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The Picture of Dorian Gray | Progressive Dutch B1 Translation Books

The Picture of Dorian Gray | Progressive Dutch B1 Translation Books

Unlock the potential of this modern translation approach, designed to enhance your language learning experience. By allowing you to choose your difficulty level, it guarantees a personalized challenge that's suited to your progress. This method promotes comprehension by encouraging you to infer the meaning of new words from context, rather than relying heavily on direct translations. Though some translations are obscured to stimulate guessing, it's perfectly fine to consult a dictionary when needed. This technique combines challenge and support, making language learning fun and effective. Explore these translated classics to enjoy literature while advancing your language skills.

THEPREFACE
Theartististhecreatorofbeautifulthings.
Torevealartandconcealthe
kunstenaar
artistisart’saim.
Thecriticishewhocantranslateintoanothermanneroranew
materiaal
materialhisimpressionofbeautifulthings.
Thehighestasthelowestformofcriticismisamodeofautobiography.
Thosewhofinduglymeaningsinbeautifulthingsarecorruptwithoutbeing
charmant
charming.
Thisisafault.
Thosewhofindbeautifulmeaningsinbeautifulthingsarethecultivated.
Forthesethereishope.
Theyaretheelecttowhombeautifulthingsmeanonlybeauty.
Thereisnosuchthingasamoraloranimmoralbook.
Booksarewellwritten,or
slecht
badlywritten.
Thatisall.
ThenineteenthcenturydislikeofrealismistherageofCalibanseeinghisownfaceinaglass.
ThenineteenthcenturydislikeofromanticismistherageofCalibannotseeinghisownfaceinaglass.
Themorallifeofmanformspartofthesubject-matterofthe
kunstenaar
artist,butthemoralityofartconsistsintheperfectuseofanimperfectmedium.
No
kunstenaar
artistdesirestoproveanything.
Eventhingsthataretruecanbeproved.
No
kunstenaar
artisthasethicalsympathies.
Anethicalsympathyinan
kunstenaar
artistisanunpardonablemannerismof
stijl
style.
Noartistisevermorbid.
The
kunstenaar
artistcanexpresseverything.
Thoughtandlanguagearetothe
kunstenaar
artistinstrumentsofanart.
Ondeugd
Viceandvirtuearetothe
kunstenaar
artistmaterialsforanart.
Fromthepointofviewofform,thetypeofalltheartsistheartofthemusician.
Fromthepointofviewoffeeling,theactor’scraftisthetype.
Allartisatonce
oppervlak
surfaceandsymbol.
Thosewhogobeneaththe
oppervlakte
surfacedosoattheirperil.
Thosewhoreadthesymboldosoattheirperil.
Itisthespectator,andnotlife,thatartreallymirrors.
Diversityofopinionaboutaworkofartshowsthattheworkisnew,complex,andvital.
Whencriticsdisagree,the
kunstenaar
artistisinaccordwithhimself.
Wecanforgiveamanformakingausefulthingaslongashedoesnotadmireit.
Theonlyexcuseformakinga
nutteloos
uselessthingisthatoneadmiresitintensely.
Allartisquite
nutteloos
useless.
CHAPTERI.
Thestudiowas
gevuld
filledwiththerichodourofroses,andwhenthelightsummerwindstirredamidstthetreesofthe
tuin
garden,therecamethroughtheopendoortheheavyscentofthelilac,orthemoredelicateperfumeofthepink-floweringthorn.
Fromthe
hoek
cornerofthedivanofPersiansaddle-bagsonwhichhewaslying,smoking,aswashiscustom,innumerablecigarettes,LordHenryWottoncouldjustcatchthegleamofthehoney-sweetandhoney-colouredblossomsofalaburnum,whosetremulousbranchesseemed
nauwelijks
hardlyabletobeartheburdenofabeautysoflamelikeastheirs;
andnowandthenthefantasticshadowsofbirdsinflightflittedacrossthelongtussore-silkcurtainsthatwerestretchedinfrontofthehugewindow,producingakindofmomentaryJapanese
effect
effect,andmakinghimthinkofthosepallid,jade-facedpaintersofTokyowho,throughthemediumofanartthatisnecessarilyimmobile,
proberen
seektoconveythesenseofswiftnessandmotion.
Thesullenmurmurofthebeesshoulderingtheirwaythroughthelongunmown
gras
grass,orcirclingwithmonotonousinsistenceroundthedustygilthornsofthestragglingwoodbine,seemedtomakethestillnessmoreoppressive.
ThedimroarofLondonwaslikethebourdon
noot
noteofadistantorgan.
Inthecentreoftheroom,clampedtoanuprighteasel,stoodthefull-lengthportraitofayoungmanof
buitengewone
extraordinarypersonalbeauty,andinfrontofit,somelittledistanceaway,wassittingthe
kunstenaar
artisthimself,BasilHallward,whose
plotselinge
suddendisappearancesomeyearsagocaused,atthetime,suchpublicexcitementandgaverisetosomanystrangeconjectures.
Asthepainterlookedatthegraciousandcomelyformhehadsoskilfullymirroredinhisart,asmileofpleasurepassedacrosshisface,andseemedabouttolingerthere.
Buthesuddenlystartedup,andclosinghiseyes,placedhisfingersuponthelids,asthoughhe
probeerde
soughttoimprisonwithinhisbrainsomecuriousdreamfromwhichhefearedhemight
ontwaken
awake.
“Itisyourbestwork,Basil,thebestthingyouhaveeverdone,”saidLordHenrylanguidly.
“YoumustcertainlysenditnextyeartotheGrosvenor.
TheAcademyistoolargeandtoovulgar.
WheneverIhavegonethere,therehavebeeneithersomanypeoplethatIhavenotbeenabletoseethepictures,whichwasdreadful,orsomanypicturesthatIhavenotbeenabletoseethepeople,whichwasworse.
TheGrosvenorisreallytheonlyplace.”
“Idon’tthinkIshallsenditanywhere,”heanswered,tossinghisheadbackinthatoddwaythatusedtomakehisfriendslaughathimatOxford.
“No,Iwon’tsenditanywhere.”
LordHenryelevatedhiseyebrowsandlookedathiminamazementthroughthe
dunne
thinbluewreathsofsmokethatcurledupinsuchfancifulwhorlsfromhisheavy,opium-tainted
sigaret
cigarette.
“Notsenditanywhere?
Mydearfellow,why?
Haveyouanyreason?
What
vreemd
oddchapsyoupaintersare!
Youdoanythingintheworldtogaina
reputatie
reputation.
Assoonasyouhaveone,youseemtowanttothrowitaway.
Itissillyofyou,forthereisonlyonethingintheworldworsethanbeingtalkedabout,andthatisnotbeingtalkedabout.
AportraitlikethiswouldsetyoufarabovealltheyoungmeninEngland,andmaketheoldmenquite
jaloers
jealous,ifoldmenareever
in staat
capableofanyemotion.”
“Iknowyouwilllaughatme,”hereplied,“butIreallycan’texhibitit.
Ihaveputtoomuchofmyselfintoit.”
LordHenrystretchedhimselfoutonthedivanandlaughed.
“Yes,Iknewyouwould;
butitisquitetrue,allthesame.”
“Toomuchofyourselfinit!
Uponmyword,Basil,Ididn’tknowyouweresovain;
andIreallycan’tseeanyresemblancebetweenyou,withyourruggedstrongfaceandyourcoal-blackhair,andthisyoungAdonis,wholooksasifhewasmadeoutofivoryandrose-leaves.
Why,mydearBasil,heisaNarcissus,andyou—well,ofcourseyouhaveanintellectualexpressionandallthat.
Butbeauty,realbeauty,endswhereanintellectualexpressionbegins.
Intellectisinitselfamodeofexaggeration,and
vernietigt
destroystheharmonyofanyface.
Themomentonesitsdowntothink,onebecomesallnose,orallforehead,orsomethinghorrid.
Lookatthe
succesvolle
successfulmeninanyofthelearnedprofessions.
Howperfectlyhideoustheyare!
Except,ofcourse,intheChurch.
ButthenintheChurchtheydon’tthink.
Abishopkeepsonsayingattheageofeightywhathewastoldtosaywhenhewasaboyofeighteen,andasanaturalconsequencehealwayslooksabsolutelydelightful.
Yourmysteriousyoungfriend,whosenameyouhavenevertoldme,butwhosepicturereallyfascinatesme,neverthinks.
Ifeelquitesureofthat.
Heissomebrainlessbeautiful
wezen
creaturewhoshouldbealwaysherein
winter
winterwhenwehavenoflowerstolookat,andalwayshereinsummerwhenwewantsomethingto
koelen
chillourintelligence.
Don’tflatteryourself,Basil:
youarenotintheleastlikehim.”
“Youdon’tunderstandme,Harry,”answeredthe
kunstenaar
artist.
“OfcourseIamnotlikehim.
Iknowthatperfectlywell.
Inderdaad
Indeed,Ishouldbesorrytolooklikehim.
Youshrugyourshoulders?
Iamtellingyouthetruth.
Thereisafatalityaboutall
fysieke
physicalandintellectualdistinction,thesortoffatalitythatseemstodogthroughhistorythefalteringstepsofkings.
Itisbetternottobedifferentfromone’sfellows.
Theuglyandthestupidhavethebestofitinthisworld.
Theycansitattheireaseandgapeattheplay.
Iftheyknownothingof
overwinning
victory,theyareatleast
gespaard
sparedtheknowledgeofdefeat.
Theyliveasweallshouldlive—undisturbed,indifferent,andwithoutdisquiet.
Theyneitherbringruinuponothers,norever
ontvangen
receiveitfromalienhands.
Yourrankandwealth,Harry;
mybrains,suchastheyare—myart,whateveritmaybeworth;
DorianGray’sgoodlooks—weshallall
lijden
sufferforwhatthegodshavegivenus,
lijden
sufferterribly.”
“DorianGray?
Isthathisname?”
askedLordHenry,walkingacrossthe
studio
studiotowardsBasilHallward.
“Yes,thatishisname.
Ididn’tintendtotellittoyou.”
“Butwhynot?”
“Oh,Ican’texplain.
WhenIlikepeopleimmensely,Inevertelltheirnamestoanyone.
Itislikesurrenderingapartofthem.
Ihavegrowntolovesecrecy.
Itseemstobetheonethingthatcanmake
moderne
modernlifemysteriousormarvelloustous.
Thecommonestthingisdelightfulifoneonlyhidesit.
WhenIleavetownnowInevertellmypeoplewhereIamgoing.
IfIdid,Iwouldloseallmypleasure.
Itisasillyhabit,Idaresay,butsomehowitseemstobringagreatdealofromanceintoone’slife.
Isupposeyouthinkmeawfullyfoolishaboutit?”
“Notatall,”answeredLordHenry,“notatall,mydearBasil.
YouseemtoforgetthatIammarried,andtheonecharmofmarriageisthatitmakesalifeofdeceptionabsolutelynecessaryforbothparties.
Ineverknowwheremywifeis,andmywifeneverknowswhatIamdoing.
Whenwemeet—wedomeetoccasionally,whenwedineouttogether,orgodowntotheDuke’s—wetelleachotherthemostabsurdstorieswiththemostseriousfaces.
Mywifeisverygoodatit—muchbetter,infact,thanIam.
Shenevergets
war
confusedoverherdates,andIalwaysdo.
Butwhenshedoesfindmeout,shemakesnorowatall.
Isometimeswishshewould;
butshemerelylaughsatme.”
“Ihatethewayyoutalkaboutyourmarriedlife,Harry,”saidBasilHallward,strolling
naar
towardsthedoorthatledintothe
tuin
garden.
“Ibelievethatyouarereallyaverygoodhusband,butthatyouarethoroughlyashamedofyourownvirtues.
Youarean
buitengewone
extraordinaryfellow.
Youneversayamoralthing,andyouneverdoawrongthing.
Yourcynicismissimplyapose.”
“Beingnaturalissimplyapose,andthemostirritatingposeIknow,”criedLordHenry,laughing;
andthetwoyoungmenwentoutintothe
tuin
gardentogetherandensconcedthemselvesonalongbambooseatthatstoodintheshadeofa
hoge
talllaurelbush.
Thesunlight
gleed
slippedoverthepolishedleaves.
Inthe
gras
grass,whitedaisiesweretremulous.
Afterapause,LordHenrypulledouthiswatch.
“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,“everyportraitthatis
geschilderd
paintedwithfeelingisaportraitofthe
kunstenaar
artist,notofthesitter.
Thesitterismerelytheaccident,theoccasion.
Itisnothewhoisrevealedbythepainter;
itisratherthepainterwho,onthecolouredcanvas,revealshimself.
ThereasonIwillnotexhibitthispictureisthatIamafraidthatIhave
getoond
showninitthesecretofmyownsoul.”
LordHenrylaughed.
“Andwhatisthat?”
heasked.
“Iwilltellyou,”saidHallward;
butanexpressionofperplexitycameoverhisface.
“Iamallexpectation,Basil,”continuedhiscompanion,glancingathim.
“Oh,thereisreallyverylittletotell,Harry,”answeredthepainter;
“andIamafraidyouwill
nauwelijks
hardlyunderstandit.
Perhapsyouwill
nauwelijks
hardlybelieveit.”
LordHenrysmiled,andleaningdown,pluckedapink-petalleddaisyfromthe
gras
grassandexaminedit.
“IamquitesureIshallunderstandit,”hereplied,gazingintentlyatthelittle
gouden
golden,white-feathereddisk,“andasforbelievingthings,Icanbelieveanything,providedthatitisquiteincredible.”
Thewindshooksomeblossomsfromthetrees,andtheheavylilac-blooms,withtheirclusteringstars,movedtoandfrointhelanguidair.
Agrasshopperbegantochirrupbythewall,andlikeabluethreadalong
dunne
thindragon-flyfloatedpastonits
bruine
browngauzewings.
LordHenryfeltasifhecouldhearBasilHallward’sheartbeating,andwonderedwhatwascoming.
“Thestoryissimplythis,”saidthepainteraftersometime.
“TwomonthsagoIwenttoacrushatLadyBrandon’s.
Youknowwepoorartistshavetoshowourselvesin
samenleving
societyfromtimetotime,justto
herinneren
remindthepublicthatwearenotsavages.
Withaneveningcoatandawhite
stropdas
tie,asyoutoldmeonce,anybody,evenastock-broker,cangaina
reputatie
reputationforbeingcivilized.
Well,afterIhadbeenintheroomabouttenminutes,talkingtohugeoverdresseddowagersandtediousacademicians,Isuddenlybecameconsciousthatsomeonewaslookingatme.
Iturnedhalf-wayroundandsawDorianGrayforthefirsttime.
Whenoureyesmet,IfeltthatIwasgrowingpale.
Acurioussensationofterrorcameoverme.
IknewthatIhadcomefacetofacewithsomeonewhosemerepersonalitywassofascinatingthat,ifIallowedittodoso,itwouldabsorbmywholenature,mywholesoul,myveryartitself.
Ididnotwantanyexternalinfluenceinmylife.
Youknowyourself,Harry,howindependentIambynature.
Ihavealwaysbeenmyownmaster;
hadatleastalwaysbeenso,tillImetDorianGray.
Then—butIdon’tknowhowtoexplainittoyou.
SomethingseemedtotellmethatIwasonthevergeofaterrible
crisis
crisisinmylife.
Ihadastrangefeelingthat
lot
fatehadinstoreformeexquisitejoysandexquisitesorrows.
Igrewafraidandturnedtoquittheroom.
Itwasnotconsciencethatmademedoso:
itwasasortofcowardice.
Itakenocredittomyselffortryingtoescape.”
“Conscienceandcowardicearereallythesamethings,Basil.
Conscienceisthetrade-nameofthe
bedrijf
firm.
Thatisall.”
“Idon’tbelievethat,Harry,andIdon’tbelieveyoudoeither.
However,whateverwasmymotive—anditmayhavebeen
trots
pride,forIusedtobeveryproud—Icertainly
worstelde
struggledtothedoor.
There,ofcourse,IstumbledagainstLadyBrandon.
‘Youarenotgoingtorunawaysosoon,Mr.Hallward?’she
schreeuwde
screamedout.
Youknowhercuriouslyshrillvoice?”
“Yes;
sheisapeacockineverythingbutbeauty,”saidLordHenry,pullingthedaisytobitswithhislongnervousfingers.
“Icouldnotgetridofher.
Shebroughtmeuptoroyalties,andpeoplewithstarsandgarters,andelderlyladieswithgigantictiarasandparrotnoses.
Shespokeofmeasherdearestfriend.
Ihadonlymetheroncebefore,butshetookitintoherheadtolionizeme.
Ibelievesomepictureofminehadmadeagreat
succes
successatthetime,atleasthadbeenchatteredaboutinthepennynewspapers,whichisthenineteenth-centurystandardofimmortality.
SuddenlyIfoundmyselffacetofacewiththeyoungmanwhosepersonalityhadsostrangelystirredme.