The Picture of Dorian Gray | Page 7

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 some day 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