overeignty. It
makes princes of those who have it. You smile? Ah! when you have lost
it you won't smile.... People say sometimes that beauty is only
superficial. That may be so, but at least it is not so superficial as
thought is. To me, beauty is the wonder of wonders. It is only
shallow people who do not judge by appearances. The true mystery of
the world is the visible, not the invisible.... Yes, Mr. Gray, the
gods have been good to you. But what the gods give they quickly take
away. You have only a few years in which to live really, perfectly,
and fully. When your youth goes, your beauty will go with it, and then
you will suddenly discover that there are no triumphs left for you, or
have to content yourself with those mean triumphs that the memory of
your past will make more bitter than defeats. Every month as it wanes
brings you nearer to something dreadful. Time is jealous of you, and
wars against your lilies and your roses. You will become sallow, and
hollow-cheeked, and dull-eyed. You will suffer horribly.... Ah!
realize your youth while you have it. Don't squander the gold of your
days, listening to the tedious, trying to improve the hopeless failure,
or giving away your life to the ignorant, the common, and the vulgar.
These are the sickly aims, the false ideals, of our age. Live! Live
the wonderful life that is in you! Let nothing be lost upon you. Be
always searching for new sensations. Be afraid of nothing.... A new
Hedonism--that is what our century wants. You might be its visible
symbol. With your personality there is nothing you could not do. The
world belongs to you for a season.... The moment I met you I saw that
you were quite unconscious of what you really are, of what you really
might be. There was so much in you that charmed me that I felt I must
tell you something about yourself. I thought how tragic it would be if
you were wasted. For there is such a little time that your youth will
last--such a little time. The common hill-flowers wither, but they
blossom again. The laburnum will be as yellow next June as it is now.
In a month there will be purple stars on the clematis, and year after
year the green night of its leaves will hold its purple stars. But we
never get back our youth. The pulse of joy that beats in us at twenty
becomes sluggish. Our limbs fail, our senses rot. We degenerate into
hideous puppets, haunted by the memory of the passions of which we were
too