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๐Ÿ”ต Picture of Dorian Gray – British Reading – Chapter 1 – Oscar Wilde – British English Pronunciation

The Picture of Dorian Gray
by Oscar Wilde 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 don’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 won’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 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 the same.” “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 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 don’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.
Don’t flatter yourself, Basil: you are not in the least like him.” “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 anyone. 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 someone 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 someone
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?” “Yes; she is a peacock in everything but beauty,”
said Lord Henry, pulling the daisy to bits with his long nervous fingers. “I could not get rid of her. She brought me
up to royalties, and people with stars and garters, and elderly ladies with gigantic
tiaras and parrot noses. She spoke of me as her dearest friend. I had only met her once
before, but she took it into her head to lionize me. I believe some picture of mine had made
a great success at the time, at least had been chattered about in the penny newspapers,
which is the nineteenth-century standard of immortality. Suddenly I found myself face
to face with the young man whose personality had so strangely stirred me. We were quite
close, almost touching. Our eyes met again. It was reckless of me, but I asked Lady Brandon
to introduce me to him. Perhaps it was not so reckless, after all. It was simply inevitable.
We would have spoken to each other without any introduction. I am sure of that. Dorian
told me so afterwards. He, too, felt that we were destined to know each other.” “And how did Lady Brandon describe this wonderful
young man?” asked his companion. “I know she goes in for giving a rapid precis of all her
guests. I remember her bringing me up to a truculent and red-faced old gentleman covered
all over with orders and ribbons, and hissing into my ear, in a tragic whisper which must
have been perfectly audible to everybody in the room, the most astounding details. I simply
fled. I like to find out people for myself. But Lady Brandon treats her guests exactly
as an auctioneer treats his goods. She either explains them entirely away, or tells one
everything about them except what one wants to know.” “Poor Lady Brandon! You are hard on her, Harry!”
said Hallward listlessly. “My dear fellow, she tried to found a salon,
and only succeeded in opening a restaurant. How could I admire her? But tell me, what
did she say about Mr. Dorian Gray?” “Oh, something like, ‘Charming boy—poor
dear mother and I absolutely inseparable. Quite forget what he does—afraid he—doesn’t
do anything—oh, yes, plays the piano—or is it the violin, dear Mr. Gray?’ Neither
of us could help laughing, and we became friends at once.” “Laughter is not at all a bad beginning for
a friendship, and it is far the best ending for one,” said the young lord, plucking another
daisy. Hallward shook his head. “You don’t understand
what friendship is, Harry,” he murmured—”or what enmity is, for that matter. You like
every one; that is to say, you are indifferent to everyone.” “How horribly unjust of you!” cried Lord Henry,
tilting his hat back and looking up at the little clouds that, like ravelled skeins of
glossy white silk, were drifting across the hollowed turquoise of the summer sky. “Yes;
horribly unjust of you. I make a great difference between people. I choose my friends for their
good looks, my acquaintances for their good characters, and my enemies for their good
intellects. A man cannot be too careful in the choice of his enemies. I have not got
one who is a fool. They are all men of some intellectual power, and consequently they
all appreciate me. Is that very vain of me? I think it is rather vain.” “I should think it was, Harry. But according
to your category I must be merely an acquaintance.” “My dear old Basil, you are much more than
an acquaintance.” “And much less than a friend. A sort of brother,
I suppose?” “Oh, brothers! I don’t care for brothers.
My elder brother won’t die, and my younger brothers seem never to do anything else.” “Harry!” exclaimed Hallward, frowning. “My dear fellow, I am not quite serious. But
I can’t help detesting my relations. I suppose it comes from the fact that none of us can
stand other people having the same faults as ourselves. I quite sympathize with the
rage of the English democracy against what they call the vices of the upper orders. The
masses feel that drunkenness, stupidity, and immorality should be their own special property,
and that if any one of us makes an ass of himself, he is poaching on their preserves.
When poor Southwark got into the divorce court, their indignation was quite magnificent. And
yet I don’t suppose that ten per cent of the proletariat live correctly.” “I don’t agree with a single word that you
have said, and, what is more, Harry, I feel sure you don’t either.” Lord Henry stroked his pointed brown beard
and tapped the toe of his patent-leather boot with a tasselled ebony cane. “How English
you are Basil! That is the second time you have made that observation. If one puts forward
an idea to a true Englishman—always a rash thing to do—he never dreams of considering
whether the idea is right or wrong. The only thing he considers of any importance is whether
one believes it oneself. Now, the value of an idea has nothing whatsoever to do with
the sincerity of the man who expresses it. Indeed, the probabilities are that the more
insincere the man is, the more purely intellectual will the idea be, as in that case it will
not be coloured by either his wants, his desires, or his prejudices. However, I don’t propose
to discuss politics, sociology, or metaphysics with you. I like persons better than principles,
and I like persons with no principles better than anything else in the world. Tell me more
about Mr. Dorian Gray. How often do you see him?” “Every day. I couldn’t be happy if I didn’t
see him every day. He is absolutely necessary to me.” “How extraordinary! I thought you would never
care for anything but your art.” “He is all my art to me now,” said the painter
gravely. “I sometimes think, Harry, that there are only two eras of any importance in the
world’s history. The first is the appearance of a new medium for art, and the second is
the appearance of a new personality for art also. What the invention of oil-painting was
to the Venetians, the face of Antinous was to late Greek sculpture, and the face of Dorian
Gray will someday be to me. It is not merely that I paint from him, draw from him, sketch
from him. Of course, I have done all that. But he is much more to me than a model or
a sitter. I won’t tell you that I am dissatisfied with what I have done of him, or that his
beauty is such that art cannot express it. There is nothing that art cannot express,
and I know that the work I have done, since I met Dorian Gray, is good work, is the best
work of my life. But in some curious way—I wonder will you understand me?—his personality
has suggested to me an entirely new manner in art, an entirely new mode of style. I see
things differently, I think of them differently. I can now recreate life in a way that was
hidden from me before. ‘A dream of form in days of thought’—who is it who says that?
I forget; but it is what Dorian Gray has been to me. The merely visible presence of this
lad—for he seems to me little more than a lad, though he is really over twenty—his
merely visible presence—ah! I wonder can you realize all that that means? Unconsciously
he defines for me the lines of a fresh school, a school that is to have in it all the passion
of the romantic spirit, all the perfection of the spirit that is Greek. The harmony of
soul and body—how much that is! We in our madness have separated the two, and have invented
a realism that is vulgar, an ideality that is void. Harry! if you only knew what Dorian
Gray is to me! You remember that landscape of mine, for which Agnew offered me such a
huge price but which I would not part with? It is one of the best things I have ever done.
And why is it so? Because, while I was painting it, Dorian Gray sat beside me. Some subtle
influence passed from him to me, and for the first time in my life I saw in the plain woodland
the wonder I had always looked for and always missed.” “Basil, this is extraordinary! I must see
Dorian Gray.” Hallward got up from the seat and walked up
and down the garden. After some time he came back. “Harry,” he said, “Dorian Gray is to
me simply a motive in art. You might see nothing in him. I see everything in him. He is never
more present in my work than when no image of him is there. He is a suggestion, as I
have said, of a new manner. I find him in the curves of certain lines, in the loveliness
and subtleties of certain colours. That is all.” “Then why won’t you exhibit his portrait?”
asked Lord Henry. “Because, without intending it, I have put
into it some expression of all this curious artistic idolatry, of which, of course, I
have never cared to speak to him. He knows nothing about it. He shall never know anything
about it. But the world might guess it, and I will not bare my soul to their shallow prying
eyes. My heart shall never be put under their microscope. There is too much of myself in
the thing, Harry—too much of myself!” “Poets are not so scrupulous as you are. They
know how useful passion is for publication. Nowadays a broken heart will run to many editions.” “I hate them for it,” cried Hallward. “An
artist should create beautiful things, but should put nothing of his own life into them.
We live in an age when men treat art as if it were meant to be a form of autobiography.
We have lost the abstract sense of beauty. Someday I will show the world what it is;
and for that reason the world shall never see my portrait of Dorian Gray.” “I think you are wrong, Basil, but I won’t
argue with you. It is only the intellectually lost who ever argue. Tell me, is Dorian Gray
very fond of you?” The painter considered for a few moments.
“He likes me,” he answered after a pause; “I know he likes me. Of course I flatter him
dreadfully. I find a strange pleasure in saying things to him that I know I shall be sorry
for having said. As a rule, he is charming to me, and we sit in the studio and talk of
a thousand things. Now and then, however, he is horribly thoughtless, and seems to take
a real delight in giving me pain. Then I feel, Harry, that I have given away my whole soul
to someone who treats it as if it were a flower to put in his coat, a bit of decoration to
charm his vanity, an ornament for a summer’s day.” “Days in summer, Basil, are apt to linger,”
murmured Lord Henry. “Perhaps you will tire sooner than he will. It is a sad thing to
think of, but there is no doubt that genius lasts longer than beauty. That accounts for
the fact that we all take such pains to over-educate ourselves. In the wild struggle for existence,
we want to have something that endures, and so we fill our minds with rubbish and facts,
in the silly hope of keeping our place. The thoroughly well-informed man—that is the
modern ideal. And the mind of the thoroughly well-informed man is a dreadful thing. It
is like a bric-a-brac shop, all monsters and dust, with everything priced above its proper
value. I think you will tire first, all the same. Some day you will look at your friend,
and he will seem to you to be a little out of drawing, or you won’t like his tone of
colour, or something. You will bitterly reproach him in your own heart, and seriously think
that he has behaved very badly to you. The next time he calls, you will be perfectly
cold and indifferent. It will be a great pity, for it will alter you. What you have told
me is quite a romance, a romance of art one might call it, and the worst of having a romance
of any kind is that it leaves one so unromantic.” “Harry, don’t talk like that. As long as I
live, the personality of Dorian Gray will dominate me. You can’t feel what I feel. You
change too often.” “Ah, my dear Basil, that is exactly why I
can feel it. Those who are faithful know only the trivial side of love: it is the faithless
who know love’s tragedies.” And Lord Henry struck a light on a dainty silver case and
began to smoke a cigarette with a self-conscious and satisfied air, as if he had summed up
the world in a phrase. There was a rustle of chirruping sparrows in the green lacquer
leaves of the ivy, and the blue cloud-shadows chased themselves across the grass like swallows.
How pleasant it was in the garden! And how delightful other people’s emotions were!—much
more delightful than their ideas, it seemed to him. One’s own soul, and the passions of
one’s friends—those were the fascinating things in life. He pictured to himself with
silent amusement the tedious luncheon that he had missed by staying so long with Basil
Hallward. Had he gone to his aunt’s, he would have been sure to have met Lord Goodbody there,
and the whole conversation would have been about the feeding of the poor and the necessity
for model lodging-houses. Each class would have preached the importance of those virtues,
for whose exercise there was no necessity in their own lives. The rich would have spoken
on the value of thrift, and the idle grown eloquent over the dignity of labour. It was
charming to have escaped all that! As he thought of his aunt, an idea seemed to strike him.
He turned to Hallward and said, “My dear fellow, I have just remembered.” “Remembered what, Harry?” “Where I heard the name of Dorian Gray.” “Where was it?” asked Hallward, with a slight
frown. “Don’t look so angry, Basil. It was at my
aunt, Lady Agatha’s. She told me she had discovered a wonderful young man who was going to help
her in the East End, and that his name was Dorian Gray. I am bound to state that she
never told me he was good-looking. Women have no appreciation of good looks; at least, good
women have not. She said that he was very earnest and had a beautiful nature. I at once
pictured to myself a creature with spectacles and lank hair, horribly freckled, and tramping
about on huge feet. I wish I had known it was your friend.” “I am very glad you didn’t, Harry.” “Why?” “I don’t want you to meet him.” “You don’t want me to meet him?” “No.” “Mr. Dorian Gray is in the studio, sir,” said
the butler, coming into the garden. “You must introduce me now,” cried Lord Henry,
laughing. The painter turned to his servant, who stood
blinking in the sunlight. “Ask Mr. Gray to wait, Parker: I shall be in in a few moments.”
The man bowed and went up the walk. Then he looked at Lord Henry. “Dorian Gray
is my dearest friend,” he said. “He has a simple and a beautiful nature. Your aunt was
quite right in what she said of him. Don’t spoil him. Don’t try to influence him. Your
influence would be bad. The world is wide, and has many marvellous people in it. Don’t
take away from me the one person who gives to my art whatever charm it possesses: my
life as an artist depends on him. Mind, Harry, I trust you.” He spoke very slowly, and the
words seemed wrung out of him almost against his will. “What nonsense you talk!” said Lord Henry,
smiling, and taking Hallward by the arm, he almost led him into the house.


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