studio. “Don’t, Basil, don’t!” he cried. “It would be murder!”

With a muffled sob, the young man jumped up from the couch and rushed over to Hallward. He tore the knife from his hand and threw it to the far end of the studio. “Don’t, Basil, don’t!” he cried. “It would be murder!”

“I am glad you appreciate my work at last, Dorian,” said the painter coldly when he had recovered from his surprise. “I never thought you would.”

“I’m glad you finally appreciate my work, Dorian,” said the painter coldly once he had recovered from his surprise. “I never thought you would.”

“Appreciate it? I am in love with it, Basil. It is part of myself. I feel that.”

“Appreciate it? I love it, Basil. It is part of me. I can feel it.”

“Well, as soon as you are dry, you shall be varnished, and framed, and sent home. Then you can do what you like with yourself.” And he walked across the room and rang the bell for tea. “You will have tea, of course, Dorian? And so will you, Harry? Or do you object to such simple pleasures?”

“Well, as soon as you are dry, you’ll be varnished, framed, and sent home. Then you can do whatever you like with yourself.” He walked across the room and rang the bell for tea. “You’ll have tea, of course, Dorian? And you too, Harry? Or do you object to such simple pleasures?”

“I adore simple pleasures,” said Lord Henry. “They are the last refuge of the complex. But I don’t like scenes, except on the stage. What absurd fellows you are, both of you! I wonder who it was defined man as a rational animal. It was the most premature definition ever given. Man is many things, but he is not rational. I am glad he is not, after all—though I wish you chaps would not squabble over the picture. You had much better let me have it, Basil. This silly boy doesn’t really want it, and I really do.”

“I love simple pleasures,” said Lord Henry. “They are the last refuge of complicated people. But I don’t like dramatic scenes, except on stage. You’re both ridiculous! I wonder who first described humans as rational animals. That was the most premature definition ever given. Humans are many things, but they are not rational. I’m glad they aren’t, after all. But I wish you two would stop arguing over the picture. You’d be much better off letting me have it, Basil. This silly boy doesn’t really want it, and I really do.”

“If you let any one have it but me, Basil, I shall never forgive you!” cried Dorian Gray; “and I don’t allow people to call me a silly boy.”

“If you let anyone but me have it, Basil, I’ll never forgive you!” cried Dorian Gray. “And I don’t allow people to call me a silly boy.”

“You know the picture is yours, Dorian. I gave it to you before it existed.”

“You know the picture is yours, Dorian. I gave it to you before it even existed.”

“And you know you have been a little silly, Mr. Gray, and that you don’t really object to being reminded that you are extremely young.”

“And you know you’ve been a little silly, Mr. Gray. And you don’t really mind being reminded that you’re extremely young.”

“I should have objected very strongly this morning, Lord Henry.”

“I would have objected very strongly this morning, Lord Henry.”

“Ah! this morning! You have lived since then.”

“Ah! This morning! You’ve lived since then.”

There came a knock at the door, and the butler entered with a laden tea-tray and set it down upon a small Japanese table. There was a rattle of cups and saucers and the hissing of a fluted Georgian urn. Two globe-shaped china dishes were brought in by a page. Dorian Gray went over and poured out the tea. The two men sauntered languidly to the table and examined what was under the covers.

There was a knock at the door. The butler came in carrying a full tea tray and set it on a small Japanese table. Cups and saucers rattled, and a fluted Georgian tea urn hissed. A page brought in two globe-shaped china dishes. Dorian Gray went over and poured the tea. The two men strolled slowly to the table and looked under the covers.

“Let us go to the theatre to-night,” said Lord Henry. “There is sure to be something on, somewhere. I have promised to dine at White’s, but it is only with an old friend, so I can send him a wire to say that I am ill, or that I am prevented from coming in consequence of a subsequent engagement. I think that would be a rather nice excuse: it would have all the surprise of candour.”

“Let’s go to the theatre tonight,” said Lord Henry. “There’s sure to be something playing somewhere. I’ve promised to have dinner at White’s, but it’s only with an old friend. So I can send him a telegram saying I’m ill, or that I can’t come because I made another engagement later. I think that would be a rather nice excuse: it would have all the surprise of honesty.”

“It is such a bore putting on one’s dress-clothes,” muttered Hallward. “And, when one has them on, they are so horrid.”

“It’s such a hassle putting on formal clothes,” Hallward muttered. “And once you have them on, they’re awful.”

“Yes,” answered Lord Henry dreamily, “the costume of the nineteenth century is detestable. It is so sombre, so depressing. Sin is the only real colour-element left in modern life.”

“Yes,” Lord Henry replied dreamily, “nineteenth-century clothing is awful. It is so dark, so depressing. Sin is the only real splash of color left in modern life.”

“You really must not say things like that before Dorian, Harry.”

“Harry, you really must not say things like that in front of Dorian.”

“Before which Dorian? The one who is pouring out tea for us, or the one in the picture?”

“In front of which Dorian? The one pouring tea for us, or the one in the picture?”

“Before either.”

“I should like to come to the theatre with you, Lord Henry,” said the lad.

“I’d like to go to the theater with you, Lord Henry,” said the young man.

“Then you shall come; and you will come, too, Basil, won’t you?”

“Then you’ll come. You’ll come too, Basil, won’t you?”

“I can’t, really. I would sooner not. I have a lot of work to do.”

“I really can’t. I’d rather not. I have a lot of work to do.”

“Well, then, you and I will go alone, Mr. Gray.”

“I should like that awfully.”

“I would really like that.”

The painter bit his lip and walked over, cup in hand, to the picture. “I shall stay with the real Dorian,” he said, sadly.

The painter bit his lip and walked over to the picture, holding his cup. “I’ll stay with the real Dorian,” he said sadly.

“Is it the real Dorian?” cried the original of the portrait, strolling across to him. “Am I really like that?”

“Is that the real Dorian?” cried Dorian, the subject of the portrait, as he strolled over to him. “Do I really look like that?”

“Yes; you are just like that.”

“Yes, you are just like that.”

“How wonderful, Basil!”

“At least you are like it in appearance. But it will never alter,” sighed Hallward. “That is something.”

“At least you look like it. But it will never change,” Hallward sighed. “That’s something.”

“What a fuss people make about fidelity!” exclaimed Lord Henry. “Why, even in love it is purely a question for physiology. It has nothing to do with our own will. Young men want to be faithful, and are not; old men want to be faithless, and cannot: that is all one can say.”

“What a fuss people make about faithfulness!” exclaimed Lord Henry. “Even in love, faithfulness is purely a matter of biology. It has nothing to do with our own will. Young men want to be faithful but are not. Old men want to be unfaithful but cannot be. That is all one can say.”

“Don’t go to the theatre to-night, Dorian,” said Hallward. “Stop and dine with me.”

“Don’t go to the theater tonight, Dorian,” said Hallward. “Stay and have dinner with me.”

“I can’t, Basil.”

“Why?”

“Because I have promised Lord Henry Wotton to go with him.”

“Because I promised Lord Henry Wotton I would go with him.”

“He won’t like you the better for keeping your promises. He always breaks his own. I beg you not to go.”

“He won’t like you any more for keeping your promises. He always breaks his own. Please don’t go.”

Dorian Gray laughed and shook his head.

“I entreat you.”

“I beg you.”

The lad hesitated, and looked over at Lord Henry, who was watching them from the tea-table with an amused smile.

The young man hesitated and looked over at Lord Henry, who was watching them from the tea table with an amused smile.

“I must go, Basil,” he answered.

“I have to go, Basil,” he replied.

“Very well,” said Hallward, and he went over and laid down his cup on the tray. “It is rather late, and, as you have to dress, you had better lose no time. Good-bye, Harry. Good-bye, Dorian. Come and see me soon. Come to-morrow.”

“All right,” said Hallward. He went over and put his cup on the tray. “It’s rather late, and since you have to get dressed, you’d better not waste any time. Goodbye, Harry. Goodbye, Dorian. Come and see me soon. Come tomorrow.”

“Certainly.”

“You won’t forget?”

“No, of course not,” cried Dorian.

“No, of course not,” Dorian exclaimed.

“And ... Harry!”

“Yes, Basil?”

“Remember what I asked you, when we were in the garden this morning.”

“Remember what I asked you this morning when we were in the garden.”

“I have forgotten it.”

“I’ve forgotten it.”

“I trust you.”

“I wish I could trust myself,” said Lord Henry, laughing. “Come, Mr. Gray, my hansom is outside, and I can drop you at your own place. Good-bye, Basil. It has been a most interesting afternoon.”

“I wish I could trust myself,” Lord Henry said, laughing. “Come, Mr. Gray, my carriage is outside. I can drop you off at home. Goodbye, Basil. It has been a very interesting afternoon.”

As the door closed behind them, the painter flung himself down on a sofa, and a look of pain came into his face.

As the door closed behind them, the painter threw himself onto a sofa. A look of pain crossed his face.