eBook - ePub
The Picture of Dorian Gray
Oscar Wilde
This is a test
Share book
- 176 pages
- English
- ePUB (mobile friendly)
- Available on iOS & Android
eBook - ePub
The Picture of Dorian Gray
Oscar Wilde
Book details
Book preview
Table of contents
Citations
About This Book
In this celebrated work, his only novel, Wilde forged a devastating portrait of the effects of evil and debauchery on a young aesthete in late-19th-century England. Combining elements of the Gothic horror novel and decadent French fiction, the book centers on a striking premise: As Dorian Gray sinks into a life of crime and gross sensuality, his body retains perfect youth and vigor while his recently painted portrait grows day by day into a hideous record of evil, which he must keep hidden from the world. For over a century, this mesmerizing tale of horror and suspense has enjoyed wide popularity. It ranks as one of Wilde's most important creations and among the classic achievements of its kind.
Frequently asked questions
How do I cancel my subscription?
Can/how do I download books?
At the moment all of our mobile-responsive ePub books are available to download via the app. Most of our PDFs are also available to download and we're working on making the final remaining ones downloadable now. Learn more here.
What is the difference between the pricing plans?
Both plans give you full access to the library and all of Perlegoâs features. The only differences are the price and subscription period: With the annual plan youâll save around 30% compared to 12 months on the monthly plan.
What is Perlego?
We are an online textbook subscription service, where you can get access to an entire online library for less than the price of a single book per month. With over 1 million books across 1000+ topics, weâve got you covered! Learn more here.
Do you support text-to-speech?
Look out for the read-aloud symbol on your next book to see if you can listen to it. The read-aloud tool reads text aloud for you, highlighting the text as it is being read. You can pause it, speed it up and slow it down. Learn more here.
Is The Picture of Dorian Gray an online PDF/ePUB?
Yes, you can access The Picture of Dorian Gray by Oscar Wilde in PDF and/or ePUB format, as well as other popular books in Letteratura & Classici. We have over one million books available in our catalogue for you to explore.
Information
Topic
LetteraturaSubtopic
ClassiciChapter I.
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.
From the corner of the divan of Persian saddlebags 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 flame-like 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 Tokio 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.
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.
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.
âIt is your best work, Basil, the best thing you have ever done,â said Lord Henry, languidly. âYou 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.â
âI donât think I shall send it anywhere,â he answered, tossing his head back in that odd way that used to make his friends laugh at him at Oxford. âNo: I wonât send it anywhere.â
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. âNot 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.â
âI know you will laugh at me,â he replied, âbut I really canât exhibit it. I have put too much of myself into it.â
Lord Henry stretched himself out on the divan and laughed.
âYes, I knew you would; but it is quite true, all the same.â
âToo much of yourself in it! Upon my word, Basil, I didnât know you were so vain; and I really canât 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 youâwell, 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 donât 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. Donât flatter yourself, Basil: you are not in the least like him.â
âYou donât understand me, Harry,â answered the artist. âOf 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 oneâs 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 areâmy art, whatever it may be worth; Dorian Grayâs good looksâwe shall all suffer for what the gods have given us, suffer terribly. â
âDorian Gray? Is that his name?â asked Lord Henry, walking across the studio towards Basil Hallward.
âYes, that is his name. I didnât intend to tell it to you.â
âBut why not?â
âOh, I canât 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 oneâs life. I suppose you think me awfully foolish about it?â
âNot at all,â answered Lord Henry, ânot 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 meetâwe do meet occasionally when we dine out together, or go down to the Dukeâsâwe tell each other the most absurd stories with the most serious faces. My wife is very good at itâmuch 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.â
âI hate the way you talk about your married life, Harry,â said Basil Hallward, strolling towards the door that led into the garden. âI 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.â
âBeing natural is simply a pose, and the most irritating pose I know,â 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.
After a pause, Lord Henry pulled out his watch. âI am afraid I must be going, Basil,â he murmured, âand before I go, I insist on your answering a question I put to you some time ago.â
âWhat is that?â said the painter, keeping his eyes fixed on the ground.
âYou know quite well.â
âI do not, Harry.â
âWell, I will tell you what it is. I want you to explain to me why you wonât exhibit Dorian Grayâs picture. I want the real reason.â
âI told you the real reason.â
âNo, you did not. You said it was because there was too much of yourself in it. Now, that is childish.â
âHarry,â said Basil Hallward, looking him straight in the face, âevery 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.â
Lord Henry laughed. âAnd what is that?â he asked.
âI will tell you,â said Hallward; but an expression of perplexity came over his face.
âI am all expectation, Basil,â continued his companion, glancing at him.
âOh, there is really very little to tell, Harry,â answered the painter; âand I am afraid you will hardly understand it. Perhaps you will hardly believe it.â
Lord Henry smiled, and leaning down, plucked a pink-petalled daisy from the grass, and examined it. âI am quite sure I shall understand it,â he replied, gazing intently at the little golden white-feathered disk, âand as for believing things, I can believe anything, provided that it is quite incredible.â
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 Hallwardâs heart beating, and wondered what was coming.
âThe story is simply this,â said the painter after some time. âTwo months ago I went to a crush at Lady Brandonâs. 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 halfway 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. Thenâââbut I donât 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.â
âConscience and cowardice are really the same things, Basil. Conscience is the trade-name of the firm. That is all.â
âI donât believe that, Harry, and I donât believe you do either. However, whatever was my motiveâand it may have been pride, for I used to be very proudâI certainly struggled to the door. There, of course, I stumbled against Lady Brandon. âYou are not going to run away so soon, Mr. Hallward?â she screamed out. You know her curiously shrill voice?â
âYes; she is a peacock in everything but beauty,â said Lord Henry, pulling the daisy to bits with his long, nervous fingers.
âI 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.â
âAnd how did Lady Brandon describe this wonderful young man?â asked his companion. âI know she goes in for giving a rapid prĂ©cis 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.â
âPoor Lady Brandon! You are hard on her, Harry!â said Hallward, listlessly.
âMy 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?â
âOh, something like, âCharming boyâpoor dear mother and I absolutely inseparable. Quite forget what he doesâafraid heâdoesnât do anythingâoh, yes, plays the pianoâor is it the violin, dear Mr. Gray?â Neither of us could help laughing, and we became friends at once.â
âLaughter is not at all a bad beginning for a friendship, and it is far the best ending for one,â said the young lord, plucking another daisy.
Hallward shook his head, âYou donât understand what friendship is, Harry,â he murmuredââor what enmity is, for that matter. You like every one; that is to say, you are indifferent to every one.â
âHow horribly unjust of you!â 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. âYes; 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.â
âI should think it was, Harry. But according to your category I must be merely an acquaintance.â
âMy dear old Basil, you are much more than an acquaintance.â
âAnd much less than a friend. A sort of brother, I suppose?â
âOh, brothers! I donât care for brothers. My elder brother wonât die, and my younger brothers seem never to do anything else.â
âHarry!â exclaimed Hallward, frowning.
âMy dear fellow, I am not quite serious. But I canât 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 South-wark got into the Divorce Court, their indignation was quite magnificent. And yet I donât suppose that ten cent. of the proletariat live correctly. â
âI donât agree with a single word that you have said, and, what is more, Harry, I feel sure you donât either.â
Lord Henry stroked his pointed brown beard, and tapped the toe of his patent-leather boot with a tasselled ebony cane. âHow English you are Basil! That is the second time you have made that observation. If one puts forward an idea to a true Englishmanâalways a rash thing to doâhe 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 donât 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?â
âEvery day. I couldnât be happy if I didnât see him every day. He is absolutely necessary to me.â
âHow extraordinary! I thought you would never care for anything but your art.â
âHe is all my art to me now,â said the painter, gravely. âI sometimes think, Harry, that there are only two eras of any importance in the worldâs 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 AntinoĂŒs 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 wonât 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 wayâI wonder will you understand me?âhis 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. âA dream of form in days of thought:ââwho is it who says that? I forget; but it is what Dorian Gray has been to me. The merely visible presence of this ladâfor he seems to me little more than a lad, though he is really over twentyâhis merely visible presenceâah! 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 ...