Disclaimer: I don't own any of this. Just thought that I should give
Oscar's character a last little say before he left the screen. I don't
presume to ever rival the outstanding writing by Mr. Wilde but have used
his character in this. I Don't Own, So Don't Sue.
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"The Portrait of Dorian Gray"
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It was right there In front of my eyes. My young eyes that were nothing like the sunken gray orbs that stared back at me from the disgusting and deteriorated skull.
So unlike the first time I had seen it. I remembered it well; the whole encounter flew before me, a day in a second.
Back inside Basil Hallward's studio, with Basil himself and Lord Henry, where I had sat in the stifling heat while I was painted. Painted into my destiny.
"" "" "" "" "" "" "" "" "" "" "" "" "" "" "" "" "" "" "" "" "" "" "" "" "" "" "" "" "" "" ""
Lord Henry came over and examined the picture. It was certainly
a wonderful work of art, and a wonderful likeness as well.
"My dear fellow, I congratulate you most warmly," he said.
"It is the finest portrait of modern times. Mr. Gray, come over
and look at yourself."
I started, as if awakened from some dream.
"Is it really finished?" I murmured, stepping down from the platform.
"Quite finished," said the painter. "And you have sat splendidly
to-day. I am awfully obliged to you."
"That is entirely due to me," broke in Lord Henry. "Isn't it,
Mr. Gray?"
I made no answer, but passed listlessly in front of my
picture and turned towards it. When I saw it I drew back,
and my cheeks flushed for a moment with pleasure.
A look of joy came
into my eyes, as if I had recognized myself for the first time.
I stood there motionless and in wonder, dimly conscious that Hallward
was speaking to me, but not catching the meaning of his words.
The sense of my own beauty came on me like a revelation.
I had never felt it before. Basil Hallward's compliments had seemed
to me to be merely the charming exaggeration of friendship.
I had listened to them, laughed at them, forgotten them.
They had not influenced my nature. Then had come Lord Henry
Wotton with his strange panegyric on youth, his terrible warning
of its brevity. That had stirred me at the time, and now,
as I stood gazing at the shadow of my own loveliness, the full
reality of the description flashed across me.
Yes, there would
be a day when my face would be wrinkled and wizen, my eyes dim
and colourless, the grace of my figure broken and deformed.
The scarlet would pass away from my lips and the colour steal from
my hair. The life that was to make my soul would mar my body.
I would become dreadful, hideous, and uncouth.
As I thought of it, a sharp pang of pain struck through me
like a knife and made each delicate fiber of my nature quiver.
My eyes deepened into amethyst, and across them came a mist
of tears. I felt as if a hand of ice had been laid upon
my heart.
"Don't you like it?" cried Hallward at last, stung a little
by my silence, not understanding what it meant.
"Of course he likes it," said Lord Henry. "Who wouldn't like it?
It is one of the greatest things in modern art. I will give you
anything you like to ask for it. I must have it."
"It is not my property, Harry."
"Whose property is it?"
"Dorian's, of course," answered the painter.
"He is a very lucky fellow."
"How sad it is!" I murmured with my eyes still fixed upon
my own portrait. "How sad it is! I shall grow old, and horrible,
and dreadful. But this picture will remain always young.
It will never be older than this particular day of June.
. . . 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!"
"" "" "" "" "" "" "" "" "" "" "" "" "" "" "" "" "" "" "" "" "" "" "" "" "" "" "" "" "" "" ""
My soul, that had been what I had paid. I had stayed young while the portrait rotted. It may have been forever but now I will not know. You Mina, have ensured that.
I will not waste my breath on words.
Yes I was the Traitor.
Yes I betrayed you all in one way or another.
I am not going to deny what is true. I won't even try to explain my actions.
I won't cry that I didn't have a choice because they had my portrait. I had a choice the whole time. I chose my path as each of you chose your own.
I even Engaged in Battle with you Mina, and would have killed you had you not me. I might not have even regretted it.
I said I would face my demons and now I will in the deepest pit of hell, where my portrait will lie.
Where it does lay, in the shadows of your room, right up between an old portrait of your dear husband and the hated Dracula. Your wall of foes and lovers with me in between.
How fitting Mina.
Here I will watch for the rest of eternity, forever yearning for what is beyond the varnish and never getting it. The life you lead, enticing me with intolerable pains, far worse than hell would have given me.
Immortal forever in a frame.
Forever young.
Forever damned.
Dorian Gray.
~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~
"The Portrait of Dorian Gray"
~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~
It was right there In front of my eyes. My young eyes that were nothing like the sunken gray orbs that stared back at me from the disgusting and deteriorated skull.
So unlike the first time I had seen it. I remembered it well; the whole encounter flew before me, a day in a second.
Back inside Basil Hallward's studio, with Basil himself and Lord Henry, where I had sat in the stifling heat while I was painted. Painted into my destiny.
"" "" "" "" "" "" "" "" "" "" "" "" "" "" "" "" "" "" "" "" "" "" "" "" "" "" "" "" "" "" ""
Lord Henry came over and examined the picture. It was certainly
a wonderful work of art, and a wonderful likeness as well.
"My dear fellow, I congratulate you most warmly," he said.
"It is the finest portrait of modern times. Mr. Gray, come over
and look at yourself."
I started, as if awakened from some dream.
"Is it really finished?" I murmured, stepping down from the platform.
"Quite finished," said the painter. "And you have sat splendidly
to-day. I am awfully obliged to you."
"That is entirely due to me," broke in Lord Henry. "Isn't it,
Mr. Gray?"
I made no answer, but passed listlessly in front of my
picture and turned towards it. When I saw it I drew back,
and my cheeks flushed for a moment with pleasure.
A look of joy came
into my eyes, as if I had recognized myself for the first time.
I stood there motionless and in wonder, dimly conscious that Hallward
was speaking to me, but not catching the meaning of his words.
The sense of my own beauty came on me like a revelation.
I had never felt it before. Basil Hallward's compliments had seemed
to me to be merely the charming exaggeration of friendship.
I had listened to them, laughed at them, forgotten them.
They had not influenced my nature. Then had come Lord Henry
Wotton with his strange panegyric on youth, his terrible warning
of its brevity. That had stirred me at the time, and now,
as I stood gazing at the shadow of my own loveliness, the full
reality of the description flashed across me.
Yes, there would
be a day when my face would be wrinkled and wizen, my eyes dim
and colourless, the grace of my figure broken and deformed.
The scarlet would pass away from my lips and the colour steal from
my hair. The life that was to make my soul would mar my body.
I would become dreadful, hideous, and uncouth.
As I thought of it, a sharp pang of pain struck through me
like a knife and made each delicate fiber of my nature quiver.
My eyes deepened into amethyst, and across them came a mist
of tears. I felt as if a hand of ice had been laid upon
my heart.
"Don't you like it?" cried Hallward at last, stung a little
by my silence, not understanding what it meant.
"Of course he likes it," said Lord Henry. "Who wouldn't like it?
It is one of the greatest things in modern art. I will give you
anything you like to ask for it. I must have it."
"It is not my property, Harry."
"Whose property is it?"
"Dorian's, of course," answered the painter.
"He is a very lucky fellow."
"How sad it is!" I murmured with my eyes still fixed upon
my own portrait. "How sad it is! I shall grow old, and horrible,
and dreadful. But this picture will remain always young.
It will never be older than this particular day of June.
. . . 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!"
"" "" "" "" "" "" "" "" "" "" "" "" "" "" "" "" "" "" "" "" "" "" "" "" "" "" "" "" "" "" ""
My soul, that had been what I had paid. I had stayed young while the portrait rotted. It may have been forever but now I will not know. You Mina, have ensured that.
I will not waste my breath on words.
Yes I was the Traitor.
Yes I betrayed you all in one way or another.
I am not going to deny what is true. I won't even try to explain my actions.
I won't cry that I didn't have a choice because they had my portrait. I had a choice the whole time. I chose my path as each of you chose your own.
I even Engaged in Battle with you Mina, and would have killed you had you not me. I might not have even regretted it.
I said I would face my demons and now I will in the deepest pit of hell, where my portrait will lie.
Where it does lay, in the shadows of your room, right up between an old portrait of your dear husband and the hated Dracula. Your wall of foes and lovers with me in between.
How fitting Mina.
Here I will watch for the rest of eternity, forever yearning for what is beyond the varnish and never getting it. The life you lead, enticing me with intolerable pains, far worse than hell would have given me.
Immortal forever in a frame.
Forever young.
Forever damned.
Dorian Gray.