THEPREFACE
Theartististhecreatorof
الجميلة
beautifulthings.Torevealartandconcealtheartistisart’saim.
Thecriticishewho
يستطيع
cantranslateintoanothermannerأو
oranewmaterialhisimpressionofالجميلة
beautifulthings.Thehighestasthelowestformofcriticismisamodeofautobiography.
أولئك
Thosewhofinduglymeaningsinالجميلة
beautifulthingsarecorruptwithoutbeingcharming.هذا
Thisisafault.Those
الذين
whofindbeautifulmeaningsinbeautifulthingsarethecultivated.Forthese
هناك
thereishope.Theyaretheelecttowhom
الجميلة
beautifulthingsmeanonlybeauty.Thereis
لا
nosuchthingasamoralأو
oranimmoralbook.Booksarewellwritten,
أو
orbadlywritten.Thatis
كل
all.ThenineteenthcenturydislikeofrealismistherageofCalibanseeinghisownfaceinaglass.
ThenineteenthcenturydislikeofromanticismistherageofCalibannotseeinghisownfaceinaglass.
Themoral
الحياة
lifeofmanformspartofthesubject-matteroftheartist,لكن
butthemoralityofartconsistsintheperfectالاستخدام
useofanimperfectmedium.Noartistdesirestoprove
أي شيء
anything.Eventhingsthataretrue
يمكن
canbeproved.Noartisthasethicalsympathies.
Anethicalsympathyinanartistisanunpardonablemannerismofstyle.
لا
Noartistisevermorbid.Theartist
يمكن
canexpresseverything.Thoughtandlanguagearetotheartistinstrumentsofanart.
Viceandvirtuearetotheartistmaterialsforanart.
Fromthepointofviewofform,thetypeof
جميع
alltheartsistheartofthemusician.Fromthepointofviewoffeeling,theactor’scraftisthetype.
كل
Allartisatoncesurfaceandsymbol.أولئك
Thosewhogobeneaththesurfacedosoattheirperil.أولئك
Thosewhoreadthesymboldosoattheirperil.Itisthespectator,andnotlife,thatartreallymirrors.
Diversityofopinion
حول
aboutaworkofartshowsأن
thattheworkisnew,complex,andvital.عندما
Whencriticsdisagree,theartistisinaccordمع
withhimself.Wecanforgiveamanformakingauseful
شيء
thingaslongashedoesnotadmireit.The
الوحيد
onlyexcuseformakingauselessشيء
thingisthatoneadmiresitintensely.كل
Allartisquiteuseless.CHAPTERI.
Thestudiowasfilledwiththerichodourofroses,andwhenthe
الخفيفة
lightsummerwindstirredamidstthetreesofthegarden,therecameخلال
throughtheopendoortheheavyscentofthelilac,أو
orthemoredelicateperfumeofthepink-floweringthorn.FromthecornerofthedivanofPersiansaddle-bagsonwhichhewaslying,smoking,aswashiscustom,innumerablecigarettes,
اللورد
LordHenryWottoncouldjustcatchthegleamofthehoney-sweetandhoney-colouredblossomsofalaburnum,whosetremulousbranchesseemedhardlyقادرة
abletobeartheburdenofabeautysoflamelikeastheirs;andnowandthenthefantasticshadowsofbirdsinflightflittedacrossthelongtussore-silkcurtainsthatwerestretchedinfrontofthehugewindow,producingakindofmomentaryJapaneseeffect,andmakinghimthinkofthosepallid,jade-facedpaintersofTokyowho,throughthemediumofanartthatisnecessarilyimmobile,seektoconveythesenseofswiftnessandmotion.
Thesullenmurmurofthebeesshoulderingtheirway
عبر
throughthelongunmowngrass,أو
orcirclingwithmonotonousinsistenceroundthedustygilthornsofthestragglingwoodbine,seemedtomakethestillnessأكثر
moreoppressive.ThedimroarofLondonwas
مثل
likethebourdonnoteofadistantorgan.Inthecentreoftheroom,clampedtoanuprighteasel,stoodthefull-lengthportraitofayoungmanofextraordinarypersonalbeauty,andinfrontof
ذلك
it,somelittledistanceaway,wassittingtheartisthimself,BasilHallward,whosesuddendisappearancesomeyearsمنذ
agocaused,atthetime,suchpublicexcitementandgaverisetosoالعديد
manystrangeconjectures.Asthepainterlookedatthegraciousandcomelyformhehadsoskilfullymirroredinhisart,
على
asmileofpleasurepassedacrosshisface,andseemedabouttolingerهناك
there.Buthesuddenlystartedup,andclosinghiseyes,placedhisfingersuponthelids,asthoughhesoughttoimprisonwithinhisbrain
بعض
somecuriousdreamfromwhichhefearedhemightawake.“Itisyour
أفضل
bestwork,Basil,thebestشيء
thingyouhaveeverdone,”saidاللورد
LordHenrylanguidly.“Youmustcertainlysendit
المقبل
nextyeartotheGrosvenor.TheAcademyistoolargeandtoovulgar.
WheneverIhavegone
هناك
there,therehavebeeneithersomanyالناس
peoplethatIhavenotbeenabletoرؤية
seethepictures,whichwasdreadful,أو
orsomanypicturesthatIhavenotbeenabletoرؤية
seethepeople,whichwasworse.TheGrosvenorisreallythe
الوحيد
onlyplace.”“Idon’tthinkIshallsenditanywhere,”heanswered,tossinghisheadbackin
التي
thatoddwaythatusedtoتجعل
makehisfriendslaughathimatOxford.“No,Iwon’tsenditanywhere.”
اللورد
LordHenryelevatedhiseyebrowsandlookedathiminamazementخلال
throughthethinbluewreathsofsmokeالتي
thatcurledupinsuchfancifulwhorlsfromhisheavy,opium-taintedcigarette.“Notsenditanywhere?
Mydearfellow,why?
لديك
Haveyouanyreason?Whatoddchapsyoupaintersare!
You
تفعل
doanythingintheworldtogainعلى
areputation.Assoonasyouhaveone,youseemto
تريد
wanttothrowitaway.Itissillyofyou,for
هناك
thereisonlyonethingintheالعالم
worldworsethanbeingtalkedabout,andهذا
thatisnotbeingtalkedabout.على
Aportraitlikethiswouldsetyoufaraboveجميع
alltheyoungmeninEngland,andmaketheoldmenquitejealous,ifoldmenareevercapableofأي
anyemotion.”“Iknowyouwilllaughatme,”hereplied,“butIreallycan’texhibitit.
Ihave
وضعت
puttoomuchofmyselfintoit.”اللورد
LordHenrystretchedhimselfoutonthedivanandlaughed.“Yes,Iknewyouwould;
لكنه
butitisquitetrue,كل
allthesame.”“Toomuchofyourselfinit!
Uponmyword,Basil,Ididn’t
أعرف
knowyouweresovain;andIreallycan’t
أرى
seeanyresemblancebetweenyou,مع
withyourruggedstrongfaceandyourcoal-blackhair,andthisالشاب
youngAdonis,wholooksasifhewasmadeoutofivoryandrose-leaves.Why,my
عزيزي
dearBasil,heisaNarcissus,andyou—well,ofcourseyouلديك
haveanintellectualexpressionandallذلك
that.Butbeauty,realbeauty,ends
حيث
whereanintellectualexpressionbegins.Intellectisinitselfamodeofexaggeration,anddestroystheharmonyof
أي
anyface.Themomentonesitsdowntothink,onebecomes
كل
allnose,orallforehead,أو
orsomethinghorrid.Lookatthesuccessfulmenin
أي
anyofthelearnedprofessions.كم
Howperfectlyhideoustheyare!Except,ofcourse,intheChurch.
لكن
ButthenintheChurchtheydon’tthink.Abishopkeepsonsayingattheageofeightywhathewastoldto
يقول
saywhenhewasaboyofeighteen,andasanaturalconsequencehealwayslooksabsolutelydelightful.Yourmysterious
الشاب
youngfriend,whosenameyouhaveلم
nevertoldme,butwhosepicturereallyfascinatesme,لم
neverthinks.Ifeelquite
متأكد
sureofthat.Heissomebrainless
جميل
beautifulcreaturewhoshouldbealwaysهنا
hereinwinterwhenweيكون
havenoflowerstolookat,andalwaysهنا
hereinsummerwhenweنريد
wantsomethingtochillourintelligence.Don’tflatteryourself,Basil:
youarenotintheleastlikehim.”
“Youdon’tunderstandme,Harry,”answeredtheartist.
“OfcourseIamnotlikehim.
I
أعرف
knowthatperfectlywell.Indeed,Ishouldbesorrytolooklikehim.
Youshrugyourshoulders?
Iamtellingyouthe
الحقيقة
truth.Thereisafatality
حول
aboutallphysicalandintellectualdistinction,theنوع
sortoffatalitythatseemstodogعبر
throughhistorythefalteringstepsofkings.Itis
الأفضل
betternottobedifferentfromone’sfellows.Theuglyandthestupid
لديهم
havethebestofitinهذا
thisworld.Theycansitattheireaseandgapeattheplay.
إذا
Iftheyknownothingofvictory,theyareatالأقل
leastsparedtheknowledgeofdefeat.Theyliveasweallshouldlive—undisturbed,indifferent,and
دون
withoutdisquiet.Theyneitherbringruinuponothers,noreverreceiveitfromalienhands.
Yourrankandwealth,Harry;
mybrains,suchastheyare—myart,
مهما
whateveritmaybeworth;DorianGray’sgoodlooks—weshallallsufferforwhatthegodshavegiven
لنا
us,sufferterribly.”“DorianGray?
Is
هذا
thathisname?”askedLordHenry,walkingacrossthestudiotowardsBasilHallward.
“Yes,
هذا
thatishisname.Ididn’tintendtotellittoyou.”
“Butwhynot?”
“Oh,Ican’texplain.
عندما
WhenIlikepeopleimmensely,Ineverأقول
telltheirnamestoanyone.Itis
مثل
likesurrenderingapartofمنهم
them.Ihavegrownto
حب
lovesecrecy.Itseemstobetheone
الشيء
thingthatcanmakemodernالحياة
lifemysteriousormarvelloustoلنا
us.Thecommonestthingisdelightfulifone
فقط
onlyhidesit.WhenIleave
البلدة
townnowInevertellmypeopleأين
whereIamgoing.IfIdid,Iwouldlose
كل
allmypleasure.Itis
على
asillyhabit,Idaresay,butsomehowitseemstoتجلب
bringagreatdealofromanceintoone’sحياة
life.Isupposeyouthinkmeawfullyfoolishaboutit?”
“Notatall,”answered
اللورد
LordHenry,“notatall,myعزيزي
dearBasil.YouseemtoforgetthatIammarried,andtheonecharmofmarriageisthatitmakesa
حياة
lifeofdeceptionabsolutelynecessaryforbothparties.Ineverknow
أين
wheremywifeis,andmywifeneverknowswhatIamdoing.عندما
Whenwemeet—wedomeetoccasionally,عندما
whenwedineouttogether,أو
orgodowntotheDuke’s—wetelleachothertheأكثر
mostabsurdstorieswiththeأكثر
mostseriousfaces.Mywifeisvery
جيدة
goodatit—muchbetter,inالواقع
fact,thanIam.Shenevergetsconfusedoverherdates,andIalways
أفعل
do.Butwhenshedoesfindmeout,shemakesnorowatall.
Isometimeswishshewould;
لكنها
butshemerelylaughsatme.”“I
أكره
hatethewayyoutalkعن
aboutyourmarriedlife,Harry,”saidBasilHallward,strollingtowardstheالباب
doorthatledintothegarden.“Ibelievethatyouarereallyavery
جيد
goodhusband,butthatyouarethoroughlyashamedofyourالخاصة
ownvirtues.Youareanextraordinaryfellow.
Younever
تقول
sayamoralthing,andyouneverتفعل
doawrongthing.Yourcynicismissimplyapose.”
“Beingnaturalissimplyapose,andthemostirritatingposeIknow,”cried
اللورد
LordHenry,laughing;andthetwoyoungmenwentoutintothegardentogetherandensconcedthemselvesona
طويل
longbambooseatthatstoodintheshadeofatalllaurelbush.Thesunlightslippedoverthepolishedleaves.
Inthegrass,
البيضاء
whitedaisiesweretremulous.Afterapause,
اللورد
LordHenrypulledouthiswatch.“IamafraidI
يجب
mustbegoing,Basil,”hemurmured,“andbeforeIgo,Iinsistonyouransweringaسؤال
questionIputtoyousometimeago.”“Whatisthat?”
saidthepainter,keepinghiseyesfixedontheground.
“You
تعرف
knowquitewell.”“Idonot,Harry.”
“Well,Iwilltellyouwhatit
هو
is.Iwantyoutoexplaintomewhyyouwon’texhibitDorianGray’spicture.
I
أريد
wanttherealreason.”“Itoldyouthe
الحقيقي
realreason.”“No,youdidnot.
Yousaiditwasbecause
هناك
therewastoomuchofyourselfinذلك
it.Now,thatischildish.”
“Harry,”saidBasilHallward,lookinghimstraightinthe
الوجه
face,“everyportraitthatispaintedمع
withfeelingisaportraitoftheartist,notofthesitter.Thesitterismerelytheaccident,theoccasion.
Itisnothe
الذي
whoisrevealedbythepainter;itisratherthepainterwho,onthecolouredcanvas,revealshimself.
The
السبب
reasonIwillnotexhibitهذه
thispictureisthatIamafraidأن
thatIhaveshowninitthesecretofmyownsoul.”اللورد
LordHenrylaughed.“Andwhatisthat?”
heasked.
“Iwilltellyou,”saidHallward;
لكن
butanexpressionofperplexitycameoverhisface.“Iam
كل
allexpectation,Basil,”continuedhiscompanion,glancingatعليه
him.“Oh,thereisreally
جدا
verylittletotell,Harry,”answeredthepainter;“andIamafraidyouwillhardlyunderstandit.
ربما
Perhapsyouwillhardlybelieveit.”اللورد
LordHenrysmiled,andleaningالأسفل
down,pluckedapink-petalleddaisyfromthegrassandexaminedit.“Iamquite
متأكد
sureIshallunderstandit,”hereplied,gazingintentlyattheالصغير
littlegolden,white-feathereddisk,“andasforbelievingthings,Icanbelieveأي شيء
anything,providedthatitisquiteincredible.”Thewindshook
بعض
someblossomsfromthetrees,andtheheavylilac-blooms,مع
withtheirclusteringstars,movedtoandfrointhelanguidالهواء
air.Agrasshopperbegantochirrupbythewall,andlikeabluethreadalongthindragon-flyfloatedpastonitsbrowngauzewings.
اللورد
LordHenryfeltasifhecouldسماع
hearBasilHallward’sheartbeating,andwonderedwhatwascoming.“Thestoryissimplythis,”saidthepainter
بعد
aftersometime.“Twomonths
قبل
agoIwenttoacrushatLadyBrandon’s.Youknowwepoorartistshavetoshowourselvesinsocietyfrom
وقت
timetotime,justtoremindthepublicthatwearenotsavages.مع
Withaneveningcoatandaبيضاء
whitetie,asyoutoldmeمرة
once,anybody,evenastock-broker,يمكن
cangainareputationforbeingcivilized.Well,
بعد
afterIhadbeenintheالغرفة
roomabouttenminutes,talkingtohugeoverdresseddowagersandtediousacademicians,Isuddenlybecameconsciousthatsomeonewaslookingatme.Iturnedhalf-wayroundandsawDorianGrayfor
في
thefirsttime.Whenoureyesmet,IfeltthatIwasgrowingpale.
Acurioussensationofterrorcameoverme.
IknewthatIhadcomefacetofacewithsomeonewhosemerepersonalitywassofascinatingthat,
إذا
ifIallowedittodoso,itwouldabsorbmywholenature,mywholesoul,myveryartitself.Ididnot
أريد
wantanyexternalinfluenceinmyحياتي
life.Youknowyourself,Harry,
كم
howindependentIambynature.Ihavealwaysbeenmyownmaster;
hadat
الأقل
leastalwaysbeenso,tillImetDorianGray.Then—butIdon’t
أعرف
knowhowtoexplainittoyou.SomethingseemedtotellmethatIwasonthevergeofaterriblecrisisinmy
حياتي
life.Ihadastrangefeelingthatfatehadinstoreformeexquisitejoysandexquisitesorrows.
Igrew
خائفة
afraidandturnedtoquittheالغرفة
room.Itwasnotconsciencethatmademe
أفعل
doso:itwasasortofcowardice.
Itake
لا
nocredittomyselffortryingtoescape.”“Conscienceandcowardiceare
الحقيقة
reallythesamethings,Basil.Conscienceisthetrade-nameofthefirm.
هذا
Thatisall.”“Idon’tbelieve
ذلك
that,Harry,andIdon’tbelieveyouتفعل
doeither.However,whateverwasmymotive—anditmayhavebeenpride,forIusedtobeveryproud—Icertainlystruggledtothe
الباب
door.There,ofcourse,Istumbledagainst
السيدة
LadyBrandon.‘Youarenotgoingtorunawaysosoon,Mr.Hallward?’shescreamedout.
You
تعرف
knowhercuriouslyshrillvoice?”“Yes;
sheisapeacockin
كل شيء
everythingbutbeauty,”saidLordHenry,pullingthedaisytobitswithhislongnervousfingers.“Icouldnotgetridofher.
Shebroughtmeuptoroyalties,andpeoplewithstarsandgarters,andelderlyladieswithgigantictiarasandparrotnoses.
Shespokeofmeasherdearestfriend.
Ihad
فقط
onlymetheroncebefore,لكنها
butshetookitintoherheadtolionizeme.Ibelieve
بعض
somepictureofminehadmadeعلى
agreatsuccessattheالوقت
time,atleasthadbeenchatteredaboutinthepennynewspapers,whichisthenineteenth-centurystandardofimmortality.SuddenlyIfoundmyselffacetoface
مع
withtheyoungmanwhosepersonalityhadsostrangelystirredme.