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The Picture of Dorian Gray | Progressively Translated Dutch A2 Books

The Picture of Dorian Gray | Progressively Translated Dutch A2 Books

This progressive translation technique brings multiple benefits to language learners. It lets you choose the difficulty level that matches your abilities, making sure the material is challenging but not too difficult. By focusing on understanding words in context, this method boosts your comprehension skills. While direct translations are slightly hidden to promote guessing from context, you can always check unfamiliar words. This approach makes learning a new language both engaging and accessible, offering the right mix of difficulty and encouragement. Embark on a journey through translated classics and enjoy the process of learning through reading.

THEPREFACE
Theartististhecreatorofbeautifulthings.
Toreveal
kunst
artandconcealtheartistisart’saim.
Thecriticishewhocantranslateintoanothermanneroranewmaterialhisimpressionofbeautifulthings.
Thehighestasthelowest
vorm
formofcriticismisamodeofautobiography.
Thosewhofinduglymeaningsinbeautifulthingsarecorruptwithoutbeingcharming.
Thisisa
fout
fault.
Thosewhofindbeautifulmeaningsinbeautifulthingsarethecultivated.
Forthesethereishope.
Theyaretheelecttowhombeautifulthingsmeanonly
schoonheid
beauty.
Thereisnosuchthingasamoraloranimmoralbook.
Booksarewellwritten,orbadlywritten.
Thatisall.
ThenineteenthcenturydislikeofrealismistherageofCalibanseeinghisownfaceinaglass.
ThenineteenthcenturydislikeofromanticismistherageofCalibannotseeinghisownfaceinaglass.
Themorallifeofmanformspartofthesubject-matteroftheartist,butthemoralityof
kunst
artconsistsintheperfectuseofanimperfectmedium.
Noartistdesiresto
bewijzen
proveanything.
Eventhingsthataretruecanbe
bewezen
proved.
Noartisthasethicalsympathies.
Anethicalsympathyinanartistisanunpardonablemannerismofstyle.
Noartistisevermorbid.
Theartistcanexpresseverything.
Thoughtand
taal
languagearetotheartistinstrumentsofan
kunst
art.
Viceandvirtuearetotheartistmaterialsforan
kunst
art.
Fromthepointofviewof
vorm
form,thetypeofalltheartsisthe
kunst
artofthemusician.
Fromthepointofviewoffeeling,theactor’scraftisthe
type
type.
Allartisatoncesurfaceandsymbol.
Thosewhogobeneaththesurfacedosoattheirperil.
Thosewhoreadthesymboldosoattheirperil.
Itisthespectator,andnotlife,that
kunst
artreallymirrors.
Diversityofopinionaboutaworkofartshowsthattheworkisnew,complex,andvital.
Whencriticsdisagree,theartistisinaccordwithhimself.
Wecan
vergeven
forgiveamanformakingausefulthingaslongashedoesnotadmireit.
Theonlyexcuseformakingauselessthingisthatoneadmiresitintensely.
All
kunst
artisquiteuseless.
CHAPTERI.
Thestudiowasfilledwiththe
rijke
richodourofroses,andwhenthelightsummerwindstirredamidstthetreesofthegarden,therecamethroughtheopendoorthe
zware
heavyscentofthelilac,orthemoredelicateperfumeofthepink-floweringthorn.
FromthecornerofthedivanofPersiansaddle-bagsonwhichhewaslying,
roken
smoking,aswashiscustom,innumerablecigarettes,LordHenryWottoncouldjustcatchthegleamofthehoney-sweetandhoney-colouredblossomsofalaburnum,
waarvan
whosetremulousbranchesseemedhardlyableto
dragen
beartheburdenofa
schoonheid
beautysoflamelikeastheirs;
andnowandthenthe
fantastische
fantasticshadowsofbirdsinflightflitted
over
acrossthelongtussore-silkcurtainsthatwerestretchedinfrontofthe
enorme
hugewindow,producingakindofmomentaryJapaneseeffect,andmakinghimthinkofthosepallid,jade-facedpaintersofTokyowho,throughthemediumofan
kunst
artthatisnecessarilyimmobile,seektoconveythe
gevoel
senseofswiftnessandmotion.
Thesullenmurmurofthebeesshoulderingtheirwaythroughthelongunmowngrass,orcirclingwithmonotonousinsistence
rond
roundthedustygilthornsofthestragglingwoodbine,
leek
seemedtomakethestillnessmoreoppressive.
ThedimroarofLondonwaslikethebourdonnoteofadistantorgan.
Inthecentreoftheroom,clampedtoanuprighteasel,stoodthefull-lengthportraitofayoungmanofextraordinary
persoonlijke
personalbeauty,andinfrontofit,somelittledistanceaway,wassittingtheartisthimself,BasilHallward,
wiens
whosesuddendisappearancesomeyearsagocaused,atthetime,such
publieke
publicexcitementandgaverisetosomanystrangeconjectures.
Asthepainterlookedatthegraciousandcomely
vorm
formhehadsoskilfullymirroredinhis
kunst
art,asmileofpleasurepassedacrosshisface,and
leek
seemedabouttolingerthere.
Buthe
plotseling
suddenlystartedup,andclosinghiseyes,placedhisfingersuponthelids,asthoughhesoughttoimprisonwithinhis
hersenen
brainsomecuriousdreamfromwhichhe
vreesde
fearedhemightawake.
“Itisyourbestwork,Basil,thebestthingyouhaveeverdone,”saidLordHenrylanguidly.
“Youmust
zeker
certainlysenditnextyeartotheGrosvenor.
TheAcademyistoo
groot
largeandtoovulgar.
WheneverIhavegonethere,therehavebeeneithersomanypeoplethatIhavenotbeenabletoseethepictures,whichwasdreadful,orsomanypicturesthatIhavenotbeenabletoseethepeople,whichwas
erger
worse.
TheGrosvenorisreallytheonlyplace.”
“Idon’tthinkIshallsenditanywhere,”heanswered,tossinghisheadbackinthatoddwaythatusedtomakehisfriends
lachen
laughathimatOxford.
“No,Iwon’tsenditanywhere.”
LordHenryelevatedhiseyebrowsandlookedathiminamazementthroughthethin
blauwe
bluewreathsofsmokethatcurledupinsuchfancifulwhorlsfromhis
zware
heavy,opium-taintedcigarette.
“Notsendit
nergens
anywhere?
Mydearfellow,why?
Haveyouanyreason?
Whatoddchapsyoupaintersare!
Youdoanythingintheworldtogainareputation.
Assoonasyouhaveone,youseemtowanttothrowitaway.
Itissillyofyou,forthereisonlyonethingintheworld
erger
worsethanbeingtalkedabout,andthatisnotbeingtalkedabout.
Aportraitlikethiswouldsetyoufar
boven
abovealltheyoungmeninEngland,andmaketheoldmenquitejealous,ifoldmenareevercapableofanyemotion.”
“Iknowyouwilllaughatme,”hereplied,“butIreallycan’texhibitit.
Ihaveputtoomuchofmyselfintoit.”
LordHenrystretchedhimselfoutonthedivanand
lachte
laughed.
“Yes,Iknewyouwould;
butitisquitetrue,allthesame.”
“Toomuchofyourselfinit!
Uponmyword,Basil,Ididn’tknowyouweresovain;
andIreallycan’tseeanyresemblancebetweenyou,withyourrugged
sterke
strongfaceandyourcoal-blackhair,andthisyoungAdonis,wholooksasifhewasmadeoutofivoryandrose-leaves.
Why,mydearBasil,heisaNarcissus,andyou—well,ofcourseyouhaveanintellectualexpressionandallthat.
But
schoonheid
beauty,realbeauty,endswhereanintellectualexpression
begint
begins.
Intellectisinitselfamodeofexaggeration,anddestroystheharmonyofanyface.
Themomentonesitsdowntothink,onebecomesall
neus
nose,orallforehead,orsomethinghorrid.
Lookatthesuccessfulmeninanyofthelearnedprofessions.
Howperfectlyhideoustheyare!
Behalve
Except,ofcourse,inthe
Kerk
Church.
Buttheninthe
Kerk
Churchtheydon’tthink.
Abishopkeepsonsayingatthe
leeftijd
ageofeightywhathewastoldtosaywhenhewasaboyofeighteen,andasanaturalconsequencehealwayslooks
absoluut
absolutelydelightful.
Yourmysteriousyoungfriend,
wiens
whosenameyouhavenevertoldme,but
wiens
whosepicturereallyfascinatesme,neverthinks.
Ifeelquitesureofthat.
Heissomebrainlessbeautifulcreaturewhoshouldbealwayshereinwinterwhenwehavenoflowerstolookat,andalwaysherein
zomer
summerwhenwewantsomethingtochillourintelligence.
Don’tflatteryourself,Basil:
youarenotintheleastlikehim.”
“Youdon’tunderstandme,Harry,”answeredtheartist.
“OfcourseIamnotlikehim.
Iknowthatperfectlywell.
Indeed,Ishouldbesorrytolooklikehim.
Youshrugyourshoulders?
Iamtellingyouthetruth.
Thereisafatalityaboutallphysicalandintellectualdistinction,thesortoffatalitythat
lijkt
seemstodogthroughhistorythefalteringstepsofkings.
Itisbetternottobedifferentfromone’sfellows.
Theuglyandthestupidhavethebestofitinthisworld.
Theycansitattheireaseandgapeattheplay.
Iftheyknownothingofvictory,theyareatleastsparedtheknowledgeofdefeat.
Theyliveasweallshouldlive—undisturbed,indifferent,andwithoutdisquiet.
Theyneitherbringruinuponothers,noreverreceiveitfromalienhands.
Yourrankandwealth,Harry;
mybrains,suchastheyare—my
kunst
art,whateveritmaybe
waard
worth;
DorianGray’sgoodlooks—weshallallsufferforwhatthegodshavegivenus,sufferterribly.”
“DorianGray?
Isthathisname?”
askedLordHenry,walking
over
acrossthestudiotowardsBasilHallward.
“Yes,thatishisname.
Ididn’tintendtotellittoyou.”
“Butwhynot?”
“Oh,Ican’t
uitleggen
explain.
WhenIlikepeopleimmensely,Inevertelltheirnamestoanyone.
Itislikesurrenderingapartofthem.
Ihavegrowntolovesecrecy.
It
lijkt
seemstobetheonethingthatcanmakemodernlifemysteriousormarvelloustous.
Thecommonestthingisdelightfulifoneonly
verbergt
hidesit.
WhenIleavetownnowInevertellmypeoplewhereIamgoing.
IfIdid,Iwouldloseallmy
plezier
pleasure.
Itisasillyhabit,I
durf
daresay,butsomehowit
lijkt
seemstobringagreatdealofromanceintoone’slife.
I
veronderstel
supposeyouthinkmeawfullyfoolishaboutit?”
“Notatall,”answeredLordHenry,“notatall,mydearBasil.
You
lijkt
seemtoforgetthatIammarried,andtheonecharmof
huwelijk
marriageisthatitmakesalifeofdeception
absoluut
absolutelynecessaryforbothparties.
Ineverknowwheremywifeis,andmywifeneverknowswhatIamdoing.
Whenwemeet—wedomeetoccasionally,whenwedineouttogether,orgodowntotheDuke’s—wetelleachotherthemostabsurdstorieswiththemostseriousfaces.
Mywifeisverygoodatit—muchbetter,infact,thanIam.
Shenevergetsconfusedoverherdates,andIalwaysdo.
Butwhenshedoesfindmeout,shemakesnorowatall.
Isometimeswishshewould;
butshemerelylaughsatme.”
“Ihatethewayyoutalkaboutyourmarriedlife,Harry,”saidBasilHallward,strollingtowardsthedoorthat
leidde
ledintothegarden.
“Ibelievethatyouarereallyaverygoodhusband,butthatyouarethoroughlyashamedofyourownvirtues.
Youareanextraordinaryfellow.
Youneversayamoralthing,andyouneverdoawrongthing.
Yourcynicismis
gewoon
simplyapose.”
“Beingnaturalis
gewoon
simplyapose,andthemostirritatingposeIknow,”criedLordHenry,
lachend
laughing;
andthetwoyoungmenwentoutintothegardentogetherandensconcedthemselvesonalongbamboo
stoel
seatthatstoodintheshadeofatalllaurelbush.
Thesunlightslippedoverthepolishedleaves.
Inthegrass,whitedaisiesweretremulous.
Afterapause,LordHenry
trok
pulledouthiswatch.
“IamafraidImustbegoing,Basil,”hemurmured,“andbeforeIgo,IinsistonyouransweringaquestionIputtoyousometimeago.”
“Whatisthat?”
saidthepainter,keepinghiseyesfixedontheground.
“Youknowquitewell.”
“Idonot,Harry.”
“Well,Iwilltellyouwhatitis.
Iwantyoutoexplaintomewhyyouwon’texhibitDorianGray’spicture.
Iwanttherealreason.”
“Itoldyoutherealreason.”
“No,youdidnot.
Yousaiditwasbecausetherewastoomuchofyourselfinit.
Now,thatischildish.”
“Harry,”saidBasilHallward,lookinghimstraightintheface,“everyportraitthatispaintedwithfeelingisaportraitoftheartist,notofthesitter.
Thesitterismerelythe
ongeluk
accident,theoccasion.
Itisnothewhoisrevealedbythepainter;
itisratherthepainterwho,onthecolouredcanvas,revealshimself.
ThereasonIwillnotexhibitthispictureisthatIamafraidthatIhaveshowninitthe
geheim
secretofmyownsoul.”
LordHenry
lachte
laughed.
“Andwhatisthat?”
heasked.
“Iwilltellyou,”saidHallward;
butanexpressionofperplexitycameoverhisface.
“Iamallexpectation,Basil,”continuedhiscompanion,glancingathim.
“Oh,thereisreallyverylittletotell,Harry,”answeredthepainter;
“andIamafraidyouwillhardlyunderstandit.
Perhapsyouwillhardlybelieveit.”
LordHenry
glimlachte
smiled,andleaningdown,pluckedapink-petalleddaisyfromthegrassandexaminedit.
“IamquitesureIshallunderstandit,”hereplied,gazingintentlyatthelittlegolden,white-feathereddisk,“andasforbelievingthings,Icanbelieveanything,providedthatitisquiteincredible.”
The
wind
windshooksomeblossomsfromthetrees,andthe
zware
heavylilac-blooms,withtheirclusteringstars,movedtoandfrointhelanguidair.
Agrasshopper
begon
begantochirrupbythe
muur
wall,andlikeabluethreadalongthindragon-flyfloatedpastonitsbrowngauzewings.
LordHenryfeltasifhecouldhearBasilHallward’sheartbeating,andwonderedwhatwascoming.
“Thestoryis
simpelweg
simplythis,”saidthepainteraftersometime.
“TwomonthsagoIwenttoacrushatLadyBrandon’s.
Youknowwepoorartistshavetoshowourselvesinsocietyfromtimetotime,justtoremindthe
publiek
publicthatwearenotsavages.
Withaneveningcoatandawhitetie,asyoutoldmeonce,anybody,evenastock-broker,cangainareputationforbeingcivilized.
Well,afterIhadbeenintheroomabouttenminutes,talkingto
enorme
hugeoverdresseddowagersandtediousacademicians,I
plotseling
suddenlybecameconsciousthatsomeonewaslookingatme.
Iturnedhalf-wayroundandsawDorianGrayforthefirsttime.
Whenoureyesmet,IfeltthatIwasgrowingpale.
Acurioussensationofterrorcameoverme.
IknewthatIhadcomefacetofacewithsomeone
wiens
whosemerepersonalitywassofascinatingthat,ifIallowedittodoso,itwouldabsorbmywhole
natuur
nature,mywholesoul,myvery
kunst
artitself.
Ididnotwantanyexternalinfluenceinmylife.
Youknowyourself,Harry,howindependentIambynature.
Ihavealwaysbeenmyownmaster;
hadatleastalwaysbeenso,tillImetDorianGray.
Then—butIdon’tknowhowto
uitleggen
explainittoyou.
Something
leek
seemedtotellmethatIwasonthevergeofa
verschrikkelijke
terriblecrisisinmylife.
Ihadastrangefeelingthatfatehadinstoreformeexquisitejoysandexquisitesorrows.
Igrewafraidandturnedtoquittheroom.
Itwasnotconsciencethatmademedoso:
itwasasortofcowardice.
Itakenocredittomyselffortryingtoescape.”
“Conscienceandcowardicearereallythesamethings,Basil.
Conscienceisthetrade-nameofthefirm.
Thatisall.”
“Idon’tbelievethat,Harry,andIdon’tbelieveyoudoeither.
Maar
However,whateverwasmymotive—anditmayhavebeenpride,forIusedtobeveryproud—I
zeker
certainlystruggledtothedoor.
There,ofcourse,IstumbledagainstLadyBrandon.
‘Youarenotgoingtorunawaysosoon,Mr.Hallward?’shescreamedout.
Youknowhercuriouslyshrillvoice?”
“Yes;
sheisapeacockineverythingbutbeauty,”saidLordHenry,
trok
pullingthedaisytobitswithhislongnervousfingers.
“Icouldnotgetridofher.
Shebroughtmeuptoroyalties,andpeoplewithstarsandgarters,andelderlyladieswithgigantictiarasandparrotnoses.
Shespokeofmeasherdearestfriend.
Ihadonlymetheroncebefore,butshetookitintoherheadtolionizeme.
Ibelievesome
foto
pictureofminehadmadeagreatsuccessatthetime,atleasthadbeenchatteredaboutinthepennynewspapers,whichisthenineteenth-centurystandardofimmortality.
Plotseling
SuddenlyIfoundmyselffacetofacewiththeyoungman
wiens
whosepersonalityhadsostrangelystirredme.