THEPREFACE
Theartististhecreatorof
الجميلة
beautifulthings.Torevealartandconcealthe
الفنان
artistisart’saim.The
الناقد
criticishewhocanيترجم
translateintoanothermanneroraجديدة
newmaterialhisimpressionofالجميلة
beautifulthings.Thehighestasthelowest
شكل
formofcriticismisamodeofautobiography.أولئك
Thosewhofinduglymeaningsinالجميلة
beautifulthingsarecorruptwithoutbeingcharming.هذا
Thisisafault.Those
الذين
whofindbeautifulmeaningsinbeautifulthingsarethecultivated.Forthese
هناك
thereishope.Theyaretheelecttowhom
الجميلة
beautifulthingsmeanonlybeauty.Thereis
لا
nosuchthingasamoralأو
oranimmoralbook.Booksarewellwritten,
أو
orbadlywritten.Thatis
كل
all.Thenineteenthcenturydislikeofrealismisthe
غضب
rageofCalibanseeinghisownfaceinaglass.Thenineteenth
القرن
centurydislikeofromanticismistheغضب
rageofCalibannotseeinghisownfaceinaglass.Themoral
الحياة
lifeofmanformspartofthesubject-matteroftheالفنان
artist,butthemoralityofالفن
artconsistsintheperfectالاستخدام
useofanimperfectmedium.No
فنان
artistdesirestoproveanything.حتى
Eventhingsthataretrueيمكن
canbeproved.Noartisthasethicalsympathies.
Anethical
التعاطف
sympathyinanartistisanunpardonablemannerismofأسلوب
style.Noartistisevermorbid.
Theartist
يمكن
canexpresseverything.Thoughtandlanguagearetotheartistinstrumentsofanart.
Viceandvirtuearetotheartistmaterialsforanart.
Fromthepointofviewofform,the
نوع
typeofalltheartsistheartofthemusician.Fromthepointofviewoffeeling,theactor’s
حرفة
craftisthetype.All
الفن
artisatoncesurfaceandsymbol.أولئك
Thosewhogobeneaththeالسطح
surfacedosoattheirperil.أولئك
Thosewhoreadthesymboldosoattheirperil.Itisthespectator,andnotlife,that
الفن
artreallymirrors.Diversityofopinion
حول
aboutaworkofartshowsأن
thattheworkisnew,complex,andvital.عندما
Whencriticsdisagree,theartistisinaccordمع
withhimself.Wecanforgiveamanformakinga
مفيد
usefulthingaslongashedoesnotadmireit.The
الوحيد
onlyexcuseformakingaعديم الفائدة
uselessthingisthatoneadmiresitintensely.كل
Allartisquiteuseless.الفصل
CHAPTERI.Thestudiowasfilledwiththe
الغنية
richodourofroses,andwhentheالخفيفة
lightsummerwindstirredamidstthetreesoftheالحديقة
garden,therecamethroughtheopenالباب
doortheheavyscentofthelilac,أو
orthemoredelicateperfumeofthepink-floweringالشوكة
thorn.FromthecornerofthedivanofPersiansaddle-bagsonwhichhewaslying,smoking,aswashiscustom,innumerablecigarettes,
اللورد
LordHenryWottoncouldjustcatchthegleamofthehoney-sweetandhoney-colouredblossomsofalaburnum,whosetremulousbranchesseemedhardlyقادرة
abletobeartheburdenofaالجمال
beautysoflamelikeastheirs;andnowandthenthe
الرائعة
fantasticshadowsofbirdsinflightflittedacrossthelongtussore-silkcurtainsthatwerestretchedinfrontofthehugeالنافذة
window,producingakindofmomentaryJapaneseالتأثير
effect,andmakinghimthinkofthosepallid,jade-facedpaintersofTokyowho,throughthemediumofanartthatisnecessarilyimmobile,seektoنقل
conveythesenseofswiftnessandmotion.Thesullenmurmurofthebeesshoulderingtheirway
عبر
throughthelongunmowngrass,أو
orcirclingwithmonotonousinsistenceroundtheالمتربة
dustygilthornsofthestragglingwoodbine,seemedtomakethestillnessأكثر
moreoppressive.ThedimroarofLondonwas
مثل
likethebourdonnoteofaالبعيدة
distantorgan.Inthecentreoftheroom,clampedtoanuprighteasel,stoodthefull-length
صورة
portraitofayoungmanofextraordinaryشخصي
personalbeauty,andinfrontofذلك
it,somelittledistanceaway,wassittingtheالفنان
artisthimself,BasilHallward,whoseالمفاجئ
suddendisappearancesomeyearsagocaused,atthetime,suchالعامة
publicexcitementandgaverisetosoالعديد
manystrangeconjectures.Asthe
الرسام
painterlookedatthegraciousandcomelyformhehadsoskilfullymirroredinhisart,على
asmileofpleasurepassedacrosshisface,andseemedabouttolingerهناك
there.Buthesuddenlystartedup,andclosinghiseyes,placedhisfingersuponthelids,asthoughhesoughtto
سجن
imprisonwithinhisbrainsomeالغريب
curiousdreamfromwhichhefearedhemightawake.“Itisyour
أفضل
bestwork,Basil,thebestشيء
thingyouhaveeverdone,”saidاللورد
LordHenrylanguidly.“Youmustcertainlysendit
المقبل
nextyeartotheGrosvenor.TheAcademyistoo
كبيرة
largeandtoovulgar.WheneverIhavegone
هناك
there,therehavebeeneithersomanyالناس
peoplethatIhavenotbeenabletoرؤية
seethepictures,whichwasdreadful,أو
orsomanypicturesthatIhavenotbeenabletoرؤية
seethepeople,whichwasأسوأ
worse.TheGrosvenorisreallythe
الوحيد
onlyplace.”“Idon’tthinkIshallsenditanywhere,”heanswered,tossinghisheadbackin
التي
thatoddwaythatusedtoتجعل
makehisfriendslaughathimatOxford.“No,Iwon’tsenditanywhere.”
اللورد
LordHenryelevatedhiseyebrowsandlookedathiminدهشة
amazementthroughthethinbluewreathsofالدخان
smokethatcurledupinsuchfancifulwhorlsfromhisheavy,opium-taintedcigarette.“Notsenditanywhere?
Mydearfellow,why?
لديك
Haveyouanyreason?Whatoddchapsyoupaintersare!
You
تفعل
doanythingintheworldtogainعلى
areputation.Assoonasyouhaveone,you
يبدو
seemtowanttothrowitaway.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,wholooksasifhewasmadeoutofالعاج
ivoryandrose-leaves.Why,my
عزيزي
dearBasil,heisaNarcissus,andyou—well,ofcourseyouلديك
haveanintellectualexpressionandallذلك
that.Butbeauty,realbeauty,ends
حيث
whereanintellectualexpressionbegins.العقل
Intellectisinitselfamodeofexaggeration,anddestroystheالانسجام
harmonyofanyface.The
اللحظة
momentonesitsdowntothink,onebecomesكل
allnose,orallforehead,أو
orsomethinghorrid.Lookatthesuccessfulmenin
أي
anyofthelearnedprofessions.كم
Howperfectlyhideoustheyare!Except,ofcourse,inthe
الكنيسة
Church.Buttheninthe
الكنيسة
Churchtheydon’tthink.A
الأسقف
bishopkeepsonsayingattheسن
ageofeightywhathewastoldtoيقول
saywhenhewasaboyofeighteen,andasaطبيعية
naturalconsequencehealwayslooksabsolutelydelightful.Your
الغامض
mysteriousyoungfriend,whosenameyouhaveلم
nevertoldme,butwhosepicturereallyfascinatesme,لم
neverthinks.Ifeelquite
متأكد
sureofthat.Heissomebrainless
جميل
beautifulcreaturewhoshouldbealwaysهنا
hereinwinterwhenweيكون
havenoflowerstolookat,andalwaysهنا
hereinsummerwhenweنريد
wantsomethingtochillourintelligence.Don’tflatteryourself,
باسل
Basil:youarenotintheleastlikehim.”
“Youdon’tunderstandme,Harry,”answeredthe
الفنان
artist.“OfcourseIamnotlikehim.
I
أعرف
knowthatperfectlywell.Indeed,Ishouldbesorrytolooklikehim.
Youshrugyourshoulders?
Iamtellingyouthe
الحقيقة
truth.Thereisafatality
حول
aboutallphysicalandintellectualالتمييز
distinction,thesortoffatalityالتي
thatseemstodogthroughالتاريخ
historythefalteringstepsofkings.Itis
الأفضل
betternottobedifferentfromone’sfellows.The
القبيح
uglyandthestupidhavetheأفضل
bestofitinthisالعالم
world.Theycansitattheireaseandgapeattheplay.
إذا
Iftheyknownothingofالنصر
victory,theyareatleastsparedtheمعرفة
knowledgeofdefeat.Theyliveasweallshouldlive—undisturbed,indifferent,and
دون
withoutdisquiet.Theyneitherbring
الخراب
ruinuponothers,noreverreceiveitfromalienhands.Yourrankandwealth,Harry;
mybrains,suchastheyare—myart,
مهما
whateveritmaybeworth;DorianGray’sgoodlooks—weshallallsufferforwhatthegodshavegiven
لنا
us,sufferterribly.”“DorianGray?
Is
هذا
thathisname?”askedLordHenry,walking
عبر
acrossthestudiotowardsBasilHallward.“Yes,
هذا
thatishisname.Ididn’t
أنوي
intendtotellittoyou.”“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,butما
somehowitseemstobringعلى
agreatdealofromanceintoone’sحياة
life.Isupposeyouthinkmeawfully
أحمق
foolishaboutit?”“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,”saidباسل
BasilHallward,strollingtowardstheالباب
doorthatledintotheالحديقة
garden.“Ibelievethatyouarereallyavery
جيد
goodhusband,butthatyouarethoroughlyashamedofyourالخاصة
ownvirtues.Youareanextraordinary
زميل
fellow.Youneversayamoralthing,andyounever
تفعل
doawrongthing.Yourcynicismissimplyapose.”
“Beingnaturalissimplyapose,andthemostirritatingposeIknow,”cried
اللورد
LordHenry,laughing;andthetwoyoungmenwentoutintothe
الحديقة
gardentogetherandensconcedthemselvesonaطويل
longbambooseatthatstoodintheظل
shadeofatalllaurelbush.Thesunlightslippedoverthepolishedleaves.
Inthegrass,
البيضاء
whitedaisiesweretremulous.Afterapause,
اللورد
LordHenrypulledouthiswatch.“IamafraidI
يجب
mustbegoing,Basil,”hemurmured,“andbeforeIgo,Iinsistonyouransweringaسؤال
questionIputtoyousometimeago.”“Whatisthat?”
saidthepainter,keepinghiseyesfixedonthe
الأرض
ground.“Youknowquitewell.”
“Idonot,Harry.”
“Well,Iwilltellyouwhatit
هو
is.Iwantyouto
تشرح
explaintomewhyyouwon’texhibitDorianGray’sصورة
picture.Iwanttherealreason.”
“Itoldyouthe
الحقيقي
realreason.”“No,youdidnot.
Yousaiditwasbecause
هناك
therewastoomuchofyourselfinذلك
it.Now,thatischildish.”
“Harry,”said
باسل
BasilHallward,lookinghimstraightintheالوجه
face,“everyportraitthatispaintedمع
withfeelingisaportraitoftheartist,notofthesitter.Thesitteris
مجرد
merelytheaccident,theoccasion.Itisnothe
الذي
whoisrevealedbythepainter;itis
بل
ratherthepainterwho,onthecolouredcanvas,revealshimself.The
السبب
reasonIwillnotexhibitهذه
thispictureisthatIamafraidأن
thatIhaveshowninittheسر
secretofmyownsoul.”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-petalleddaisyfromtheالعشب
grassandexaminedit.“Iamquite
متأكد
sureIshallunderstandit,”hereplied,gazingintentlyattheالصغير
littlegolden,white-feathereddisk,“andasforbelievingthings,Icanbelieveأي شيء
anything,providedthatitisquiteincredible.”The
الرياح
windshooksomeblossomsfromthetrees,andtheالثقيلة
heavylilac-blooms,withtheirclusteringstars,movedtoandfrointhelanguidالهواء
air.Agrasshopperbegantochirrupbythe
الحائط
wall,andlikeablueخيط
threadalongthindragon-flyfloatedpastonitsbrowngauzewings.اللورد
LordHenryfeltasifhecouldسماع
hearBasilHallward’sheartbeating,andwonderedwhatwascoming.“Thestoryissimplythis,”saidthe
الرسام
painteraftersometime.“Twomonths
قبل
agoIwenttoacrushatLadyBrandon’s.Youknowwepoorartistshavetoshowourselvesin
المجتمع
societyfromtimetotime,فقط
justtoremindthepublicthatwearenotsavages.مع
Withaneveningcoatandaبيضاء
whitetie,asyoutoldmeمرة
once,anybody,evenastock-broker,يمكن
cangainareputationforbeingcivilized.Well,
بعد
afterIhadbeenintheالغرفة
roomabouttenminutes,talkingtoالضخمة
hugeoverdresseddowagersandtediousacademicians,Iفجأة
suddenlybecameconsciousthatsomeonewaslookingatme.Iturned
منتصف الطريق
half-wayroundandsawDorianغراي
Grayforthefirsttime.عندما
Whenoureyesmet,IfeltthatIwasgrowingشاحبة
pale.Acurioussensationof
الرعب
terrorcameoverme.IknewthatIhadcomefacetofacewithsomeonewhosemere
شخصيته
personalitywassofascinatingthat,إذا
ifIallowedittodoso,itwouldabsorbmywholenature,mywholeروحي
soul,myveryartitself.Ididnot
أريد
wantanyexternalinfluenceinmyحياتي
life.Youknowyourself,Harry,
كم
howindependentIambynature.Ihavealwaysbeenmyownmaster;
hadat
الأقل
leastalwaysbeenso,tillImetDorianجراي
Gray.Then—butIdon’tknow
كيف
howtoexplainittoyou.SomethingseemedtotellmethatIwasonthe
وشك
vergeofaterriblecrisisinmyحياتي
life.Ihadastrangefeelingthat
القدر
fatehadinstoreformeرائعة
exquisitejoysandexquisitesorrows.Igrew
خائفة
afraidandturnedtoquittheالغرفة
room.Itwasnotconsciencethatmademe
أفعل
doso:itwasasortof
الجبن
cowardice.Itakenocredittomyselffortryingtoescape.”
“Conscienceandcowardiceare
الحقيقة
reallythesamethings,Basil.الضمير
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;
sheisa
طاووس
peacockineverythingbutbeauty,”saidاللورد
LordHenry,pullingthedaisytobitswithhislongnervousfingers.“Icouldnotgetridofher.
Shebroughtmeuptoroyalties,andpeoplewithstarsandgarters,andelderlyladieswithgigantictiarasandparrotnoses.
Shespokeofmeasherdearestfriend.
Ihad
فقط
onlymetheroncebefore,لكنها
butshetookitintoherheadtolionizeme.Ibelieve
بعض
somepictureofminehadmadeعلى
agreatsuccessattheالوقت
time,atleasthadbeenchatteredaboutinthepennynewspapers,whichisthenineteenth-centuryمعيار
standardofimmortality.SuddenlyIfoundmyselffacetoface
مع
withtheyoungmanwhoseشخصيته
personalityhadsostrangelystirredme.