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OSCAR WILDE CHAPTER I . 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 . ”
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