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 .
" It is your best work , Basil , the best thing you have ever done , " said Lord Henry languidly .
" You must certainly send it next year to the Grosvenor .
The Academy is too large and too vulgar .
Whenever I have gone there , there have been either so many people that I have not been able to see the pictures , which was dreadful , or so many pictures that I have not been able to see the people , which was worse .
The Grosvenor is really the only place . "
" I do n't think I shall send it anywhere , " he answered , tossing his head back in that odd way that used to make his friends laugh at him at Oxford .
" No , I wo n't send it anywhere . "
Lord Henry elevated his eyebrows and looked at him in amazement through the thin blue wreaths of smoke that curled up in such fanciful whorls from his heavy , opium-tainted cigarette .
" Not send it anywhere ?
My dear fellow , why ?
Have you any reason ?
What odd chaps you painters are !
You do anything in the world to gain a reputation .
As soon as you have one , you seem to want to throw it away .
It is silly of you , for there is only one thing in the world worse than being talked about , and that is not being talked about .
A portrait like this would set you far above all the young men in England , and make the old men quite jealous , if old men are ever capable of any emotion . "
" I know you will laugh at me , " he replied , " but I really ca n't exhibit it .
I have put too much of myself into it . "
Lord Henry stretched himself out on the divan and laughed .
" Yes , I knew you would ; but it is quite true , all the same . "
" Too much of yourself in it !
Upon my word , Basil , I did n't know you were so vain ; and I really ca n't see any resemblance between you , with your rugged strong face and your coal-black hair , and this young Adonis , who looks as if he was made out of ivory and rose-leaves .
Why , my dear Basil , he is a Narcissus , and you -- well , of course you have an intellectual expression and all that .
But beauty , real beauty , ends where an intellectual expression begins .
Intellect is in itself a mode of exaggeration , and destroys the harmony of any face .
The moment one sits down to think , one becomes all nose , or all forehead , or something horrid .
Look at the successful men in any of the learned professions .
How perfectly hideous they are !
Except , of course , in the Church .
But then in the Church they do n'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 .
Do n't flatter yourself , Basil : you are not in the least like him . "
" You do n't understand me , Harry , " answered the artist .
" Of course I am not like him .
I know that perfectly well .
Indeed , I should be sorry to look like him .
You shrug your shoulders ?
I am telling you the truth .
There is a fatality about all physical and intellectual distinction , the sort of fatality that seems to dog through history the faltering steps of kings .
It is better not to be different from one 's fellows .
The ugly and the stupid have the best of it in this world .
They can sit at their ease and gape at the play .
If they know nothing of victory , they are at least spared the knowledge of defeat .
They live as we all should live -- undisturbed , indifferent , and without disquiet .
They neither bring ruin upon others , nor ever receive it from alien hands .
Your rank and wealth , Harry ; my brains , such as they are -- my art , whatever it may be worth ; Dorian Gray 's good looks -- we shall all suffer for what the gods have given us , suffer terribly . "
" Dorian Gray ?
Is that his name ? "
asked Lord Henry , walking across the studio towards Basil Hallward .
" Yes , that is his name .
I did n't intend to tell it to you . "
" But why not ? "
" Oh , I ca n't explain .
When I like people immensely , I never tell their names to any one .
It is like surrendering a part of them .
I have grown to love secrecy .
It seems to be the one thing that can make modern life mysterious or marvellous to us .
The commonest thing is delightful if one only hides it .
When I leave town now I never tell my people where I am going .
If I did , I would lose all my pleasure .
It is a silly habit , I dare say , but somehow it seems to bring a great deal of romance into one 's life .
I suppose you think me awfully foolish about it ? "
" Not at all , " answered Lord Henry , " not at all , my dear Basil .
You seem to forget that I am married , and the one charm of marriage is that it makes a life of deception absolutely necessary for both parties .
I never know where my wife is , and my wife never knows what I am doing .
When we meet -- we do meet occasionally , when we dine out together , or go down to the Duke 's -- we tell each other the most absurd stories with the most serious faces .
My wife is very good at it -- much better , in fact , than I am .
She never gets confused over her dates , and I always do .
But when she does find me out , she makes no row at all .
I sometimes wish she would ; but she merely laughs at me . "
" I hate the way you talk about your married life , Harry , " said Basil Hallward , strolling towards the door that led into the garden .
" I believe that you are really a very good husband , but that you are thoroughly ashamed of your own virtues .
You are an extraordinary fellow .
You never say a moral thing , and you never do a wrong thing .
Your cynicism is simply a pose . "
" Being natural is simply a pose , and the most irritating pose I know , " cried Lord Henry , laughing ; and the two young men went out into the garden together and ensconced themselves on a long bamboo seat that stood in the shade of a tall laurel bush .
The sunlight slipped over the polished leaves .
In the grass , white daisies were tremulous .
After a pause , Lord Henry pulled out his watch .
" I am afraid I must be going , Basil , " he murmured , " and before I go , I insist on your answering a question I put to you some time ago . "
" What is that ? "
said the painter , keeping his eyes fixed on the ground .
" You know quite well . "
" I do not , Harry . "
" Well , I will tell you what it is .
I want you to explain to me why you wo n't exhibit Dorian Gray 's picture .
I want the real reason . "
" I told you the real reason . "
" No , you did not .
You said it was because there was too much of yourself in it .
Now , that is childish . "
" Harry , " said Basil Hallward , looking him straight in the face , " every portrait that is painted with feeling is a portrait of the artist , not of the sitter .
The sitter is merely the accident , the occasion .
It is not he who is revealed by the painter ; it is rather the painter who , on the coloured canvas , reveals himself .
The reason I will not exhibit this picture is that I am afraid that I have shown in it the secret of my own soul . "
Lord Henry laughed .
" And what is that ? "
he asked .
" I will tell you , " said Hallward ; but an expression of perplexity came over his face .