The Picture of Dorian Gray Oscar Wilde

The Picture of Dorian Gray
Oscar Wilde
A critical paper by
Steven Fox

The Picture of Dorian Gray is a novel in which not much happens, and yet since its publication it has stimulated a great deal of controversy. As I was preparing for tonight's meeting, I thought about our conversation last month, during which we considered the implications of the title of our April novel, The Reluctant Fundamentalist, and I realized that there was a title that could have been applied to The Picture of Dorian Gray. Couldn't it? Then I began to think about the other books we read this year, and I thought that many of their titles could also have been the title of tonight's choice. Angle of Repose? There are some possibilities there. Netherland? Surely, and quite in the spirit of Oscar Wilde, I think. Life and Death Are Wearing Me Out? By all means, although of course the two novels' contents are worlds apart. Memento Mori? I think so, especially when we consider that nearly all the major figures, as well as many of the minor ones, die as either a direct or indirect result of their association with Dorian, The Way of All Flesh—a title I suspect Oscar Wilde himself would have approved of, although if applied to Dorian and his milieu perhaps it is a little too unsubtle, too unimaginative, too vulgar for his taste. That leaves only Mr. Sammler's Planet and Daniel Deronda, neither of which I am able to work into my scheme, although I am confident that Oscar Wilde was clever enough that he could have done it.
So this novel in which not much happens—why do we feel, when we have read it, that we have things to say? Yes, so little happens that the novel's plot can be summarized in very few words. Basil Hallward has painted a portrait of a remarkably beautiful young man, Dorian Gray. Dorian is so enamored of his portrait, and so taken with own beauty, that he declares
“How sad it is! I shall grow old, and horrible, and dreadful. But this picture will remain always young. It will never be older than this particular day of June... If it were only the other way! If it were I who was to be always young, and the picture that was to grow old! For that—for that—I would give everything! Yes, there is nothing in the whole world I would not give! I would give my soul for that!” (28)
He then embarks on a life of dissipation and decadence and debauchery, a life that would ravage any normal person's face and body; but Dorian remains unblemished—young, beautiful, and to all external appearances, pure. The portrait, however, hidden from public view, suffers. Every evil deed that Dorian does leaves a mark on the portrait's face, and when Dorian dies at the end of the book, all his evil deeds transfer to his once beautiful face, and the only way people can identify his hideous corpse is by the jewelry he was wearing.
It is a chilling story, set mostly in dark, somewhat creepy environments. There is atmosphere galore, and lots of clever language that Wilde works into the dialog spoken by the two men who serve as Dorian's mentors, Basil the painter, and Lord Henry Wotten, the aristocrat who takes Dorian on as his—we'll say his protégé. The characters range from the aristocracy to denizens of the netherworld. The novel is rich in symbolism, and is taken by some as a manifesto of the aesthetic movement, extolling the value of art for art's sake.
And yet, not much happens. One critic, Jeff Nunokawa, writes:
Believe it or not, there is still a secret left to be told about The Picture of Dorian Gray, a secret no less open, only less sensational than the scandalous passions all but named in the novel that all but exposed the secret of its author's own. Let's face it, the book is boring: for all the thrill of Dorian Gray, long stretches of the story are almost unbearably uninteresting. If the fanfare of illicit excitement generated in the novel and by the novel has mostly managed to keep this secret unspoken, it has scarcely succeeded in keeping it unfelt. If the engrossing rumor of covert desires attached to Dorian Gray distracts us for a while from our boredom with the novel, it is finally no more to be denied than the more pressing urges that everyone knows nothing can stop. (in Sedgwick 151)
But I am going to operate on the principle that if not much happens, there must be something else that the author intended to keep our interest, for the book has been of interest for more than a century. If it isn't the plot, and for many readers it isn't the plot, what might it be?
The first easy answer is the language. In general, that is where Wilde succeeds so remarkably in his work. He was enormously skilled with the ironic epigram, and he knew it. Like most people impressed with their own cleverness, he was annoying to many around him, but that only fed the flames of his habit, for once a person begins to think and speak epigrammatically, it is hard to stop. My wife will remember the time many years ago when a friend and I began to create Tom Swifties, and found ourselves to be as snowballs rolling downhill in an avalanche. We couldn't stop, and every twig and branch in the way was consumed by our relentless Tom Swiftian energy. Everything we said was followed by the words “Tom said,” and then some punning adverb. As clever as we were, and we were very clever, we were even more annoying. I hope I am no longer so. The story is told that when Oscar Wilde was sitting his examinations at Trinity College he was given a portion of the New Testament to translate from the Greek. He was almost at the scene of the crucifixion when the professors told him he could stop. He continued to construe, and the professor said, “Mr. Wilde, you may stop now. We are satisfied that you can read and translate from the Greek.” Wilde is reported to have said, “But please, Sir, do let me continue. I'm longing to know how the story comes out.” And upon arriving in the United States for a reading tour he was asked if he had anything to declare. “Only my genius,” he said, and there was apparently no import tax on that.
But Wilde was not universally admired for his wit. In one often told episode he was in the company of James McNeill Whistler, himself known to make on occasion the withering bon mot. Whatever it was that Whistler said caused Wilde to remark, “I wish I had said that, James,” and Whistler replied, “Don't worry, Oscar. You will, you will.”
But in this novel Wilde is in full form. The novel actually begins with a series of aphorisms in which he outlines his case for aestheticism. He writes in absolutes: “There is no such thing as a moral or an immoral book. Books are well written, or badly written. That is all” (11). He gives Lord Henry any number of shocking pronouncements to make. “I am married,” Lord Henry says, “and the one charm of marriage is that it makes a life of deception absolutely necessary for both parties” (14). He changes the direction of a comment at the last moment: “she is a peacock in everything but beauty” (16), and “ she tried to found a salon, and only succeeded in opening a restaurant” (16). Listening to Basil and Lord Henry speak is like listening to Wilde's most polished, that is to say silliest, conversationalists, Algernon Moncrieff and Jack Worthing in The Importance of Being Earnest.
JACK
You don't think there is any chance of Gwendolen becoming like her mother in about a hundred and fifty years, do you, Algy?

ALGERNON
All women become like their mothers. That is their tragedy. No man does. That's his.

JACK
Is that clever?

ALGERNON
It is perfectly phrased! and quite as true as any observation in civilised life should be.

JACK
I am sick to death of cleverness. Everybody is clever nowadays. You can't go anywhere without meeting clever people. The thing has become an absolute public nuisance. I wish to goodness we had a few fools left.

ALGERNON
We have.

JACK
I should extremely like to meet them. What do they talk about?

ALGERNON
The fools? Oh! about the clever people, of course.

JACK
What fools!
Jack's complaint about clever people notwithstanding, Wilde no doubt enjoyed being one, and he filled the novel with witty remarks, often placing them at moments when their pointedness and ironic truth were most likely to rub against the horror of the story. And yet at times he could turn that pointedness to sentimental advantage. When James Vane, the brother of Sybil, the actress whom Dorian visits nightly at the theatre, is about to leave England for Australia, he tells his sister, a little like Laertes counselling Ophelia, to be careful of her gentleman, the one she knows only as Prince Charming. He tells her that if this Prince ever does her any wrong, he will kill him. A few moments later their mother confirms James's suspicions that she and his father had never married, that the man she loved was a gentleman, but was not free. This is too much coincidence for James, and he again admonishes his mother to look out for Sybil's well-being, saying again, “Believe me that if this man wrongs my sister, I will find out who he is, track him down, and kill him like a dog. I swear it" (59).
Apparently Sybil has become like her mother, as Algernon said. And the heavy foreshadowing of James Vane's remark prepares the reader for his reappearance much later in the novel, when he tries to make good on his promise. He has Dorian on his knees, accused of being responsible for his sister's death eighteen years earlier. Dorian begs for his life, and it is through the gift of his eternally youthful beauty that Dorian is able to talk himself out of his predicament. He reveals himself to be a young man of perhaps twenty, visibly unable to be the villain Vane is seeking. Vane (what a clever play on the word, regarding Sybil and James both) is about to depart the dock where he had almost killed Dorian when he learns from one of the prostitutes in the area that the man he just let go because he was too young to have been Sybil's lover was indeed the man who had ruined this woman eighteen years earlier. James dies in a hunting accident while stalking Dorian, dies not at Dorian's own hand, but in the process of seeking his revenge. In vain.
So in this novel where not much happens, the language—the epigrams, the pathos, the irony—emerges as an element to keep the reader moving through the story. There are some episodes of plot, as we see in the ruination of Sybil Vane and the fallout from Dorian's vicious behavior, and in some others that are given in less detail. The murder of Basil Hallward and the disposal of his body, and then the disposal of Allan Campbell after he does Dorian's clean-up—all that gets quite a bit of attention, gruesome, hideous, horrible—it all occupies several chapters as the novel moves to its close, and we as readers can only wonder at the paroxysms that must be twisting the face of the portrait while young and beautiful Dorian is taking care of his business.

The novel is also rich in symbolism, that device that authors use to make the readers see the general or abstract levels of meaning in specific or concrete objects. The portrait itself is the dominant symbol, of course, and while it is hidden away in a part of Dorian's home that no one visits but himself, it is still an omnipresence in the novel. It is not only because it is the title character, so to speak, but it is an ongoing testament to Dorian's evil and duplicitous nature. Occasionally we are told what changes the portrait shows—a sneer, a wrinkle, a slight adjustment in the angle of his smile's repose—and we know also that Dorian sees these changes and is not unaware, as is the rest of his society, of how the portrait is dying for his sins. There is, actually, a portrait Dorian and a human Dorian, a feature of the novel I will come to later. In the sense of the portrait as symbol, however, Wilde has created an entity that lives the entire length of the novel, and while it is usually out of sight, it can never be out of mind.
Symbols abound in the details of the everyday life lived by Basil, Lord Henry, Sybil, and all the other characters of the novel. In chapter 7, when Sybil is performing as Juliet, on the night Basil and Henry come to the theatre to see her, the particular scene Wilde chose to depict Sybil's poor performance is telling. Juliet says to Romeo, whom she has just met and of whom she knows so little, and yet loves so deeply:
Although I joy in thee,
I have no joy of this contract to-night:
It is too rash, too unadvised, too sudden;
Too like the lightning, which doth cease to be
Ere one can say, "It lightens." Sweet, good-night!
This bud of love by summer's ripening breath
May prove a beauteous flower when next we meet— (67)
Words appropriate to Sybil's situation, art imitating life, so to speak, but Sybil tells Dorian that her poor performance is the result of her love for him, her becoming aware that her theatrical world is a sham, “that the Romeo was hideous, and old, and painted, that the moonlight in the orchard was false, that the scenery was vulgar, and that the words I had to speak were unreal, were not my words, were not what I wanted to say” (69). Sybil's theatre is a symbol for the artificial world of beauty that has captivated and seduced Dorian; upon seeing its hollowness, Sybil is transported above. Dorian is brought below. He tells Sybil that she has killed his love and that he will see her no more. It is upon returning home after rejecting Sybil that Dorian sees the first change in the portrait. In the darkened room he notices that “there was a touch of cruelty in the mouth,” but when he draws the blinds and lets in the morning sun, he sees that the expression on the face is intensified. While the sunlight scatters the shadows that had surrounded the portrait in the dim light, now the “quivering ardent sunlight showed him the lines of cruelty round the mouth as clearly as if he had been looking into a mirror after he had done some dreadful thing. He winced and, taking up from the table an oval glass framed in ivory Cupids, one of Lord Henry's many presents to him, glanced hurriedly into its polished depths. No line like that warped his red lips. What did it mean?” (71).
One thing it means is the third of the elements I want to suggest that gives the novel its interest, since this is a novel in which not much happens. That third element is the ambiguity that accompanies the appearance of the portrait and which gives the novel its particular tension. Early in the novel Lord Henry proposes to Basil that they go to the theatre that night. Basil wants to stay in because getting dressed is too much of a bother. The conversation continues:
"It is such a bore putting on one's dress-clothes," muttered Hallward. "And, when one has them on, they are so horrid."
"Yes," answered Lord Henry dreamily, "the costume of the nineteenth century is detestable. It is so sombre, so depressing. Sin is the only real colour-element left in modern life."
"You really must not say things like that before Dorian, Harry."
"Before which Dorian? The one who is pouring out tea for us, or the one in the picture?"
"Before either."
"I should like to come to the theatre with you, Lord Henry," said the lad.
"Then you shall come; and you will come, too, Basil, won't you?"
"I can't, really. I would sooner not. I have a lot of work to do."
"Well, then, you and I will go alone, Mr. Gray."
"I should like that awfully."
The painter bit his lip and walked over, cup in hand, to the picture. "I shall stay with the real Dorian," he said, sadly.
"Is it the real Dorian?" cried the original of the portrait, strolling across to him. "Am I really like that?"
"Yes; you are just like that."
"How wonderful, Basil!"
"At least you are like it in appearance. But it will never alter," sighed Hallward. "That is something." (30 - 31)

Just a moment earlier Dorian had protested that he cannot bear the thought of growing old, and by implication, ugly. He vows to kill himself when that happens. Lord Henry declares that the portrait is “the real Dorian Gray,” an idea Basil immediately rejects. He goes to the portrait with his palette knife, intent on destroying it, but Dorian stops him, saying “Don't, Basil, don't! … It would be murder!” (29) When they have all calmed down, Basil tells Dorian, “Well, as soon as you are dry, you shall be varnished, and framed, and sent home.” He does not say that the painting will be so treated. It is Dorian, and the ambiguity over which is the beautiful young painting and which is the beautiful young man begins.

When Dorian sees his portrait again after he has left Sybil, he is unchanged—in appearance at least—and the portrait, what Basil had called the “real Dorian,” is altered. The news of
Sybil's death, when it comes to Dorian later that day, does not change the portrait's face; it had known before he had what Sybil had done.

Shortly after that Basil tells Dorian that he would like to see the portrait again; he even has a desire to exhibit the painting, a change in attitude from early in the novel. Dorian is so wrought at this suggestion that he becomes “pallid with rage” (86). The thought of being displayed for all the world to see—what to Basil suggests beauty and to Dorian means exposure—is too much for Dorian to bear, Basil acquiesces to Dorian's arguments, and after Basil leaves, Dorian secures the key to his old schoolroom and hides the painting where no one will see it. Shades of Bertha Mason in Mr. Rochester's attic. But Dorian's portrait is as much a character in his story as Bertha is in Jane Eyre's, and while we readers of Charlotte Brontë's novel can only imagine how Bertha lived shut away as she was, when we read Oscar Wilde's novel we know. The painting, the “real Dorian,” is alive in the attic, and must stay there if the Dorian of the lower floors is to appear respectable.

When Dorian decides that he must destroy the painting—after all, he has done a good deed and the painting is still as hideous as it was before, showing all of his evil actions but not this one act of redemption (he decided not to elope with a young girl who was infatuated with him)—when he decides that he must stab the painting with the same knife he used to kill the painter, the scream of death is so loud that the pedestrians on the street outside hear it. Upon investigation the constable and servants in Dorian's house find, in the old schoolroom where the portrait had been sequestered, the picture of Dorian Gray hanging on the wall, displaying its subject's youth and beauty as Basil Hallward had painted it some twenty or so years before. On the floor is “a dead man, in evening dress, with a knife in his heart. He was withered, wrinkled, and loathsome of visage. It was not till they had examined the rings that they recognized who it was” (161).

So ends a novel in which not much happens. If we are not taken by the plot—and no doubt there are readers who are not—we can still be affected by the other artistic elements of Oscar Wilde's achievement. Perhaps the atmosphere, perhaps the language, perhaps the symbolism, perhaps the doppelgänger ambiguity, perhaps something else.

A closing quotation from a letter by Oscar Wilde adds a wrinkle to the fabric of this novel, and perhaps it will spark comment from the club's members. He wrote to a friend, Robert Payne, “I am so glad you like that strange coloured book of mine: it contains much of me in it. Basil Hallward is what I think I am: Lord Henry what the world thinks me: Dorian what I would like to be—in other ages perhaps” (Gillespie 58).

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A SAMPLE BIBLIOGRAPHY
some studies of Oscar Wilde and Victorian literature

Deutscher, Penelope, and Oliver, Kelly, eds. Enigmas: Essays on Sarah Kofman. Ithaca and London: Cornell University Press, 1999.

Dryden, Linda. The Modern Gothic and Literary Doubles. Basingstoke and New York: Palgrave Macmillan, 2003.

Frankel, Nicholas. Oscar Wilde's Decorated Books. Ann Arbor: The University of Michigan Press, 2000.

Gillespie, Michael Patrick. Oscar Wilde and the Poetics of Ambiguity. Gainesville et. al: University Press of Florida, 1996.

Haggerty, George E., and Zimmerman, Bonnie. Professions of Desire: Lesbian and Gay Studies in Literature. New York: The Modern Language Association of America, 1995.

Haslett, Moyra. Marxist Literary and Cultural Theories. New York: St. Martin's Press, 2000.

Levy, Anita. Reproductive Urges: Popular Novel-Reading, Sexuality, and the English Nation. Philadelphia: University of Pennsylvania Press, 1999.

McGinn, Colin. Ethics, Evil, and Fiction. Oxford: Clarendon Press, 1997.

Robbins, Ruth, and Wolfreys, Julian, eds. Victorian Gothic: Literary and Cultural Manifestations in the Nineteenth Century. Basingstoke and New York: Palgrave Macmillan, 2000

Sedgwick, Eve Kosofsky, ed. Novel Gazing: Queer Readings in Fiction. Durham and London: Duke University Press, 1977.
Lloyd, Tom. Crises of realism: Representing Experience in the British Novel, 1816 – 1910. Lewisburg, Pennsylvania: Bucknell University Press, 1997.

Tantich, Robert. Oscar Wilde on Stage and Screen. London: Methuen, 1999.

Wilde, Oscar. The Complete Oscar Wilde: The Complete Stories, Poems, and Plays of Oscar Wilde. New York: Quality Paperback Book Club, 1996.

DISCUSSION QUESTIONS ON THE PICTURE OF DORIAN GRAY

1. Oscar Wilde is recognized today as one of the leading proponents of the aesthetic movement, a philosophy often represented by the motto “art for art's sake.” The novel gives many opportunities to consider the role of art in our lives and the responsibilities of the artist. If Basil is, as the author suggested, Wilde's avatar of himself, how do we evaluate Basil's attitudes toward art, both his own and that of other artists? Lord Henry's attitudes? Dorian's?

2. Was it ever possible for Dorian to be saved? Given that he offers his soul for eternal youth, was his damnation inevitable, or were there chances for redemption? Does any good come of Dorian's experience?

3. At whose door do we place the greatest responsibility for Dorian's development into a man of evil nature? Is it Basil, for painting the picture in the first place? Lord Henry, for his influence in Dorian's dissipation? Dorian himself? Someone else?

4. Wilde gives so much attention to the world of theatre, especially Shakespeare, and there is much description of costumes and masks and props. Is the novel a tragedy in the traditional, theatrical sense? If so, is Dorian the principal tragic figure? Who are the tragic figures, and what are their flaws?