“A Mosaic
Hurriedly Made…”
Mike Haldenby examines how Oscar Wilde’s The
Picture of Dorian Gray- became a modern classic, despite a number of shortcomings.
Much has been written about both Oscar Wilde and his novel “The Picture of Dorian Gray” (1891). Despite
decades of infamy, it is now, belatedly, accepted as a groundbreaking, daring, fin-de-siecle masterpiece, heralding the
advent of modernism. Critics celebrate
it as a brilliantly designed puzzle; in 2007 Irvine Welsh praised it as a “truly great and essential novel”. Yet,
according to many critics and commentators, it is far from perfect. Richard Ellman, Wilde’s most esteemed
biographer, conceded that “parts of it
are wooden, padded, self indulgent.
No-one could mistake it for a workmanlike job.” Sheridan Morley’s 1976 study calls it an “overblown melodrama”. More specifically, Frank Harris, a biographer
who actually knew Wilde, stated
confidently that while much of the first half of the novel is an “…excellent reproduction of Wilde’s ordinary
talk…the latter part of the book…tails off into insignificance. The first hundred pages held the result of
months and months of Oscar’s talk, the latter (was) written offhand to complete
the story.”
Harris’ curt but informed dismissal of the
second half presents us with a dilemma. How does a work which seems to have as
many flaws as strengths justify the critical acclaim of the late twentieth
century?
While late-Victorian disgust at the novel was more a
reflection of the social values of the age than the quality of the writing,
even Wilde’s creative genius went unappreciated. This contemptuous traditionalist indignation
seems to have been the forerunner of the many bewildered responses to modernist
texts of the early twentieth century, bearing in mind that Stravinsky’s Rites of Spring provoked a riot among Paris’s
staid concert-goers in 1913, and Matisse commented on the “ugliness” of Picasso in 1907.
Wilde’s work was largely ignored by early 20th century
critics who found him “amusing, but trivial” (Harris). It was not until the
more freethinking, sexually liberated 1960’s that The Picture of Dorian Gray became accepted and recognised as a classic.
It is a remarkable novel for a number of reasons, not least being
its ability to offend and outrage a sector of society hide-bound by an
overdeveloped sense of morality. This,
of course, was one of Wilde’s intentions.
Yet in addition to both explaining (and, ironically, in places undermining) his own obsessions with aestheticism, sexuality
and artistic freedom, the author seems to lose interest about half way
through. Like a rock star wanting to
break with his record label with one album to go on his contract, Wilde
begrudgingly produced a final draft some months later than agreed, while barely
meeting the minimum word-length demanded
by the publisher. He was clearly running
out of enthusiasm as the novel developed; apart from the stunning denouement, and
some moments of wonderfully acerbic language, the second half disappoints; it
is almost as if Wilde had become dispirited by the daunting task in front of
him.
The novel did not have an auspicious beginning. On 31 August 1889, the Philadelphia publisher
J M Stoddart invited Oscar Wilde to dine with himself and Arthur Conan Doyle at
Langham’s Hotel. Stoddart was anxious to
feature bold, contemporary short novels in the recently-established UK version
of Lippincott’s Monthly Magazine, and
both authors, on the threshold of their writing careers, seemed to fit
Stoddart’s conception of what he felt Lippincott’s
British readership would demand. While
Wilde was already a celebrity and a prolific producer of articles and short
stories, Conan Doyle’s reputation in America was growing, and he was anxious to
follow up his first Sherlock Holmes novel,
A Study in Scarlet. At dinner, he spoke
volubly about his second Holmes adventure, The
Sign of Four.
This bullishness put Wilde in a difficult position. He did
not have anything fully formed to sell, yet, undoubtedly, was unwilling to
admit it. Wilde had never written
anything like a full length novel; it was not his chosen milieu. He had never attempted such a formidable
task, admitting that in the past he had lacked the staying power. Indeed, as
Frank Harris, noted, these concerns were well grounded; “he did not know life well enough or care enough for character to write
a profound psychological study; he was at his best in a short story or play.”
(p.70) However, not to be outdone by the ebullient Conan Doyle who was enthusing
over well-formed ideas for his new detective mystery, Wilde countered by
outlining- in probably more vague terms than his dinner partner- his own
“insoluble mystery”- The Picture of
Dorian Gray.
He may have been a little hasty. The competitive tension had, perhaps,
provoked Wilde to gloss over the fact that this “novel” was no more than a melange
of ideas that he had been mulling over for some time. He probably had little more than a short
story up his sleeve. Yet cash-flow was
always a problem for Wilde; when both he and Conan Doyle were offered a
substantial advance, the die was cast.
Stoddart asked both for 100,000 words by October. Wilde took stock; his
cabled response gives an early indication that his commitment to writing a
full-length novel was less than total. He replied “…there are not 100,000 beautiful words in the English language.” Throughout the winter, Wilde struggled to concentrate
and maintain focus upon what seemed to him to be a mammoth task. “It gave him
much trouble”, wrote Richard Ellman;
Andre Gide noted that he made “several comprehensive rewrites.”
What happened, of course, was that Wilde produced a novel which
was almost universally vilified. The original,
shorter version printed in Lippincott’s in
June 1890 was received with outrage, forcing
Wilde to face the unthinkable – to compromise, if he wanted wider
publication. As he conceded in his trial
in 1895, he had to tone down some of the more sexually explicit passages, which
were, as he conceded, “liable to
misconstruction.” Wilde believed, wrongly, that a preface of obscure and
ambiguous epigrams, presented in March 1891, would explain matters. They simply
muddied the waters. He then decided that he would have to develop the plot along
more traditional lines by adding chapters.
As the novel appears now, chapters 3, 5, 15, 16, 17 and 18 are additions
made for April 1891; these fundamentally change the narrative flow of the
novel. While developing the story of
Sibyl Vane’s brother, James, they also give the second half of the novel an
unbalanced feel; the reader may be forgiven if it seems as if a series of
unconnected short stories is being presented.
After years defending the importance of an artist’s integrity, Wilde’s
capitulation must have been a painfully arrived at decision based upon much
anguished soul-searching.
Despite these concessions, the second half of the novel has
much to enjoy. Chapter 17 introduces The
Duchess of Monmouth, an intelligent, perceptive and articulate aristocrat whose
sharp dialogue and probing questioning of Dorian refutes suggestions that the
novel is misogynistic and purposely lacks an independent female character. Yet, the chapter feels like an afterthought
and it is difficult to escape the feeling that each one of these later chapters
is too detached. In Chapter 11, Wilde’s
self indulgent categorization of good taste is rather bewildering in its
detail; The visit to dark and squalid Limehouse in Chapter 16, complete with
Dorian’s brush with James Vane and a now-aged old crone and former sexual
conquest, sits alone and feels like a melodramatic afterthought.
Yet Dorian’s murder of Basil Hallward in Chapter 13 is
completely in keeping with the integrity of the emotional narrative of the first
half of the novel. In trying to remove another reminder of his nagging
conscience by silencing Basil, Dorian descends further into meaningless,
hedonistic hell. The dead artist’s body
lies alongside his covered portrait, doubling rather than eradicating Dorian’s
feelings of guilt and responsibility. It threatens to stir his remaining scraps
of conscience, and needs to be removed. Yet
disposing of Basil’s body proves to be a problem for Wilde, and the methods
Dorian employs for its removal lack the imagination of much of the rest of the story.
The essence of the novel is expressed during its first half. As early as Chapter 1 we are deluged, in the
words of Arthur Ransome, with the richness of Wilde’s description, a “delight
in colour and fastidious luxury”; he then develops his triangle of characters
with impressive frankness and subtlety. Lord Henry Wotton, Basil Hallward and
Dorian Gray are intertwined gradually, the fates of all three locked together
by Wilde’s own personality. The early
chapters of the novel develop these three characters, subtly and gradually;
Dorian’s aesthetic obsession with the art of Sibyl Vane divides Wotton and
Hallward, as does his heartless treatment of her. The reader is drawn into the world of Wilde’s
demi-monde, juggling the conflicting
values of all three men, the shifting of perspective occurring imperceptibly,
making any hard and fast attitude difficult to sustain. We realise, slowly, that Hallward is right in
that Wotton is a man who has much to say- but little to back it up with.
Dorian’s descent into perdition, engineered by Wotton, is lamented
by Basil Hallward. It seems that as Dorian
is becoming the master of his own destiny, and is making his own way in the
world, the narrative fragments. The
tight, incestuous, three-way moral vortex that has spiralled around the three
men dissipates as Lord Henry throws in the towel and plays second fiddle. No more do we revel in the deliciously
provocative epigrams and paradoxes.
Wotton gives Dorian a book, and that seems to be that.
The “Yellow Book”, much referred to as a source of
immorality at Wilde’s 1895 trial, goes on to give Dorian deeper and more
profound schooling than Lord Henry’s arch suggestions, but its introduction
results in the diminution of the book’s most attractive character. In doing this, Wilde also seems to be
contradicting his bold aesthetic assumption of the preface- that there is “no such thing as a moral or immoral book”. Did this ambiguity also give his critics the
ammunition to successfully attack the moral implications of The Picture of Dorian Gray and, ultimately,
by association, its author as well?
The revisions, the preface and the extra chapters render the
novel “unbalanced…with a lack of
proportion, and of cohesion, that mars- but does not spoil- Dorian Gray”.
Perhaps Ransome’s views here offer the best way to understand.
Wilde’s novel has become one of the most quoted in the
English language. Many of its sayings
and epigrams have entered everyday common usage, and its central image- Dorian’s
portrait, magically ageing in his attic- is now legendary. Clearly, despite any perceived shortcomings, The Picture of Dorian Gray has the depth
and capacity to continue to be read,
enjoyed and interpreted widely, particularly so in a modern society with increasingly
tolerant and understanding values.
Aspects of structure criticised on one hand as flaws may be deemed relatively
unimportant when set against the massive cultural effect of the novel’s wider
themes. This repute came at a price; Wilde
certainly suffered for his brave words at his trial in 1895, when much of the
novel was quoted to the detriment of his reputation. He would undoubtedly be pleased that, over
time, his integrity had been vindicated.
“It is a mosaic
hurriedly made” concluded Ransome, “by a man who reached out in all directions
and took and used in his work whatever scrap of jasper or broken flint that was
put into his hand.” Lord Henry claims in
the text that he would have “liked to have written a novel …as lovely as a
Persian carpet, and as unreal.” Here Wotton’s voice is unmistakeably that of
Wilde. He very nearly succeeded.
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Further Reading:
Arthur Ransome “Oscar Wilde” Methuen 1913
Frank Harris “Oscar Wilde” New York 1916
Hesketh Pearson “The Life of Oscar Wilde” Methuen 1946
Sheridan Morley “Oscar Wilde” Pavilion 1976
Richard Ellman “Oscar Wilde” Hamish Hamilton 1987
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