THEPREFACE
Theartistis
le
thecreatorofbeautifulthings.Torevealart
et
andconcealtheartistisart’saim.Le
Thecriticishewhopeut
cantranslateintoanothermannerou
oranewmaterialhisimpressionofbeautifulthings.La
Thehighestasthelowestformofcriticismisun
amodeofautobiography.Those
qui
whofinduglymeaningsinbeautifulthingsarecorruptsans
withoutbeingcharming.Thisis
une
afault.Thosewhofindbeautifulmeaningsinbeautifulthingsare
les
thecultivated.Forthesethereishope.
Theyaretheelecttowhombeautifulthings
signifient
meanonlybeauty.Thereis
pas
nosuchthingasamoralou
oranimmoralbook.Booksare
bien
wellwritten,orbadlywritten.Que
Thatisall.ThenineteenthcenturydislikeofrealismistherageofCaliban
voyant
seeinghisownfaceinun
aglass.ThenineteenthcenturydislikeofromanticismistherageofCalibannot
voir
seeinghisownfaceinun
aglass.Themorallifeofmanforms
partie
partofthesubject-matterofla
theartist,butthemoralityofartconsistsinla
theperfectuseofanimperfectmedium.Aucun
Noartistdesirestoproveanything.Même
Eventhingsthataretruepeuvent
canbeproved.Noartisthasethicalsympathies.
Anethicalsympathyinanartistisanunpardonablemannerismofstyle.
Aucun
Noartistisevermorbid.Theartist
peut
canexpresseverything.Thoughtandlanguagearetotheartistinstrumentsofanart.
Vice
et
andvirtuearetotheartistmaterialsforun
anart.Fromthepointofviewofform,thetypeof
tous
alltheartsistheartofthemusician.From
le
thepointofviewoffeeling,le
theactor’scraftisthetype.Tout
Allartisatoncesurfaceet
andsymbol.Thosewhogobeneaththesurface
font
dosoattheirperil.Ceux
Thosewhoreadthesymbolfont
dosoattheirperil.Itisthespectator,
et
andnotlife,thatartvraiment
reallymirrors.Diversityofopinion
sur
aboutaworkofartmontre
showsthattheworkisnew,complex,et
andvital.Whencriticsdisagree,
les
theartistisinaccordavec
withhimself.Wecanforgivea
homme
manformakingausefulchose
thingaslongashefaire
doesnotadmireit.The
seule
onlyexcuseformakingauselesschose
thingisthatoneadmiresitintensely.Tout
Allartisquiteuseless.CHAPTERI.
Thestudiowasfilledwiththerichodourofroses,
et
andwhenthelightsummerwindstirredamidstthetreesofthegarden,therecamethroughtheopenporte
doortheheavyscentofthelilac,ou
orthemoredelicateperfumeofthepink-floweringthorn.FromthecornerofthedivanofPersiansaddle-bagson
dont
whichhewaslying,smoking,aswashiscustom,innumerablecigarettes,LordHenryWottonpouvait
couldjustcatchthegleamofthehoney-sweetet
andhoney-colouredblossomsofalaburnum,whosetremulousbranchesseemedhardlyabletobeartheburdenofabeautysoflamelikeastheirs;et
andnowandthenthefantasticshadowsofbirdsinflightflittedacrossthetemps
longtussore-silkcurtainsthatwerestretchedindevant
frontofthehugewindow,producingasorte
kindofmomentaryJapaneseeffect,et
andmakinghimthinkofces
thosepallid,jade-facedpaintersofTokyowho,throughthemediumofanartthatisnecessarilyimmobile,seektoconveythesenseofswiftnesset
andmotion.Thesullenmurmurofthebeesshoulderingtheir
chemin
waythroughthelongunmowngrass,ou
orcirclingwithmonotonousinsistenceroundthedustygilthornsofthestragglingwoodbine,seemedtorendre
makethestillnessmoreoppressive.ThedimroarofLondonwas
comme
likethebourdonnoteofadistantorgan.Inthecentreoftheroom,clampedtoanuprighteasel,stoodthefull-lengthportraitofa
jeune
youngmanofextraordinarypersonalbeauty,et
andinfrontofit,somelittledistanceaway,wasassis
sittingtheartisthimself,BasilHallward,whosesuddendisappearancesomeyearsagoprovoqua
caused,atthetime,suchpublicexcitementet
andgaverisetosomanystrangeconjectures.Asthepainter
regardait
lookedatthegraciousandcomelyformhehadsoskilfullymirroredinhisart,un
asmileofpleasurepassedacrosshisvisage
face,andseemedabouttolingerthere.Mais
Buthesuddenlystartedup,et
andclosinghiseyes,placedhisfingersuponles
thelids,asthoughhesoughttoimprisonwithinhisbrainsomecuriousrêve
dreamfromwhichhefearedhepourrait
mightawake.“Itisyour
meilleur
bestwork,Basil,thebestchose
thingyouhaveeverdone,”dit
saidLordHenrylanguidly.“You
devez
mustcertainlysenditnextyeartotheGrosvenor.TheAcademyis
trop
toolargeandtoovulgar.WheneverI
eu
havegonethere,therehavebeensoit
eithersomanypeoplethatIeu
havenotbeenabletovoir
seethepictures,whichwasdreadful,ou
orsomanypicturesthatIeu
havenotbeenabletovoir
seethepeople,whichwasworse.Le
TheGrosvenorisreallytheonlyplace.”“Idon’t
pense
thinkIshallsenditanywhere,”herépondu
answered,tossinghisheadbackinthatoddfaçon
waythatusedtomakehisfriendslaughathimatOxford.“No,Iwon’tsenditanywhere.”
LordHenryelevatedhiseyebrows
et
andlookedathiminamazementtravers
throughthethinbluewreathsofsmokequi
thatcurledupinsuchfancifulwhorlsfromhisheavy,opium-taintedcigarette.“Notsenditanywhere?
My
cher
dearfellow,why?Haveyouanyreason?
Whatoddchapsyoupaintersare!
You
faites
doanythingintheworldtogainune
areputation.Assoonasyouhave
un
one,youseemtowanttothrowitaway.Itissillyofyou,forthereis
seule
onlyonethinginthemonde
worldworsethanbeingtalkedabout,et
andthatisnotbeingparlé
talkedabout.Aportraitlikethiswouldsetyoufarabove
tous
alltheyoungmeninEngland,et
andmaketheoldmenquitejealous,si
ifoldmenareevercapableofanyemotion.”“I
sais
knowyouwilllaughatme,”hereplied,“butIvraiment
reallycan’texhibitit.Ihave
mis
puttoomuchofmyselfintoit.”LordHenrystretchedhimselfouton
le
thedivanandlaughed.“Yes,I
savais
knewyouwould;butitis
tout à fait
quitetrue,allthesame.”“Toomuchofyourselfin
il
it!Uponmyword,Basil,Ididn’t
savais
knowyouweresovain;et
andIreallycan’tseeanyresemblanceentre
betweenyou,withyourruggedstrongvisage
faceandyourcoal-blackhair,et
andthisyoungAdonis,wholooksasifhewasfait
madeoutofivoryandrose-leaves.Why,my
cher
dearBasil,heisaNarcissus,et
andyou—well,ofcourseyouhaveanintellectualexpressionet
andallthat.Butbeauty,realbeauty,ends
où
whereanintellectualexpressionbegins.Intellectisinitself
un
amodeofexaggeration,anddestroystheharmonyofn'importe quel
anyface.Themomentonesitsdownto
penser
think,onebecomesallnose,ou
orallforehead,orsomethinghorrid.Regardez
Lookatthesuccessfulmeninanyofles
thelearnedprofessions.Howperfectlyhideousthey
sont
are!Except,ofcourse,intheChurch.
Mais
ButthenintheChurchtheydon’tpensent
think.Abishopkeepsonsayingattheageofeightywhathewastoldto
dire
saywhenhewasagarçon
boyofeighteen,andasun
anaturalconsequencehealwayslooksabsolutelydelightful.Yourmysterious
jeune
youngfriend,whosenameyouhavejamais
nevertoldme,butwhosepicturevraiment
reallyfascinatesme,neverthinks.Ifeel
tout à fait
quitesureofthat.Heissomebrainless
belle
beautifulcreaturewhoshouldbetoujours
alwayshereinwinterwhenwedevrait
havenoflowerstolookat,et
andalwayshereinsummerquand
whenwewantsomethingtochillourintelligence.Don’tflatteryourself,Basil:
youarenotintheleast
comme
likehim.”“Youdon’tunderstand
me
me,Harry,”answeredtheartist.“Of
sûr
courseIamnotlikelui
him.Iknowthatperfectly
bien
well.Indeed,Ishouldbesorryto
ressembler
looklikehim.Youshrugyourshoulders?
Iam
dis
tellingyouthetruth.Thereis
une
afatalityaboutallphysicalet
andintellectualdistinction,thesortoffatalityqui
thatseemstodogthroughhistorythefalteringstepsofkings.Itis
mieux
betternottobedifferentfromone’sfellows.Theugly
et
andthestupidhavethemeilleur
bestofitinthismonde
world.Theycansitattheirease
et
andgapeattheplay.Ifthey
savent
knownothingofvictory,theyareatmoins
leastsparedtheknowledgeofdefeat.They
vivre
liveasweallshouldlive—undisturbed,indifferent,et
andwithoutdisquiet.Theyneitherbringruinuponothers,noreverreceiveitfromalienhands.
Yourrank
et
andwealth,Harry;mybrains,
tel
suchastheyare—myart,whateveritmaybeworth;DorianGray’sgoodlooks—weshall
tous
allsufferforwhatthegodsont
havegivenus,sufferterribly.”“DorianGray?
Isthathisname?”
demandé
askedLordHenry,walkingacrossle
thestudiotowardsBasilHallward.“Yes,thatishis
nom
name.Ididn’tintendto
dire
tellittoyou.”“But
pourquoi
whynot?”“Oh,Ican’texplain.
Quand
WhenIlikepeopleimmensely,Ijamais
nevertelltheirnamestoanyone.Itis
comme
likesurrenderingapartofthem.Ihavegrownto
aimer
lovesecrecy.Itseemstobe
la
theonethingthatcanrendre
makemodernlifemysteriousormarvelloustonous
us.Thecommonestthingisdelightful
si
ifoneonlyhidesit.Quand
WhenIleavetownnowIjamais
nevertellmypeoplewhereIamvais
going.IfIdid,Iwould
perdrais
loseallmypleasure.Itis
une
asillyhabit,Idaredire
say,butsomehowitseemstoapporter
bringagreatdealofromanceintoone’svie
life.Isupposeyouthinkmeawfullyfoolishaboutit?”
“Notatall,”
répondit
answeredLordHenry,“notattout
all,mydearBasil.Youseemto
oublier
forgetthatIammarried,et
andtheonecharmofmarriageisque
thatitmakesalifeofdeceptionabsolutelynecessaryfordeux
bothparties.Ineverknow
où
wheremywifeis,andmyfemme
wifeneverknowswhatIamfais
doing.Whenwemeet—wedo
rencontrons
meetoccasionally,whenwedineoutensemble
together,orgodowntotheDuke’s—weracontons
telleachotherthemostabsurdstoriesavec
withthemostseriousfaces.My
femme
wifeisverygoodatit—muchmieux
better,infact,thanIam.She
jamais
nevergetsconfusedoverherdates,et
andIalwaysdo.But
quand
whenshedoesfindmeout,shefait
makesnorowatall.I
parfois
sometimeswishshewould;butshemerelylaughsatme.”
“I
déteste
hatethewayyoutalkaboutyourmarié
marriedlife,Harry,”saidBasilHallward,strollingtowardsla
thedoorthatledintola
thegarden.“Ibelievethatyouare
vraiment
reallyaverygoodhusband,mais
butthatyouarethoroughlyashamedofyourownvirtues.Youare
un
anextraordinaryfellow.Younever
dis
sayamoralthing,andyoujamais
neverdoawrongthing.Yourcynicismissimply
une
apose.”“Beingnaturalissimply
une
apose,andthemostirritatingposeIknow,”criedLordHenry,laughing;et
andthetwoyoungmenwentoutintothegardenensemble
togetherandensconcedthemselvesonun
alongbambooseatthattenait
stoodintheshadeofun
atalllaurelbush.Thesunlightslipped
sur
overthepolishedleaves.In
les
thegrass,whitedaisiesweretremulous.Après
Afterapause,LordHenrypulledouthismontre
watch.“IamafraidI
doive
mustbegoing,Basil,”hemurmured,“andavant
beforeIgo,Iinsistonyourrépondiez
answeringaquestionIputtoyousometimeago.”“Whatisthat?”
dit
saidthepainter,keepinghiseyesfixedontheground.“You
savez
knowquitewell.”“Idonot,Harry.”
“Well,I
vais
willtellyouwhatitis.I
veux
wantyoutoexplaintomepourquoi
whyyouwon’texhibitDorianGray’spicture.I
veux
wanttherealreason.”“I
dit
toldyoutherealreason.”“No,you
fait
didnot.Yousaiditwasbecause
y
therewastoomuchofyourselfinelle
it.Now,thatischildish.”
“Harry,”
dit
saidBasilHallward,lookinghimstraightintheface,“everyportraitthatispaintedavec
withfeelingisaportraitoftheartist,notofthesitter.La
Thesitterismerelytheaccident,la
theoccasion.Itisnothe
qui
whoisrevealedbythepainter;itisratherthepainter
qui
who,onthecolouredcanvas,revealshimself.ThereasonI
vais
willnotexhibitthispictureisque
thatIamafraidthatIavoir
haveshowninitthesecretofmypropre
ownsoul.”LordHenrylaughed.
“Andwhatisthat?”
he
demandé
asked.“Iwilltellyou,”
dit
saidHallward;butanexpressionofperplexity
venue
cameoverhisface.“Iam
tout
allexpectation,Basil,”continuedhiscompanion,glancingatle
him.“Oh,thereisreally
très
verylittletotell,Harry,”répondit
answeredthepainter;“andIamafraidyouwillhardly
compreniez
understandit.Perhapsyouwillhardly
croire
believeit.”LordHenrysmiled,
et
andleaningdown,pluckedapink-petalleddaisyfromle
thegrassandexaminedit.“Iam
tout à fait
quitesureIshallunderstandit,”hereplied,gazingintentlyatthepetit
littlegolden,white-feathereddisk,“andasforcroire
believingthings,Icanbelievetout
anything,providedthatitistout à fait
quiteincredible.”Thewindshook
quelques
someblossomsfromthetrees,et
andtheheavylilac-blooms,withtheirclusteringstars,déplaçaient
movedtoandfrointhelanguidair.Agrasshopperbegantochirrupbythewall,
et
andlikeabluethreadalongue
longthindragon-flyfloatedpastonitsbrowngauzewings.LordHenry
sentait
feltasifhecouldentendre
hearBasilHallward’sheartbeating,et
andwonderedwhatwascoming.“Thestoryissimplythis,”
dit
saidthepainteraftersometemps
time.“TwomonthsagoIwenttoacrushatLadyBrandon’s.
You
savez
knowwepoorartistshavetomontrer
showourselvesinsocietyfromtemps
timetotime,justtoremindla
thepublicthatwearenotsavages.Avec
Withaneveningcoatandawhitetie,asyoudit
toldmeonce,anybody,evenastock-broker,peut
cangainareputationforbeingcivilized.Well,
après
afterIhadbeeninla
theroomabouttenminutes,parlant
talkingtohugeoverdresseddowagerset
andtediousacademicians,Isuddenlybecameconsciousque
thatsomeonewaslookingatme
me.Iturnedhalf-wayround
et
andsawDorianGrayforla
thefirsttime.Whenoureyesmet,I
senti
feltthatIwasgrowingpale.Une
Acurioussensationofterrorcameoverme.I
savais
knewthatIhadcomefacetofaceavec
withsomeonewhosemerepersonalitywassofascinatingque
that,ifIallowedittofaire
doso,itwouldabsorbmytoute
wholenature,mywholesoul,myveryartitself.Ididnot
voulais
wantanyexternalinfluenceinmyvie
life.Youknowyourself,Harry,howindependentIambynature.
Ihave
toujours
alwaysbeenmyownmaster;hadatleast
toujours
alwaysbeenso,tillIrencontre
metDorianGray.Then—butIdon’t
sais
knowhowtoexplainittoyou.Quelque chose
Somethingseemedtotellmeque
thatIwasonthevergeofaterriblecrisisinmyvie
life.Ihadastrangefeeling
que
thatfatehadinstoreformeexquisitejoyset
andexquisitesorrows.Igrew
peur
afraidandturnedtoquitla
theroom.Itwasnotconscience
qui
thatmademedoso:itwas
une
asortofcowardice.Itake
pas
nocredittomyselfforessayé
tryingtoescape.”“Conscienceandcowardiceare
vraiment
reallythesamethings,Basil.Conscienceisthetrade-nameofthefirm.
Thatisall.”
“Idon’t
crois
believethat,Harry,andIdon’tcrois
believeyoudoeither.However,whateverwasmymotive—andit
pouvait
mayhavebeenpride,forIusedtobetrès
veryproud—Icertainlystruggledtola
thedoor.There,ofcourse,IstumbledagainstLadyBrandon.
‘Youarenotgoingtorunawayso
vite
soon,Mr.Hallward?’shescreamedout.You
connaissez
knowhercuriouslyshrillvoice?”“Yes;
sheis
un
apeacockineverythingbutbeauty,”dit
saidLordHenry,pullingthedaisytobitsavec
withhislongnervousfingers.“I
pouvais
couldnotgetridofher.Shebroughtmeuptoroyalties,
et
andpeoplewithstarsandgarters,et
andelderlyladieswithgigantictiaraset
andparrotnoses.Shespokeofmeasherdearestfriend.
Ihadonlymether
fois
oncebefore,butshetookitintoherheadtolionizeme
me.Ibelievesomepictureofminehadmade
un
agreatsuccessatthetime,atmoins
leasthadbeenchatteredaboutinthepennynewspapers,qui
whichisthenineteenth-centurystandardofimmortality.SuddenlyI
retrouvé
foundmyselffacetofaceavec
withtheyoungmanwhosepersonalityhadsostrangelystirredme
me.