“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?”