第 一 章
画室里弥漫着浓浓的玫瑰花香，夏日的轻风拂过园中的树木，开着的门便送来了馥郁的紫丁香味，或是满枝粉红色花的荆棘的清香。亨利．沃登勋爵躺在波斯皮革做的长沙发上，习惯地抽着烟，数不清是第几根了。从沙发的角落望出去，正好看得见像蜜一样甜，又如蜜一般黄的金莲花在闪烁。抖动着的树枝，似乎很难承载花儿火焰一般的美。飞鸟的奇异影子，不时掠过掩着大窗的柞蚕丝绸窗帘，造成了瞬间的日本式效果，令他想起东京那些脸色苍白如玉的画家们。这些人运用必要的静态艺术手段，力求表达一种快速的动感。
蜜蜂沉闷地嗡嗡叫着，穿行在没有刈过、长得很高的青草之间，或是单调地一味围着满地忍冬那金黄色、灰蒙蒙的花蕊打转，似乎使这沉寂愈发压抑了。伦敦模糊的喧闹声，就像远处一架风琴奏出的低音。房子中间直立的画架上，夹着一张画像，画像中的年轻人美貌绝伦，跟真人一般大。画像前面不远的地方，坐着画家本人，巴兹尔·霍尔华德。几年前，他突然失踪，引起公众的极大兴趣，也招徕了很多奇怪的猜测。
画家打量着他如此巧妙地再现在艺术中的优雅俊秀的形象，满意的笑容闪过脸庞，似乎正要在那儿停留下来。但他突然惊跳起来，闭上了眼睛，手指捂住眼帘，仿佛想把某个奇怪的梦捂进脑子，生怕自己从梦中醒来。
"这是你最好的作品，巴兹尔，你所有的画中，数这幅最出色，"亨利勋爵慢条斯理地说。"明年你可一定得送到格罗夫纳画廊去。皇 家艺术学院太大，也太庸俗。每次我上那儿，不是人多得见不到画--那当然很可怕，就是画多得见不到人--那更糟糕。格罗夫纳画廊实在是惟一的去处。"
"我哪儿都不想送去，"他答道，脑袋往后一甩，那副奇怪的模样，往日在牛津大学时总会引来朋友们的一阵取笑，"不，我哪儿都不送。"
亨利勋爵扬起眉毛，透过细细的蓝色烟圈，惊讶地看着他，那烟正从掺有鸦片的烈性香烟冒出来，升起一个个奇异的螺旋形圈圈。"什么地方都不送?我的好兄弟，为什么?有什么理由吗?你们画家也真怪!你忙碌一世，还不图个名声。而一旦到手了，你却好像又要扔掉。你真傻，因为世上只有一件事比被人议论更糟糕了，那就是没有人议论你。这样的画像会使你超越英国所有的年轻人，也使老年人妒忌不已，如果他们还能动感情的话。"
"我知道你会笑话我，"他回答，"但我真的不能拿它去展出，这里面倾注了太多自己的东西。"
亨利勋爵在沙发上伸长了身子，笑了起来。"是的，我知道你会的，但我说的也是事实。""太多自己的东西!哎呀，巴兹尔，我还不知道你那么自负。你的脸很粗糙，线条也不柔和，你的头发像煤一样黑，而他仿佛是象牙和玫瑰叶子做的，我实在看不出你与这位年轻的阿多尼斯之间有什么相似之处。啊，我亲爱的巴兹尔，他是一位美少年，而你--是呀，当然，你有一种富有理智的表情，以及诸如此类的东西。不过，美，真正的美，终结于富有理智的表情开始的地方。理智本身是一种夸张，它破坏脸部的和谐。人一坐下来思考，便只见了鼻子，或是额头，或是某种可怕的东西。瞧瞧那些学识高深的职业中的成功者吧，他们多么令人厌恶!当然，教堂里例外。可是教堂里他们不动脑筋。一个八十岁的主教，说着自己还是十八岁的孩子时别人教他说的话，结果，他看上去总是极其讨人喜欢。你那位神秘的年轻朋友，他的名字。你从来没有告诉过我，但他的画像可把我迷住了，他是根本不思考的。这我很有把握。他属于那种长相漂亮、没有头脑的人。这种人冬天该常在这儿，因为那时没有花儿可以观赏；夏天也该常在这儿，因为那个季节我们需要点什么来清醒我们的理智。别自作多情了，巴兹尔，你跟他一点都不像。"
画室里弥漫着浓浓的玫瑰花香，夏日的轻风拂过园中的树木，开着的门便送来了馥郁的紫丁香味，或是满枝粉红色花的荆棘的清香。亨利．沃登勋爵躺在波斯皮革做的长沙发上，习惯地抽着烟，数不清是第几根了。从沙发的角落望出去，正好看得见像蜜一样甜，又如蜜一般黄的金莲花在闪烁。抖动着的树枝，似乎很难承载花儿火焰一般的美。飞鸟的奇异影子，不时掠过掩着大窗的柞蚕丝绸窗帘，造成了瞬间的日本式效果，令他想起东京那些脸色苍白如玉的画家们。这些人运用必要的静态艺术手段，力求表达一种快速的动感。
蜜蜂沉闷地嗡嗡叫着，穿行在没有刈过、长得很高的青草之间，或是单调地一味围着满地忍冬那金黄色、灰蒙蒙的花蕊打转，似乎使这沉寂愈发压抑了。伦敦模糊的喧闹声，就像远处一架风琴奏出的低音。房子中间直立的画架上，夹着一张画像，画像中的年轻人美貌绝伦，跟真人一般大。画像前面不远的地方，坐着画家本人，巴兹尔·霍尔华德。几年前，他突然失踪，引起公众的极大兴趣，也招徕了很多奇怪的猜测。
画家打量着他如此巧妙地再现在艺术中的优雅俊秀的形象，满意的笑容闪过脸庞，似乎正要在那儿停留下来。但他突然惊跳起来，闭上了眼睛，手指捂住眼帘，仿佛想把某个奇怪的梦捂进脑子，生怕自己从梦中醒来。
"这是你最好的作品，巴兹尔，你所有的画中，数这幅最出色，"亨利勋爵慢条斯理地说。"明年你可一定得送到格罗夫纳画廊去。皇 家艺术学院太大，也太庸俗。每次我上那儿，不是人多得见不到画--那当然很可怕，就是画多得见不到人--那更糟糕。格罗夫纳画廊实在是惟一的去处。"
"我哪儿都不想送去，"他答道，脑袋往后一甩，那副奇怪的模样，往日在牛津大学时总会引来朋友们的一阵取笑，"不，我哪儿都不送。"
亨利勋爵扬起眉毛，透过细细的蓝色烟圈，惊讶地看着他，那烟正从掺有鸦片的烈性香烟冒出来，升起一个个奇异的螺旋形圈圈。"什么地方都不送?我的好兄弟，为什么?有什么理由吗?你们画家也真怪!你忙碌一世，还不图个名声。而一旦到手了，你却好像又要扔掉。你真傻，因为世上只有一件事比被人议论更糟糕了，那就是没有人议论你。这样的画像会使你超越英国所有的年轻人，也使老年人妒忌不已，如果他们还能动感情的话。"
"我知道你会笑话我，"他回答，"但我真的不能拿它去展出，这里面倾注了太多自己的东西。"
亨利勋爵在沙发上伸长了身子，笑了起来。"是的，我知道你会的，但我说的也是事实。""太多自己的东西!哎呀，巴兹尔，我还不知道你那么自负。你的脸很粗糙，线条也不柔和，你的头发像煤一样黑，而他仿佛是象牙和玫瑰叶子做的，我实在看不出你与这位年轻的阿多尼斯之间有什么相似之处。啊，我亲爱的巴兹尔，他是一位美少年，而你--是呀，当然，你有一种富有理智的表情，以及诸如此类的东西。不过，美，真正的美，终结于富有理智的表情开始的地方。理智本身是一种夸张，它破坏脸部的和谐。人一坐下来思考，便只见了鼻子，或是额头，或是某种可怕的东西。瞧瞧那些学识高深的职业中的成功者吧，他们多么令人厌恶!当然，教堂里例外。可是教堂里他们不动脑筋。一个八十岁的主教，说着自己还是十八岁的孩子时别人教他说的话，结果，他看上去总是极其讨人喜欢。你那位神秘的年轻朋友，他的名字。你从来没有告诉过我，但他的画像可把我迷住了，他是根本不思考的。这我很有把握。他属于那种长相漂亮、没有头脑的人。这种人冬天该常在这儿，因为那时没有花儿可以观赏；夏天也该常在这儿，因为那个季节我们需要点什么来清醒我们的理智。别自作多情了，巴兹尔，你跟他一点都不像。"
"你不理解我，哈里，"艺术家回答。"我当然不像他。这我非常明白。说实在，像他倒让我遗憾了。你耸肩干吗?我说的是实话。大凡相貌和才智出众的，都会在劫难逃，古往今来，这种劫数一直尾随着帝王们蹒跚的步履。我们和自己的同胞，还是没有什么区别好。丑陋和愚笨的人占尽了世间的便宜，可以随意而坐，张大嘴看戏。他们虽不知胜利为何物，却至少可免尝失败的滋味。他们像我们所有的人应该生活的那样生活着，无忧无虑，随遇而安，没有纷扰。他们既不把毁灭带给别人，也不必遭受他人所加予的毁灭。哈里，你的地位和财富，我的头脑，虽然不怎么样一一我的艺术，不管价值如何，还有道林·格雷漂亮的外貌--我们都得为上帝所赐予我们的付出代价，可怕的代价。"
"道林·格雷?这是他的名字?"亨利勋爵问道，穿过画室，朝巴兹尔·霍尔华德走去。
"是呀，这是他的名字。我并没有想告诉你。"
"干吗不?"
"啊，我无法解释，要是我挺喜欢什么人，我绝不会把他们的名字告诉别人，要不，这就好像遗弃了他们的一部分。我已经变得有些诡秘了，这似乎能使现代生活神秘莫测，或者．妙不可言。最普通的事儿，一经掩盖便显得很有趣味。如今我离开城里，从来不跟别人说上哪儿去。一说便意兴全无了。这习惯大概也是够傻的，不过它给生活带来了不少浪漫情怀。我想你一定以为我蠢得可以。"
"别这么说，"亨利勋爵答道，"可别这么说，我亲爱的巴兹尔。你好像忘了我已经成家了，婚姻的一大魅力，在于瞒骗成了夫妻生活的绝对必须。我从来不知道妻子在哪儿，她也根本不知道我在干什么。两人碰在一起的时候--我们偶尔也碰头，一起在外面吃饭，或者上公爵那儿去--都以最严肃的表情向对方编造最荒唐的故事。我的妻子精于此道，说真的，比我高明得多。她从来不搞错日子，而我却常常出错。不过她发现了也并不吵闹。有时我倒希望她吵，可她把我取笑了一番也就算了。"
"哈里，我讨厌你这么谈论你的婚姻生活，"巴兹尔·霍尔华德说，信步朝通向花园的门走去。"我相信你真是一个好丈夫，而你却深为自己的德行感到惭愧。你很了不起，从来不言道德，却也从来不做错事。你的玩世不恭不过是故作姿态而已。"
"顺其自然倒是一种姿态，也是我所知道的最恼人的姿态，"亨利勋爵笑着说，两个年轻人一起走出门去，进了花园，在高大的月桂树丛的阴影里，一条长长的竹椅上坐了下来。阳光滑过发亮的树叶，白色的雏菊在草地上抖动。
亨利勋爵停了一下，取出了手表。"我怕该走了，巴兹尔，"他轻声说，"在走之前，我一定要请你回答一个我刚问过的问题。"
"什么问题?"画家说，眼睛一直盯在地上。"你很清楚。"
"我不知道，哈利。"
"好吧，我来告诉你吧。我要你解释一下为什么不愿送道林·格雷的画像去展出。我要的是真实的理由。"
"我已经把真实的理由告诉了你。"
"不，你没有。你说是因为画像里有太多自己的东西。嗨，那太孩子气了。"
"哈利，"巴兹尔·霍尔华德说，目光直视亨利勋爵，"每一幅用感情画出来的画像，画的都是艺术家而不是模特儿。模特儿不过是偶然介入的，是一种诱因。画家在彩色画布上所揭示的不是模特儿，而是画家本人。我不愿拿这画去展出，是因为它暴露了我自己心灵的秘密。"
"道林·格雷?这是他的名字?"亨利勋爵问道，穿过画室，朝巴兹尔·霍尔华德走去。
"是呀，这是他的名字。我并没有想告诉你。"
"干吗不?"
"啊，我无法解释，要是我挺喜欢什么人，我绝不会把他们的名字告诉别人，要不，这就好像遗弃了他们的一部分。我已经变得有些诡秘了，这似乎能使现代生活神秘莫测，或者．妙不可言。最普通的事儿，一经掩盖便显得很有趣味。如今我离开城里，从来不跟别人说上哪儿去。一说便意兴全无了。这习惯大概也是够傻的，不过它给生活带来了不少浪漫情怀。我想你一定以为我蠢得可以。"
"别这么说，"亨利勋爵答道，"可别这么说，我亲爱的巴兹尔。你好像忘了我已经成家了，婚姻的一大魅力，在于瞒骗成了夫妻生活的绝对必须。我从来不知道妻子在哪儿，她也根本不知道我在干什么。两人碰在一起的时候--我们偶尔也碰头，一起在外面吃饭，或者上公爵那儿去--都以最严肃的表情向对方编造最荒唐的故事。我的妻子精于此道，说真的，比我高明得多。她从来不搞错日子，而我却常常出错。不过她发现了也并不吵闹。有时我倒希望她吵，可她把我取笑了一番也就算了。"
"哈里，我讨厌你这么谈论你的婚姻生活，"巴兹尔·霍尔华德说，信步朝通向花园的门走去。"我相信你真是一个好丈夫，而你却深为自己的德行感到惭愧。你很了不起，从来不言道德，却也从来不做错事。你的玩世不恭不过是故作姿态而已。"
"顺其自然倒是一种姿态，也是我所知道的最恼人的姿态，"亨利勋爵笑着说，两个年轻人一起走出门去，进了花园，在高大的月桂树丛的阴影里，一条长长的竹椅上坐了下来。阳光滑过发亮的树叶，白色的雏菊在草地上抖动。
亨利勋爵停了一下，取出了手表。"我怕该走了，巴兹尔，"他轻声说，"在走之前，我一定要请你回答一个我刚问过的问题。"
"什么问题?"画家说，眼睛一直盯在地上。"你很清楚。"
"我不知道，哈利。"
"好吧，我来告诉你吧。我要你解释一下为什么不愿送道林·格雷的画像去展出。我要的是真实的理由。"
"我已经把真实的理由告诉了你。"
"不，你没有。你说是因为画像里有太多自己的东西。嗨，那太孩子气了。"
"哈利，"巴兹尔·霍尔华德说，目光直视亨利勋爵，"每一幅用感情画出来的画像，画的都是艺术家而不是模特儿。模特儿不过是偶然介入的，是一种诱因。画家在彩色画布上所揭示的不是模特儿，而是画家本人。我不愿拿这画去展出，是因为它暴露了我自己心灵的秘密。"
亨利勋爵笑着问："什么秘密?"
"我会告诉你的，"霍尔华德说，但脸上却露出了困惑的表情。"我企盼着，巴兹尔，"他的朋友继续说，瞥了他一眼。
"哦，事实上也没有什么好说的，哈利，"画家答道，"恐怕你很难理解，也许不大会相信。"
亨利勋爵笑了笑，俯身从草地上采了一朵粉红色花瓣的雏菊，细细瞧了起来。"我肯定能理解。"他答道，专注地看着这个带白毛的金色小花盘，"至于信不信嘛，凡是不可信的我都信。"
风摇落了树上的一些花朵。沉甸甸、星儿一般的紫丁香花簇，在令人倦怠的空气中摆动着。一只蚱蜢开始在墙边呜叫，一个瘦长的蜻蜓，由薄纱似的棕色羽翼承载着，飘然而过，像一根蓝色的丝线。亨利勋爵仿佛听得见霍尔华德的心在跳动，不知道下文如何。
"就是这么一回事，"过了一会儿，画家说。"两个月前，我去参加布兰登太太的聚会。你知道，我们这些穷艺术家总得不断在社交场合露面，无非提醒公众，我们不是野蛮人。你有一回同我说，只要穿上夜礼服，系一根白领带，不管是谁，就是证券经纪人，也会博得个文明的好名声。嗯，我在房间里约摸呆了十分钟，跟那些穿戴过分、体态臃肿的寡妇和枯燥乏味的学者聊着天，忽然觉得有人在打量我。我侧过身去，第一次看到了道林·格雷。我们的目光一交流，我便苍白失色了。一种奇怪的恐怖感袭上心头。我明白自己面对着一个极富人格魅力的人，要是我听之任之，这种人格会湮没我的一切天性，我的整个灵魂，乃至我的艺术本身。我生活中不需要任何外来影响。你知道，哈利，我生就一种独立性格，向来我行我素，至少在碰到道连·格雷之前是这样。随后--可我不知道怎么向你解释才好，我似乎预感到，生活中一种可怕的危机已经迫在眉睫。我有一种奇怪的感觉，命运为我准备了大喜大悲。我害怕了，转身走出房间，不是良心使然，而是因为胆怯。我也不以一逃了之为荣。"
"良心和胆怯实际上是一回事，巴兹尔。良心是公司的商号，如此而已。"
"我不相信，哈利，而且认为你自己也不信。不过，不管动机如何--也许是出于自尊，因为我过去一直很傲--我挣扎着朝门走去。到了那边，不用说碰上了布兰登太太。'你不会那么早就跑掉吧，霍尔华德先生?'她尖叫着。你可知道她的嗓子尖得出奇?"
"我知道，除了不漂亮，她什么都像一只孔雀，"亨利勋爵说，一面用他那纤细不安的手指把雏菊扯得粉碎。
"我不能把她甩掉。是她提携我进了王族的圈子，周旋于那些得了星级勋章和嘉德勋章的人之间，亲近那些戴着巨大的头饰，长着鹦鹉鼻子的老太太。她把我说成是她最要好的朋友。以前我只见过她一面，但她总记着把我捧为名流。我相信，当时我的一些画很成功，
至少在小报上已有人评说，那是衡量十九世纪画作不朽的标准。突然间我与这位年轻人打了个照面，他的人格奇怪地打动了我。我们靠得很近，几乎要相碰了，两人的目光再次相遇。我有些轻率，竟让布兰登太太把我介绍给他。说到底，也许并非轻率，而是无可避免。即使没有人介绍，我们也会攀谈起来。后来道连就是这么同我说的。他也觉得我们注定要相识。"
"布兰登太太怎么形容这位奇妙的年轻人来着?"他的同伴问。"我知道，她会三言两语把客人们统统介绍一遍。我记得她把我带到一个身上挂满勋章和绶带，脸膛红通通，还争强好斗的老绅士面前，对着我耳朵嘶叫起来，把这人最可怕的细节嚷得满屋子人都听到，而不幸的是她自以为还小着声呢。我赶紧逃走。我喜欢自己去结识别人，而布兰登太太介绍客人，就像拍卖商介绍卖品一样，要么轻描淡写说上几句，要么什么都说，就是不说你想知道的。"
"我会告诉你的，"霍尔华德说，但脸上却露出了困惑的表情。"我企盼着，巴兹尔，"他的朋友继续说，瞥了他一眼。
"哦，事实上也没有什么好说的，哈利，"画家答道，"恐怕你很难理解，也许不大会相信。"
亨利勋爵笑了笑，俯身从草地上采了一朵粉红色花瓣的雏菊，细细瞧了起来。"我肯定能理解。"他答道，专注地看着这个带白毛的金色小花盘，"至于信不信嘛，凡是不可信的我都信。"
风摇落了树上的一些花朵。沉甸甸、星儿一般的紫丁香花簇，在令人倦怠的空气中摆动着。一只蚱蜢开始在墙边呜叫，一个瘦长的蜻蜓，由薄纱似的棕色羽翼承载着，飘然而过，像一根蓝色的丝线。亨利勋爵仿佛听得见霍尔华德的心在跳动，不知道下文如何。
"就是这么一回事，"过了一会儿，画家说。"两个月前，我去参加布兰登太太的聚会。你知道，我们这些穷艺术家总得不断在社交场合露面，无非提醒公众，我们不是野蛮人。你有一回同我说，只要穿上夜礼服，系一根白领带，不管是谁，就是证券经纪人，也会博得个文明的好名声。嗯，我在房间里约摸呆了十分钟，跟那些穿戴过分、体态臃肿的寡妇和枯燥乏味的学者聊着天，忽然觉得有人在打量我。我侧过身去，第一次看到了道林·格雷。我们的目光一交流，我便苍白失色了。一种奇怪的恐怖感袭上心头。我明白自己面对着一个极富人格魅力的人，要是我听之任之，这种人格会湮没我的一切天性，我的整个灵魂，乃至我的艺术本身。我生活中不需要任何外来影响。你知道，哈利，我生就一种独立性格，向来我行我素，至少在碰到道连·格雷之前是这样。随后--可我不知道怎么向你解释才好，我似乎预感到，生活中一种可怕的危机已经迫在眉睫。我有一种奇怪的感觉，命运为我准备了大喜大悲。我害怕了，转身走出房间，不是良心使然，而是因为胆怯。我也不以一逃了之为荣。"
"良心和胆怯实际上是一回事，巴兹尔。良心是公司的商号，如此而已。"
"我不相信，哈利，而且认为你自己也不信。不过，不管动机如何--也许是出于自尊，因为我过去一直很傲--我挣扎着朝门走去。到了那边，不用说碰上了布兰登太太。'你不会那么早就跑掉吧，霍尔华德先生?'她尖叫着。你可知道她的嗓子尖得出奇?"
"我知道，除了不漂亮，她什么都像一只孔雀，"亨利勋爵说，一面用他那纤细不安的手指把雏菊扯得粉碎。
"我不能把她甩掉。是她提携我进了王族的圈子，周旋于那些得了星级勋章和嘉德勋章的人之间，亲近那些戴着巨大的头饰，长着鹦鹉鼻子的老太太。她把我说成是她最要好的朋友。以前我只见过她一面，但她总记着把我捧为名流。我相信，当时我的一些画很成功，
至少在小报上已有人评说，那是衡量十九世纪画作不朽的标准。突然间我与这位年轻人打了个照面，他的人格奇怪地打动了我。我们靠得很近，几乎要相碰了，两人的目光再次相遇。我有些轻率，竟让布兰登太太把我介绍给他。说到底，也许并非轻率，而是无可避免。即使没有人介绍，我们也会攀谈起来。后来道连就是这么同我说的。他也觉得我们注定要相识。"
"布兰登太太怎么形容这位奇妙的年轻人来着?"他的同伴问。"我知道，她会三言两语把客人们统统介绍一遍。我记得她把我带到一个身上挂满勋章和绶带，脸膛红通通，还争强好斗的老绅士面前，对着我耳朵嘶叫起来，把这人最可怕的细节嚷得满屋子人都听到，而不幸的是她自以为还小着声呢。我赶紧逃走。我喜欢自己去结识别人，而布兰登太太介绍客人，就像拍卖商介绍卖品一样，要么轻描淡写说上几句，要么什么都说，就是不说你想知道的。"
"可怜的布兰登太太!哈利，你太损人了!"霍尔华德无精打采地说。
"老兄，她想搞个沙龙，到头来却只开了个饭店，我怎么能赞赏她呢?不过你谈谈，她说了道林·格雷先生什么呀?"
"哦，好像这么说，'是个可爱的孩子--他可怜的妈妈和我形影不离。全忘了他是干什么的--恐怕他-一什么也不干--噢，对了，演奏钢琴--要不就是小提琴了，格雷先生?'我们两个都禁不住笑了起来，立刻交上了朋友。"
"对友谊来说，笑不是一个坏的开端，而且绝对是最好的结局。"这位年轻的勋爵说着又采了一朵雏菊。
霍尔华德摇了摇头，"你不理解什么是友谊，哈利，"他喃喃地说，"或者就敌意来说，什么是敌意，你谁都喜欢，也就是说，你对谁都冷漠。"
"你太冤枉我了!"亨利勋爵叫了起来，把帽子往后一翘，抬头看那天上小小的云朵，像一团打了结的光滑的白丝线，飘过夏日好似掏空了的青石般的天空。"是的，你太冤枉我了。不同的人，我是完全区别对待的。我选择好看的人做朋友，性格好的人做相识，智力高的人当敌人。选择敌人的时候必须慎之又慎。我的敌人没有一个是傻瓜，而都是些智力不错的人，结果都很赏识我。我是不是很虚荣?我想很有一些。"
"我认为是这么回事，哈利。但根据你的分类，我只属于你的相识。"
"我的巴兹尔老兄，你远远胜过相识。"
"而根本算不上朋友，我猜想有点像兄弟，是不是?"
"啊，兄弟!我才不在乎兄弟呢。我的哥哥就是不死，我的弟弟们呢，一心想要死。"
"哈利!"霍尔华德皱了皱眉嚷道。
"老兄，我不是很当真。但我免不了讨厌自己的亲戚，想是因为我们谁都无法容忍，别人有着跟自己一样的毛病。我十分同情英国的民丄主狂飙，反所谓上流社会的恶习。百姓们觉得，酗酒、愚蠢、腐化该是他们的特有财产，我们当中谁要是干了蠢事，那就是侵犯了他们的领地。可怜的索思沃克一走进离丄婚法庭，便弄得群情激愤。而我不敢说，百分之十的无产阶级日子过得很正常。"
"你说的话，我一句都不同意。而且，哈利，我觉得你自己也未必。"
亨利勋爵捋了捋突出来的棕色胡子，用带流苏的乌檀木手杖敲了一下他穿着黑漆皮靴的脚趾。"巴兹尔，你是个多么道地的英国人啊!你已经第二次发表这种论调了。要是有人把一个想法告诉一个真正的英国人--那不免很鲁莽--他绝不会考虑那想法对不对。他所认为要紧的不过是人家相信不相信。嗳，一个想法的价值，同发表这个想法的人是否中肯无关。说实在，很可能越是不中肯，这想法便越富有理性，因为那样不会受个人的需要、欲望或偏见所左右。不过，我无意同你讨论政治、社会学或玄学。比起原则来，我更喜欢人，而且，喜欢没有原则的人胜过世上的一切。你再谈谈道连?格雷先生吧，你们多久碰一次头?"
"老兄，她想搞个沙龙，到头来却只开了个饭店，我怎么能赞赏她呢?不过你谈谈，她说了道林·格雷先生什么呀?"
"哦，好像这么说，'是个可爱的孩子--他可怜的妈妈和我形影不离。全忘了他是干什么的--恐怕他-一什么也不干--噢，对了，演奏钢琴--要不就是小提琴了，格雷先生?'我们两个都禁不住笑了起来，立刻交上了朋友。"
"对友谊来说，笑不是一个坏的开端，而且绝对是最好的结局。"这位年轻的勋爵说着又采了一朵雏菊。
霍尔华德摇了摇头，"你不理解什么是友谊，哈利，"他喃喃地说，"或者就敌意来说，什么是敌意，你谁都喜欢，也就是说，你对谁都冷漠。"
"你太冤枉我了!"亨利勋爵叫了起来，把帽子往后一翘，抬头看那天上小小的云朵，像一团打了结的光滑的白丝线，飘过夏日好似掏空了的青石般的天空。"是的，你太冤枉我了。不同的人，我是完全区别对待的。我选择好看的人做朋友，性格好的人做相识，智力高的人当敌人。选择敌人的时候必须慎之又慎。我的敌人没有一个是傻瓜，而都是些智力不错的人，结果都很赏识我。我是不是很虚荣?我想很有一些。"
"我认为是这么回事，哈利。但根据你的分类，我只属于你的相识。"
"我的巴兹尔老兄，你远远胜过相识。"
"而根本算不上朋友，我猜想有点像兄弟，是不是?"
"啊，兄弟!我才不在乎兄弟呢。我的哥哥就是不死，我的弟弟们呢，一心想要死。"
"哈利!"霍尔华德皱了皱眉嚷道。
"老兄，我不是很当真。但我免不了讨厌自己的亲戚，想是因为我们谁都无法容忍，别人有着跟自己一样的毛病。我十分同情英国的民丄主狂飙，反所谓上流社会的恶习。百姓们觉得，酗酒、愚蠢、腐化该是他们的特有财产，我们当中谁要是干了蠢事，那就是侵犯了他们的领地。可怜的索思沃克一走进离丄婚法庭，便弄得群情激愤。而我不敢说，百分之十的无产阶级日子过得很正常。"
"你说的话，我一句都不同意。而且，哈利，我觉得你自己也未必。"
亨利勋爵捋了捋突出来的棕色胡子，用带流苏的乌檀木手杖敲了一下他穿着黑漆皮靴的脚趾。"巴兹尔，你是个多么道地的英国人啊!你已经第二次发表这种论调了。要是有人把一个想法告诉一个真正的英国人--那不免很鲁莽--他绝不会考虑那想法对不对。他所认为要紧的不过是人家相信不相信。嗳，一个想法的价值，同发表这个想法的人是否中肯无关。说实在，很可能越是不中肯，这想法便越富有理性，因为那样不会受个人的需要、欲望或偏见所左右。不过，我无意同你讨论政治、社会学或玄学。比起原则来，我更喜欢人，而且，喜欢没有原则的人胜过世上的一切。你再谈谈道连?格雷先生吧，你们多久碰一次头?"
"每天。不天天见面我就不高兴。我绝对需要他。"
"多奇怪啊!我原以为除了艺术，你对什么都不感兴趣。"
"对我来说，他现在便是我的全部艺术，"画家一本正经地说，"哈利，我有时认为，世界史上只有两个时代是重要的，第一个是出现新的艺术手段的时代；第二个是艺术出现新的个性的时代。油画的发明对于威尼斯人之重要，安提诺斯的脸对于近代的希腊雕塑之重要，便是将来某一天道连．格雷的脸对我之重要。这不仅是因为我照着他作油画、炭笔画和素描，当然这些我全做了，而且，他对我所起的作用，远远超过了模特儿或被画人。我不想同你说，我并不满意自己所创作的他的画像，或者说，他的美如此出众，实在非艺术所能表达。艺术什么都能表达。而且，我知道自从我遇上道连。格雷以后，我作的画很好，是平生最好的画。不过说来也怪--不知你能否理解我?--他的人格向我启迪了一种全新的艺术形式，一种崭新的艺术风格。我观察事物不同了，思考事物也不同了。现在我能用以前难以觉察的方式来重塑生活。'在思想的白昼里梦寻着形式'--这句话是谁说的?我忘了，但道林·格雷对于我恰恰就是如此。只要这少年一出现--尽管他已经过了二十岁，但在我看来还是个少年--只要他一出现--啊!我不知道你能不能明白内中的一切含义。不知不觉中他为我勾画出了一个学派的线条，这个学派满含浪漫主义的激丄情，希腊精神的完美，灵魂和肉体的和谐--那多么重要!我们在发疯的时候把两者截然分开了，发明了一个庸俗的现实主义，一个空洞的理想。哈利!你要是知道道林·格雷对我有多重要该多好!你记得我那张风景画吧，阿格钮公司愿出那么高的价，但我还是不愿出手。这是我最好的画之一，为什么会这样呢?因为我作画的时候，道连．格雷就坐在我旁边。一种微妙的影响从他那儿传递给了我，于是我生平第一次在平凡的树林中，看到了自己时时寻觅而不可得的奇迹。"
"巴兹尔，这太棒了!我一定要见见道林·格雷。"
霍尔华德从座位上站起来，在园子里来回踱着步。一会儿他又折了回来。"哈利，"他说，"道连·格雷完全成了我艺术的主题。在他身上，你什么也看不到，而我什么都看到了。他的形象不在画中胜似在画中。我说过，他昭示了一种新方法，我觉得他在某种曲线中，在某种微妙动人的色彩中，就是这么一回事。"
"那你为什么不拿他的肖像画去展出呢?"亨釉勋爵问道。
"因为不知不觉之中，我已经在画像中表露了一种奇怪的艺术崇 拜。当然，我从来不愿同他说起这件事，他一点都不知道，以后我也决不会让他知道。但世人也许会猜测。而我不会向他们浅薄、窥探的目光敞开我的心扉。我的心绝不能放在他们的显微镜之下。画像里，我自己的东西太多了，哈利--我自己的东西太多了。"
"诗人们可不像你那么多虑。他们明白，表现激丄情有利于出版。如今，一颗破碎的心之类的书往往一版再版。"
"我讨厌他们这么做。"霍尔华德叫道。"艺术家应当创造美，但不应当把自己生活中的东西放进去。在我们这个时代，大家好像把艺术看成了自传，结果失去了抽象意义的美。将来有一天，我要向世界展示美是什么，为此，世人将永远看不到我的道林·格雷画像。""我认为你错了，巴兹尔。不过我不想同你争论。只有失去理智的人才争论不休。告诉我，道林·格雷喜欢你吗?"
画家想了一会儿。"他喜欢我，"他停了一下回答道，"我知道他喜欢我。当然我也拚命说他好话。我觉得，说那种我悔不该说的话给了我一种莫名其妙的愉快。通常，他很迷人。我们坐在画室，无所不谈。有时，他却很自私，以使我痛苦为乐。随后，哈利，我觉得自己已经把整个灵魂给了别人，而人家却仿佛把它当作一朵花似的插在钮孔上，一种为虚荣增加魅力的装饰品，夏天的一种虚饰。"
"多奇怪啊!我原以为除了艺术，你对什么都不感兴趣。"
"对我来说，他现在便是我的全部艺术，"画家一本正经地说，"哈利，我有时认为，世界史上只有两个时代是重要的，第一个是出现新的艺术手段的时代；第二个是艺术出现新的个性的时代。油画的发明对于威尼斯人之重要，安提诺斯的脸对于近代的希腊雕塑之重要，便是将来某一天道连．格雷的脸对我之重要。这不仅是因为我照着他作油画、炭笔画和素描，当然这些我全做了，而且，他对我所起的作用，远远超过了模特儿或被画人。我不想同你说，我并不满意自己所创作的他的画像，或者说，他的美如此出众，实在非艺术所能表达。艺术什么都能表达。而且，我知道自从我遇上道连。格雷以后，我作的画很好，是平生最好的画。不过说来也怪--不知你能否理解我?--他的人格向我启迪了一种全新的艺术形式，一种崭新的艺术风格。我观察事物不同了，思考事物也不同了。现在我能用以前难以觉察的方式来重塑生活。'在思想的白昼里梦寻着形式'--这句话是谁说的?我忘了，但道林·格雷对于我恰恰就是如此。只要这少年一出现--尽管他已经过了二十岁，但在我看来还是个少年--只要他一出现--啊!我不知道你能不能明白内中的一切含义。不知不觉中他为我勾画出了一个学派的线条，这个学派满含浪漫主义的激丄情，希腊精神的完美，灵魂和肉体的和谐--那多么重要!我们在发疯的时候把两者截然分开了，发明了一个庸俗的现实主义，一个空洞的理想。哈利!你要是知道道林·格雷对我有多重要该多好!你记得我那张风景画吧，阿格钮公司愿出那么高的价，但我还是不愿出手。这是我最好的画之一，为什么会这样呢?因为我作画的时候，道连．格雷就坐在我旁边。一种微妙的影响从他那儿传递给了我，于是我生平第一次在平凡的树林中，看到了自己时时寻觅而不可得的奇迹。"
"巴兹尔，这太棒了!我一定要见见道林·格雷。"
霍尔华德从座位上站起来，在园子里来回踱着步。一会儿他又折了回来。"哈利，"他说，"道连·格雷完全成了我艺术的主题。在他身上，你什么也看不到，而我什么都看到了。他的形象不在画中胜似在画中。我说过，他昭示了一种新方法，我觉得他在某种曲线中，在某种微妙动人的色彩中，就是这么一回事。"
"那你为什么不拿他的肖像画去展出呢?"亨釉勋爵问道。
"因为不知不觉之中，我已经在画像中表露了一种奇怪的艺术崇 拜。当然，我从来不愿同他说起这件事，他一点都不知道，以后我也决不会让他知道。但世人也许会猜测。而我不会向他们浅薄、窥探的目光敞开我的心扉。我的心绝不能放在他们的显微镜之下。画像里，我自己的东西太多了，哈利--我自己的东西太多了。"
"诗人们可不像你那么多虑。他们明白，表现激丄情有利于出版。如今，一颗破碎的心之类的书往往一版再版。"
"我讨厌他们这么做。"霍尔华德叫道。"艺术家应当创造美，但不应当把自己生活中的东西放进去。在我们这个时代，大家好像把艺术看成了自传，结果失去了抽象意义的美。将来有一天，我要向世界展示美是什么，为此，世人将永远看不到我的道林·格雷画像。""我认为你错了，巴兹尔。不过我不想同你争论。只有失去理智的人才争论不休。告诉我，道林·格雷喜欢你吗?"
画家想了一会儿。"他喜欢我，"他停了一下回答道，"我知道他喜欢我。当然我也拚命说他好话。我觉得，说那种我悔不该说的话给了我一种莫名其妙的愉快。通常，他很迷人。我们坐在画室，无所不谈。有时，他却很自私，以使我痛苦为乐。随后，哈利，我觉得自己已经把整个灵魂给了别人，而人家却仿佛把它当作一朵花似的插在钮孔上，一种为虚荣增加魅力的装饰品，夏天的一种虚饰。"
"巴兹尔，夏天总是迟迟不肯离去，"亨利勋爵低声说。"也许你比他更容易厌倦，想来真令人伤心。但无疑天才比美更持久。这也就是我们大家都拚命地过分接受教育的原因。在激烈的生存竞争中，我们总想拥有某种经久不灭的东西，所以我们把垃圾和事实塞满， 脑袋，愚蠢地希望以此保持我们的地位。无所不晓的人是现代人的典范。而这种人的脑袋是很可怕的。它像一个古玩店，里面全是怪物和尘土，价非所值。我想你照样会先感到厌倦。将来有一天你会看着你的朋友，似乎觉得把他画走了样，或者你不喜欢他的色调什么的。你心里狠狠地责备他，一本正经地认为他表现不好。第二次他再上门，你会非常冷漠。这就太遗憾了，你的性格会因此而改变。你告诉我的事，确实很浪漫，不妨称之为艺术的浪漫史，而浪漫史最坏的地方，在于它到头来使人不浪漫。"
"哈利，别这么说。只要我活着，道林·格雷的人格将左右着我。我感觉到的，你是感觉不到的。你太反复无常了。"
"啊，我亲爱的巴兹尔，那正是我能感觉到的原因。忠贞不贰的人只知道爱的小零小碎，而见异思迁者才懂得爱的大悲大痛。"亨利勋爵在一个精制的银盒上擦了根火柴，开始志得意满地抽起烟来，仿佛已经用一句话概括了整个世界。在绿漆似的常青藤中，一群叽叽喳喳的麻雀发出了寒搴的响声。蓝色的云影像燕子一样相互追逐着，飘过草地。园子里多么惬意!人家的心情多么愉快!--他似乎觉得比他们两人的想法要愉快得多。自己的灵魂，朋友的激丄情--这些都是生活中吸引人的东西。他一声不吭，饶有兴味地想象着自己由于跟霍尔华德呆得过久而错过的一顿乏味的中饭。要是去姑妈那儿，他准会碰上胡德博迪勋爵，全部谈话会集中在怎样使穷人有饭吃，以及建造样板住房的必要性。每个阶级都会宣扬那些德行的重要性，而自己却无必要去实行。有钱人会侈谈勤俭之可贵，游手好闲者会妄论劳工的尊严。而值得高兴的是，这些闲谈他都躲过了。他在想着姑妈的时候，心里闪过了一个念头，于是便转向霍尔华德，说道，"老兄，我刚才记起来了。"
"记起了什么来着，哈利?"
"我在什么地方听到过道林·格雷这个名字。""什么地方?"霍尔华德问道，微微皱了皱眉。"别那么一脸怒气，巴兹尔。是在我姑妈阿加莎那儿。她告诉我找到了一个很好的年轻人，可以帮忙做些伦敦东区的工作，他的名字叫道林．格雷。我可以肯定，她从来没有同我说起他长得很漂亮。女人们不会欣赏好看的长相，至少好女人们是这样。她说他很认真，禀性好。我立刻想象出一个戴眼镜的家伙，头发平直，满脸雀斑．迈着一双大脚。但愿我所知道的就是你的朋友。"
"我很高兴你还不知道，哈利。"
"为什么?"
"我不要你同他见面。"
"你不要我同他见面?"
"是的。"
"道林·格雷先生在画室呢，先生。"管家走进园子说。
"现在你可得把我介绍给他了，"亨利勋爵叫着笑了起来。
画家转向在阳光下眨着眼睛的仆人。"叫格雷先生等一下，帕克。我一会儿就进来。"那人欠了欠身子，折回小径。
画家随后看着亨利勋爵。"道连·格雷是我最好的朋友，"他说。"他单纯，禀性好。你姑妈说得再对没有了。别毁了他。不要去影响他，你的影响会不好的。世界很大，了不起的人很多。别从我这里把这个给了我艺术一切魅力的人弄走。他是我艺术生涯的支柱。听着，哈利，我相信你。"他说得很慢，好像这些话是违心地从他那儿硬挤出来似的。
"你胡说八道!"亨利勋爵笑了笑说，搀着霍尔华德的手，几乎是把他领进了屋子。
"哈利，别这么说。只要我活着，道林·格雷的人格将左右着我。我感觉到的，你是感觉不到的。你太反复无常了。"
"啊，我亲爱的巴兹尔，那正是我能感觉到的原因。忠贞不贰的人只知道爱的小零小碎，而见异思迁者才懂得爱的大悲大痛。"亨利勋爵在一个精制的银盒上擦了根火柴，开始志得意满地抽起烟来，仿佛已经用一句话概括了整个世界。在绿漆似的常青藤中，一群叽叽喳喳的麻雀发出了寒搴的响声。蓝色的云影像燕子一样相互追逐着，飘过草地。园子里多么惬意!人家的心情多么愉快!--他似乎觉得比他们两人的想法要愉快得多。自己的灵魂，朋友的激丄情--这些都是生活中吸引人的东西。他一声不吭，饶有兴味地想象着自己由于跟霍尔华德呆得过久而错过的一顿乏味的中饭。要是去姑妈那儿，他准会碰上胡德博迪勋爵，全部谈话会集中在怎样使穷人有饭吃，以及建造样板住房的必要性。每个阶级都会宣扬那些德行的重要性，而自己却无必要去实行。有钱人会侈谈勤俭之可贵，游手好闲者会妄论劳工的尊严。而值得高兴的是，这些闲谈他都躲过了。他在想着姑妈的时候，心里闪过了一个念头，于是便转向霍尔华德，说道，"老兄，我刚才记起来了。"
"记起了什么来着，哈利?"
"我在什么地方听到过道林·格雷这个名字。""什么地方?"霍尔华德问道，微微皱了皱眉。"别那么一脸怒气，巴兹尔。是在我姑妈阿加莎那儿。她告诉我找到了一个很好的年轻人，可以帮忙做些伦敦东区的工作，他的名字叫道林．格雷。我可以肯定，她从来没有同我说起他长得很漂亮。女人们不会欣赏好看的长相，至少好女人们是这样。她说他很认真，禀性好。我立刻想象出一个戴眼镜的家伙，头发平直，满脸雀斑．迈着一双大脚。但愿我所知道的就是你的朋友。"
"我很高兴你还不知道，哈利。"
"为什么?"
"我不要你同他见面。"
"你不要我同他见面?"
"是的。"
"道林·格雷先生在画室呢，先生。"管家走进园子说。
"现在你可得把我介绍给他了，"亨利勋爵叫着笑了起来。
画家转向在阳光下眨着眼睛的仆人。"叫格雷先生等一下，帕克。我一会儿就进来。"那人欠了欠身子，折回小径。
画家随后看着亨利勋爵。"道连·格雷是我最好的朋友，"他说。"他单纯，禀性好。你姑妈说得再对没有了。别毁了他。不要去影响他，你的影响会不好的。世界很大，了不起的人很多。别从我这里把这个给了我艺术一切魅力的人弄走。他是我艺术生涯的支柱。听着，哈利，我相信你。"他说得很慢，好像这些话是违心地从他那儿硬挤出来似的。
"你胡说八道!"亨利勋爵笑了笑说，搀着霍尔华德的手，几乎是把他领进了屋子。
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 any one. 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 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 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 every one."
"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 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 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. Some day 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 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," 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."
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