The Picture of Dorian Gray Page #2

The Picture of Dorian Gray is a Gothic and philosophical novel by Oscar Wilde, first published complete in the July 1890 issue of Lippincott's Monthly Magazine. Fearing the story was indecent, prior to publication the magazine's editor deleted roughly five hundred words without Wilde's knowledge.

• Fiction
• Philosophy

								


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

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

"Yes, that is his name.  I didn't intend to tell it to you."

"But why not?"

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

"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 won'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.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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