THEPREFACE
Theartististhe
schepper
creatorofbeautifulthings.To
onthullen
revealartandconcealtheartistisart’saim.The
criticus
criticishewhocanvertalen
translateintoanothermanneroranewmaterialhisindruk
impressionofbeautifulthings.Thehighestasthe
laagste
lowestformofcriticismisamodeofautobiography.Thosewhofinduglymeaningsinbeautifulthingsare
corrupt
corruptwithoutbeingcharming.Thisisafault.
Thosewhofindbeautifulmeaningsinbeautifulthingsarethecultivated.
Forthesethereishope.
Theyarethe
uitverkorenen
electtowhombeautifulthingsmeanonlybeauty.Thereisnosuchthingasa
moreel
moraloranimmoralbook.Booksarewellwritten,orbadlywritten.
Thatisall.
Thenineteenthcentury
afkeer
dislikeofrealismisthewoede
rageofCalibanseeinghisownfaceinaglass.Thenineteenthcentury
afkeer
dislikeofromanticismisthewoede
rageofCalibannotseeinghisownfaceinaglass.The
morele
morallifeofmanformspartofthesubject-matteroftheartist,butthemoraliteit
moralityofartconsistsintheperfectuseofanonvolmaakt
imperfectmedium.Noartistdesirestoproveanything.
Eventhingsthataretruecanbeproved.
Noartisthas
ethische
ethicalsympathies.Anethicalsympathyinanartistisanunpardonablemannerismofstyle.
Noartistisever
ziekelijk
morbid.Theartistcanexpresseverything.
Thoughtandlanguagearetotheartistinstrumentsofanart.
Viceand
deugd
virtuearetotheartistmaterialsforanart.Fromthepointofviewofform,thetypeofalltheartsistheartofthe
muzikant
musician.Fromthepointofviewoffeeling,theactor’s
ambacht
craftisthetype.Allartisatoncesurfaceand
symbool
symbol.Thosewhogobeneaththesurfacedosoattheirperil.
Thosewhoreadthe
symbool
symboldosoattheirperil.Itisthespectator,andnotlife,thatartreallymirrors.
Verscheidenheid
Diversityofopinionaboutaworkofartshowsthattheworkisnew,complex
complex,andvital.Whencriticsdisagree,theartistisinaccordwithhimself.
Wecanforgiveamanformakingausefulthingaslongashedoesnot
bewondert
admireit.Theonlyexcuseformakingauselessthingisthatone
bewondert
admiresitintensely.Allartisquiteuseless.
Hoofdstuk
CHAPTERI.Thestudiowasfilledwiththerichodourofroses,andwhenthelightsummerwind
roerde
stirredamidstthetreesofthegarden,therecamethroughtheopendoortheheavygeur
scentofthelilac,orthemoredelicate
delicateperfumeofthepink-floweringdoorn
thorn.FromthecornerofthedivanofPersiansaddle-bagsonwhichhewaslying,smoking,aswashiscustom,innumerablecigarettes,LordHenryWottoncouldjustcatchthegleamofthehoney-sweetandhoney-colouredblossomsofalaburnum,whosetremulousbranchesseemedhardlyabletobearthe
last
burdenofabeautysoflamelikeastheirs;andnowandthenthefantasticshadowsofbirdsinflightflittedacrossthelongtussore-silkcurtainsthatwerestretchedinfrontofthehugewindow,producingakindofmomentaryJapaneseeffect,andmakinghimthinkofthosepallid,jade-facedpaintersofTokyowho,throughthemediumofanartthatisnecessarilyimmobile,seekto
brengen
conveythesenseofswiftnessandbeweging
motion.Thesullenmurmurofthebeesshoulderingtheirwaythroughthelongunmowngrass,orcirclingwithmonotonousinsistenceroundthe
stoffige
dustygilthornsofthestragglingwoodbine,seemedtomakethestillnessmoreoppressive.Thedim
gebrul
roarofLondonwaslikethebourdonnoteofaverre
distantorgan.Inthecentreoftheroom,clampedtoanuprighteasel,stoodthefull-length
portret
portraitofayoungmanofextraordinarypersonalbeauty,andinfrontofit,somelittledistanceaway,wassittingtheartisthimself,BasilHallward,whosesuddenverdwijning
disappearancesomeyearsagocaused,atthetime,suchpublicopwinding
excitementandgaverisetosomanystrangeconjectures.Asthe
schilder
painterlookedatthegraciousandcomelyformhehadsoskilfullymirroredinhisart,asmileofpleasurepassedacrosshisface,andseemedabouttolingerthere.Buthesuddenlystartedup,andclosinghiseyes,placedhisfingersuponthelids,asthoughhesoughttoimprisonwithinhisbrainsomecuriousdreamfromwhichhefearedhemightawake.
“Itisyourbestwork,Basil,thebestthingyouhaveeverdone,”saidLordHenrylanguidly.
“YoumustcertainlysenditnextyeartotheGrosvenor.
The
Academie
Academyistoolargeandtoovulgair
vulgar.WheneverIhavegonethere,therehavebeeneithersomanypeoplethatIhavenotbeenabletoseethepictures,whichwas
verschrikkelijk
dreadful,orsomanypicturesthatIhavenotbeenabletoseethepeople,whichwasworse.TheGrosvenorisreallytheonlyplace.”
“Idon’tthinkIshallsenditanywhere,”heanswered,
gooien
tossinghisheadbackinthatoddwaythatusedtomakehisfriendslaughathimatOxford.“No,Iwon’tsenditanywhere.”
LordHenryelevatedhiseyebrowsandlookedathiminamazementthroughthethinbluewreathsofsmokethat
krulden
curledupinsuchfancifulwhorlsfromhisheavy,opium-taintedcigarette.“Notsenditanywhere?
Mydearfellow,why?
Haveyouanyreason?
Whatoddchapsyoupaintersare!
Youdoanythingintheworldto
krijgen
gainareputation.Assoonasyouhaveone,youseemtowanttothrowitaway.
Itissillyofyou,forthereisonlyonethingintheworldworsethanbeingtalkedabout,andthatisnotbeingtalkedabout.
A
portret
portraitlikethiswouldsetyoufarabovealltheyoungmeninEngland,andmaketheoldmenquitejealous,ifoldmenareevercapableofanyemotion.”“Iknowyouwilllaughatme,”he
antwoordde
replied,“butIreallycan’texhibitit.Ihaveputtoomuchofmyselfintoit.”
LordHenry
strekte
stretchedhimselfoutonthedivanandlaughed.“Yes,Iknewyouwould;
butitisquitetrue,allthesame.”
“Toomuchofyourselfinit!
Uponmyword,Basil,Ididn’tknowyouwereso
ijdel
vain;andIreallycan’tseeany
gelijkenis
resemblancebetweenyou,withyourruwe
ruggedstrongfaceandyourcoal-blackhair,andthisyoungAdonis,wholooksasifhewasmadeoutofivoor
ivoryandrose-leaves.Why,mydearBasil,heisaNarcissus,andyou—well,ofcourseyouhavean
intellectuele
intellectualexpressionandallthat.Butbeauty,realbeauty,endswherean
intellectuele
intellectualexpressionbegins.Intellectisinitselfamodeofexaggeration,anddestroysthe
harmonie
harmonyofanyface.Themomentonesitsdowntothink,onebecomesallnose,orall
voorhoofd
forehead,orsomethinghorrid.Lookatthesuccessfulmeninanyofthelearnedprofessions.
Howperfectly
afschuwelijk
hideoustheyare!Except,ofcourse,intheChurch.
ButthenintheChurchtheydon’tthink.
A
bisschop
bishopkeepsonsayingattheageofeightywhathewastoldtosaywhenhewasaboyofeighteen,andasanaturalgevolg
consequencehealwayslooksabsolutelyheerlijk
delightful.Yourmysteriousyoungfriend,whosenameyouhavenevertoldme,butwhosepicturereallyfascinatesme,neverthinks.
Ifeelquitesureofthat.
Heissomebrainlessbeautifulcreaturewhoshouldbealwayshereinwinterwhenwehavenoflowerstolookat,andalwayshereinsummerwhenwewantsomethingtochillourintelligence.
Don’tflatteryourself,Basil:
youarenotintheleastlikehim.”
“Youdon’tunderstandme,Harry,”answeredtheartist.
“OfcourseIamnotlikehim.
Iknowthatperfectlywell.
Indeed,Ishouldbesorrytolooklikehim.
Youshrugyourshoulders?
Iamtellingyouthetruth.
Thereisafatalityaboutallphysicaland
intellectuele
intellectualdistinction,thesortoffatalitythatseemstodogthroughhistorythefalteringstepsofkings.Itisbetternottobedifferentfromone’sfellows.
Theuglyandthestupidhavethebestofitinthisworld.
Theycansitattheir
gemak
easeandgapeattheplay.Iftheyknownothingofvictory,theyareatleastsparedtheknowledgeofdefeat.
Theyliveasweallshouldlive—undisturbed,
onverschillig
indifferent,andwithoutdisquiet.Theyneitherbringruinuponothers,noreverreceiveitfromalienhands.
Your
rang
rankandwealth,Harry;mybrains,suchastheyare—myart,whateveritmaybeworth;
DorianGray’sgoodlooks—weshallallsufferforwhatthegodshavegivenus,sufferterribly.”
“DorianGray?
Isthathisname?”
askedLordHenry,walkingacrossthestudiotowardsBasilHallward.
“Yes,thatishisname.
Ididn’t
plan
intendtotellittoyou.”“Butwhynot?”
“Oh,Ican’texplain.
WhenIlikepeopleimmensely,Inevertelltheirnamestoanyone.
Itislikesurrenderingapartofthem.
Ihavegrowntolovesecrecy.
Itseemstobetheonethingthatcanmakemodernlife
mysterieus
mysteriousormarvelloustous.Thecommonestthingis
heerlijk
delightfulifoneonlyhidesit.WhenIleavetownnowInevertellmypeoplewhereIamgoing.
IfIdid,Iwouldloseallmypleasure.
Itisasilly
gewoonte
habit,Idaresay,butsomehowitseemstobringagreatdealofromantiek
romanceintoone’slife.Isupposeyouthinkme
erg
awfullyfoolishaboutit?”“Notatall,”answeredLordHenry,“notatall,mydearBasil.
YouseemtoforgetthatIammarried,andtheone
charme
charmofmarriageisthatitmakesalifeofbedrog
deceptionabsolutelynecessaryforbothparties.Ineverknowwheremywifeis,andmywifeneverknowswhatIamdoing.
Whenwemeet—wedomeet
af en toe
occasionally,whenwedineouttogether,orgodowntotheDuke’s—wetelleachotherthemostabsurdstorieswiththemostseriousfaces.Mywifeisverygoodatit—muchbetter,infact,thanIam.
Shenevergetsconfusedoverherdates,andIalwaysdo.
Butwhenshedoesfindmeout,shemakesnorowatall.
Isometimeswishshewould;
butshe
alleen
merelylaughsatme.”“Ihatethewayyoutalkaboutyourmarriedlife,Harry,”saidBasilHallward,strollingtowardsthedoorthatledintothegarden.
“Ibelievethatyouarereallyaverygoodhusband,butthatyouarethoroughlyashamedofyourownvirtues.
Youareanextraordinaryfellow.
Youneversayamoralthing,andyouneverdoawrongthing.
Yourcynicismissimplyapose.”
“Beingnaturalissimplyapose,andthemostirritatingposeIknow,”criedLordHenry,laughing;
andthetwoyoungmenwentoutintothegardentogetherandensconcedthemselvesonalong
bamboe
bambooseatthatstoodintheschaduw
shadeofatalllaurelbush.Thesunlightslippedoverthepolishedleaves.
Inthegrass,whitedaisiesweretremulous.
Afterapause,LordHenrypulledouthiswatch.
“IamafraidImustbegoing,Basil,”hemurmured,“andbeforeIgo,IinsistonyouransweringaquestionIputtoyousometimeago.”
“Whatisthat?”
saidthe
schilder
painter,keepinghiseyesfixedontheground.“Youknowquitewell.”
“Idonot,Harry.”
“Well,Iwilltellyouwhatitis.
Iwantyoutoexplaintomewhyyouwon’texhibitDorianGray’spicture.
Iwanttherealreason.”
“Itoldyoutherealreason.”
“No,youdidnot.
Yousaiditwasbecausetherewastoomuchofyourselfinit.
Now,thatischildish.”
“Harry,”saidBasilHallward,lookinghimstraightintheface,“every
portret
portraitthatispaintedwithfeelingisaportret
portraitoftheartist,notofthesitter.Thesitterismerelytheaccident,the
gelegenheid
occasion.Itisnothewhois
onthuld
revealedbythepainter;itisratherthe
schilder
painterwho,onthecoloureddoek
canvas,revealshimself.ThereasonIwillnotexhibitthispictureisthatIamafraidthatIhaveshowninitthesecretofmyownsoul.”
LordHenrylaughed.
“Andwhatisthat?”
heasked.
“Iwilltellyou,”saidHallward;
butan
uitdrukking
expressionofperplexitycameoverhisface.“Iamall
verwachting
expectation,Basil,”continuedhiscompanion,glancingathim.“Oh,thereisreallyverylittletotell,Harry,”answeredthe
schilder
painter;“andIamafraidyouwillhardlyunderstandit.
Perhapsyouwillhardlybelieveit.”
LordHenrysmiled,andleaningdown,
plukte
pluckedapink-petalleddaisyfromthegrassandonderzocht
examinedit.“IamquitesureIshallunderstandit,”he
antwoordde
replied,gazingintentlyatthelittlegolden,white-featheredschijf
disk,“andasforbelievingthings,Icanbelieveanything,providedthatitisquiteincredible.”Thewindshooksomeblossomsfromthetrees,andtheheavylilac-blooms,withtheirclusteringstars,movedtoandfrointhelanguidair.
Agrasshopperbegantochirrupbythewall,andlikeablue
draad
threadalongthindragon-flyzweefde
floatedpastonitsbrowngauzewings.LordHenryfeltasifhecouldhearBasilHallward’sheartbeating,andwonderedwhatwascoming.
“Thestoryissimplythis,”saidthe
schilder
painteraftersometime.“TwomonthsagoIwenttoacrushatLadyBrandon’s.
Youknowwepoorartistshavetoshowourselvesinsocietyfromtimetotime,justtoremindthepublicthatwearenotsavages.
Withaneveningcoatandawhitetie,asyoutoldmeonce,anybody,evenastock-broker,cangainareputationforbeing
beschaafd
civilized.Well,afterIhadbeenintheroomabouttenminutes,talkingtohugeoverdresseddowagersandtediousacademicians,Isuddenlybecame
bewust
consciousthatsomeonewaslookingatme.Iturned
halverwege
half-wayroundandsawDorianGrayforthefirsttime.Whenoureyesmet,IfeltthatIwasgrowing
bleek
pale.Acurioussensationof
verschrikking
terrorcameoverme.IknewthatIhadcomefacetofacewithsomeonewhosemere
persoonlijkheid
personalitywassofascinatingthat,ifIallowedittodoso,itwouldabsorberen
absorbmywholenature,mywholesoul,myveryartitself.Ididnotwantany
externe
externalinfluenceinmylife.Youknowyourself,Harry,how
onafhankelijk
independentIambynature.Ihavealwaysbeenmyownmaster;
hadatleastalwaysbeenso,tillImetDorianGray.
Then—butIdon’tknowhowtoexplainittoyou.
SomethingseemedtotellmethatIwasonthe
rand
vergeofaterriblecrisisinmylife.Ihadastrangefeelingthatfatehadinstoreformeexquisitejoysandexquisitesorrows.
Igrewafraidandturnedtoquittheroom.
Itwasnot
geweten
consciencethatmademedoso:itwasasortof
lafheid
cowardice.Itakenocredittomyselffortryingtoescape.”
“Conscienceand
lafheid
cowardicearereallythesamethings,Basil.Geweten
Conscienceisthetrade-nameofthefirm.Thatisall.”
“Idon’tbelievethat,Harry,andIdon’tbelieveyoudoeither.
However,whateverwasmymotive—anditmayhavebeenpride,forIusedtobeveryproud—Icertainlystruggledtothedoor.
There,ofcourse,I
struikelde
stumbledagainstLadyBrandon.‘Youarenotgoingtorunawaysosoon,Mr.Hallward?’shescreamedout.
Youknowhercuriouslyshrillvoice?”
“Yes;
sheisa
pauw
peacockineverythingbutbeauty,”saidLordHenry,pullingthedaisytobitswithhislongnervousfingers.“Icouldnotgetridofher.
Shebroughtmeuptoroyalties,andpeoplewithstarsandgarters,andelderlyladieswithgigantictiarasandparrotnoses.
Shespokeofmeasherdearestfriend.
Ihadonlymetheroncebefore,butshetookitintoherheadtolionizeme.
Ibelievesomepictureofminehadmadeagreatsuccessatthetime,atleasthadbeenchatteredaboutinthepennynewspapers,whichisthenineteenth-century
standaard
standardofimmortality.SuddenlyIfoundmyselffacetofacewiththeyoungmanwhose
persoonlijkheid
personalityhadsostrangelystirredme.