THEPREFACE
Theartististhecreatorofbeautifulthings.
Toreveal
kunst
artandconcealtheartistisart’saim.Thecriticishewhocantranslateintoanothermanneroranewmaterialhisimpressionofbeautifulthings.
Thehighestasthelowest
form
formofcriticismisamodeofautobiography.Thosewhofind
grimme
uglymeaningsinbeautifulthingsarecorruptwithoutbeingcharming.Thisisa
fejl
fault.Thosewhofindbeautifulmeaningsinbeautifulthingsarethecultivated.
Forthesethereishope.
Theyaretheelecttowhombeautifulthingsmeanonly
skønhed
beauty.Thereisnosuchthingasamoraloranimmoralbook.
Booksarewellwritten,orbadlywritten.
Thatisall.
ThenineteenthcenturydislikeofrealismistherageofCalibanseeinghisownfaceinaglass.
ThenineteenthcenturydislikeofromanticismistherageofCalibannotseeinghisownfaceinaglass.
Themorallifeofmanformspartofthesubject-matteroftheartist,butthemoralityofartconsistsintheperfectuseofanimperfectmedium.
Noartistdesiresto
bevise
proveanything.Eventhingsthataretruecanbeproved.
Noartisthasethicalsympathies.
Anethicalsympathyinanartistisanunpardonablemannerismofstyle.
Noartistisevermorbid.
Theartistcanexpresseverything.
Thoughtandlanguagearetotheartistinstrumentsofanart.
Viceandvirtuearetotheartistmaterialsforan
kunst
art.Fromthepointofviewofform,the
typen
typeofalltheartsisthekunst
artofthemusician.Fromthepointofviewoffeeling,theactor’scraftisthe
typen
type.Allartisatoncesurfaceandsymbol.
Thosewhogobeneaththesurfacedosoattheirperil.
Thosewhoreadthesymboldosoattheirperil.
Itisthespectator,andnotlife,thatartreallymirrors.
Diversityofopinionaboutaworkofartshowsthattheworkisnew,complex,andvital.
Whencriticsdisagree,theartistisinaccordwithhimself.
Wecan
tilgive
forgiveamanformakingausefulthingaslongashedoesnotadmireit.Theonlyexcuseformakingauselessthingisthatoneadmiresitintensely.
All
kunst
artisquiteuseless.CHAPTERI.
Thestudiowasfilledwiththe
rige
richodourofroses,andwhenthelightsummerwindstirredamidstthetreesofthegarden,therecamethroughtheopendoorthetunge
heavyscentofthelilac,orthemoredelicateperfumeofthepink-floweringthorn.FromthecornerofthedivanofPersiansaddle-bagsonwhichhewaslying,
ryger
smoking,aswashiscustom,innumerablecigarettes,LordHenryWottoncouldjustcatchthegleamofthehoney-sweetandhoney-colouredblossomsofalaburnum,hvis
whosetremulousbranchesseemedhardlyabletobære
beartheburdenofaskønhed
beautysoflamelikeastheirs;andnowandthenthefantasticshadowsofbirdsin
flyvning
flightflittedacrossthelongtussore-silkcurtainsthatwerestretchedinfrontofthestore
hugewindow,producingakindofmomentaryJapaneseeffect,andmakinghimthinkofthosepallid,jade-facedpaintersofTokyowho,throughthemediumofankunst
artthatisnecessarilyimmobile,seektoconveythesenseofswiftnessandmotion.Thesullenmurmurofthebeesshoulderingtheirwaythroughthelongunmowngrass,orcirclingwithmonotonousinsistence
rundt
roundthedustygilthornsofthestragglingwoodbine,seemedtomakethestillnessmoreoppressive.ThedimroarofLondonwaslikethebourdonnoteofadistantorgan.
Inthecentreoftheroom,clampedtoanuprighteasel,stoodthefull-lengthportraitofayoungmanofextraordinary
personlig
personalbeauty,andinfrontofit,somelittledistanceaway,wassittingtheartisthimself,BasilHallward,hvis
whosesuddendisappearancesomeyearsagocaused,atthetime,suchoffentlig
publicexcitementandgaverisetosomanymærkelige
strangeconjectures.Asthepainterlookedatthegraciousandcomely
form
formhehadsoskilfullymirroredinhiskunst
art,asmileofpleasurepasserede
passedacrosshisface,andseemedabouttolingerthere.Buthe
pludselig
suddenlystartedup,andclosinghiseyes,placedhisfingersuponthelids,asthoughhesoughttoimprisonwithinhishjerne
brainsomecuriousdreamfromwhichhefrygtede
fearedhemightawake.“Itisyourbestwork,Basil,thebestthingyouhaveeverdone,”saidLordHenrylanguidly.
“YoumustcertainlysenditnextyeartotheGrosvenor.
TheAcademyistoo
stort
largeandtoovulgar.WheneverIhavegonethere,therehavebeeneithersomanypeoplethatIhavenotbeenabletoseethepictures,whichwasdreadful,orsomanypicturesthatIhavenotbeenabletoseethepeople,whichwas
værre
worse.TheGrosvenorisreallytheonlyplace.”
“Idon’tthinkIshallsenditanywhere,”heanswered,tossinghisheadbackinthatoddwaythatusedtomakehisfriends
grine
laughathimatOxford.“No,Iwon’tsenditanywhere.”
LordHenryelevatedhiseyebrowsandlookedathiminamazementthroughthethin
blå
bluewreathsofsmokethatcurledupinsuchfancifulwhorlsfromhistunge
heavy,opium-taintedcigarette.“Notsenditanywhere?
Mydearfellow,why?
Haveyouanyreason?
Whatoddchapsyoupaintersare!
Youdoanythingintheworldtogainareputation.
Assoonasyouhaveone,youseemtowantto
smide
throwitaway.Itissillyofyou,forthereisonlyonethingintheworld
værre
worsethanbeingtalkedabout,andthatisnotbeingtalkedabout.Aportraitlikethiswouldsetyoufar
over
abovealltheyoungmeninEngland,andmaketheoldmenquitejealous,ifoldmenareevercapableofanyemotion.”“Iknowyouwill
grine
laughatme,”hereplied,“butIreallycan’texhibitit.Ihaveputtoomuchofmyselfintoit.”
LordHenrystretchedhimselfoutonthedivanand
grinede
laughed.“Yes,Iknewyouwould;
butitisquitetrue,allthesame.”
“Toomuchofyourselfinit!
Uponmyword,Basil,Ididn’tknowyouweresovain;
andIreallycan’tseeanyresemblancebetweenyou,withyourruggedstrongfaceandyourcoal-blackhair,andthisyoungAdonis,wholooksasifhewasmadeoutofivoryandrose-leaves.
Why,mydearBasil,heisaNarcissus,andyou—well,ofcourseyouhaveanintellectualexpressionandallthat.
But
skønhed
beauty,realbeauty,endswhereanintellectualexpressionbegynder
begins.Intellectisinitselfamodeofexaggeration,anddestroystheharmonyofanyface.
Themomentonesitsdowntothink,onebecomesall
næsen
nose,orallforehead,orsomethinghorrid.Lookatthesuccessfulmeninanyofthelearnedprofessions.
Howperfectlyhideoustheyare!
Bortset fra
Except,ofcourse,intheChurch.ButthenintheChurchtheydon’tthink.
Abishopkeepsonsayingatthe
alder
ageofeightywhathewastoldtosaywhenhewasaboyofeighteen,andasanaturalconsequencehealwayslookshelt
absolutelydelightful.Yourmysteriousyoungfriend,
hvis
whosenameyouhavenevertoldme,buthvis
whosepicturereallyfascinatesme,neverthinks.Ifeelquitesureofthat.
Heissomebrainlessbeautifulcreaturewhoshouldbealwayshereinwinterwhenwehavenoflowerstolookat,andalwaysherein
om sommeren
summerwhenwewantsomethingtochillourintelligence.Don’tflatteryourself,Basil:
youarenotintheleastlikehim.”
“Youdon’tunderstandme,Harry,”answeredtheartist.
“OfcourseIamnotlikehim.
Iknowthatperfectlywell.
Indeed,Ishouldbesorrytolooklikehim.
Youshrugyourshoulders?
Iamtellingyouthetruth.
Thereisafatalityaboutallphysicalandintellectualdistinction,thesortoffatalitythat
synes
seemstodogthroughhistorythefalteringstepsofkings.Itisbetternottobedifferentfromone’sfellows.
The
grimme
uglyandthestupidhavethebestofitinthisworld.Theycansitattheireaseandgapeattheplay.
Iftheyknownothingofvictory,theyareatleastsparedtheknowledgeofdefeat.
Theyliveasweallshouldlive—undisturbed,indifferent,andwithoutdisquiet.
Theyneitherbringruinuponothers,noreverreceiveitfromalienhands.
Yourrankandwealth,Harry;
mybrains,suchastheyare—my
kunst
art,whateveritmaybeværd
worth;DorianGray’sgoodlooks—weshallallsufferforwhatthegodshavegivenus,sufferterribly.”
“DorianGray?
Isthathisname?”
askedLordHenry,walking
over
acrossthestudiotowardsBasilHallward.“Yes,thatishisname.
Ididn’tintendtotellittoyou.”
“Butwhynot?”
“Oh,Ican’t
forklare
explain.WhenIlikepeopleimmensely,Inevertelltheirnamestoanyone.
Itislikesurrenderingapartofthem.
Ihave
vokset
growntolovesecrecy.It
synes
seemstobetheonethingthatcanmakemodernlifemysteriousormarvelloustous.Thecommonestthingisdelightfulifoneonly
skjuler
hidesit.WhenIleavetownnowInevertellmypeoplewhereIamgoing.
IfIdid,Iwouldloseallmy
fornøjelse
pleasure.Itisasillyhabit,I
vover
daresay,butsomehowitseemstobringagreatdealofromanceintoone’slife.Isupposeyouthinkmeawfullyfoolishaboutit?”
“Notatall,”answeredLordHenry,“notatall,mydearBasil.
You
ser ud
seemtoforgetthatIammarried,andtheonecharmofmarriageisthatitmakesalifeofdeceptionabsolut
absolutelynecessaryforbothparties.Ineverknowwheremywifeis,andmywifeneverknowswhatIamdoing.
Whenwemeet—wedomeetoccasionally,whenwedineouttogether,orgodowntotheDuke’s—wetelleachotherthemostabsurdstorieswiththemostseriousfaces.
Mywifeisverygoodatit—muchbetter,infact,thanIam.
Shenevergetsconfusedoverherdates,andIalwaysdo.
Butwhenshedoesfindmeout,shemakesnorowatall.
Isometimeswishshewould;
butshemerelylaughsatme.”
“Ihatethewayyoutalkaboutyourmarriedlife,Harry,”saidBasilHallward,strollingtowardsthedoorthat
førte
ledintothegarden.“Ibelievethatyouarereallyaverygoodhusband,butthatyouarethoroughlyashamedofyourownvirtues.
Youareanextraordinaryfellow.
Youneversayamoralthing,andyouneverdoawrongthing.
Yourcynicismis
simpelthen
simplyapose.”“Beingnaturalis
blot
simplyapose,andthemostirritatingposeIknow,”criedLordHenry,grinede
laughing;andthetwoyoungmenwentoutintothegardentogetherandensconcedthemselvesonalongbambooseatthatstoodintheshadeofatalllaurelbush.
Thesunlightslippedoverthepolishedleaves.
Inthegrass,whitedaisiesweretremulous.
Afterapause,LordHenry
trak
pulledouthiswatch.“IamafraidImustbegoing,Basil,”hemurmured,“andbeforeIgo,IinsistonyouransweringaquestionIputtoyousometimeago.”
“Whatisthat?”
saidthepainter,keepinghiseyesfixedonthe
jorden
ground.“Youknowquitewell.”
“Idonot,Harry.”
“Well,Iwilltellyouwhatitis.
Iwantyouto
forklare
explaintomewhyyouwon’texhibitDorianGray’sbillede
picture.Iwanttherealreason.”
“Itoldyoutherealreason.”
“No,youdidnot.
Yousaiditwasbecausetherewastoomuchofyourselfinit.
Now,thatischildish.”
“Harry,”saidBasilHallward,lookinghim
direkte
straightintheface,“everyportraitthatispaintedwithfeelingisaportraitoftheartist,notofthesitter.Thesitterismerelytheaccident,theoccasion.
Itisnothewhoisrevealedbythepainter;
itis
snarere
ratherthepainterwho,onthecolouredcanvas,revealshimself.ThereasonIwillnotexhibitthis
billede
pictureisthatIamafraidthatIhaveshowninitthesecretofmyownsoul.”LordHenry
grinede
laughed.“Andwhatisthat?”
heasked.
“Iwilltellyou,”saidHallward;
butanexpressionofperplexitycameoverhisface.
“Iamallexpectation,Basil,”
fortsatte
continuedhiscompanion,glancingathim.“Oh,thereisreallyverylittletotell,Harry,”answeredthepainter;
“andIamafraidyouwillhardlyunderstandit.
Perhapsyouwillhardlybelieveit.”
LordHenry
smilede
smiled,andleaningdown,pluckedapink-petalleddaisyfromthegrassandexaminedit.“IamquitesureIshallunderstandit,”hereplied,gazingintentlyatthelittlegolden,white-feathereddisk,“andasforbelievingthings,Icanbelieveanything,providedthatitisquiteincredible.”
Thewindshooksomeblossomsfromthetrees,andthe
tunge
heavylilac-blooms,withtheirclusteringstars,movedtoandfrointhelanguidair.Agrasshopper
begyndte
begantochirrupbythevæggen
wall,andlikeabluethreadalongthindragon-flyfloatedpastonitsbrowngauzewings.LordHenryfeltasifhecouldhearBasilHallward’sheartbeating,and
undrede
wonderedwhatwascoming.“Thestoryis
simpelthen
simplythis,”saidthepainteraftersometime.“TwomonthsagoIwenttoacrushatLadyBrandon’s.
Youknowwepoorartistshavetoshowourselvesinsocietyfromtimetotime,justtoremindthe
offentligheden
publicthatwearenotsavages.Withaneveningcoatandawhitetie,asyoutoldmeonce,anybody,evenastock-broker,cangainareputationforbeingcivilized.
Well,afterIhadbeenintheroomabouttenminutes,talkingto
store
hugeoverdresseddowagersandtediousacademicians,Ipludselig
suddenlybecameconsciousthatsomeonewaslookingatme.Iturnedhalf-wayroundandsawDorianGrayforthefirsttime.
Whenoureyesmet,IfeltthatIwasgrowingpale.
Acurioussensationofterrorcameoverme.
IknewthatIhadcomefacetofacewithsomeonewhosemerepersonalitywassofascinatingthat,ifI
tillod
allowedittodoso,itwouldabsorbmywholenatur
nature,mywholesoul,myverykunst
artitself.Ididnotwantanyexternalinfluenceinmylife.
Youknowyourself,Harry,howindependentIamby
natur
nature.Ihavealwaysbeenmyownmaster;
hadatleastalwaysbeenso,tillImetDorianGray.
Then—butIdon’tknowhowto
forklare
explainittoyou.SomethingseemedtotellmethatIwasonthevergeofa
forfærdelig
terriblecrisisinmylife.Ihada
mærkelig
strangefeelingthatfatehadinstoreformeexquisitejoysandexquisitesorrows.Igrewafraidandturnedto
forlade
quittheroom.Itwasnotconsciencethatmademedoso:
itwasasortofcowardice.
Itakenocredittomyselffortryingtoescape.”
“Conscienceandcowardicearereallythesamethings,Basil.
Conscienceisthetrade-nameofthefirm.
Thatisall.”
“Idon’tbelievethat,Harry,andIdon’tbelieveyoudoeither.
Men
However,whateverwasmymotive—anditmayhavebeenpride,forIusedtobeveryproud—Icertainlystruggledtothedoor.There,ofcourse,IstumbledagainstLadyBrandon.
‘Youarenotgoingtorunawaysosoon,Mr.Hallward?’shescreamedout.
Youknowhercuriouslyshrillvoice?”
“Yes;
sheisapeacockineverythingbutbeauty,”saidLordHenry,
trak
pullingthedaisytobitswithhislongnervousfingers.“Icouldnotgetridofher.
Shebroughtmeuptoroyalties,andpeoplewithstarsandgarters,andelderlyladieswithgigantictiarasandparrotnoses.
Shespokeofmeasherdearestfriend.
Ihadonlymetheroncebefore,butshetookitintoherheadtolionizeme.
Ibelievesome
billede
pictureofminehadmadeagreatsuccessatthetime,atleasthadbeenchatteredaboutinthepennynewspapers,whichisthenineteenth-centurystandardofimmortality.Pludselig
SuddenlyIfoundmyselffacetofacewiththeyoungmanhvis
whosepersonalityhadsostrangelystirredme.