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tei.xml
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<?xml version="1.0" encoding="UTF-8"?>
<!--<?xml-model
href="http://www.tei-c.org/release/xml/tei/custom/schema/relaxng/tei_all.rng" type="application/xml" schematypens="http://relaxng.org/ns/structure/1.0"
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<TEI xmlns:xsi="http://www.w3.org/2001/XMLSchema-instance"
xsi:schemaLocation="http://www.tei-c.org/ns/1.0 tei_ms.odd" xmlns="http://www.tei-c.org/ns/1.0">
<teiHeader>
<fileDesc>
<titleStmt>
<title>The Picture of Dorian Gray</title>
</titleStmt>
<publicationStmt>
<p>Morgan Library Manuscript. Original manuscript version in thirteen chapters. Revised
for publication in periodical format in 1890 (DG90) and as print book in 1891 (DG91).
Contains pre-published materials in Morgan Manuscript (MS) and Clark Typescript
(TS).</p>
</publicationStmt>
<sourceDesc>
<msDesc>
<msIdentifier>
<settlement>New York, NY</settlement>
<repository>Pierpont Morgan Library Dept. of Literary and Historical
Manuscripts</repository>
</msIdentifier>
<physDesc>
<objectDesc>
<p>264 [i.e., 262] leaves.</p>
</objectDesc>
</physDesc>
</msDesc>
</sourceDesc>
</fileDesc>
</teiHeader>
<text>
<body>
<div type="chapter" n="1">
<head>Chapter 1</head>
<p> 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 <add place="above">pink</add>
flowering thorn. </p>
<p> From the corner of the divan of Persian saddle-boys on which he was lying, smoking,
as <mod type="subst">
<del rend="strikethrough"> was his custom, </del>
<add place="above"> usual </add>
</mod> innumerable cigarettes, Lord Henry Wotton could just catch the <del
rend="strikethrough">
<gap reason="illegible"/>
</del> gleam of the honey-sweet and hony-colored blossoms of the laburnum, that was
hanging from the tremulous branches that 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 seemingly immobile, seek
to convey the laws of swiftness and motion. The sudden murmur of the bees shouldering
their way through the long unmown grass or circling with monotonous insistance round
the black-crocketed spines of the early <add place="above"> June </add> holly-hocks,
seemed to make the stillness more oppressive, <del rend="strikethrough">
<gap reason="illegible"/>
</del> and the dim roar of London was like the bourdon note of <add place="above"> a
distant </add> organ. </p>
<p> In the center of the room, <mod type="subst">
<del rend="strikethrough">
<gap reason="illegible"/>
</del>
<add place="above"> clamped to </add>
</mod> an upbright easel, <add place="above"> was standing </add> the full-length
portrait of a young man of extraodinary personal beauty, and in front of it, some
little distance away, <del rend="strikethrough">was sitting</del> sat the <mod
type="subst">
<del rend="strikethrough">painter</del>
<add place="above">artist himself,</add>
</mod> Basil Hallward, whose sudden disappearance some years ago caused <add
place="above">at the time</add> such <add place="above">public</add> excitement,
and <mod type="subst">
<del rend="strikethrough">
<gap reason="illegible"/>
</del>
<add place="above">gave rise to so many strange</add>
</mod> conjectures. </p>
<p> As he looked at the gracious and comely form he had so skillfully mirrored in his
art, a <del implication="inconclusive" strokes="2">
<unclear reason="illegible">delicate</unclear>
</del> 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 <mod type="subst">
<del rend="strikethrough" implication="illegible" strokes="2">
<gap reason="illegible"/>
<add place="above">
<gap reason="illegible"/>
</add>
</del>
<add place="above">curious</add>
</mod> dream from which he feared he might awake. </p>
<p>
<quote>"It is your best work, Basil, the best thing you have ever done," said Lord
Henry languidly. "You must certainly send it <add place="above">next year</add> to
the Grosvenor. The Academy is too large, and too vulgar. The Grosvenor is the only
place." </quote>
</p>
<p>
<quote> "I don't think I will send it will send it any where," he answered, tossing
his head back in that odd way that used to make <mod type="subst">
<del rend="strikethrough">
<unclear reason="illegible">us</unclear>
</del>
<add place="above">his friends</add>
</mod> laugh at him in Oxford. "No: I won't send it anywhere. And yet, you are
quite right about it. It is my best work." </quote>
</p>
<p> Lord Henry elevated his eyebrows, and looked at him in amazement through the thin
blue wreathes of smoke that curled <mod type="subst">
<del rend="strikethrough">
<gap reason="illegible"/>
</del>
<add place="above">up in such fanciful whorls</add>
</mod> from his heavy opium-tainted cigarette. <quote> "Not send it anywhere? My dear
fellow, why? Have you got any reason? What odd chaps you painters are! You do any
thing in the world to gain a reputation. And soon as you have <mod type="subst">
<del rend="strikethrough">it</del>
<add place="above">one</add>
</mod> 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 <add place="above">quite</add> jealous, if old men are <add
place="above">even</add> capable of any emotion." </quote>
</p>
<p>
<quote> "I know you will laugh at me," he replied, "but I really cannot exhibit it. I
have put too much of myself into it." </quote> Lord Henry stretched his long legs
out on the divan, and shook with laughter. <quote> "Yes: I knew you would laugh, but
it is quite true, all the same." </quote>
</p>
<p>
<quote> "Too much of yourself in it! Upon my word, <add place="above">Basil,</add> 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, <mod type="subst">
<del rend="strikethrough">only begins</del>
<add place="above">ends</add>
</mod> where an intellectual expression begins. Intellect is in itself an
exaggeration, and destroys the harmony of any face. The moment one <del
rend="strikethrough">
<gap reason="illegible"/>
</del> sits down to think, one becomes all nose, or all forehead, or something
horrid. Look at the successful men in any <mod type="subst">
<del rend="strikethrough">
<gap reason="illegible"/>
</del>
<add place="above">of the</add>
</mod> 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 <add place="above">always</add> 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 <add place="above">always here</add> in summer when we want something
to chill our intelligences. Don't flatter yourself, Basil. You are not in the
least like him." </quote>
</p>
<p>
<quote> "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 as
well as intellectual distinction, the sort of fatality that seems to dog <mod
type="subst">
<del rend="strikethrough">the</del>
<add place="above">through history the faltering</add>
</mod> 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 <mod type="subst">
<del rend="strikethrough">
<unclear>saved</unclear>
</del>
<add>at least spared</add>
</mod> 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 Grey's <mod type="subst">
<del rend="strikethrough" strokes="2" implication="beauty">beauty;</del>
<add place="above">good looks;</add>
</mod> we will all suffer for what the Gods have given us, suffer terribly."
</quote>
</p>
<p>
<quote> "Dorian Grey? Is that his name?" said Lord Henry, walking across the studio
toward Basil Hallward. </quote>
</p>
<p>
<quote> "Yes: that is his name. I did'nt intend to tell <add place="above">it
to</add> you." </quote>
</p>
<p>
<quote> "But why not?" </quote>
</p>
<p>
<quote> "Oh! I can't explain. <del rend="strikethrough" strokes="1"
implication="illegible">
<gap reason="illegible"/>
</del> When I like people immensely, I <mod type="subst">
<del rend="strikethrough">cannot</del>
<add place="above">never</add>
</mod> 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 a modern life
woderful, or mysterious to us. The commonest thing is delightful if one only hides
it. When I <mod type="subst">
<del rend="strikethrough">dine out</del>
<add place="above">leave town</add>
</mod> I never tell my people where I am going. If I did, I would lose all my
pleasure. It is a silly habit, I daresay, but somehow it <del rend="strikethrough">
<gap reason="illegible"/>
</del> seems to bring a great deal of romance into one's life. I suppose you think
me awfully foolish about it?" </quote>
</p>
<p>
<quote> "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 absolutely necessary for both
parties. I never know <mod type="subst">
<del rend="strikethrough">what</del>
<add place="above">where</add>
</mod> my wife is <del rend="strikethrough">doing</del> , and my wife never knows
<mod type="subst">
<del rend="strikethrough">where</del>
<add place="above">what</add>
</mod> I am <add place="above">doing</add> When we meet--we do meet occasionally,
when we dine, out <add place="above">together</add> 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 never makes a row. I
sometimes wish she did, but she merely laughts at me." </quote>
</p>
<p>
<quote> "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 neve
say a moral thing, and you never do a wrong thing. Your cynicism is simply a
pose." </quote>
</p>
<p>
<quote> "Being natural is simply a pose, and the most irritating pose I know, <mod
type="subst">
<del rend="strikethrough" strokes="2">said</del>
<add place="above">cried</add>
</mod> Lord Henry laughing, and the two young men went out into the garden
together, and for a time they did not speak. <del rend="strikethrough" strokes="2"
>to each other.</del>
</quote>
</p>
<p> After a long pause Lord Henry pulled out his watch. <quote> "I am afriad I must be
going Basil," he <mod type="subst">
<del rend="strikethrough" strokes="3">said</del>
<add place="above">murmured</add>
</mod> and before I go I insist on you answering me a question I put to you <mod
type="subst">
<del rend="strikethrough" strokes="2">
<gap reason="illegible"/>
</del>
<add place="above">half an hour</add>
</mod> ago." </quote>
</p>
<p>
<quote> "What is that?" asked Basil Hallward, keeping his eyes fixed on the ground.
</quote>
</p>
<p>
<quote> "You know quite well." </quote>
</p>
<p>
<quote> "I do not, Harry." </quote>
</p>
<p>
<quote> "Well, I will tell you what it is." </quote>
</p>
<p>
<quote> "Please don't." </quote>
</p>
<p>
<quote> "I must. I want you to <mod type="subst">
<del rend="strikethrough" strokes="1" implication="inconclusive">tell</del>
<add place="above">explain to</add>
</mod> me why you won't exhibit Dorian Gray's picture. I want the real reason."
</quote>
</p>
<p>
<quote> "I told you the real reason." </quote>
</p>
<p>
<quote> "No: you did not. You said it was because there was too much of yourself it.
Now, that is childish." </quote>
</p>
<p>
<quote> "Harry," said Basil Hallward, <del rend="strikethrough" strokes="1"
implication="intimacy"> taking hold of his hand and </del> looking him straight
in the face, "Every portrait that is painted with <mod type="subst">
<del rend="strikethrough" strokes="2" implication="passion">passion</del>
<add place="above">feeling</add>
</mod> 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 <add place="above">on the colours of the canvas</add> reveals
himself. The reason why I will not exhibit this picture, is that I am afraid that
I have shown in it the secret of my own soul." </quote>
</p>
<p> Lord Henry <mod type="subst">
<del rend="strikethrough" strokes="1" implication="intimacy"> hesistated for a
moment </del>
<add place="above">laughed</add>
</mod>
</p>
<p>
<quote> "And what is that?" he asked. <del rend="strikethrough" strokes="1"
implication="intimacy"> in a low voice </del>
</quote>
</p>
<p>
<quote> "I will tell you," said Hallward, and <mod type="subst">
<del rend="strikethrough" strokes="inconclusive" implication="fatality"> a look
of pain </del>
<add place="above">an expression of perplexity</add>
</mod> came over his face. </quote>
</p>
<p>
<quote>
<mod type="subst">
<del rend="strikethrough" strokes="1" implication="fatality">"Don't if you
would rather not" </del>
<add place="above">"I am all expectation, Basil"</add>
</mod> murmured his companion, looking at him. </quote>
</p>
<p>
<quote> "Oh! There is really very little to tell you, Harry," answered the young
painter; "and I am afraid you will hardly understand it." </quote>
</p>
<p> Lord Henry smiled, and leaning down plucked a ping-petalled daisy from the grass,
and examined it. <quote> "I am quite sure I shall understand <mod type="subst">
<del rend="strikethrough">you</del>
<add place="above">it</add>
</mod> ," he replied, gazing intently at the little golden white-feathered disk.
<del rend="strikethrough"> that has charmed all our poets from Chaucer to
Tennyson </del>
</quote>
</p>
<p> 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 <mod type="subst">
<del rend="strikethrough">bird</del>
<add place="above">grasshopper</add>
</mod> began to <mod type="subst">
<del rend="strikethrough">sing</del>
<add place="above">chirrup</add>
</mod> in <mod type="subst">
<del rend="strikethrough">a thicket</del>
<add place="above">the grass</add>
</mod> , and a long thin dragon-fly floated <mod type="subst">
<del rend="strikethrough">past</del>
<add place="above">by</add>
</mod> on its brown gauze wings. Lord Henry felt as if he coul hear Basil Hallward's
heart beating, and he <mod type="subst">
<del rend="strikethrough" strokes="2" implication="fatality"> heard his own
breath, with a sense almost of fear </del>
<add place="above">wondered what was coming.</add>
</mod>
</p>
<p>
<quote> "Yes: there is very little to tell you," repeated Hallward <add place="above"
>rather bitterly</add> "and I <mod type="subst">
<del rend="strikethrough">am afraid</del>
<add place="above">daresay</add>
</mod> you will be disappointed. 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, <add place="above">as you told me once</add> any body, <add
place="above">even a stockbroker,</add> can gain a reputation for being
civilized. Well, after I had been in the room about ten minutes, talking to huge
over-scented dowagers and tedious academicians, I suddenly <mod type="subst">
<del rend="strikethrough">felt</del>
<add place="above">became conscious</add>
</mod> 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 <mod type="subst">
<del rend="strikethrough">grew</del>
<add place="above">was growing</add>
</mod> pale. A curious <mod type="subst">
<del rend="strikethrough">feeling</del>
<add place="above"><gap reason="illegible"/></add>
</mod> of terror came over me. I knew that I had <del rend="strikethrough">
<gap reason="illegible"/>
</del> come <mod type="subst">
<del rend="strikethrough">across</del>
<add place="above">face to face with</add>
</mod> someone whose mere personality was so fascinating that it would <mod
type="subst">
<del rend="strikethrough" strokes="3" implication="fatality"> be Lord over </del>
<add place="above">absorb</add>
</mod> my <mod type="subst">
<del rend="strikethrough" strokes="2" implication="passion">life</del>
<add place="above">nature</add>
</mod> , my soul, my art itself. I did not want any <mod type="subst">
<add place="above">extreme</add> influence <del rend="strikethrough"
strokes="1" implication="inconclusive"> of that kind </del>
</mod> in my life. You know yourself, Harry, how independant I have always been.
My father destined me for the army. I insisted on 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
<del rend="strikethrough">
<gap reason="illegible"/>
</del> don't know how to explain it to you. Something seemed to tell me that I was
on the verge of <del rend="strikethrough">
<gap reason="illegible"/>
</del> a terible crisis in my life. I had a strange feeling that <mod type="subst">
<del rend="strikethrough">
<gap reason="illegible"/>
</del>
<add place="above">fate</add>
</mod> had in store for me exquisite joys and exquisite sorrows. I knew that if I
spoke to him, I would <mod type="subst">
<del rend="strikethrough" strokes="1" implication="fatality"> never leave him
till either he or I were dead </del>
<add place="above"> become absolutely devoted to him, and that I ought not to
speak to him. </add>
</mod> I grew afraid, and turned to <mod type="subst">
<del rend="strikethrough">leave</del>
<add place="above">quit</add>
</mod> the room. It was not conscience <add place="above">that made me do
so,</add> it was cowardice. I <del rend="strikethrough">
<gap reason="illegible"/>
</del> take no credit to myself for trying to escape." </quote>
</p>
<p>
<quote> "Conscience and cowardice are really the same things, Basil. Conscience is
the trade-name of the firm, that is all." </quote>
</p>
<p>
<quote> "I <mod type="subst">
<del rend="strikethrough">am not sure of that <add place="above">Harry</add>
</del>
<add place="above">don't believe that, Harry</add>
</mod> 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 stubled
against Lady Brandon. <quote> "You are not going to run away so soon, Mr.
Hallward?" She screamed out. </quote> You know her shrill horrid voice?"
</quote>
</p>
<p>
<quote> "Yes: she is a peacock in every thing but beauty," said Lord Henry, pulling
the daisy to bits with his long nervous fingers. </quote>
</p>
<p>
<quote> "I could not get rid of her. She brought me up to the Royalties, and people
with Stars and Garters, and elderly ladies with gigantic tiaras <add place="above"
>and hooked noses.</add> 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 app> <mod
type="subst">
<del rend="strikethrough">
<gap reason="illegible"/> of fame </del>
<add place="above">standard of immortality</add>
</mod> Suddenly I found myself face to face with the young man whose <mod
type="subst">
<del rend="strikethrough" strokes="2" implication="beauty">beauty</del>
<add place="above">personality</add>
</mod> had so <add place="above">strangely</add> 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." </quote>
</p>
<p>
<quote> "And how did Lady Brandon describe this wonderful young <mod type="subst">
<del rend="strikethrough" strokes="2" implication="beauty">narcissus</del>
<add place="above">man</add>
<del/>
</mod> ? I know she gives in for giving a rapid precis of <add place="above"
>all</add> her guests. I remember her bringing <del rend="strikethrough">up
to</del> me up to a most truculent and red-faced old <mod type="subst">
<del rend="strikethrough">man</del>
<add place="above">gentleman</add>
</mod> covered all over with orders and ribands, and hissing into my ear in a
tragic whisper, which must have been perfectly audible to every body in the room,
something like <quote> 'Sir Humpty Dumpty – you know – Afghan frontier – Russian
intelligence: very successful man – <del rend="strikethrough">quite
inconsolable</del>
<del rend="strikethrough">wants to marry</del> wife killed by an elephant –
quite inconsolable – wants to marry a <add place="above">beautiful</add>
American widow <add place="above">every body does now-a-days</add> – hates Mr.
Gladstone – but very much interested in beetles – ask him about the new <del
rend="strikethrough">
<gap reason="illegible"/>
</del> military frontier.' </quote>
<del rend="strikethrough">
<gap reason="illegible"/>
</del> 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 <add place="above">entirely</add> away or tells one everything about them
<mod type="subst">
<del rend="strikethrough">that one does not</del>
<add place="above">except what one</add>
</mod> wants to know. But what did she say about Mr. Dorian Gray?" </quote>
</p>
<p>
<quote> "Oh, she murmered, <quote> 'charming boy – going to be so rich – mother and I
great friends – 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 – afriad he doesn't
do anything – oh, yes plays the piano – or is it the violin, dear Mr. Gray?'
</quote> We could niether of us help laughing, and we became friends at once."
</quote>
</p>
<p>
<quote> "Laughter is not a bad beginning for for a friendship, and it is the best
ending for one," said Lord Henry plucking another daisy. </quote>
</p>
<p> Hallward burried his face <del rend="strikethrough">
<gap reason="illegible"/>
</del> in his hands. <quote> "You don't understand what friendship is, Harry," he
murmured," or what enmity is for that matter. You like every one, <mod
type="subst">
<del rend="strikethrough">which is the same as <gap reason="illegible"/>
</del>
<add place="above">that is to say</add>
</mod> you are indifferent to every one." </quote>
</p>
<p>
<quote> "How horridly 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 <add place="above">summer</add> sky, like ravelled skeins of glossy white
silk, were drifting across the hollowed turquoise of the summer sky. </quote>
<quote> "Yes" horribly unjust of you. I make a great different between people. I
choose my friends for their good looks: my acquaintences 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." </quote>
</p>
<p>
<quote> "I should think it was, Harry. But according to your category, I must be
merely an acquaintance." </quote>
</p>
<p>
<quote> "My dear old Basil, you are much more than an acquaintance…" </quote>
</p>
<p>
<quote> "And much less than a friend. A sort of brother, I suppose?" </quote>
</p>
<p>
<quote> "Oh! Brothers! I don't care for brothers. My elder brother won't die, and my
younger brothers <add place="above">seem</add> never <add place="above">to</add>
do anything else." </quote>
</p>
<p>
<quote> "Harry!" </quote>
</p>
<p>
<quote> "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 <add
place="above">English</add> democracy <del rend="strikethrough">to
English</del> against what they call the vices of the upper classes. They <mod
type="subst">
<del rend="strikethrough">seem to think</del>
<add place="above">feel</add>
</mod> that drunkenness, <unclear>and</unclear> stupidity, <add place="above">and
immorality</add> should be their own special property, and that if any one of
us makes an ass of himself <mod type="subst">
<del rend="strikethrough">he is</del>
<add place="above">we are</add>
</mod> poaching on their preserves. When poor Southwark got into the Divorce
Court, their <mod type="subst">
<del rend="strikethrough">rage</del>
<add place="above">indignation</add>
</mod> was quite magnificant. And yet I don't suppose that ten per cent of the
lower orders live with their own wives." </quote>
</p>
<p>
<quote> "I don't agree with a single word that you have said, and, what is more, <add
place="above">Harry,</add> I don't believe you do either." </quote>
</p>
<p>
<quote> "Lord Henry <del rend="strikethrough">pulled his little straw-colored
mousatache, and</del> stroked his pointed <mod type="subst">
<del rend="strikethrough">
<unclear>Henry</unclear>
<gap reason="illegible"/>
</del>
<add place="above">brown</add>
</mod> beard, and tapped the toe of his patent-leather boot with a <mod
type="subst">
<del rend="strikethrough">thick</del>
<add place="above">tassled</add>
</mod> 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 important
is whether one <del rend="strikethrough">is sincere or putting it forward</del>
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 <add
place="above">in that case</add> it will not be coloured by either his wants,
his desires, or his prejudices. However, I don't propose to discuss <del
rend="strikethrough">
<gap reason="illegible"/>
</del> politics, sociology, or metaphysics with you. I like persons better than
principle. Tell me more about Dorian Gray. How often do you see him?" </quote>
</p>
<p>
<quote> "Every day, Harry. I could <mod type="subst">
<del rend="strikethrough" strokes="2" implication="fatality">not live</del>
<add>n't be happy</add>
</mod> if I did <mod type="subst">
<del rend="strikethrough">not</del>
<add>n't</add>
</mod> 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." </quote>
</p>
<p>
<quote>
<mod type="subst">
<bdel rend="strikethrough"> And </bdel>
<add place="above">But</add>
</mod> you <add place="above">don't</add> really worship him?" </quote>
</p>
<p>
<quote> "I do." </quote>
</p>
<p>
<quote> "How extraordinary! I thought you would never care for anything but your
painting – your art, I should say. Art sounds better, doesn't it?" </quote>
</p>
<p>
<quote> "He is all my art to me now. I sometimes think, Harry, that there are only
two eras <add place="above">of any importance</add> in the history of <mod
type="subst">
<del rend="strikethrough"> earth </del>
<add place="above"> the world. The first is </add>
</mod> the difference of a new medium <add place="above">in art</add> and the
second is <add place="above">the</add> difference of a new personality <add
place="above">for art also.</add> What the invention of oil-painting was to the
Venetians, the <mod type="subst">
<del rend="strikethrough" strokes="1" implication="beauty"> beauty </del>
<add place="above">face</add>
</mod> of Antinous was to late Greek sculpture, and the <mod type="subst">
<del rend="strikethrough" strokes="2" implication="beauty"> beauty </del>
<add place="above">face</add>
</mod> 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 armour, 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 lookinginto 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 <mod
type="subst">
<del rend="strikethrough" strokes="1" implication="beauty"> beauty </del>
<add place="above">face</add>
</mod> 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 expres it. There is nothing that art cannot express, and I know the work
that I have done, since I met Dorian Gray, is <del rend="strikethrough">the</del>
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 <mod type="subst">
<del rend="strikethrough">that</del>
<add place="above">who</add>
</mod> says that? – I forget; – but it is what Dorian Gray has been to me. The
merely visible presence of this <mod type="subst">
<del rend="strikethrough">boy</del>
<add place="above">lad</add>
</mod> though <mod type="subst">
<del rend="strikethrough"> twenty summers have shown him roses less scarlet
than his lips </del>
<add place="above">he is <del rend="strikethrough">just</del>over twenty </add>
</mod> 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 <mod type="subst">
<del rend="strikethrough">
<gap reason="illegible"/>
</del>
<add place="above">romantic</add>
</mod> 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 as a realism that is bestial, an ideality that is void. Harry! Harry! if
you only knew what Dorian Gray is <add place="above">to me.</add> You remember
that landscape of mine, for which Agnew offered me such <gap reason="illegiible"
/>a <gap reason="illegible"/>
<add place="above">huge</add> 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. <del rend="strikethrough" strokes="1"
implication="passion"> and as he leaned across to look at it, his <del
implication="intimacy"> cheek just brushed my cheek. <add place="above">hair
just touched my hand.</add></del> The world becomes young to me when I
hold his hand, as when I see him, the centuries yield up all their secrets!"
</del>
</quote>
</p>
<p>
<quote> "Basil, this is <mod type="subst">
<del rend="strikethrough" strokes="inconclusive" implication="fatality">
<gap reason="illegible"/> you must not talk <gap reason="illegible"/> his
power, you <gap reason="illegible"/> to make yourself the <gap
reason="illegible"/> of <gap reason="illegible"/> slave! It is worse that
wicked, it is silly. I hate Dorian Gray." </del>
<add place="above">quite wonderful. I must see Dorian Gray.</add>
</mod>
</quote>
</p>
<p> Hallward got up from the seat, and walked up and down the garden. <del
rend="strikethrough"> A curious smile curled his lips. He seemed like a man in a
dream. </del> After some time he came back. <quote> "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 then 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 subtleties of certain colours. That is all." </quote>
</p>
<p>
<quote> "Then why won't you exhibit his <mod><del rend="strikethrough"
>picture?</del><add place="above">portrait?</add></mod>
</quote>
</p>
<p>
<quote> "Because I have put into it <add place="above">all</add> the <add
place="above">extraordinary</add> romance of which, <add place="above">of
course,</add> I have never dared to speak to him. He knows nothing about it,
<add place="above">he will never know anything about it,</add> but the world
<mod type="subst">
<del rend="strikethrough">would</del>
<add place="above">might</add>
</mod> guess it, <add place="above">and</add>
<del rend="strikethrough" strokes="2" implication="passion"> where there is merely
love, they would see something evil, where there is spectacular passion they
would suggest something vile. </del> I will not bear my soul to their shallow
<add place="above">prying</add> eyes. My heart shall <mod type="subst">
<del rend="strikethrough" strokes="1" implication="passion"> not be made their
mockery </del>
<add place="above">never be put under their microscope.</add>
</mod> There is too much of myself in <gap reason="illegible"/>
<add place="above">the thing,</add> Harry, too much of myself! </quote>
</p>
<p>
<quote> "Poets are not so scrupulous as you are. They know how useful passion is for
publication. Now-a-days a broken heart will run to many editions." </quote>
</p>
<p>
<quote> "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 which men treat art as if it
were meant to be an autobiography. We have lost the abstract sense of beauty. If I
live I will show the world what it is, and for that lesson the world shall never
see my portrait of Dorian Gray." </quote>
</p>
<p>
<quote> "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?"
</quote>
</p>
<p> Hallward considers for a few moments. <quote> "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 <mod type="subst">
<del rend="strikethrough">will</del>
<add place="above">shall</add>
</mod> be sorry for having said. I give myself away. <del rend="strikethrough"
strokes="" implication="beauty"> I told him that beauty like his is genius, is
higher <add place="above">
<gap reason="illegible"/>
</add> than genius, as it needs no explanation, and is one of the great facts
of the world, like sunlight or spring time, or what <gap reason="illegible"/>
the explanation in dark waters of that thin silver shell we call the moon.
</del> As a rule, he is charming to me, and we walk home together, from the club,
arm in arm, or sit in the studio <del rend="strikethrough" strokes="1"
implication="intimacy"> beside each other </del> and talk of a thousand things.
Now and then, <del rend="strikethrough" strokes="3" implication="illegible">
<gap reason="illegible"/>
<add place="above">
<gap reason="illegible"/>
</add>
<gap reason="illegible"/>
</del> however, he is horribly thoughtless, and seems to take a real delight in
giving me pain. Then I feel, Harry, that I have given away my whole soul to
someone <del rend="strikethrough" strokes="inconclusive" implication="fatality">
seems to take a real delight in giving me pain. I can quite understand it. I
can imagine myself doing it. But not to him, not to him. Once or twice we have
been away together, then I have <add place="above"> had </add> him all to
myself. I am horribly jealous of him, of course. I never let him talk to me of
the people he knows. I like to isolate him from the rest of life, and to think
that he absolutely belongs to me. He does not, I know. But it gives me pleasure
to think that he does. Harry! I have given this <mod type="subst"> boy <add
place="above">young man</add>
</mod> my whole <gap reason="illegible"/>
</del>
<add>who</add> treats <gap reason="illegible"/> 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." </quote>
</p>
<p>
<quote> "Days in summer, Basil, are apt <mod type="subst">
<del rend="strikethrough">wax long</del>
<add place="above">linger</add>
</mod> Perhaps you will tire sooner than he will. It is a bad thing to think of,
but there is no doubt that genius lasts longer than beauty. That accounts for the
fact that <mod type="subst">
<del rend="strikethrough">we are all horribly overeducated</del>
<add place="above">we all take such pains to overeducate ourselves</add>
</mod> 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 <mod type="subst">
<del rend="strikethrough">what we all try to be.</del>
<add place="above">the modern ideal.</add>
</mod> 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, and every thing priced above its
proper value. I think you will tire first, all the same. Some day you will look at
him, 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 <mod type="subst">
<del rend="strikethrough">
<gap reason="illegible"/>
</del>
<add place="above">very badly to</add>
</mod> you. The next time he calls, you will be perfectly cold aand indifferent.
It will be a great pity, for it will alter you. The worst of having a romance is
that it makes one so unromantic." </quote>
</p>
<p>
<quote> "Harry, don't talk like that. <del rend="strikethrough"> I am not afraid of
things, but I am afraid of words. I cannot understand how it is that no
prophecy has ever been fulfilled. None has, I know. And yet it seems to me that
to say a thing, is to bring it to pass. Whatever has found expression becomes
true, and what has not found expression can never happen. As for genius lasting
longer than beauty – it is only the transitory that stirs me. What is permanent
is monotonous, and produces no effect. Our senses become dulled by what is
always with us. </del> As long as I live, the personality of Dorian Gray will
dominate me. <del rend="strikethrough" strokes="inconclusive"
implication="illegible"> If it <gap reason="illegible"/> memory, there will be
a magic in it <gap reason="illegible"/> dream it will be more real than reality
</del> You <mod type="subst">
<del rend="strikethrough">cannot realize</del>
<add place="above">can't feel</add>
</mod> what I feel. You change too often." </quote>
</p>
<p>
<quote> "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 dainy 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. </quote> There was a rustle of chirriping 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 quite sure to have met 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 <quote> "My dear fellow, I have just remembered." </quote>
</p>
<p>
<quote> "Rememberd what, Harry?" </quote>
</p>
<p>
<quote> "Where I heard the name of Dorian Gray." </quote>
</p>
<p>
<quote> "Where <del rend="strikethrough"> I heard the name of </del> was it?" Asked
Hallward, with a slight frown. </quote>
</p>
<p>
<quote> "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 saw that he was very earnest, and had a beautiful nature. I at
once pictured to myself a creature with spectacles and <mod type="subst">
<del rend="strikethrough">no</del>
<add place="above">lank</add>
</mod> hair, horribly freckled, and <mod type="subst">
<del rend="strikethrough">with</del>
<add place="above">tramping abouty on</add>
</mod> huge feet. I wish I had known it was your friend." </quote>
</p>
<p>
<quote> "I am glad you didn't, Harry." </quote>
</p>
<p>
<quote> "Why?" </quote>
</p>
<p>
<quote> "I don't want you to meet him." </quote>
</p>
<p>
<quote> "Mr. Dorian Gray is in the studio, Sir" said the butler coming into the
garden. </quote>
</p>
<p>
<quote> "You must introduce me now," <mod type="subst">
<del rend="strikethrough">said</del>
<add place="above">cried</add>
</mod> Lord Henry, laughing. </quote>
</p>
<p> Basil Hallward turned to the <mod type="subst">
<del rend="strikethrough">servant</del>
<add place="above">butler</add>
</mod> who stood blinking in the sunlight. <quote> "Ask Mr. Gray to wait, Parker; I
will be in in a few moments." </quote> The man bowed, and went up the walk. </p>
<p> Then he looked at Lord Henry. <quote> "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
away from me the one person that makes life <del rend="strikethrough">lovely</del>
<add place="above">absolutely</add> lovely to me, and that gives me my art
whatever wonder or charm it possesses. Mind, Harry, I trust you." </quote> He
spoke very slowly, and the words seemed wrung out of him as almost against his will. </p>
<p>
<quote>
<del strokes="inconclusive" implication="passion"> I don't suppose I shall care
for him, and I am quite sure he won't care for me,"</del>
<add place="above">"What nonsense you talk," said</add> Lord Henry smiling, and,
taking Hallward by the arm, he almost led him into the house. </quote>
</p>
</div>
</body>
</text>
</TEI>