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1"No, you don't feel it now. Some day, when you are old and wrinkled and ugly, when thought has seared your forehead with
2its lines, and passion branded your lips with its hideous fires, you will feel it, you will feel it terribly. Now,
3wherever you go, you charm the world. Will it always be so? ... You have a wonderfully beautiful face, Mr. Gray. Don't
4frown. You have. And beauty is a form of genius--is higher, indeed, than genius, as it needs no explanation. It is of
5the great facts of the world, like sunlight, or spring-time, or the reflection in dark waters of that silver shell we
6call the moon. It cannot be questioned. It has its divine right of sovereignty. It makes princes of those who have it.
7You smile? Ah! when you have lost it you won't smile.... People say sometimes that beauty is only superficial. That may
8be so, but at least it is not so superficial as thought is. To me, beauty is the wonder of wonders. It is only shallow
9people who do not judge by appearances. The true mystery of the world is the visible, not the invisible.... Yes, Mr.
10Gray, the gods have been good to you. But what the gods give they quickly take away. You have only a few years in which
11to live really, perfectly, and fully. When your youth goes, your beauty will go with it, and then you will suddenly
12discover that there are no triumphs left for you, or have to content yourself with those mean triumphs that the memory
13of your past will make more bitter than defeats. Every month as it wanes brings you nearer to something dreadful. Time
14is jealous of you, and wars against your lilies and your roses. You will become sallow, and hollow-cheeked, and
15dull-eyed. You will suffer horribly.... Ah! realize your youth while you have it. Don't squander the gold of your days,
16listening to the tedious, trying to improve the hopeless failure, or giving away your life to the ignorant, the common,
17and the vulgar. These are the sickly aims, the false ideals, of our age. Live! Live the wonderful life that is in you!
18Let nothing be lost upon you. Be always searching for new sensations. Be afraid of nothing.... A new Hedonism--that is
19what our century wants. You might be its visible symbol. With your personality there is nothing you could not do. The
20world belongs to you for a season.... The moment I met you I saw that you were quite unconscious of what you really are,
21of what you really might be. There was so much in you that charmed me that I felt I must tell you something about
22yourself. I thought how tragic it would be if you were wasted. For there is such a little time that your youth will
23last--such a little time. The common hill-flowers wither, but they blossom again. The laburnum will be as yellow next
24June as it is now. In a month there will be purple stars on the clematis, and year after year the green night of its
25leaves will hold its purple stars. But we never get back our youth. The pulse of joy that beats in us at twenty becomes
26sluggish. Our limbs fail, our senses rot. We degenerate into hideous puppets, haunted by the memory of the passions of
27which we were too much afraid, and the exquisite temptations that we had not the courage to yield to. Youth! Youth!
28There is absolutely nothing in the world but youth!" Dorian Gray listened, open-eyed and wondering. The spray of lilac
29fell from his hand upon the gravel. A furry bee came and buzzed round it for a moment. Then it began to scramble all
30over the oval stellated globe of the tiny blossoms. He watched it with that strange interest in trivial things that we
31try to develop when things of high import make us afraid, or when we are stirred by some new emotion for which we cannot
32find expression, or when some thought that terrifies us lays sudden siege to the brain and calls on us to yield. After a
33time the bee flew away. He saw it creeping into the stained trumpet of a Tyrian convolvulus. The flower seemed to
34quiver, and then swayed gently to and fro. Suddenly the painter appeared at the door of the studio and made staccato
35signs for them to come in. They turned to each other and smiled. "I am waiting," he cried. "Do come in. The light is
36quite perfect, and you can bring your drinks." They rose up and sauntered down the walk together. Two green-and-white
37butterflies fluttered past them, and in the pear-tree at the corner of the garden a thrush began to sing. "You are glad
38you have met me, Mr. Gray," said Lord Henry, looking at him. "Yes, I am glad now. I wonder shall I always be glad?"
39"Always! That is a dreadful word. It makes me shudder when I hear it. Women are so fond of using it. They spoil every
40romance by trying to make it last for ever. It is a meaningless word, too. The only difference between a caprice and a
41lifelong passion is that the caprice lasts a little longer." As they entered the studio, Dorian Gray put his hand upon
42Lord Henry's arm. "In that case, let our friendship be a caprice," he murmured, flushing at his own boldness, then
43stepped up on the platform and resumed his pose. Lord Henry flung himself into a large wicker arm-chair and watched him.
44The sweep and dash of the brush on the canvas made the only sound that broke the stillness, except when, now and then,
45Hallward stepped back to look at his work from a distance. In the slanting beams that streamed through the open doorway
46the dust danced and was golden. The heavy scent of the roses seemed to brood over everything. After about a quarter of
47an hour Hallward stopped painting, looked for a long time at Dorian Gray, and then for a long time at the picture,
48biting the end of one of his huge brushes and frowning. "It is quite finished," he cried at last, and stooping down he
49wrote his name in long vermilion letters on the left-hand corner of the canvas. Lord Henry came over and examined the
50picture. It was certainly a wonderful work of art, and a wonderful likeness as well. "My dear fellow, I congratulate you
51most warmly," he said. "It is the finest portrait of modern times. Mr. Gray, come over and look at yourself." The lad
52started, as if awakened from some dream. "Is it really finished?" he murmured, stepping down from the platform. "Quite
53finished," said the painter. "And you have sat splendidly to-day. I am awfully obliged to you." "That is entirely due to
54me," broke in Lord Henry. "Isn't it, Mr. Gray?" Dorian made no answer, but passed listlessly in front of his picture and
55turned towards it. When he saw it he drew back, and his cheeks flushed for a moment with pleasure. A look of joy came
56into his eyes, as if he had recognized himself for the first time. He stood there motionless and in wonder, dimly
57conscious that Hallward was speaking to him, but not catching the meaning of his words. The sense of his own beauty came
58on him like a revelation. He had never felt it before. Basil Hallward's compliments had seemed to him to be merely the
59charming exaggeration of friendship. He had listened to them, laughed at them, forgotten them. They had not influenced
60his nature. Then had come Lord Henry Wotton with his strange panegyric on youth, his terrible warning of its brevity.
61That had stirred him at the time, and now, as he stood gazing at the shadow of his own loveliness, the full reality of
62the description flashed across him. Yes, there would be a day when his face would be wrinkled and wizen, his eyes dim
63and colourless, the grace of his figure broken and deformed. The scarlet would pass away from his lips and the gold
64steal from his hair. The life that was to make his soul would mar his body. He would become dreadful, hideous, and
65uncouth. As he thought of it, a sharp pang of pain struck through him like a knife and made each delicate fibre of his
66nature quiver. His eyes deepened into amethyst, and across them came a mist of tears. He felt as if a hand of ice had
67been laid upon his heart. "Don't you like it?" cried Hallward at last, stung a little by the lad's silence, not
68understanding what it meant.
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