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.”