The Spark Notes Picture of Dorian Gray

Sparknotes

Chapter One

The studio was filled with the rich odour of roses, and whenthe 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 whichhe was lying, smoking, as was his custom, innumerable cigarettes,Lord Henry Wotton could just catch the gleam of the honey-sweet andhoney-coloured blossoms of a laburnum, whose tremulous branches seemedhardly able to bear the burden of a beauty so flamelike as theirs;and now and then the fantastic shadows of birds in flight flittedacross the long tussore-silk curtains that were stretched in frontof 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 murmurof the bees shouldering their way through the long unmown grass,or circling with monotonous insistence round the dusty gilt horns ofthe 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-lengthportrait 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 publicexcitement and gave rise to so many strange conjectures.

As the painter looked at the gracious and comely form he had so skilfullymirrored in his art, a smile of pleasure passed across his face, and seemedabout 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 hisbrain 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 yearto the Grosvenor. The Academy is too large and too vulgar.Whenever I have gone there, there have been either so many people that Ihave not been able to see the pictures, which was dreadful, or so manypictures that I have not been able to see the people, which was worse.The Grosvenor is really the only place."

"I don't think I shall send it anywhere," he answered, tossing his headback in that odd way that used to make his friends laugh at him at Oxford."No, I won't send it anywhere."

Lord Henry elevated his eyebrows and looked at him in amazement throughthe thin blue wreaths of smoke that curled up in such fanciful whorlsfrom his heavy, opium-tainted cigarette. "Not send it anywhere?My dear fellow, why? Have you any reason? What odd chaps youpainters 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 worsethan 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 ofany emotion."

"I know you will laugh at me," he replied, "but I really can'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 thesame."

"Too much of yourself in it! Upon my word, Basil,I didn't know you were so vain; and I really can't see any resemblancebetween you, with your rugged strong face and your coal-black hair,and this young Adonis, who looks as if he was made out of ivoryand rose-leaves. Why, my dear Basil, he is a Narcissus, andyou—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 destroysthe 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 don't think. A bishop keeps on saying atthe 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 quitesure of that. He is some brainless beautiful creature who should bealways here in winter when we have no flowers to look at, and alwayshere in summer when we want something to chill our intelligence.Don't flatter yourself, Basil: you are not in the least likehim."

"You don't understand me, Harry," answered the artist. "Of course I amnot like him. I know that perfectly well. Indeed, I should be sorryto 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 falteringsteps 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 sitat 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 weall 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 itmay be worth; Dorian Gray's good looks—we shall all suffer for what the godshave given us, suffer terribly."

"Dorian Gray? Is that his name?" asked Lord Henry, walking acrossthe 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 telltheir names to any one. It is like surrendering a part of them.I have grown to love secrecy. It seems to be the one thingthat 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 romanceinto one's life. I suppose you think me awfully foolishabout 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 isthat 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 godown to the Duke's—we tell each other the most absurd stories with the mostserious 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 shedoes 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 intothe garden....