THEPREFACE
Theartististhe
luoja
creatorofbeautifulthings.To
paljastaa
revealartandconcealtheartistisart’saim.The
kriitikko
criticishewhocankääntää
translateintoanothermanneroranewmaterialhisimpressionofbeautifulthings.Thehighestasthe
alhaisin
lowestformofcriticismisamodeofautobiography.Thosewhofinduglymeaningsinbeautifulthingsarecorruptwithoutbeingcharming.
Thisisafault.
Thosewhofindbeautifulmeaningsinbeautifulthingsarethecultivated.
Forthesethereishope.
Theyaretheelecttowhombeautifulthingsmeanonlybeauty.
Thereisnosuchthingasamoraloran
moraalitonta
immoralbook.Booksarewellwritten,orbadlywritten.
Thatisall.
Thenineteenthcentury
vastenmielisyys
dislikeofrealismistheraivo
rageofCalibanseeinghisownfaceinaglass.Thenineteenthcentury
vastenmielisyys
dislikeofromanticismistheraivo
rageofCalibannotseeinghisownfaceinaglass.The
moraalinen
morallifeofmanformspartofthesubject-matteroftheartist,butthemoraali
moralityofartconsistsintheperfectuseofanimperfectmedium.Noartistdesirestoproveanything.
Eventhingsthataretruecanbeproved.
Noartisthasethicalsympathies.
Anethicalsympathyinanartistisanunpardonablemannerismofstyle.
Noartistisevermorbid.
Theartistcanexpresseverything.
Thoughtandlanguagearetotheartistinstrumentsofanart.
Viceandvirtuearetotheartistmaterialsforanart.
Fromthepointofviewofform,thetypeofalltheartsistheartofthemusician.
Fromthepointofviewoffeeling,theactor’scraftisthetype.
Allartisatoncesurfaceand
symboli
symbol.Thosewhogobeneaththesurfacedosoattheirperil.
Thosewhoreadthesymboldosoattheirperil.
Itisthespectator,andnotlife,thatartreallymirrors.
Diversityofopinionaboutaworkofartshowsthattheworkisnew,
monimutkainen
complex,andvital.Whencriticsdisagree,theartistisinaccordwithhimself.
Wecanforgiveamanformakingausefulthingaslongashedoesnot
ihaile
admireit.Theonlyexcuseformakingauselessthingisthatone
ihaillaan
admiresitintensely.Allartisquiteuseless.
CHAPTERI.
Thestudiowasfilledwiththerichodourofroses,andwhenthelightsummerwindstirredamidstthetreesofthegarden,therecamethroughtheopendoortheheavy
tuoksu
scentofthelilac,orthemoredelicateperfumeofthepink-floweringthorn.FromthecornerofthedivanofPersiansaddle-bagsonwhichhewaslying,smoking,aswashiscustom,innumerablecigarettes,LordHenryWottoncouldjustcatchthegleamofthehoney-sweetandhoney-colouredblossomsofalaburnum,whosetremulousbranchesseemedhardlyabletobeartheburdenofabeautysoflamelikeastheirs;
andnowandthenthefantasticshadowsofbirdsinflightflittedacrossthelongtussore-silkcurtainsthatwerestretchedinfrontofthehugewindow,
tuottivat
producingakindofmomentaryJapaneseeffect,andmakinghimthinkofthosepallid,jade-facedpaintersofTokyowho,throughthemediumofanartthatisvälttämättä
necessarilyimmobile,seektoconveythesenseofswiftnessandmotion.Thesullenmurmurofthebeesshoulderingtheirwaythroughthelongunmowngrass,orcirclingwithmonotonousinsistenceroundthedustygilthornsofthestragglingwoodbine,seemedtomakethestillnessmoreoppressive.
The
hämärä
dimroarofLondonwaslikethebourdonnoteofadistantorgan.Inthe
keskellä
centreoftheroom,clampedtoanuprighteasel,stoodthefull-lengthmuotokuva
portraitofayoungmanofextraordinarypersonalbeauty,andinfrontofit,somelittledistanceaway,wassittingtheartisthimself,Basil
BasilHallward,whosesuddendisappearancesomeyearsagocaused,atthetime,suchpublicexcitementandgaverisetosomanystrangeconjectures.Asthe
taiteilija
painterlookedatthegraciousandcomelyformhehadsoskilfullymirroredinhisart,asmileofpleasurepassedacrosshisface,andseemedabouttolingerthere.Buthesuddenlystartedup,andclosinghiseyes,placedhisfingersuponthelids,asthoughhesoughttoimprisonwithinhisbrainsomecuriousdreamfromwhichhefearedhemightawake.
“Itisyourbestwork,
Basil
Basil,thebestthingyouhaveeverdone,”saidLordHenrylanguidly.“YoumustcertainlysenditnextyeartotheGrosvenor.
The
Akatemia
Academyistoolargeandtoovulgaari
vulgar.WheneverIhavegonethere,therehavebeeneithersomanypeoplethatIhavenotbeenabletoseethepictures,whichwasdreadful,orsomanypicturesthatIhavenotbeenabletoseethepeople,whichwasworse.
TheGrosvenorisreallytheonlyplace.”
“Idon’tthinkIshallsenditanywhere,”heanswered,tossinghisheadbackinthatoddwaythatusedtomakehisfriendslaughathimatOxford.
“No,Iwon’tsenditanywhere.”
LordHenryelevatedhiseyebrowsandlookedathiminamazementthroughthethinbluewreathsofsmokethatcurledupinsuchfancifulwhorlsfromhisheavy,opium-taintedcigarette.
“Notsenditanywhere?
Mydearfellow,why?
Haveyouanyreason?
Whatoddchapsyoupaintersare!
Youdoanythingintheworldtogainareputation.
Assoonasyouhaveone,youseemtowanttothrowitaway.
Itissillyofyou,forthereisonlyonethingintheworldworsethanbeingtalkedabout,andthatisnotbeingtalkedabout.
A
muotokuva
portraitlikethiswouldsetyoufarabovealltheyoungmeninEngland,andmaketheoldmenquitejealous,ifoldmenareevercapableofanyemotion.”“Iknowyouwilllaughatme,”he
vastasi
replied,“butIreallycan’texhibitit.Ihaveputtoomuchofmyselfintoit.”
LordHenry
venytti
stretchedhimselfoutonthedivanandlaughed.“Yes,Iknewyouwould;
butitisquitetrue,allthesame.”
“Toomuchofyourselfinit!
Uponmyword,Basil,Ididn’tknowyouweresovain;
andIreallycan’tseeanyresemblancebetweenyou,withyourruggedstrongfaceandyourcoal-blackhair,andthisyoungAdonis,wholooksasifhewasmadeoutofivoryandrose-leaves.
Why,mydear
Basil
Basil,heisaNarcissus,andyou—well,ofcourseyouhaveanintellectualexpressionandallthat.Butbeauty,realbeauty,endswhereanintellectualexpressionbegins.
Intellectisinitselfamodeofexaggeration,anddestroystheharmonyofanyface.
Themomentonesitsdowntothink,onebecomesallnose,orallforehead,orsomethinghorrid.
Lookatthesuccessfulmeninanyofthelearnedprofessions.
Howperfectlyhideoustheyare!
Except,ofcourse,intheChurch.
ButthenintheChurchtheydon’tthink.
A
piispa
bishopkeepsonsayingattheageofeightywhathewastoldtosaywhenhewasaboyofeighteen,andasanaturalconsequencehealwayslooksabsolutelydelightful.Your
salaperäinen
mysteriousyoungfriend,whosenameyouhavenevertoldme,butwhosepicturereallyfascinatesme,neverthinks.Ifeelquitesureofthat.
Heissomebrainlessbeautifulcreaturewhoshouldbealwayshereinwinterwhenwehavenoflowerstolookat,andalwayshereinsummerwhenwewantsomethingtochillourintelligence.
Don’tflatteryourself,
Basil
Basil:youarenotintheleastlikehim.”
“Youdon’tunderstandme,Harry,”answeredtheartist.
“OfcourseIamnotlikehim.
Iknowthatperfectlywell.
Indeed,Ishouldbesorrytolooklikehim.
Youshrugyourshoulders?
Iamtellingyouthetruth.
Thereisafatalityaboutallphysicalandintellectualdistinction,thesortoffatalitythatseemstodogthroughhistorythefalteringstepsofkings.
Itisbetternottobedifferentfromone’sfellows.
Theuglyandthestupidhavethebestofitinthisworld.
Theycansitattheireaseandgapeattheplay.
Iftheyknownothingofvictory,theyareatleastsparedtheknowledgeofdefeat.
Theyliveasweallshouldlive—undisturbed,indifferent,andwithoutdisquiet.
Theyneitherbringruinuponothers,noreverreceiveitfromalienhands.
Yourrankandwealth,Harry;
mybrains,suchastheyare—myart,whateveritmaybeworth;
DorianGray’sgoodlooks—weshallallsufferforwhatthegodshavegivenus,sufferterribly.”
“DorianGray?
Isthathisname?”
askedLordHenry,walkingacrossthestudiotowards
Basil
BasilHallward.“Yes,thatishisname.
Ididn’t
aikonut
intendtotellittoyou.”“Butwhynot?”
“Oh,Ican’texplain.
WhenIlikepeople
valtavasti
immensely,Inevertelltheirnamestoanyone.Itislikesurrenderingapartofthem.
Ihavegrowntolovesecrecy.
Itseemstobetheonethingthatcanmakemodernlifemysteriousormarvelloustous.
Thecommonestthingis
ihana
delightfulifoneonlyhidesit.WhenIleavetownnowInevertellmypeoplewhereIamgoing.
IfIdid,Iwouldloseallmypleasure.
Itisasilly
tapa
habit,Idaresay,butsomehowitseemstobringagreatdealofromanceintoone’slife.Isupposeyouthinkmeawfully
tyhmä
foolishaboutit?”“Notatall,”answeredLordHenry,“notatall,mydear
Basil
Basil.YouseemtoforgetthatIammarried,andtheone
viehätys
charmofmarriageisthatitmakesalifeofdeceptionabsolutelynecessaryforbothparties.Ineverknowwheremywifeis,andmywifeneverknowswhatIamdoing.
Whenwemeet—wedomeet
silloin tällöin
occasionally,whenwedineouttogether,orgodowntotheDuke’s—wetelleachotherthemostabsurdstorieswiththemostseriousfaces.Mywifeisverygoodatit—muchbetter,infact,thanIam.
Shenevergetsconfusedoverherdates,andIalwaysdo.
Butwhenshedoesfindmeout,shemakesnorowatall.
Isometimeswishshewould;
butshe
vain
merelylaughsatme.”“Ihatethewayyoutalkaboutyourmarriedlife,Harry,”said
Basil
BasilHallward,strollingtowardsthedoorthatledintothegarden.“Ibelievethatyouarereallyaverygoodhusband,butthatyouarethoroughlyashamedofyourownvirtues.
Youareanextraordinaryfellow.
Youneversayamoralthing,andyouneverdoawrongthing.
Yourcynicismissimplyapose.”
“Beingnaturalissimplyapose,andthemost
ärsyttävä
irritatingposeIknow,”criedLordHenry,laughing;andthetwoyoungmenwentoutintothegardentogetherandensconcedthemselvesonalongbambooseatthatstoodinthe
varjossa
shadeofatalllaurelbush.The
auringonvalo
sunlightslippedoverthepolishedleaves.Inthegrass,whitedaisiesweretremulous.
Afterapause,LordHenrypulledouthiswatch.
“IamafraidImustbegoing,Basil,”hemurmured,“andbeforeIgo,I
vaadin
insistonyouransweringaquestionIputtoyousometimeago.”“Whatisthat?”
saidthe
maalari
painter,keepinghiseyesfixedontheground.“Youknowquitewell.”
“Idonot,Harry.”
“Well,Iwilltellyouwhatitis.
Iwantyoutoexplaintomewhyyouwon’texhibitDorianGray’spicture.
Iwanttherealreason.”
“Itoldyoutherealreason.”
“No,youdidnot.
Yousaiditwasbecausetherewastoomuchofyourselfinit.
Now,thatischildish.”
“Harry,”said
Basil
BasilHallward,lookinghimstraightintheface,“everymuotokuva
portraitthatispaintedwithfeelingisamuotokuva
portraitoftheartist,notofthesitter.Thesitteris
vain
merelytheaccident,theoccasion.Itisnothewhois
paljastama
revealedbythepainter;itisratherthe
maalari
painterwho,onthecolouredcanvas,paljastaa
revealshimself.ThereasonIwillnotexhibitthispictureisthatIamafraidthatIhaveshowninitthesecretofmyownsoul.”
LordHenrylaughed.
“Andwhatisthat?”
heasked.
“Iwilltellyou,”saidHallward;
butanexpressionofperplexitycameoverhisface.
“Iamallexpectation,Basil,”continuedhis
toverinsa
companion,glancingathim.“Oh,thereisreallyverylittletotell,Harry,”answeredthe
maalari
painter;“andIamafraidyouwillhardlyunderstandit.
Perhapsyouwillhardlybelieveit.”
LordHenrysmiled,andleaningdown,pluckedapink-petalleddaisyfromthegrassand
tutki
examinedit.“IamquitesureIshallunderstandit,”he
vastasi
replied,gazingintentlyatthelittlegolden,white-feathereddisk,“andasforbelievingthings,Icanbelieveanything,providedthatitisquiteincredible.”Thewindshooksomeblossomsfromthetrees,andtheheavylilac-blooms,withtheirclusteringstars,movedtoandfrointhelanguidair.
Agrasshopperbegantochirrupbythewall,andlikeablue
lanka
threadalongthindragon-flyfloatedpastonitsbrowngauzewings.LordHenryfeltasifhecouldhear
Basil
BasilHallward’sheartbeating,andwonderedwhatwascoming.“Thestoryissimplythis,”saidthe
maalari
painteraftersometime.“TwomonthsagoIwenttoacrushatLadyBrandon’s.
Youknowwepoorartistshavetoshowourselvesinsocietyfromtimetotime,justtoremindthepublicthatwearenotsavages.
Withaneveningcoatandawhitetie,asyoutoldmeonce,anybody,evenastock-broker,can
saada
gainareputationforbeingcivilized.Well,afterIhadbeenintheroomabouttenminutes,talkingtohugeoverdresseddowagersandtediousacademicians,Isuddenlybecameconsciousthatsomeonewaslookingatme.
Iturned
puolivälissä
half-wayroundandsawDorianGrayforthefirsttime.Whenoureyesmet,IfeltthatIwasgrowingpale.
Acurious
tunne
sensationofterrorcameoverme.IknewthatIhadcomefacetofacewithsomeonewhose
pelkkä
merepersonalitywassofascinatingthat,ifIallowedittodoso,itwouldabsorbmywholenature,mywholesoul,myveryartitself.Ididnotwantanyexternalinfluenceinmylife.
Youknowyourself,Harry,how
itsenäinen
independentIambynature.Ihavealwaysbeenmyownmaster;
hadatleastalwaysbeenso,tillImetDorianGray.
Then—butIdon’tknowhowtoexplainittoyou.
SomethingseemedtotellmethatIwasonthe
partaalla
vergeofaterriblecrisisinmylife.Ihadastrangefeelingthatfatehadinstoreformeexquisitejoysandexquisitesorrows.
Igrewafraidandturnedtoquittheroom.
Itwasnot
omatunto
consciencethatmademedoso:itwasasortofcowardice.
Itakenocredittomyselffortryingtoescape.”
“Conscienceandcowardicearereallythesamethings,
Basil
Basil.Conscienceisthetrade-nameofthefirm.
Thatisall.”
“Idon’tbelievethat,Harry,andIdon’tbelieveyoudoeither.
However,whateverwasmymotive—anditmayhavebeenpride,forIusedtobeveryproud—Icertainlystruggledtothedoor.
There,ofcourse,IstumbledagainstLadyBrandon.
‘Youarenotgoingtorunawaysosoon,Mr.Hallward?’shescreamedout.
Youknowhercuriouslyshrillvoice?”
“Yes;
sheisapeacockineverythingbutbeauty,”saidLordHenry,pullingthedaisytobitswithhislongnervousfingers.
“Icouldnotgetridofher.
Shebroughtmeuptoroyalties,andpeoplewithstarsandgarters,andelderlyladieswithgigantictiarasandparrotnoses.
Shespokeofmeasherdearestfriend.
Ihadonlymetheroncebefore,butshetookitintoherheadtolionizeme.
Ibelievesomepictureofminehadmadeagreatsuccessatthetime,atleasthadbeenchatteredaboutinthepennynewspapers,whichisthenineteenth-century
standardi
standardofimmortality.SuddenlyIfoundmyselffacetofacewiththeyoungmanwhose
persoonallisuus
personalityhadsostrangelystirredme.