Publisher's Synopsis
The studio was filled with the rich odour of roses, and when the light summer wind stirredamidst the trees of the garden, there came through the open door the heavy scent of the lilac, or themore 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 hiscustom, innumerable cigarettes, Lord Henry Wotton could just catch the gleam of the honey-sweetand honey-coloured blossoms of a laburnum, whose tremulous branches seemed hardly able to bearthe burden of a beauty so flamelike as theirs; and now and then the fantastic shadows of birds inflight 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-facedpainters of Tokyo who, through the medium of an art that is necessarily immobile, seek to conveythe sense of swiftness and motion. The sullen murmur of the bees shouldering their way through thelong unmown grass, or circling with monotonous insistence round the dusty gilt horns of thestraggling woodbine, seemed to make the stillness more oppressive. The dim roar of London waslike 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 youngman of extraordinary personal beauty, and in front of it, some little distance away, was sitting theartist himself, Basil Hallward, whose sudden disappearance some years ago caused, at the time, suchpublic 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, asmile of pleasure passed across his face, and seemed about to linger there. But he suddenly startedup, 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 Lord Henry languidly. "Youmust 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 seethe 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 thatused 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 bluewreaths 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 paintersare! You do anything in the world to gain a reputation. As soon as you have one, you seem to wantto throw it awa