“Every day.  I couldn’t be happy if I didn’t 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.”

“But you don’t really worship him?”

“I do.”

“How extraordinary!  I thought you would never care for anything but your painting,—­your art, I should say.  Art sounds better, doesn’t it?”

“He is all my art to me now.  I sometimes think, Harry, that there are only two eras of any importance in the history of the world.  The first is the appearance of a new medium for art, and the second is the appearance of a new personality for art also.  What the invention of oil-painting was to the Venetians, the face of Antinous was to late Greek sculpture, and the face 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 armor, 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, looking into 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 beauty.  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 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 re-create 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 itself 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 bestial, an ideality that is void.  Harry!  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.”

“Basil, this is quite wonderful!  I must see Dorian Gray.”  Hallward got up from the seat, and walked up and down the [10] garden.  After some time he came back.  “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 than 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 the subtleties of certain colors.  That is all.”