In line 8, “theirs” refers to
Ainnumerable cigarettes
Ba laburnum’s blossoms
Ca laburnum’s branches
DPersian saddle-bags
Ebirds’ shadows
Passage 7. Oscar Wilde, Th e Picture of Dorian Gray
Th e studio was fi lled with the rich odour of roses, and when the light summer
wind stirred amidst the trees of the garden, there came through the open door the
heavy scent of the lilac, or the more delicate perfume of the pink-fl owering thorn.
From the corner of the divan of Persian saddle-bags on which he was lying,
smoking, as was his custom, innumerable cigarettes, Lord Henry Wotton could
just catch the gleam of the honey-sweet and honey-coloured blossoms of a laburnum,
whose tremulous branches seemed hardly able to bear the burden of a beauty
so fl amelike as theirs; and now and then the fantastic shadows of birds in fl ight
fl itted across the long tussore-silk curtains that were stretched in front of the huge
window, producing a kind of momentary Japanese eff ect, and making him think
of those pallid, jade-faced painters of Tokyo who, through the medium of an art
that is necessarily immobile, seek to convey the sense of swiftness and motion. Th e
sullen murmur of the bees shouldering their way through the long unmown grass,
or circling with monotonous insistence round the dusty gilt horns of the straggling
woodbine, seemed to make the stillness more oppressive. Th e dim roar of London
was like 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 young man of extraordinary
personal beauty, and in front of it, some little distance away, was sitting the artist
himself, Basil Hallward, whose sudden disappearance some years ago caused, at the
time, such public excitement and gave rise to so many strange conjectures.
As the painter looked at the gracious and comely form he had so skillfully
mirrored in his art, a smile of pleasure passed across his face, and seemed about
to linger there. But he suddenly started up, and closing his eyes, placed his fi ngers
upon the lids, as though he sought to imprison within his brain 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. “You must certainly send
it next year to the Grosvenor. Th e 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 see the pictures, which was dreadful, or so many pictures that I have not been
able to see the people, which was worse. Th e 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 that used 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 blue wreaths 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 painters are! You do anything in the
world to gain a reputation. As soon as you have one, you seem to want to throw
it away. It is silly of you, for there is only one thing in the world worse than being
talked about, and that is not being talked about. A portrait like this would set you
far above all the young men in England, and make the old men quite jealous, if old
men are ever capable of any emotion.”
Th e studio was fi lled with the rich odour of roses, and when the light summer
wind stirred amidst the trees of the garden, there came through the open door the
heavy scent of the lilac, or the more delicate perfume of the pink-fl owering thorn.
From the corner of the divan of Persian saddle-bags on which he was lying,
smoking, as was his custom, innumerable cigarettes, Lord Henry Wotton could
just catch the gleam of the honey-sweet and honey-coloured blossoms of a laburnum,
whose tremulous branches seemed hardly able to bear the burden of a beauty
so fl amelike as theirs; and now and then the fantastic shadows of birds in fl ight
fl itted across the long tussore-silk curtains that were stretched in front of the huge
window, producing a kind of momentary Japanese eff ect, and making him think
of those pallid, jade-faced painters of Tokyo who, through the medium of an art
that is necessarily immobile, seek to convey the sense of swiftness and motion. Th e
sullen murmur of the bees shouldering their way through the long unmown grass,
or circling with monotonous insistence round the dusty gilt horns of the straggling
woodbine, seemed to make the stillness more oppressive. Th e dim roar of London
was like 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 young man of extraordinary
personal beauty, and in front of it, some little distance away, was sitting the artist
himself, Basil Hallward, whose sudden disappearance some years ago caused, at the
time, such public excitement and gave rise to so many strange conjectures.
As the painter looked at the gracious and comely form he had so skillfully
mirrored in his art, a smile of pleasure passed across his face, and seemed about
to linger there. But he suddenly started up, and closing his eyes, placed his fi ngers
upon the lids, as though he sought to imprison within his brain 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. “You must certainly send
it next year to the Grosvenor. Th e 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 see the pictures, which was dreadful, or so many pictures that I have not been
able to see the people, which was worse. Th e 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 that used 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 blue wreaths 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 painters are! You do anything in the
world to gain a reputation. As soon as you have one, you seem to want to throw
it away. It is silly of you, for there is only one thing in the world worse than being
talked about, and that is not being talked about. A portrait like this would set you
far above all the young men in England, and make the old men quite jealous, if old
men are ever capable of any emotion.”