The Picture of Dorian Gray | Page 5

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