Oscar Wilde Fullscreen Portrait of Dorian Gray (1890)

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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!"

"You would hardly care for such an arrangement, Basil," cried Lord Henry, laughing. "It would be rather hard lines on your work."

"I should object very strongly, Harry," said Hallward.

Dorian Gray turned and looked at him.

"I believe you would, Basil.

You like your art better than your friends.

I am no more to you than a green bronze figure.

Hardly as much, I daresay."

The painter stared in amazement.

It was so unlike Dorian to speak like that.

What had happened?

He seemed quite angry. His face was flushed and his cheeks burning.

"Yes," he continued, "I am less to you than your ivory Hermes or your silver Faun.

You will like them always.

How long will you like me?

Till I have my first wrinkle, I suppose.

I know, now, that when one loses one's good looks, whatever they may be, one loses everything.

Your picture has taught me that.

Lord Henry Wotton is perfectly right. Youth is the only thing worth having.

When I find that I am growing old, I shall kill myself."

Hallward turned pale, and caught his hand.

"Dorian! Dorian!" he cried, "don't talk like that.

I have never had such a friend as you, and I shall never have such another.

You are not jealous of material things, are you?—you who are finer than any of them!"

"I am jealous of everything whose beauty does not die.

I am jealous of the portrait you have painted of me.

Why should it keep what I must lose?

Every moment that passes takes something from me, and gives something to it.

Oh, if it were only the other way!

If the picture could change, and I could be always what I am now!

Why did you paint it?

It will mock me some day—mock me horribly!"

The hot tears welled into his eyes; he tore his hand away, and, flinging himself on the divan, he buried his face in the cushions, as though he was praying.

"This is your doing, Harry," said the painter, bitterly.

Lord Henry shrugged his shoulders.

"It is the real Dorian Gray—that is all."

"It is not."

"If it is not, what have I to do with it?"

"You should have gone away when I asked you," he muttered.

"I stayed when you asked me," was Lord Henry's answer.

"Harry, I can't quarrel with my two best friends at once, but between you both you have made me hate the finest piece of work I have ever done, and I will destroy it.

What is it but canvas and colour?

I will not let it come across our three lives and mar them."

Dorian Gray lifted his golden head from the pillow, and with pallid face and tear-stained eyes looked at him, as he walked over to the deal painting-table that was set beneath the high curtained window.

What was he doing there?

His fingers were straying about among the litter of tin tubes and dry brushes, seeking for something.