#lord henry 'i can make him worse' wotton

[ssoupcup]

tw // life size portrait, vanity, questionable morals, aging, supernaturally not aging, locked rooms, murder, people named after herbs

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you guys won't believe what just happened

[ramblings-of-a-sad-poet]

Lord Henry is literally the worst person-

[dwarven-beard-spores]

So when you "can make him worse" it's fine, but when I, Lord Henry Wotton,

[basil-isdead]

some thoughts about the secret history bc i’m tipsy

AKA, I read this book 5 years ago and it still lives in my head rent free

- I am now the same age as these people and that feels really fucking strange.

- Henry's nickname for Bunny is annoying rabbit. And frankly the most insulting thing about that is that Henry probably couldn't come up with a better nickname.

- Bunny listens to Art Pepper when he has sex and if my roommate ever brought someone home and then put on smooth jazz I would actually burst out laughing. I can just imagine Henry having to pretend to be asleep next to Bunny and Marion, and never being able to listen to jazz music ever again.

- The story takes place in 1983. There are people at Hampden walking around mullets and kitschy neon shirts and giant shoulder pads. Think about that for a minute okay.

- Which by extension means that the entire Greek class are boomers

- Everyone except Henry and Francis is poor, no cap. Bunny is basically fucking destitute and has holes in his clothes and shit, and Camilla had to put up with Charles’ abuse for way longer than she should have because she couldn’t afford to get away from him.

- None of them have jobs – not even Richard.

- Hampden is a grimy liberal arts school filled with weirdo gremlin people like me and I find it hilarious that the dark academia community treats it like it’s Harvard.

- They literally let in anyone. Henry didn't even take his SAT's, Richard was a pre-med dropout, and Bunny is borderline illiterate and the admissions board was like yeah why not.

- I went to a uni like Hampden and it is not aesthetic in the slightest. It’s the kind of environment that just makes all of your issues ten times worse by the time you leave, in addition to a hefty amount of student loan debt just to add some spice to your post-university depression episode.

- Hampden town only has one café.

- Literally. You would think the town would capitalise on all of the students but instead it’s just a bunch of low income Vermont farmers who hate everyone from the college and like… one biker bar.

- It must be impossible to get a good night’s sleep on Friday and Saturday nights bc of all of the parties. Especially because there aren’t any nightclubs or anything so all of the parties are on campus.

- Henry really listened to Julian say that dead bodies are sexy, and said “whelp seems like a good reason to kill someone”.

- Charles was literally sexually abusing his sister and the rest of the Greek class just pretended like he wasn’t.

- Richard is the worst offender of this. Camilla fucking came to him about it and even then he was still just like “Charles is such a golden retriever, look at this beautiful wholesome man.”

- Henry doesn’t need to throw bacchanal, he needs therapy.

- The entire Greek class are fucking pick-me’s who think they’re better than everyone else because they wear suits or something.

- Like they look down at everyone at Hampden as if they don’t also go to the same school as them. You aren’t special sweetie, you’re just a classist asshole.

- I am convinced that Camilla is just Donna Tartt's self insert.

- Henry comes from a family who are probably just Missouri’s version of the Trump family but he’s held up by the dark academia community as the poster child for old money.

- Bunny’s response to literally everyone was just “that’s not very cash money of you”.

- Marion is very much giving Girl Defined/ Mrs Midwest energy. She absolutely called Francis a slur at some point.

- Julian is such a fucking predator holy fuck. Everything about him just screams red flags.

- Like how pathetic do you have to be to randomly select a bunch of teenagers to groom with your Lord Henry Wotton bullshit hot-takes in order to boost your own ego. So much so that you’ll refuse your paycheck so that the place you work for can’t interfere with your curriculum.

- Also, Julian is canonically compared to Pliny the elder and if you know anything about Pliny the elder and the kinds of things he believed then everything Julian says just becomes fucking hilarious.

- Pliny the elder is the kind of guy who would say you should take horse medicine to treat COVID okay.

- Charles literally had to be hospitalised because of his drinking problem and Richard was dumb enough to bring him even more alcohol.

- Henry 100% tried to kill Charles.

- I have a sneaking suspicion that Francis is ableist and it really doesn’t sit right with me.

- It’s been said before but I’ll put it here too. THIS BOOK IS NOT ENDORSING ANY OF THE BELIEFS THE CHARACTERS PUT FORTH. It throws out little jabs here and there about how fucked up all of the Greek class and the kind of ideas they perpetuate are, you just have to look for them. Donna Tartt is not a stupid person and if she saw half of the posts in the dark academia tag she would pop a fucking vein.

- Bunny is canonically anti-Semitic. Big yikes.

- Also I feel like he would be an avid watcher of Tucker Carlson.

- Why does no one talk about how Charles ended up in Texas? Like I'm just trying to picture him there but I can't.

- Richard is the kind of guy who has navy blue sheets and only washes them like once every three months. And if he hadn’t been given a bed frame in his dorm he would have slept on a mattress on the floor.

[arturcii]

                               HSHQTASK041: INSPIRATION

get ready for this one folks, it’s a big one. spoiler alert for anyone on here who plays bioshock or persona 5.

i. Henry Winter (The Secret History)

cigarettes, elaborate murder plots, and existential crises, all with the luxury of an inherited sense of entitlement

“Why does that obstinate little voice in our heads torment us so? Could it be because it reminds us that we are alive, of our mortality, of our individual souls – which, after all, we are too afraid to surrender but yet make us feel more miserable than any other thing? But isn’t it also pain that often makes us most aware of self? It is a terrible thing to learn as a child that one is a being separate from all the world, that no one and no thing hurts along with one’s burned tongues and skinned knees, that one’s aches and pains are all one’s own. Even more terrible, as we grow older, to learn that no person, no matter how beloved, can ever truly understand us. Our own selves make us unhappy, and that’s why we’re so anxious to lose them, don’t you think?…And how can we lose this maddening self, lose it entirely? Love? Yes, but as old Cephalus once heard Sophocles say, the least of us know that love is a cruel and terrible master. One loses oneself for the sake of the other, but in doing so becomes enslaved and miserable to the most capricious of all the gods. War? One can lose oneself in the joy of battle, in fighting for a glorious cause, but there are not a great many glorious causes for which to fight these days.”

ii. Thomas Elliot / Hush (Batman)

parental issues, big villain. quotes socrates and aristotle a lot like some pretentious prick.

"In the dark water I see the images of my parents [...] both mocking me for the monstrosity I've become. And in my delusion, I am a frightened little boy again, desperate for their approval. Willing to die for it.”

iii. Goro Akechi / Crow (Persona 5)

bastard Bastard. big daddy issues, big abandonment issues. throughout the entire game, acts like such a good guy, but willingly abandons everyone and everything for revenge and power. “everything, even his appearance, was a fake”. “that bastard – he made himself go psychotic!”

“Haha! How wonderful! You don’t allow yourself to be enslaved by such things as human relations or past selves. And so, your heart is always free. The exact opposite of mine. To be honest, I’m envious. I wonder why we couldn’t have met a few years earlier. But... it’s no use in talking hypotheticals. That didn’t happen in reality. [...] All this is to make Masayoshi Shido my father, acknowledge me. Then exact revenge on him. Remember what I said before, how my mother was in a relationship with a good-for-nothing man? So I’m his bastard child. My very existence is nothing but a scandal. My mother’s life turned for the worse after she had me... and died. I was a cursed child for her, too. I resented him, but he was already a high-ranking official by then. A kid like me could do nothing. [...] Once he reaches the apex of his power and acknowledges me, I will whisper in his ear... I will tell him the truth of who I really am! And that’s when I, an utter disgrace to the world, will rule over him! I will prevail!”

iv. Frank Fontaine / Atlas (Bioshock)

the biggest scammer. pretended to help the main character of the game for a good chunk of the story before revealing that he caused an entire civil war in order to gain power... including orchestrating a murder plot of the man in charge that involves a genetically-engineered assassin and a plan that spans years. now, would you kindly...

“I just told your brain to tell your heart to stop beating. Not right off the bat, mind you. The heart’s a stubborn muscle... but it ain’t that stubborn.”

v. Kichimura Washuu / Furuta Nimura (Tokyo Ghoul)

another bastard. grew up being told that he’s to be the heir and then schemes to make sure that the entire world burns with him.  (read the panel right to left.)

vi. Lord Henry Wotton (The Picture of Dorian Gray)

bad influence. pleasure-seeking. but definitely settles down and is the most surprising good parent??? or tries to be to his own kiddo. overall, though.... probably not the guy to take life advice from, even though he sounds like he knows what he’s talking about.

“We are not sent into the world to air our moral prejudices. I never take any notice of what common people say, and I never interfere with what charming people do. If a personality fascinates me, whatever the personality chooses to do is absolutely delightful to me. Dorian Gray falls in love with a beautiful girl who acts Shakespeare, and proposes to marry her. Why not? If he wedded Messalina he would be none the less interesting. You know I am not a champion of marriage. The real drawback to marriage is that it makes one unselfish. And unselfish people are colorless. They lack individuality. Still, there are certain temperaments that marriage makes more complex. They retain their egotism, and add to it many other egos. They are forced to have more than one life.  They become more highly organized.  Besides, every experience is of value, and, whatever one may say against marriage, it is certainly an experience.”

“You will always be fond of me. I represent to you all the sins you have never had the courage to commit.”

[fortycumber]

While watching Strangers From Hell I realized that there’s this weird parallel between Lord Henry Wotton, Dorian Gray and Jong Woo, Moon Jo. Dorian Gray was impressed by Henry Wotton and his uninhibited ways, he respected him and his lack of hesitation when it came to speaking his mind, he adored his beliefs and opinions about society that in a way he became vulnerable and susceptible. We can see this clearly in ep. 2 where Jong Woo and Moon Jo share that brief conversation at the balcony; Jong Woo is not interested at the beginning, but when he hears that they share an interest he eagerly keeps the conversation lively and looks, if not as impressed as Dorian was with Henry, thoroughly surprised and happy that he has finally encountered a “friendly” person into that hell hole, hence he becomes susceptible. We can see a certain gleam of hope into his eyes, a preparation to give all his trust to a stranger who showed him ‘kindness’ into that hell around him, just as Dorian, a lonely, abandoned orphan boy thrown into the unknown, trusted Henry Wotton. Jong Woo even confides in Moon Jo about his suspicions, but the clever ways in which he endeavors to uncover the mystery behind the tenants of Eden studio is what really fuels Moon Jo’s interest in him, captivates him, then prompts him to try a different method and instead of killing him, assimilate him, make him one of his handlers, break him, make him rotten and disgusting, perhaps even more than himself. When it comes to Lord Henry Wotton, the real reason as to why he had embarked on a journey to ruin Dorian Gray completely was because of the gullibility, beauty and youth which were all things he envied Dorian Gray over; he believed that someone as innocent and as beautiful should not exist together with him, just as Moon Jo believes that nobody should stay alive and sane enough to uncover his disgusting double life. The real similarity is, I believe at the end (here I’ll write based on what I’ve read online because I still haven’t reached the last episodes) where Moon Jo refers to him as “his greatest creation”. By giving Dorian the ‘Yellow book’ and by filling his head with all sorts of atrocities that poisoned his young brain and brought him beyond the point of return, Henry Wotton had, in a way created the monster that Dorian became. Similarly, Moon Jo’s poison had slowly begun to slide through Jong Woo’s mind, we can see that clearly in ep. 5 where he fights with the dreadful and untruthful image that the terrible man created of him. Now, I don’t know whether he, as Dorian has done, will embrace it eventually at the end and become even worse than his “creator” because as I said before I still haven’t seen the last episode. 

But from what I see now, I think he’s halfway there. 

[starfxckersinc]

DOING THE HARD WORK OF MAKING EVERYONE IN DORIAN GRAY LOOK LIKE A DICK EXCEPTING, WITH LIMITS, DORIAN GRAY

okay so I’ve read The Picture Of Dorian Gray three times and I plan to again after I finish a few more novels, so I consider myself knowledgeable enough both about the book AND about the fandom surrounding it to make this post. This has been kicking around in my head for YEARS, especially after getting into Velvet Goldmine and noting how that fandom treats Brian Slade, who’s basically a modern interpretation of the same character. I know a lot of people are jonesing for me to rag on Basil Hallward and I plan to, so fair warning to those of you who i know are obsessed with him.

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To start, a lot of people see Lord Henry as the only discernible “Villain” in the book(though the book really has no villain) and Basil as the put upon good guy. This description is somewhat fair. Lord Henry contributes a lot of Dorian’s toxic ideas and enables a LOT of his most self centered behavior, not to mention he gives him the book that inspires his worst deeds. He’s the person who makes it clear to him that youth, self gratification, and most importantly, beauty are all that matter in life. Basil, on the other hand, does his best to “counter” these ideas, though I personally would say his idea of countering amounts to nothing but passive aggressive, low energy disdain. Dorian is too wrapped up in Lord Henry to listen to reason, and eventually murders Basil in cold blood, allowing him to achieve a sort of tragic book character aura that makes him sympathetic.

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To put it simply, the general attitude towards these character dynamics is that Lord Henry is the Bad, Basil is the Good, and Dorian could’ve been good if Lord Henry would’ve let him be. I find this interpretation very surface level despite the relatability of Basil Hallward’s homosexual yearning and romantic struggles.

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But before we dissect Basil, let’s dissect his counterpart. Lord Henry, to start, is immediatley established as a vain and flippant dandy(which is true) because of his belief that beauty is the most valuable trait a person can possess. This is the first lesson that he gives Dorian: that his beauty is his power, that his youth is fleeting, and that life will be worthless once he’s lost the ability to appeal physically to others. However, while he is the first to say it frankly enough for Dorian to consciously understand it, he is NOT the first to communicate that to him. He is just one in a long line of many, as is Basil himself.

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Funnily enough, I would argue that of all the adult figures in Dorian’s life, Lord Henry is the MOST supportive of Dorian’s actual person, and I think it’s entirely natural that he became as attached to him as he did and may have less to do with Henry’s good looks and manipulation than we think. Nobody in his immediate circle of friends or family allows him to explore himself or form an opinion about the world that differs from their own- Except for Henry. It’s merely Dorian’s misfortune that the first person he meets who allows him to be a human being is a conceited asshole, but it follows the theme of Dorian’s life, which is that he is the avatar for older and more cowardly men. And in Lord Henry’s eyes, Dorian’s poetential is limitless. He’s happy to give him ideas and let him run wild, but can’t accept the responsibility of teaching him kindness or compassion or self-preservation, because that would make the spectacle less interesting. Lord Henry is using a 19-to-20 year old to live out his fantasy of what he wishes he could do- But he’s not really different from Basil in that respect.

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And now it is time.

Basil Hallward reminds me a lot of myself, so I feel like I understand his motivations. He’s a shy, earnest, secretive artist who doesn’t care much for anything besides doing his work and yearning while looking out over his garden. He’s upset by people like Lord Henry, who are the embodiment of the poet who lives what he cannot write, because he is the opposite: He creates, and therefore doesn’t have to live out, his fantasy worlds. Basil is repressed and mild mannered while Henry, to his intense jealousy, is more attractive, vivacious, and conversationally interesting- Which is most likely why he didn’t want to share him with Dorian, instead of the reason he gave, which was that Dorian’s pure personality would be tarnished. It’s quite obvious Basil has a crush. But I don’t believe he ever loved, or even truly cared for, Dorian himself.

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Allow me to explain: I have a whole blog of random pictures, mainly of other people, that I keep because I find those pictures striking in some sense. I don’t have an aesthetic theme, really: It’s just people who make me feel, or think, or see something a certain way. I have a pregnant wax figurine in there and old pictures of Marilyn Monroe- And I find both creatively interesting because of how they appear to me. What I’m getting at is I think Dorian Gray is to Basil what an art blog is to the average tumblr user. As David Bowie once said, there’s a difference between being in love and going on to love someone; And there is a difference between being fascinated with your muse and actually caring about the person beyond the projection.

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I think it’s extremely telling that before painting his portrait, Basil had an entire notebook dedicated to portraying Dorian as various mythical figures and heroes. I think it’s even more telling that when Basil DOES paint his portrait, he’s ashamed of it because it is a portrait of HIS soul, an admittance of his worship and idolatry. Dorian REPRESENTS something to Basil, and it’s fun to speculate on what: I believe he is the poster boy for all of Basil’s sexual and romantic fantasies, which he obviously finds shameful, woven together with the romantic escapism found in mythology. But it’s obvious from the start that Dorian is Not the virtuous young man that he wants him to be, and that those virtues are simply what Hallward believes Dorian should be like, as opposed to what he actually is.

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This is depressing, but what’s worse is that Dorian is aware of it, which is what actually inspired me to write this post. When he realizes his youth is fleeting, he accuses Basil of the truth, in a heartbreaking scene featuring this quote,

“Dorian Gray turned and looked at him. ‘I believe you would, Basil. You like your art better than your friends. I am no more to you than a green bronze figure. Hardly as much, I dare say.’ The painter stared in amazement. ‘Yes,’ He continued, I am less to you than your ivory Hermès or your silver Faun. You will like them always. How long will you like me? Till I have my first wrinkle, I suppose. I know, now, that when someone loses one’s good looks, whatever they may be, one loses everything. Your picture has taught me that. Lord Henry Wotton is perfectly right. Youth is the only thing worth having. When I find that I am growing old, I shall kill myself.’

Hallward turned pale, and caught his hand. ‘Dorian! Dorian!’ he cried, ‘don’t talk like that. I never had such a friend as you, and I shall never have such another. You are not jealous of material things, are you- you who are finer than all of them!”

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Lord Henry and Basil are nowhere near on the same moral level, but what’s tragic is that they, and everyone else, treat Dorian the same way- As their vicarious vessel. It’s just that Basil’s idea of what Dorian should be is A) Literal sainthood(as evidenced by the above quote), and B) Impossible to live up to, so therefore he seems to be the nicer guy. But it’s cruel to value anyone for what you can get from them, even if that thing is great art.

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In my opinion, the adult figures in Dorian’s life couldn’t give less of a shit about his true nature. His grandfather hated him and wanted nothing to do with him. Lord Henry is interested in seeing how far Dorian would go to do the things he can’t do because of his own cowardice. Basil expects him to be a storybook character, as do most people who came into contact with him. He was right to believe that his looks were the only thing anybody wanted from him because it’s the truth.

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To close, my personal interpretation of Dorian Gray is this: Dorian Gray was a neglected, naive child who became the fancy of two older men, both of whom were only concerned with using him as a fantasy and therefore both corrupted him for their own personal gain. This in no way excuses his actions, but I think it better explains them- And I think it condemns the people who ought to be condemned. Lord Henry was the person who played on his lack of self-worth to manipulate him, but Basil was the person who exacerbated that lack of self-worth in the first place. Basil wasn’t a good mentor(and DID NOT deserve to be his boyfriend). Henry wasn’t a good mentor. There was no good mentor- There was only Dorian, and the simple fact that people weren’t going to love him if he stopped being pretty. The person he became afterwards was someone of his own making- But the initially shy, praise-hungry, warped young boy who felt the need to become that person was both Basil and Henry’s creation.

[readbookywooks]

The studio was filled with the rich odor 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 usual, innumerable cigarettes, Lord Henry Wotton could just catch the gleam of the honey-sweet and honey-colored blossoms of the laburnum, whose tremulous branches seemed hardly able to bear the burden of a beauty so flame-like 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 who, in 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 black-crocketed spires of the early June hollyhocks, seemed to make the stillness more oppressive, and 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 he 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 [4] 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. The Grosvenor is the only place.”

“I don’t think I will 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 his long legs out on the divan and shook with laughter.

“Yes, I knew you would laugh; 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 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 an 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 consequently 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 a brainless, beautiful thing, 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. 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 [5] 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 quietly 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 fame, whatever it may be worth; Dorian Gray’s good looks,–we will all suffer for what the gods have given us, suffer terribly.”

“Dorian Gray? is that his name?” said 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 any one. It seems like surrendering a part of them. You know how I love secrecy. It is the only thing that can make modern life wonderful or mysterious to us. The commonest thing is delightful if one only hides it. When I leave town 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, laying his hand upon his shoulder; “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 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, shaking his hand off, and 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 for a time they did not speak.

After a long 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?” asked Basil Hallward, keeping his eyes fixed on the ground.

“You know quite well.”

“I do not, Harry.”

[6] “Well, I will tell you what it is.”

“Please don’t.”

“I must. 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 colored canvas, reveals himself. The reason I will not exhibit this picture is that I am afraid that I have shown with it the secret of my own soul.”

Lord Harry laughed. “And what is that?” he asked.

“I will tell you,” said Hallward; and an expression of perplexity came over his face.

“I am all expectation, Basil,” murmured his companion, looking at him.

“Oh, there is really very little to tell, Harry,” answered the young 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 I can believe anything, provided that it is 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 in the grass, and a long thin dragon-fly floated by on its brown gauze wings. Lord Henry felt as if he could hear Basil Hallward’s heart beating, and he wondered what was coming.

“Well, this is incredible,” repeated Hallward, rather bitterly,– “incredible to me at times. I don’t know what it means. The story is simply this. Two months ago I went to a crush at Lady Brandon’s. You know we poor painters 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 instinct 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 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. My father destined me for the army. I insisted on [7] going to Oxford. Then he made me enter my name at the Middle Temple. Before I had eaten half a dozen dinners I gave up the Bar, and announced my intention of becoming a painter. 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 knew that if I spoke to Dorian I would become absolutely devoted to him, and that I ought not to speak to him. I grew afraid, and turned to quit the room. It was not conscience that made me do so: it was 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. 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 shrill horrid 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 hooked 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 mad of me, but I asked Lady Brandon to introduce me to him. Perhaps it was not so mad, 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? I know she goes in for giving a rapid précis of all her guests. I remember her bringing me up to a most 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, something like ’Sir Humpty Dumpty–you know–Afghan frontier–Russian intrigues: very successful man–wife killed by an elephant–quite inconsolable–wants to marry a beautiful American widow–everybody does nowadays–hates Mr. Gladstone–but very much interested in beetles: ask him what he thinks of Schouvaloff.’ I simply fled. I like to find out people for myself. But poor 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. But what did she say about Mr. Dorian Gray?”

[8] “Oh, she murmured, ’Charming boy–poor dear mother and I quite inseparable–engaged to be married to the same man–I mean married on the same day–how very silly of me! Quite forget what he does– afraid he–doesn’t do anything–oh, yes, plays the piano–or is it the violin, dear Mr. Gray?’ We could neither of us help laughing, and we became friends at once.”

“Laughter is not a bad beginning for a friendship, and it is the best ending for one,” said Lord Henry, plucking another daisy.

Hallward buried his face in his hands. “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 every one.”

“How horribly unjust of you!” cried Lord Henry, tilting his hat back, and looking up at the little clouds that were drifting across the hollowed turquoise of the summer sky, like ravelled skeins of glossy white silk. “Yes; horribly unjust of you. I make a great difference between people. I choose my friends for their good looks, my acquaintances for their characters, and my enemies for their brains. A man can’t 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!”

“My dear fellow, I am not quite serious. But I can’t help detesting my relations. I suppose it comes from the fact that we can’t 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 classes. They 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 lower orders live correctly.”

“I don’t agree with a single word that you have said, and, what is more, Harry, I don’t believe you do either.”

Lord Henry stroked his pointed brown beard, and tapped the toe of his patent-leather boot with a tasselled malacca cane. “How English you are, Basil! If one puts forward an idea to a real 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 one’s self. 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 [9] will not be colored 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. Tell me more about Dorian Gray. How often do you see him?”

“Every day. I couldn’t be happy if I didn’t see him every day. Of course sometimes it is only for a few minutes. But a few minutes with somebody one worships mean a great deal.”

“But you don’t really worship him?”

“I do.”

“How extraordinary! I thought you would never care for anything but your painting,–your art, I should say. Art sounds better, doesn’t it?”

“He is all my art to me now. I sometimes think, Harry, that there are only two eras of any importance in the history of the world. 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 Antinoüs 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, model from him. Of course I have done all that. He has stood as Paris in dainty armor, and as Adonis with huntsman’s cloak and polished boar- spear. Crowned with heavy lotus-blossoms, he has sat on the prow of Adrian’s barge, looking into the green, turbid Nile. He has leaned over the still pool of some Greek woodland, and seen in the water’s silent silver the wonder of his own beauty. But he is much more to me than that. 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 re-create 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 itself 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 bestial, an ideality that is void. Harry! 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.”

“Basil, this is quite wonderful! I must see Dorian Gray.” Hallward got up from the seat, and walked up and down the [10] garden. After some time he came back. “You don’t understand, Harry,” he said. “Dorian Gray is merely to me a motive in art. He is never more present in my work than when no image of him is there. He is simply a suggestion, as I have said, of a new manner. I see him in the curves of certain lines, in the loveliness and the subtleties of certain colors. That is all.”

“Then why won’t you exhibit his portrait?”

“Because I have put into it all the extraordinary romance of which, of course, I have never dared to speak to him. He knows nothing about it. He will 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. 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. If I live, 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?”

Hallward 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. I give myself away. As a rule, he is charming to me, and we walk home together from the club arm in arm, or 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 some one 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. 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-à-brac shop, all monsters and dust, and everything priced above its proper value. I think you will tire first, all the same. Some day you will look at Gray, and he will seem to you to be a little out of drawing, or you won’t like his tone of color, 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 [11] perfectly cold and indifferent. It will be a great pity, for it will alter you. The worst of having a romance 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 pleasures 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 self-satisfied air, as if he had summed up life in a phrase. There was a rustle of chirruping sparrows in 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 thought with pleasure of 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 meet Lord Goodbody there, and the whole conversation would have been about the housing of the poor, and the necessity for model lodging-houses. 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’s, 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, horridly 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.”

“Mr. Dorian Gray is in the studio, sir,” said the butler, coming into the garden.

“You must introduce me now,” cried Lord Henry, laughing.

Basil Hallward turned to the servant, who stood blinking in the sunlight. “Ask Mr. Gray to wait, Parker: I will 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 for me. 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 [12] away from me the one person that makes life absolutely lovely to me, and that gives to my art whatever wonder or charm it possesses. 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.