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1The studio was filled with the rich odour of roses, and when the light summer wind stirred amidst the trees of the
2garden, there came through the open door the heavy scent of the lilac, or the more delicate perfume of the
3pink-flowering thorn. From the corner of the divan of Persian saddle-bags on which he was lying, smoking, as was his
4custom, innumerable cigarettes, Lord Henry Wotton could just catch the gleam of the honey-sweet and honey-coloured
5blossoms of a laburnum, whose tremulous branches seemed hardly able to bear the burden of a beauty so flamelike as
6theirs; and now and then the fantastic shadows of birds in flight flitted across the long tussore-silk curtains that
7were stretched in front of the huge window, producing a kind of momentary Japanese effect, and making him think of those
8pallid, jade-faced painters of Tokyo who, through the medium of an art that is necessarily immobile, seek to convey the
9sense of swiftness and motion. The sullen murmur of the bees shouldering their way through the long unmown grass, or
10circling with monotonous insistence round the dusty gilt horns of the straggling woodbine, seemed to make the stillness
11more oppressive. The dim roar of London was like the bourdon note of a distant organ. In the centre of the room, clamped
12to an upright easel, stood the full-length portrait of a young man of extraordinary personal beauty, and in front of it,
13some little distance away, was sitting the artist himself, Basil Hallward, whose sudden disappearance some years ago
14caused, at the time, such public excitement and gave rise to so many strange conjectures. As the painter looked at the
15gracious and comely form he had so skilfully mirrored in his art, a smile of pleasure passed across his face, and seemed
16about to linger there. But he suddenly started up, and closing his eyes, placed his fingers upon the lids, as though he
17sought to imprison within his brain some curious dream from which he feared he might awake. "It is your best work,
18Basil, the best thing you have ever done," said Lord Henry languidly. "You must certainly send it next year to the
19Grosvenor. The Academy is too large and too vulgar. Whenever I have gone there, there have been either so many people
20that I have not been able to see the pictures, which was dreadful, or so many pictures that I have not been able to see
21the people, which was worse. The Grosvenor is really the only place." "I don't think I shall send it anywhere," he
22answered, tossing his head back in that odd way that used to make his friends laugh at him at Oxford. "No, I won't send
23it anywhere." Lord Henry elevated his eyebrows and looked at him in amazement through the thin blue wreaths of smoke
24that curled up in such fanciful whorls from his heavy, opium-tainted cigarette. "Not send it anywhere? My dear fellow,
25why? Have you any reason? What odd chaps you painters are! You do anything in the world to gain a reputation. As soon as
26you 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
27being talked about, and that is not being talked about. A portrait like this would set you far above all the young men
28in England, and make the old men quite jealous, if old men are ever capable of any emotion." "I know you will laugh at
29me," he replied, "but I really can't exhibit it. I have put too much of myself into it." Lord Henry stretched himself
30out on the divan and laughed. "Yes, I knew you would; but it is quite true, all the same." "Too much of yourself in it!
31Upon my word, Basil, I didn't know you were so vain; and I really can't see any resemblance between you, with your
32rugged strong face and your coal-black hair, and this young Adonis, who looks as if he was made out of ivory and
33rose-leaves. Why, my dear Basil, he is a Narcissus, and you--well, of course you have an intellectual expression and all
34that. But beauty, real beauty, ends where an intellectual expression begins. Intellect is in itself a mode of
35exaggeration, and destroys the harmony of any face. The moment one sits down to think, one becomes all nose, or all
36forehead, or something horrid. Look at the successful men in any of the learned professions. How perfectly hideous they
37are! Except, of course, in the Church. But then in the Church they don't think. A bishop keeps on saying at the age of
38eighty what he was told to say when he was a boy of eighteen, and as a natural consequence he always looks absolutely
39delightful. Your mysterious young friend, whose name you have never told me, but whose picture really fascinates me,
40never thinks. I feel quite sure of that. He is some brainless beautiful creature who should be always here in winter
41when we have no flowers to look at, and always here in summer when we want something to chill our intelligence. Don't
42flatter yourself, Basil: you are not in the least like him." "You don't understand me, Harry," answered the artist. "Of
43course I am not like him. I know that perfectly well. Indeed, I should be sorry to look like him. You shrug your
44shoulders? I am telling you the truth. There is a fatality about all physical and intellectual distinction, the sort of
45fatality that seems to dog through history the faltering steps of kings. It is better not to be different from one's
46fellows. 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
47they know nothing of victory, they are at least spared the knowledge of defeat. They live as we all should
48live--undisturbed, indifferent, and without disquiet. They neither bring ruin upon others, nor ever receive it from
49alien hands. Your rank and wealth, Harry; my brains, such as they are--my art, whatever it may be worth; Dorian Gray's
50good looks--we shall all suffer for what the gods have given us, suffer terribly." "Dorian Gray? Is that his name?"
51asked Lord Henry, walking across the studio towards Basil Hallward. "Yes, that is his name. I didn't intend to tell it
52to you." "But why not?" "Oh, I can't explain. When I like people immensely, I never tell their names to any one. It is
53like surrendering a part of them. I have grown to love secrecy. It seems to be the one thing that can make modern life
54mysterious or marvellous to us. The commonest thing is delightful if one only hides it. When I leave town now I never
55tell 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
56seems to bring a great deal of romance into one's life. I suppose you think me awfully foolish about it?" "Not at all,"
57answered Lord Henry, "not at all, my dear Basil. You seem to forget that I am married, and the one charm of marriage is
58that it makes a life of deception absolutely necessary for both parties. I never know where my wife is, and my wife
59never knows what I am doing. When we meet--we do meet occasionally, when we dine out together, or go down to the
60Duke's--we tell each other the most absurd stories with the most serious faces. My wife is very good at it--much better,
61in 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
62row at all. I sometimes wish she would; but she merely laughs at me." "I hate the way you talk about your married life,
63Harry," said Basil Hallward, strolling towards the door that led into the garden. "I believe that you are really a very
64good husband, but that you are thoroughly ashamed of your own virtues. You are an extraordinary fellow. You never say a
65moral thing, and you never do a wrong thing. Your cynicism is simply a pose." "Being natural is simply a pose, and the
66most irritating pose I know," cried Lord Henry, laughing; and the two young men went out into the garden together and
67ensconced themselves on a long bamboo seat that stood in the shade of a tall laurel bush. The sunlight slipped over the
68polished leaves. In the grass, white daisies were tremulous. After a pause, Lord Henry pulled out his watch. "I am
69afraid I must be going, Basil," he murmured, "and before I go, I insist on your answering a question I put to you some
70time ago."
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