Collected, Works of

Osco,r Wild,eThe Plays, the Poems, the Stories

and the Essays includingDE PROFUNDIS

Wordsworth Editions

CONTENTS

The Picture of Dorian Gray r

LORD ARTHUR SAVILE'S cRIMEAND OTHER STORIES

Lord Attbut Saaile's Crime

The Sphinx without a Secr"et

Tbe Canteruille Ghost

Tbe Model Millionaire

The Portrait of Mr W. H.

A HOUSE OF POMEGRANATESThis uolume dedicated to Constance Mnry Wilde

The Young King

Tbe Birthday of tbe Infantn

The Fisherynan and his Soul

The Star-Child

THE HAPPY PRINCE AND OTHER TALESTbis aolume dedicated to Carlos Blacker

The Happy Prince

The lt{ightingale and the Rose

The Seffish Gianr

Tbe Deaoted Friend

The Remarknble Rocket

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rB3

r89

213

219

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257

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325aa1)JJ

339

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THE PLAYS

Wra

The Duchess of Padua

Lady Winderntere's Fnn

A Wornan of l{o lrupofiance

An ldeal Hasband

The Irnportance of BeingEar"nest

Saloru|

La Sainte Courtisane

A Florentine Tragedy

THE POETICAL WORKS

Poems

The Sphinx

The Ballad of Reading Gaot

Raaenna

INTENTIONS

The Decay of Lying

Pen, Pencil and Poison

The Critic as AttistThe Truth of Masks

The Soul of Man ander. Socialisrn

De Profundis

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407

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661

717

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THE PICTURE OFDORIAN GRAY

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The studio was filled with the rich odour of roses, and when the lightsummer wind stirred amidst the trees of the garden, there came through theopen door the healy scent of the lilac, or the more delicate perfume of thepink-flowering thorn.

From the corner of the divan of Persian saddlebags on which he waslytng, smoking, as was his custom, innumerable cigarettes, Lord HenryWotton could just catch the gleam of the honey-sweet and honey-colouredblossoms of a laburnum, whose tremulous branches seemed hardly able tobear the burden of a beauty so flame-like as theirs; and now and then thefantastic shadows of birds in flight flitted across the long tussore-silkcurtains that were stretched in front of the huge window, producing a kindof momentary Japanese effect, and making him think of those pallid jade-

faced painters of Tokio who, through the medium of an art that isnecessarily immobile, seek to convey the sense of swiftness and motion. Thesullen murmur of the bees shouldering their \May through the long unmowngrass, or circling with monotonous insistence round the dusty gilt horns ofthe straggling woodbine, seemed to make the stillness more oppressive. Thedim 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 infront of it, some little distance away, was sitting the artist himself, BasilHallward, 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 skilfullymirrored in his art, a smile of pleasure passed across his face, and seemedabout 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 hisbrain some curious dream from which he feared he might awake.

'It is your best work, Basil, the best thing you have ever done,' said LordHenry, 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 thepictures, which was dreadful, or so many pictures that I have not been ableto 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 backin that odd way that used to make his friends laugh at him at Oxford. 'No: Iwon't send it anywhere.'

6 coLLEcrED woRKs oF oscAR wILDE

- Lord Henry elevated his eyebrows, and rooked at him in amazemenrthrough the thin blue wreaths of smoke that curred op rr, ,,r.t, fancifulwhorls from his hear.y opium-tainted cigarette. 'Not seni it anywhere? Myd_ear fellow, why? Have you any r""rori What odd chaps you i"int.r, ar.!You do anything in the worrd to gain a reputation. A, sotn"a, yo, hnrr. or",you seem ro want to throw it awav. It is silly of you, for there is only onething in the world -?t:: ,hT being talked about, and that is not beingtalked about. A portrait like this *o.,ld set you f",

"Lorr" ail the young men

in England, and make the old men quite jeaious, if old men ".. ..r", capable

of any emotion.'

_ 'I know you will laugh at me,' he replied, 'but I really can,t exhibit it. Ihave 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 ,"-.1.'Too much of your.self in itl Upon my word, Basil, I didn,t know you

were so vain; and I really can't see any resembrance between you, with yourrugged strong face and your coal-black hair, and this yorrrg Adonis, wholooks as if he was made out of ivory and rose-lea.r.r. Why, -f a"r, .Basil, heis a. Narcissus, and you - well,_of course you have an irrt.li..irrul expression,and all that. But beauty, real beauty, ends where an intenectual expressionbegins. Intellect is in itself a mode of exaggeration, and destroys theharmony of any face. The momenr one sits doi"]r to think, one becomes alrnose' or all forehead, or something horrid. Look at the successful men inany of the learned professions. How perfectry hideous they arer Except, ofcourse' in the church. But then in the church they don,t think. A bishopkeeps on saying at the age of eighty what he was tord to say when he was a

!"r 9f eighteen' and as a naruial consequence he always iooks absoluterydelightful. Your mysterious young friend, whose name you have never tord1e, but whose picture really fascinates me, never thinks. I feel qrrite sure ofthat. He is some brainless, beautiful creature, who should r.

"rriry, here in

winter when we have no flowers to look at, and always here in ,r-ir., *h.,we wanr something to.chill our intelligenc.. Donit flatter yourself, Basil:you are not in the least like him.'

'You don't understand me, Flarry,' answered the artist. ,of course I amnot like him. I know that perfectly well. Indeed, I should be sorry to looklike.frim, You shrug your shouldeis? I am terling y"" ,rr. o"rr.. Th"." i,

"fatality about all physical and intellecrual distinction, the sort of fatarity that:""Tr-_to dog through h1tory the faltering steps of kings. It is better not tobe different from one's fellows. The ugly"and the stuprt have ttre best of itin this world. They can sit at their e"sle and gape at the play. If they knownothing of victory, they are at,least spared tte'knowledg. lr d"i;"r. Theylive as we all should live, undisturb.d, indiffe..rrr, urri*ithout 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 _ _y

"rt, *hatever

THE PICTU

it may be worth; Dorian Grav's

gods have given us, sufFer terrib

'Dorian Gray? Is that his na:

studio towards Basil Hallward'

'Yes, that is his name. I didn'

'But why not?''Oh, I can't exPlain. When

names to anyone. It is like surre

secrecy. It seems to be the one

or marvellous to us. The comrr

When I leave town now I neve

would lose all mY Pleasure' Itseems to bring a great deal ofme awfully foolish about it?'

'Not at all,' answered Lord Iforget that I am married, and *of deception absolutelY necessl

wife is, and mY wife never kno

meet occasionallY, when we din

tell each other the most absurd

very good at it - much better, i:

her dates, and I alwaYs do' But

at all. I sometimes wish she wo

'I hate the waY You talk

Hallward, strolling towards th

you are really a very good hus

your own virtues. You are an

thing, and you never do a wro

'Being natural is simPlY a Pr

Lord Henry, laughing; and ttogether, and ensconced then

shade of a tall laurel bush. Tlthe grass, white daisies were t

After a Pause' Lord Henrgoing, Basil,' he murmured,

question I put to You some til'What is that?' said the Pai'You know quite well.'

'I do not, l{arry.''Well, I will tell You what i

exhibit Dorian GraY's Picturt'I told you the real reason'

'No, you did not. You saic

in it. Now, that is childish.'

TTLDE

fum*Fti E h"-yn in amazement

THE PICTURE OF DORIAN GRAY

it may be worth; Dorian Gray's good looks - we shall all suffer for what thegods have given us, suffer terribly.'

'Dorian Gray? Is that his name?' asked Lord Henry, walking across thestudio 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 anyone. It is like surrendering a part of them. I have grown to lovesecrecy. It seems to be the one thing that can make modern life mysteriousor 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, Iwould lose all my pleasure. It is a silly habit, I daresay, but somehow itseems to bring a great deal of romance into one's life. I suppose you thinkme awfully foolish about it?'

'Not at all,' answered Lord Henry, 'not at all, my dear Basil. You seem toforget that I am married, and the one charm of marriage is that it makes a lifeof deception absolutely necessary for both parties. I never know where mywife is, and my wife never knows what I am doing. When we meet - we domeet occasionally, when we dine out together, or go down to the Duke's - wetell each other the most absurd stories with the most serious faces. My wife isvery good at it - much better, in fact, than I am. She never gets confused overher dates, and I always do. But when she does find me out, she makes no rowat all. I sometimes vdsh she would; but she merely laughs at me.'

'I hate the way you talk about your married life, Harry,' said BasilHallward, strolling towards the door that led into the garden. 'I believe thatyou are really a very good husband, but that you are thoroughly ashamed ofyour own virtues. You are an extraordinary fellow. You never say a moralthing, and you never do a wrong thing. Your qmicism is simply a pose.'

'Being natural is simply a pose, and the most irritating pose I know,' criedLord Henry, laughing; and the two young men went out into the gardentogether, and ensconced themselves on a long bamboo seat that stood in theshade of a tall laurel bush. The sunlight slipped over the polished leaves. Inthe grass, white daisies were tremulous.

After a pause, Lord Henry pulled out his watch. 'I am afraid I must begoing, 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.'

ry ry rn such fanciful

P:d it annr-here? My@rf .1",qps rou painters arel

m[. * srjofi as r ou have one,c Fre- n.r rhere is only onevruy Ul_tCfullffi !'-- -L-- :

_T*: --E,c that rs not beingr D f,Ef,E eil tbe voung mencrii wr *. .i=, cipabl.

foulc { :€zlh- can't exhibit it. I

Luehed.

&{n't know you!nu. with your

!@s,{donis, whour- dear Basil, he

roctual expression,expression

end destroys theoae becomes allt Se successful men in

quite sure of1s here in

mrse I amto look

There is a

y thatnot to

best of itIf dey knowderbat. They

disquiet.alien hands.

tL whatever

8 coLLEcrED woRKS oF oscAR WILDE

'Harryi said Basil Hallward,,looking him straight in the face, ,everyportrait that is painted with feeling is a porrrait of the artist, not of thesitter' The sitter is merely the accident, the occasion. It is not he who isrevealed 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 afraidthat 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,'

"nr*.r"d ihe paiiter; ,and Iam afraid you will hardly understand it. perhaps you will hardiy believe it.'_ Lord Henry smiled, and, leaning down, plucked a pink_petalled daisyfrom the grass, and examined it. 'I am quite sure I shali understand it,, hLreplied, gazing intently at the little goldin white-feathered disc, ,and

as forbelieving things, I can believe anlthing, provided that it is quite incredible.'

The wind shook some blossoms from the trees, and the healy rilac-blooms, with their clustering stars, moved to and fro in the languid air. Ag-rasshop,per began to chirrup by the wall, and like a blue thread i long thindragon-fly floated past on its brown gauze wings. Lord Henry felt as if hecould hear Basil Hallward'sheart beating, and wondered what was coming.

'The story is simply this,' said the painter after some rime. ,Two -orf,ago I went to a crush atLady Brandon's. you know we poor artists have to

show ourselves in society from time to time, just to ,"-irrd the public thatwe are not savages. with

.an evening coat and a white tie, as you told me

once, anybody' even a stockbroker, can gain a reputation for being civilised.well, after I had been in the roo-

"Lorrt ten minutes, tarkin"g to huge

overdressed dowagers and tedious Academicians, I suddenry b.J"-. .orr-scious that someone was looking at me. I turned harfivay ro,rnd, and sawDorian Gray for the first time. when our eyes met, I fert that I was growingpale. A curious sensadon of terror came over me. I knew that I had comeface to face with someone *l9r: mere personality was so fascinating that, ifI allowed it to do so, it would absorb my whole nature, my whole soul, myvery art itself. I did not want any external influence in my life. you knowyourself, Harry, how independent I am by nature. I have always been myown master; had at least always been so, till I met Dorian Gray.'Then _ butI don't know how to explain it to you. something seemed to iell me thrt Iwas 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 ,o.ro*r."I grew afraid,and turned to quit the room. rt was'not .orrr.i"rr." that made ire do so; itwas a sort of cowardice. I take no credit to myself for trylng to escape.,

'conscience and cowardice are realry th. sam. things, Easir. conscienceis the trade-name of the firm. That is ail.'

'r don'r believe that, Harry, and I don't believe you do either. However,

THE PICTU

whatever was mY motive - and

proud - I certainlY struggled

against Lady Brandon. "YouHallward?" she screamed out. I

'Yes; she is a Peacock in ever

the daisy to bits with his long, r

'I could not get rid of her' I

with Stars and Garters, and e

noses. She sPoke of me as ht

before, but she took it into her

mine had made a great success

in the penny newsPaPers, viimmortality. SuddenlY I foun

whose personalitY had so stran

touching. Our eYes met agai

Brandon to introduce me to h

was simply inevitable. We v<

introduction. I am sure of tha

that we were destined to knog

'And how did LadY Brando

my companion''I know she g<

I remember her bringing me '

covered all over with orders al

whisper which must have bee

the most astounding details'

myself. But LadY Brandon trhis goods. She either exPlain

about them excePt what one r

'Poor LadY Brandonl Yc

listlessly.'My dear fellow, she tried I

a restaurant. How could I ad

Mr Dorian GraY?'

'Oh, something like, "Cha

inseparable' Quite forget wh

oh, yes, plaYs the Piano - or

could help laughing, and we

'Laughter is not at all a b

best ending for one,' said the

Hallward shook his hear

Harryi he murmured - 'c

everyone; that is to say' you

'How horriblY uniust of llooking up at the litde clou'