The Picture of Dorian Gray
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The Picture of Dorian Gray

Oscar Wilde

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The Picture of Dorian Gray

Oscar Wilde

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About This Book

The artist is the creator of beautiful things. To reveal art and conceal the artist is art's aim. The critic is he who can translate into another manner or a new material his impression of beautiful things. The highest as the lowest form of criticism is a mode of autobiography. Those who find ugly meanings in beautiful things are corrupt without being charming. This is a fault. Those who find beautiful meanings in beautiful things are the cultivated. For these there is hope. They are the elect to whom beautiful things mean only beauty. There is no such thing as a moral or an immoral book. Books are well written, or badly written. That is all. The nineteenth century dislike of realism is the rage of Caliban seeing his own face in a glass. The nineteenth century dislike of romanticism is the rage of Caliban not seeing his own face in a glass. The moral life of man forms part of the subject-matter of the artist, but the morality of art consists in the perfect use of an imperfect medium. No artist desires to prove anything. Even things that are true can be proved. No artist has ethical sympathies. An ethical sympathy in an artist is an unpardonable mannerism of style. No artist is ever morbid. The artist can express everything. Thought and language are to the artist instruments of an art. Vice and virtue are to the artist materials for an art. From the point of view of form, the type of all the arts is the art of the musician. From the point of view of feeling, the actor's craft is the type. All art is at once surface and symbol. Those who go beneath the surface do so at their peril. Those who read the symbol do so at their peril. It is the spectator, and not life, that art really mirrors. Diversity of opinion about a work of art shows that the work is new, complex, and vital. When critics disagree, the artist is in accord with himself. We can forgive a man for making a useful thing as long as he does not admire it.

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Year
2018
ISBN
9781531260323

CHAPTER 1

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 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.
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.
ā€œIt is your best work, Basil, the best thing you have ever done,ā€ said Lord Henry languidly. ā€œYou 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.ā€
ā€œI donā€™t think I shall send it anywhere,ā€ he answered, tossing his head back in that odd way that used to make his friends laugh at him at Oxford. ā€œNo, I wonā€™t send it anywhere.ā€
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. ā€œNot 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.ā€
ā€œI know you will laugh at me,ā€ he replied, ā€œbut I really canā€™t exhibit it. I have put too much of myself into it.ā€
Lord Henry stretched himself out on the divan and laughed.
ā€œYes, I knew you would; but it is quite true, all the same.ā€
ā€œToo much of yourself in it! Upon my word, Basil, I didnā€™t know you were so vain; and I really canā€™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 youā€”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 donā€™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. Donā€™t flatter yourself, Basil: you are not in the least like him.ā€
ā€œYou donā€™t understand me, Harry,ā€ answered the artist. ā€œOf 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 oneā€™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 liveā€”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 areā€”my art, whatever it may be worth; Dorian Grayā€™s good looksā€”we shall all suffer for what the gods have given us, suffer terribly.ā€
ā€œDorian Gray? Is that his name?ā€ asked Lord Henry, walking across the studio towards Basil Hallward.
ā€œYes, that is his name. I didnā€™t intend to tell it to you.ā€
ā€œBut why not?ā€
ā€œOh, I canā€™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 oneā€™s life. I suppose you think me awfully foolish about it?ā€
ā€œNot at all,ā€ answered Lord Henry, ā€œnot 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 meetā€”we do meet occasionally, when we dine out together, or go down to the Dukeā€™sā€”we tell each other the most absurd stories with the most serious faces. My wife is very good at itā€”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.ā€
ā€œI hate the way you talk about your married life, Harry,ā€ said Basil Hallward, strolling towards the door that led into the garden. ā€œI 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.ā€
ā€œBeing natural is simply a pose, and the most irritating pose I know,ā€ 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. ā€œI am afraid I must be going, Basil,ā€ he murmured, ā€œand before I go, I insist on your answering a question I put to you some time ago.ā€
ā€œWhat is that?ā€ said the painter, keeping his eyes fixed on the ground.
ā€œYou know quite well.ā€
ā€œI do not, Harry.ā€
ā€œWell, I will tell you what it is. I want you to explain to me why you wonā€™t exhibit Dorian Grayā€™s picture. I want the real reason.ā€
ā€œI told you the real reason.ā€
ā€œNo, you did not. You said it was because there was too much of yourself in it. Now, that is childish.ā€
ā€œHarry,ā€ said Basil Hallward, looking him straight in the face, ā€œevery 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.ā€
Lord Henry laughed. ā€œAnd what is that?ā€ he asked.
ā€œI will tell you,ā€ said Hallward; but an expression of perplexity came over his face.
ā€œI am all expectation, Basil,ā€ continued his companion, glancing at him.
ā€œOh, there is really very little to tell, Harry,ā€ answered the painter; ā€œand I am afraid you will hardly understand it. Perhaps you will hardly believe it.ā€
Lord Henry smiled, and leaning down, plucked a pink-petalled daisy from the grass and examined it. ā€œI am quite sure I shall understand it,ā€ he replied, gazing intently at the little golden, white-feathered disk, ā€œand as for believing things, I can believe anything, provided that it is quite incredible.ā€
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 Hallwardā€™s heart beating, and wondered what was coming.
ā€œThe story is simply this,ā€ said the painter after some time. ā€œTwo months ago I went to a crush at Lady Brandonā€™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. Thenā€”but I donā€™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.ā€
ā€œConscience and cowardice are really the same things, Basil. Conscience is the trade-name of the firm. That is all.ā€
ā€œI donā€™t believe that, Harry, and I donā€™t believe you do either. However, whatever was my motiveā€”and it may have been pride, for I used to be very proudā€”I certainly struggled to the door. There, of course, I stumbled against Lady Brandon. ā€˜You are not going to run away so soon, Mr. Hallward?ā€™ she screamed out. You know her curiously shrill voice?ā€
ā€œYes; she is a peacock in everything but beauty,ā€ said Lord Henry, pulling the daisy to bits with his long nervous fingers.
ā€œI 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.ā€
ā€œAnd how did Lady Brandon describe this wonderful young man?ā€ asked his companion. ā€œI know she goes in for giving a rapid precis 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.ā€
ā€œPoor Lady Brandon! You are hard on her, Harry!ā€ said Hallward listlessly.
ā€œMy 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?ā€
ā€œOh, something like, ā€˜Charming boyā€”poor dear mother and I absolutely inseparable. Quite forget what he doesā€”afraid heā€”doesnā€™t do anythingā€”oh, yes, plays the pianoā€”or is it the violin, dear Mr. Gray?ā€™ Neither of us could help laughing, and we became friends at once.ā€
ā€œLaughter is not at all a bad beginning for a friendship, and it is far the best ending for one,ā€ said the young lord, plucking another daisy.
Hallward shook his head. ā€œYou donā€™t understand what friendship is, Harry,ā€ he murmuredā€”"or what enmity is, for that matter. You like every one; that is to say, you are indifferent to every one.ā€
ā€œHow horribly unjust of you!ā€ 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. ā€œYes; horribly unjust of you. I make a great diffe...

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