“We degenerate into a hideous old age, haunted by the memory of missing out on passions that frightened us and temptations we never yielded to. Don’t squander your golden days. Live life! Search for new sensations! Be afraid of nothing!”
DORIAN GRAY
• 14 •
Dorian listened intently, wide-eyed and silent. Basil also heard these dangerous words and worried about the impression they would make on his inexperienced young friend. But he was too busy putting the finishing touches on Dorian’s painting to win him over or to stop Wotton.
For nearly ten minutes Dorian stood on the dais, motionless, with parted lips and eyes strangely bright. He was dimly conscious that entirely fresh influences were at work within him.
Basil painted away with that marvelous bold touch of his, that had the true refinement and perfect delicacy that in art, at any rate comes only from strength.
He stood staring at the picture for a long time, biting the end of one of his huge brushes and frowning.
“It’s finished,” he said proudly at last.
Then stooping down, he wrote his name in long red letters on the lower left corner of the canvas.
“Is it really finished?” Dorian murmured, stepping down from the platform.
Lord Wotton came over and examined the picture. It was certainly a wonderful work of art, and a wonderful likeness as well.
“I congratulate you, Basil,” Wotton said to him. “This is the finest portrait of any man that has been created in modern times. Dorian, come look at yourself.”
Dorian looked at the painting and blushed. The sense of his own beauty hit him like a lightning bolt. When he saw it, he drew back and his cheeks flushed for a moment with pleasure.
JOHN GRAVAGLIA
• 15 •
A look of joy came into his eyes, as if he had seen himself for the first time. He stood there, speechless by the sight of his portrait.
“Speak up, boy,” Lord Wotton said, snapping Dorian awake from his silent reverie. “You’ll hurt the man’s feelings.”
“Is that how I look?” Asked Dorian, not blinking even once at the painting. “It’s so lifelike.”
“Better than life,” Lord Wotton laughed, approaching the painting for a closer look. “You and Basil will be the talk of the town.”
“The brush seemed to dance, and I painted what I saw.” Commented Basil, cleaning his brush with a rag.
The two gentlemen were excited with the finished masterwork; yet, a chill suddenly ran through Dorian. One day he would be old and wrinkled, his slender form would be gone, and his hair would fall out.
“He’ll always look like that,” Lord Wotton said, pointing to the painting, “but you, Mr. Gray, I’m afraid will not.”
The words seem to hit Dorian like fists. Basil saw the saddened look on his inspiration’s face. He frowned by the very sight of it.
“Some things are more precious because they don’t last.” Basil said, trying to perk up Dorian, but it was to no avail.
“Oh, poppycock.” Lord Wotton scoffed.
“How awful it is,” Dorian mused. “I shall grow old and horrible and dreadful. But this painting will remain always young. If it were only the other way! If only I were to be
DORIAN GRAY
• 16 •
always young and the picture grew old. For that—I would give everything! I would give my soul!”
“You would hardly care for such an arrangement, Basil,” cried Lord Wotton, laughing. “It would be rather hard lines on your work.”
“I should object very strongly, Harry,” said Basil.
Dorian 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 dare say.”
Basil stared at him in amazement. It was so unlike Dorian to think and speak like that.
What happened to him?
Was this Lord Henry Wotton’s evil influence already at work?
“I am jealous of everything whose beauty does not die,” said Dorian bitterly. “I know now that when one loses one’s good looks, one loses everything. Your picture has taught me that. Lord Wotton is right. Youth is the only thing worth having. I find that I am growing old,” he cried, “I shall kill myself!”
Basil was stunned by what he heard, but before he could speak Dorian went on.
“I am jealous of my portrait. It mocks me, Basil. I hate it! Why did you paint it?” With that, he flung himself onto the studio sofa and burst into tears.
“This is your doing, Harry.” Said the painter bitterly.
Lord Wotton shrugged his shoulders. “It is the real Dorian Gray. That is all.”
JOHN GRAVAGLIA
• 17 •
Dorian barely heard Basil’s charge against Lord Wotton. He watched as the artist reached for a knife to rip the painting to shreds.
With a stifled sob Dorian leaped from the couch, and rushed over to Basil, tore the knife out of his hand and flung it to the end of the studio.
“Don’t Basil!” Cried Dorian. “It would be murder!”
“I am glad you finally appreciate my work.” Basil said coldly.
“Appreciate it? I am in love with it, Basil. It is a part of myself. I feel that.” Dorian explained. “I didn’t mean I wished you hadn’t painted it.”
“Well, as soon as it dries, it will be framed and sent to you.” Basil said more gently.
Finally, Dorian calmed down. He couldn’t keep his eyes off the portrait.
“I wish the picture would age for me.” Dorian said with desperation in his voice.
“Remain as you are?” Lord Wotton said, arching an eyebrow and then smiling. “A fair trade.”
“How about another gin?” Offered Basil, sauntering over to the bar, preparing a glass.
“All that hocus-pocus, endless conjurations, books bound in infant skin, pentacles of fire, and drinking blood of virgins.” Lord Wotton prattled on, watching Basil refilling his glass. “Dorian wouldn’t really barter his soul. Would you, Dorian?”
Dorian turned away from the painting. He stood there silent before Lord Wotton who was expecting on what the lad would
DORIAN GRAY
• 18 •
say. A perplexed look stretched across Dorian’s innocent and youthful façade.
“Would you?” Lord Wotton repeated the question, lighting a cigarette.
After what it seemed like forever Dorian finally answered. “Yes.”
Basil shook his head. “You can’t possibly mean that, Dorian.”
Dorian raised his hand as if he were saluting. “With this, I nail my soul on the devil’s altar.”
After much chitchat, Dorian made plans to dine with Lord Wotton. Basil begged him not to go, fearing that the older man’s encouragement