English
Thestudiowasfilledwiththerichodourofroses,andwhenthelightsummerwindstirredamidstthetreesofthegarden,therecamethroughtheopendoortheheavyscentofthelilac,orthemoredelicateperfumeofthepink-floweringthorn.
FromthecornerofthedivanofPersiansaddle-bagsonwhichhewaslying,smoking,aswashiscustom,innumerablecigarettes,LordHenryWottoncouldjustcatchthegleamofthehoney-sweetandhoney-colouredblossomsofalaburnum,whosetremulousbranchesseemedhardlyabletobeartheburdenofabeautysoflamelikeastheirs;andnowandthenthefantasticshadowsofbirdsinflightflittedacrossthelongtussore-silkcurtainsthatwerestretchedinfrontofthehugewindow,producingakindofmomentaryJapaneseeffect,andmakinghimthinkofthosepallid,jade-facedpaintersofTokyowho,throughthemediumofanartthatisnecessarilyimmobile,seektoconveythesenseofswiftnessandmotion.
Thesullenmurmurofthebeesshoulderingtheirwaythroughthelongunmowngrass,orcirclingwithmonotonousinsistenceroundthedustygilthornsofthestragglingwoodbine,seemedtomakethestillnessmoreoppressive.
ThedimroarofLondonwaslikethebourdonnoteofadistantorgan.
Inthecentreoftheroom,clampedtoanuprighteasel,stoodthefull-lengthportraitofayoungmanofextraordinarypersonalbeauty,andinfrontofit,somelittledistanceaway,wassittingtheartisthimself,BasilHallward,whosesuddendisappearancesomeyearsagocaused,atthetime,suchpublicexcitementandgaverisetosomanystrangeconjectures.
Asthepainterlookedatthegraciousandcomelyformhehadsoskilfullymirroredinhisart,asmileofpleasurepassedacrosshisface,andseemedabouttolingerthere.
Buthesuddenlystartedup,andclosinghiseyes,placedhisfingersuponthelids,asthoughhesoughttoimprisonwithinhisbrainsomecuriousdreamfromwhichhefearedhemightawake.
“Itisyourbestwork,Basil,thebestthingyouhaveeverdone,”saidLordHenrylanguidly.
“YoumustcertainlysenditnextyeartotheGrosvenor.
TheAcademyistoolargeandtoovulgar.
WheneverIhavegonethere,therehavebeeneithersomanypeoplethatIhavenotbeenabletoseethepictures,whichwasdreadful,orsomanypicturesthatIhavenotbeenabletoseethepeople,whichwasworse.
TheGrosvenorisreallytheonlyplace.”
“Idon’tthinkIshallsenditanywhere,”heanswered,tossinghisheadbackinthatoddwaythatusedtomakehisfriendslaughathimatOxford.“No,Iwon’tsenditanywhere.”
LordHenryelevatedhiseyebrowsandlookedathiminamazementthroughthethinbluewreathsofsmokethatcurledupinsuchfancifulwhorlsfromhisheavy,opium-taintedcigarette.“Notsenditanywhere?Mydearfellow,why?Haveyouanyreason?Whatoddchapsyoupaintersare!
Youdoanythingintheworldtogainareputation.
Assoonasyouhaveone,youseemtowanttothrowitaway.
Itissillyofyou,forthereisonlyonethingintheworldworsethanbeingtalkedabout,andthatisnotbeingtalkedabout.
AportraitlikethiswouldsetyoufarabovealltheyoungmeninEngland,andmaketheoldmenquitejealous,ifoldmenareevercapableofanyemotion.”
“Iknowyouwilllaughatme,”hereplied,“butIreallycan’texhibitit.Ihaveputtoomuchofmyselfintoit.”
LordHenrystretchedhimselfoutonthedivanandlaughed.
“Yes,Iknewyouwould;butitisquitetrue,allthesame.”
“Toomuchofyourselfinit!Uponmyword,Basil,Ididn’tknowyouweresovain;andIreallycan’tseeanyresemblancebetweenyou,withyourruggedstrongfaceandyourcoal-blackhair,andthisyoungAdonis,wholooksasifhewasmadeoutofivoryandrose-leaves.
Why,mydearBasil,heisaNarcissus,andyou—well,ofcourseyouhaveanintellectualexpressionandallthat.
Butbeauty,realbeauty,endswhereanintellectualexpressionbegins.
Intellectisinitselfamodeofexaggeration,anddestroystheharmonyofanyface.
Themomentonesitsdowntothink,onebecomesallnose,orallforehead,orsomethinghorrid.
Lookatthesuccessfulmeninanyofthelearnedprofessions.Howperfectlyhideoustheyare!Except,ofcourse,intheChurch.
ButthenintheChurchtheydon’tthink.
Abishopkeepsonsayingattheageofeightywhathewastoldtosaywhenhewasaboyofeighteen,andasanaturalconsequencehealwayslooksabsolutelydelightful.
Yourmysteriousyoungfriend,whosenameyouhavenevertoldme,butwhosepicturereallyfascinatesme,neverthinks.Ifeelquitesureofthat.
Heissomebrainlessbeautifulcreaturewhoshouldbealwayshereinwinterwhenwehavenoflowerstolookat,andalwayshereinsummerwhenwewantsomethingtochillourintelligence.
Don’tflatteryourself,Basil:youarenotintheleastlikehim.”
“Youdon’tunderstandme,Harry,”answeredtheartist.“OfcourseIamnotlikehim.Iknowthatperfectlywell.
Indeed,Ishouldbesorrytolooklikehim.Youshrugyourshoulders?Iamtellingyouthetruth.
Thereisafatalityaboutallphysicalandintellectualdistinction,thesortoffatalitythatseemstodogthroughhistorythefalteringstepsofkings.
Itisbetternottobedifferentfromone’sfellows.
Theuglyandthestupidhavethebestofitinthisworld.
Theycansitattheireaseandgapeattheplay.
Iftheyknownothingofvictory,theyareatleastsparedtheknowledgeofdefeat.
Theyliveasweallshouldlive—undisturbed,indifferent,andwithoutdisquiet.
Theyneitherbringruinuponothers,noreverreceiveitfromalienhands.
Yourrankandwealth,Harry;mybrains,suchastheyare—myart,whateveritmaybeworth;DorianGray’sgoodlooks—weshallallsufferforwhatthegodshavegivenus,sufferterribly.”
“DorianGray?Isthathisname?”askedLordHenry,walkingacrossthestudiotowardsBasilHallward.
“Yes,thatishisname.Ididn’tintendtotellittoyou.”
“Butwhynot?”
“Oh,Ican’texplain.WhenIlikepeopleimmensely,Inevertelltheirnamestoanyone.Itislikesurrenderingapartofthem.Ihavegrowntolovesecrecy.
Itseemstobetheonethingthatcanmakemodernlifemysteriousormarvelloustous.
Thecommonestthingisdelightfulifoneonlyhidesit.
WhenIleavetownnowInevertellmypeoplewhereIamgoing.IfIdid,Iwouldloseallmypleasure.
Itisasillyhabit,Idaresay,butsomehowitseemstobringagreatdealofromanceintoone’slife.
Isupposeyouthinkmeawfullyfoolishaboutit?”
“Notatall,”answeredLordHenry,“notatall,mydearBasil.
YouseemtoforgetthatIammarried,andtheonecharmofmarriageisthatitmakesalifeofdeceptionabsolutelynecessaryforbothparties.
Ineverknowwheremywifeis,andmywifeneverknowswhatIamdoing.
Whenwemeet—wedomeetoccasionally,whenwedineouttogether,orgodowntotheDuke’s—wetelleachotherthemostabsurdstorieswiththemostseriousfaces.
Mywifeisverygoodatit—muchbetter,infact,thanIam.
Shenevergetsconfusedoverherdates,andIalwaysdo.
Butwhenshedoesfindmeout,shemakesnorowatall.
Isometimeswishshewould;butshemerelylaughsatme.”
“Ihatethewayyoutalkaboutyourmarriedlife,Harry,”saidBasilHallward,strollingtowardsthedoorthatledintothegarden.
“Ibelievethatyouarereallyaverygoodhusband,butthatyouarethoroughlyashamedofyourownvirtues.Youareanextraordinaryfellow.
Youneversayamoralthing,andyouneverdoawrongthing.Yourcynicismissimplyapose.”
“Beingnaturalissimplyapose,andthemostirritatingposeIknow,”criedLordHenry,laughing;andthetwoyoungmenwentoutintothegardentogetherandensconcedthemselvesonalongbambooseatthatstoodintheshadeofatalllaurelbush.
Thesunlightslippedoverthepolishedleaves.
Inthegrass,whitedaisiesweretremulous.
Afterapause,LordHenrypulledouthiswatch.“IamafraidImustbegoing,Basil,”hemurmured,“andbeforeIgo,IinsistonyouransweringaquestionIputtoyousometimeago.”
“Whatisthat?”saidthepainter,keepinghiseyesfixedontheground.
“Youknowquitewell.”
“Idonot,Harry.”
“Well,Iwilltellyouwhatitis.Iwantyoutoexplaintomewhyyouwon’texhibitDorianGray’spicture.Iwanttherealreason.”
“Itoldyoutherealreason.”
“No,youdidnot.Yousaiditwasbecausetherewastoomuchofyourselfinit.Now,thatischildish.”
“Harry,”saidBasilHallward,lookinghimstraightintheface,“everyportraitthatispaintedwithfeelingisaportraitoftheartist,notofthesitter.
Thesitterismerelytheaccident,theoccasion.
Itisnothewhoisrevealedbythepainter;itisratherthepainterwho,onthecolouredcanvas,revealshimself.
ThereasonIwillnotexhibitthispictureisthatIamafraidthatIhaveshowninitthesecretofmyownsoul.”
LordHenrylaughed.“Andwhatisthat?”heasked.
“Iwilltellyou,”saidHallward;butanexpressionofperplexitycameoverhisface.
“Iamallexpectation,Basil,”continuedhiscompanion,glancingathim.
“Oh,thereisreallyverylittletotell,Harry,”answeredthepainter;“andIamafraidyouwillhardlyunderstandit.Perhapsyouwillhardlybelieveit.”
LordHenrysmiled,andleaningdown,pluckedapink-petalleddaisyfromthegrassandexaminedit.
“IamquitesureIshallunderstandit,”hereplied,gazingintentlyatthelittlegolden,white-feathereddisk,“andasforbelievingthings,Icanbelieveanything,providedthatitisquiteincredible.”
Thewindshooksomeblossomsfromthetrees,andtheheavylilac-blooms,withtheirclusteringstars,movedtoandfrointhelanguidair.
Agrasshopperbegantochirrupbythewall,andlikeabluethreadalongthindragon-flyfloatedpastonitsbrowngauzewings.
LordHenryfeltasifhecouldhearBasilHallward’sheartbeating,andwonderedwhatwascoming.
“Thestoryissimplythis,”saidthepainteraftersometime.
“TwomonthsagoIwenttoacrushatLadyBrandon’s.
Youknowwepoorartistshavetoshowourselvesinsocietyfromtimetotime,justtoremindthepublicthatwearenotsavages.
Withaneveningcoatandawhitetie,asyoutoldmeonce,anybody,evenastock-broker,cangainareputationforbeingcivilized.
Well,afterIhadbeenintheroomabouttenminutes,talkingtohugeoverdresseddowagersandtediousacademicians,Isuddenlybecameconsciousthatsomeonewaslookingatme.
Iturnedhalf-wayroundandsawDorianGrayforthefirsttime.
Whenoureyesmet,IfeltthatIwasgrowingpale.
Acurioussensationofterrorcameoverme.
IknewthatIhadcomefacetofacewithsomeonewhosemerepersonalitywassofascinatingthat,ifIallowedittodoso,itwouldabsorbmywholenature,mywholesoul,myveryartitself.
Ididnotwantanyexternalinfluenceinmylife.
Youknowyourself,Harry,howindependentIambynature.
Ihavealwaysbeenmyownmaster;hadatleastalwaysbeenso,tillImetDorianGray.
Then—butIdon’tknowhowtoexplainittoyou.
SomethingseemedtotellmethatIwasonthevergeofaterriblecrisisinmylife.
Ihadastrangefeelingthatfatehadinstoreformeexquisitejoysandexquisitesorrows.
Igrewafraidandturnedtoquittheroom.
Itwasnotconsciencethatmademedoso:itwasasortofcowardice.
Itakenocredittomyselffortryingtoescape.”
“Conscienceandcowardicearereallythesamethings,Basil.Conscienceisthetrade-nameofthefirm.Thatisall.”
“Idon’tbelievethat,Harry,andIdon’tbelieveyoudoeither.
However,whateverwasmymotive—anditmayhavebeenpride,forIusedtobeveryproud—Icertainlystruggledtothedoor.
There,ofcourse,IstumbledagainstLadyBrandon.
‘Youarenotgoingtorunawaysosoon,Mr.Hallward?’shescreamedout.Youknowhercuriouslyshrillvoice?”
“Yes;sheisapeacockineverythingbutbeauty,”saidLordHenry,pullingthedaisytobitswithhislongnervousfingers.
“Icouldnotgetridofher.Shebroughtmeuptoroyalties,andpeoplewithstarsandgarters,andelderlyladieswithgigantictiarasandparrotnoses.Shespokeofmeasherdearestfriend.
Ihadonlymetheroncebefore,butshetookitintoherheadtolionizeme.
Ibelievesomepictureofminehadmadeagreatsuccessatthetime,atleasthadbeenchatteredaboutinthepennynewspapers,whichisthenineteenth-centurystandardofimmortality.
SuddenlyIfoundmyselffacetofacewiththeyoungmanwhosepersonalityhadsostrangelystirredme.Wewerequiteclose,almosttouching.Oureyesmetagain.
Itwasrecklessofme,butIaskedLadyBrandontointroducemetohim.
Perhapsitwasnotsoreckless,afterall.Itwassimplyinevitable.
Wewouldhavespokentoeachotherwithoutanyintroduction.Iamsureofthat.Doriantoldmesoafterwards.
He,too,feltthatweweredestinedtoknoweachother.”
“AndhowdidLadyBrandondescribethiswonderfulyoungman?”askedhiscompanion.
“Iknowshegoesinforgivingarapidprecisofallherguests.
Irememberherbringingmeuptoatruculentandred-facedoldgentlemancoveredalloverwithordersandribbons,andhissingintomyear,inatragicwhisperwhichmusthavebeenperfectlyaudibletoeverybodyintheroom,themostastoundingdetails.Isimplyfled.Iliketofindoutpeopleformyself.
ButLadyBrandontreatsherguestsexactlyasanauctioneertreatshisgoods.
Sheeitherexplainsthementirelyaway,ortellsoneeverythingaboutthemexceptwhatonewantstoknow.”
“PoorLadyBrandon!Youarehardonher,Harry!”saidHallwardlistlessly.
“Mydearfellow,shetriedtofoundasalon,andonlysucceededinopeningarestaurant.HowcouldIadmireher?Buttellme,whatdidshesayaboutMr.DorianGray?”
“Oh,somethinglike,‘Charmingboy—poordearmotherandIabsolutelyinseparable.
Quiteforgetwhathedoes—afraidhe—doesn’tdoanything—oh,yes,playsthepiano—orisittheviolin,dearMr.Gray?’
Neitherofuscouldhelplaughing,andwebecamefriendsatonce.”
“Laughterisnotatallabadbeginningforafriendship,anditisfarthebestendingforone,”saidtheyounglord,pluckinganotherdaisy.
Hallwardshookhishead.“Youdon’tunderstandwhatfriendshipis,Harry,”hemurmured—“orwhatenmityis,forthatmatter.Youlikeeveryone;thatistosay,youareindifferenttoeveryone.”
“Howhorriblyunjustofyou!”criedLordHenry,tiltinghishatbackandlookingupatthelittlecloudsthat,likeravelledskeinsofglossywhitesilk,weredriftingacrossthehollowedturquoiseofthesummersky.“Yes;horriblyunjustofyou.
Imakeagreatdifferencebetweenpeople.
Ichoosemyfriendsfortheirgoodlooks,myacquaintancesfortheirgoodcharacters,andmyenemiesfortheirgoodintellects.
Amancannotbetoocarefulinthechoiceofhisenemies.Ihavenotgotonewhoisafool.
Theyareallmenofsomeintellectualpower,andconsequentlytheyallappreciateme.Isthatveryvainofme?Ithinkitisrathervain.”
“Ishouldthinkitwas,Harry.ButaccordingtoyourcategoryImustbemerelyanacquaintance.”
“MydearoldBasil,youaremuchmorethananacquaintance.”
“Andmuchlessthanafriend.Asortofbrother,Isuppose?”
“Oh,brothers!Idon’tcareforbrothers.Myelderbrotherwon’tdie,andmyyoungerbrothersseemnevertodoanythingelse.”
“Harry!”exclaimedHallward,frowning.
“Mydearfellow,Iamnotquiteserious.
ButIcan’thelpdetestingmyrelations.
Isupposeitcomesfromthefactthatnoneofuscanstandotherpeoplehavingthesamefaultsasourselves.
IquitesympathizewiththerageoftheEnglishdemocracyagainstwhattheycallthevicesoftheupperorders.
Themassesfeelthatdrunkenness,stupidity,andimmoralityshouldbetheirownspecialproperty,andthatifanyoneofusmakesanassofhimself,heispoachingontheirpreserves.
WhenpoorSouthwarkgotintothedivorcecourt,theirindignationwasquitemagnificent.
AndyetIdon’tsupposethattenpercentoftheproletariatlivecorrectly.”
“Idon’tagreewithasinglewordthatyouhavesaid,and,whatismore,Harry,Ifeelsureyoudon’teither.”
LordHenrystrokedhispointedbrownbeardandtappedthetoeofhispatent-leatherbootwithatasselledebonycane.“HowEnglishyouareBasil!
Thatisthesecondtimeyouhavemadethatobservation.
IfoneputsforwardanideatoatrueEnglishman—alwaysarashthingtodo—heneverdreamsofconsideringwhethertheideaisrightorwrong.
Theonlythingheconsidersofanyimportanceiswhetheronebelievesitoneself.
Now,thevalueofanideahasnothingwhatsoevertodowiththesincerityofthemanwhoexpressesit.
Indeed,theprobabilitiesarethatthemoreinsincerethemanis,themorepurelyintellectualwilltheideabe,asinthatcaseitwillnotbecolouredbyeitherhiswants,hisdesires,orhisprejudices.
However,Idon’tproposetodiscusspolitics,sociology,ormetaphysicswithyou.
Ilikepersonsbetterthanprinciples,andIlikepersonswithnoprinciplesbetterthananythingelseintheworld.TellmemoreaboutMr.DorianGray.Howoftendoyouseehim?”
“Everyday.Icouldn’tbehappyifIdidn’tseehimeveryday.Heisabsolutelynecessarytome.”
“Howextraordinary!Ithoughtyouwouldnevercareforanythingbutyourart.”
“Heisallmyarttomenow,”saidthepaintergravely.
“Isometimesthink,Harry,thatthereareonlytwoerasofanyimportanceintheworld’shistory.
Thefirstistheappearanceofanewmediumforart,andthesecondistheappearanceofanewpersonalityforartalso.
Whattheinventionofoil-paintingwastotheVenetians,thefaceofAntinouswastolateGreeksculpture,andthefaceofDorianGraywillsomedaybetome.
ItisnotmerelythatIpaintfromhim,drawfromhim,sketchfromhim.Ofcourse,Ihavedoneallthat.
Butheismuchmoretomethanamodelorasitter.
Iwon’ttellyouthatIamdissatisfiedwithwhatIhavedoneofhim,orthathisbeautyissuchthatartcannotexpressit.
Thereisnothingthatartcannotexpress,andIknowthattheworkIhavedone,sinceImetDorianGray,isgoodwork,isthebestworkofmylife.
Butinsomecuriousway—Iwonderwillyouunderstandme?
—hispersonalityhassuggestedtomeanentirelynewmannerinart,anentirelynewmodeofstyle.
Iseethingsdifferently,Ithinkofthemdifferently.
Icannowrecreatelifeinawaythatwashiddenfrommebefore.
‘Adreamofformindaysofthought’—whoisitwhosaysthat?
Iforget;butitiswhatDorianGrayhasbeentome.
Themerelyvisiblepresenceofthislad—forheseemstomelittlemorethanalad,thoughheisreallyovertwenty—hismerelyvisiblepresence—ah!
Iwondercanyourealizeallthatthatmeans?
Unconsciouslyhedefinesformethelinesofafreshschool,aschoolthatistohaveinitallthepassionoftheromanticspirit,alltheperfectionofthespiritthatisGreek.
Theharmonyofsoulandbody—howmuchthatis!
Weinourmadnesshaveseparatedthetwo,andhaveinventedarealismthatisvulgar,anidealitythatisvoid.Harry!
ifyouonlyknewwhatDorianGrayistome!
Yourememberthatlandscapeofmine,forwhichAgnewofferedmesuchahugepricebutwhichIwouldnotpartwith?
ItisoneofthebestthingsIhaveeverdone.Andwhyisitso?
Because,whileIwaspaintingit,DorianGraysatbesideme.
Somesubtleinfluencepassedfromhimtome,andforthefirsttimeinmylifeIsawintheplainwoodlandthewonderIhadalwayslookedforandalwaysmissed.”
“Basil,thisisextraordinary!ImustseeDorianGray.”
Hallwardgotupfromtheseatandwalkedupanddownthegarden.Aftersometimehecameback.
“Harry,”hesaid,“DorianGrayistomesimplyamotiveinart.Youmightseenothinginhim.Iseeeverythinginhim.
Heisnevermorepresentinmyworkthanwhennoimageofhimisthere.
Heisasuggestion,asIhavesaid,ofanewmanner.
Ifindhiminthecurvesofcertainlines,inthelovelinessandsubtletiesofcertaincolours.Thatisall.”
“Thenwhywon’tyouexhibithisportrait?”askedLordHenry.
“Because,withoutintendingit,Ihaveputintoitsomeexpressionofallthiscuriousartisticidolatry,ofwhich,ofcourse,Ihavenevercaredtospeaktohim.Heknowsnothingaboutit.Heshallneverknowanythingaboutit.
Buttheworldmightguessit,andIwillnotbaremysoultotheirshallowpryingeyes.
Myheartshallneverbeputundertheirmicroscope.
Thereistoomuchofmyselfinthething,Harry—toomuchofmyself!”
“Poetsarenotsoscrupulousasyouare.Theyknowhowusefulpassionisforpublication.Nowadaysabrokenheartwillruntomanyeditions.”
“Ihatethemforit,”criedHallward.“Anartistshouldcreatebeautifulthings,butshouldputnothingofhisownlifeintothem.
Weliveinanagewhenmentreatartasifitweremeanttobeaformofautobiography.
Wehavelosttheabstractsenseofbeauty.
SomedayIwillshowtheworldwhatitis;andforthatreasontheworldshallneverseemyportraitofDorianGray.”
“Ithinkyouarewrong,Basil,butIwon’targuewithyou.Itisonlytheintellectuallylostwhoeverargue.Tellme,isDorianGrayveryfondofyou?”
Thepainterconsideredforafewmoments.
“Helikesme,”heansweredafterapause;“Iknowhelikesme.OfcourseIflatterhimdreadfully.
IfindastrangepleasureinsayingthingstohimthatIknowIshallbesorryforhavingsaid.
Asarule,heischarmingtome,andwesitinthestudioandtalkofathousandthings.
Nowandthen,however,heishorriblythoughtless,andseemstotakearealdelightingivingmepain.
ThenIfeel,Harry,thatIhavegivenawaymywholesoultosomeonewhotreatsitasifitwereaflowertoputinhiscoat,abitofdecorationtocharmhisvanity,anornamentforasummer’sday.”
“Daysinsummer,Basil,areapttolinger,”murmuredLordHenry.
“Perhapsyouwilltiresoonerthanhewill.
Itisasadthingtothinkof,butthereisnodoubtthatgeniuslastslongerthanbeauty.
Thataccountsforthefactthatwealltakesuchpainstoover-educateourselves.
Inthewildstruggleforexistence,wewanttohavesomethingthatendures,andsowefillourmindswithrubbishandfacts,inthesillyhopeofkeepingourplace.
Thethoroughlywell-informedman—thatisthemodernideal.
Andthemindofthethoroughlywell-informedmanisadreadfulthing.
Itislikeabric-a-bracshop,allmonstersanddust,witheverythingpricedaboveitspropervalue.
Ithinkyouwilltirefirst,allthesame.
Somedayyouwilllookatyourfriend,andhewillseemtoyoutobealittleoutofdrawing,oryouwon’tlikehistoneofcolour,orsomething.
Youwillbitterlyreproachhiminyourownheart,andseriouslythinkthathehasbehavedverybadlytoyou.
Thenexttimehecalls,youwillbeperfectlycoldandindifferent.
Itwillbeagreatpity,foritwillalteryou.
Whatyouhavetoldmeisquitearomance,aromanceofartonemightcallit,andtheworstofhavingaromanceofanykindisthatitleavesonesounromantic.”
“Harry,don’ttalklikethat.AslongasIlive,thepersonalityofDorianGraywilldominateme.Youcan’tfeelwhatIfeel.Youchangetoooften.”
“Ah,mydearBasil,thatisexactlywhyIcanfeelit.
Thosewhoarefaithfulknowonlythetrivialsideoflove:itisthefaithlesswhoknowlove’stragedies.”
AndLordHenrystruckalightonadaintysilvercaseandbegantosmokeacigarettewithaself-consciousandsatisfiedair,asifhehadsummeduptheworldinaphrase.
Therewasarustleofchirrupingsparrowsinthegreenlacquerleavesoftheivy,andthebluecloud-shadowschasedthemselvesacrossthegrasslikeswallows.Howpleasantitwasinthegarden!
Andhowdelightfulotherpeople’semotionswere!
—muchmoredelightfulthantheirideas,itseemedtohim.
One’sownsoul,andthepassionsofone’sfriends—thosewerethefascinatingthingsinlife.
HepicturedtohimselfwithsilentamusementthetediousluncheonthathehadmissedbystayingsolongwithBasilHallward.
Hadhegonetohisaunt’s,hewouldhavebeensuretohavemetLordGoodbodythere,andthewholeconversationwouldhavebeenaboutthefeedingofthepoorandthenecessityformodellodging-houses.
Eachclasswouldhavepreachedtheimportanceofthosevirtues,forwhoseexercisetherewasnonecessityintheirownlives.
Therichwouldhavespokenonthevalueofthrift,andtheidlegrowneloquentoverthedignityoflabour.
Itwascharmingtohaveescapedallthat!
Ashethoughtofhisaunt,anideaseemedtostrikehim.
HeturnedtoHallwardandsaid,“Mydearfellow,Ihavejustremembered.”
“Rememberedwhat,Harry?”
“WhereIheardthenameofDorianGray.”
“Wherewasit?”askedHallward,withaslightfrown.
“Don’tlooksoangry,Basil.Itwasatmyaunt,LadyAgatha’s.
ShetoldmeshehaddiscoveredawonderfulyoungmanwhowasgoingtohelpherintheEastEnd,andthathisnamewasDorianGray.
Iamboundtostatethatshenevertoldmehewasgood-looking.
Womenhavenoappreciationofgoodlooks;atleast,goodwomenhavenot.
Shesaidthathewasveryearnestandhadabeautifulnature.
Iatoncepicturedtomyselfacreaturewithspectaclesandlankhair,horriblyfreckled,andtrampingaboutonhugefeet.IwishIhadknownitwasyourfriend.”
“Iamverygladyoudidn’t,Harry.”
“Why?”
“Idon’twantyoutomeethim.”
“Youdon’twantmetomeethim?”
“No.”
“Mr.DorianGrayisinthestudio,sir,”saidthebutler,comingintothegarden.
“Youmustintroducemenow,”criedLordHenry,laughing.
Thepainterturnedtohisservant,whostoodblinkinginthesunlight.“AskMr.Graytowait,Parker:Ishallbeininafewmoments.”Themanbowedandwentupthewalk.
ThenhelookedatLordHenry.“DorianGrayismydearestfriend,”hesaid.
“Hehasasimpleandabeautifulnature.
Yourauntwasquiterightinwhatshesaidofhim.Don’tspoilhim.Don’ttrytoinfluencehim.Yourinfluencewouldbebad.
Theworldiswide,andhasmanymarvellouspeopleinit.
Don’ttakeawayfrommetheonepersonwhogivestomyartwhatevercharmitpossesses:mylifeasanartistdependsonhim.Mind,Harry,Itrustyou.”
Hespokeveryslowly,andthewordsseemedwrungoutofhimalmostagainsthiswill.
“Whatnonsenseyoutalk!”saidLordHenry,smiling,andtakingHallwardbythearm,healmostledhimintothehouse.
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