THEPREFACE
Theartististhecreatorofbeautifulthings.
To
प्रकट
revealartandconcealtheartistisart’saim.The
आलोचक
criticishewhocanअनुवाद
translateintoanothermanneroranewmaterialhisधारणा
impressionofbeautifulthings.Thehighestasthe
निम्नतम
lowestformofcriticismisamodeofautobiography.Thosewhofinduglymeaningsinbeautifulthingsare
भ्रष्ट
corruptwithoutbeingcharming.Thisisafault.
Thosewhofindbeautifulmeaningsinbeautifulthingsarethecultivated.
Forthesethereishope.
Theyaretheelecttowhombeautifulthingsmeanonlybeauty.
Thereisnosuchthingasa
नैतिक
moraloranimmoralbook.Booksarewellwritten,orbadlywritten.
Thatisall.
Thenineteenthcenturydislikeofrealismisthe
क्रोध
rageofCalibanseeinghisownfaceinaglass.Thenineteenthcentury
नापसंद
dislikeofromanticismistheक्रोध
rageofCalibannotseeinghisownfaceinaglass.Themorallifeofmanformspartofthesubject-matteroftheartist,butthemoralityofartconsistsintheperfectuseofan
अपूर्ण
imperfectmedium.Noartistdesirestoproveanything.
Eventhingsthataretruecanbeproved.
Noartisthas
नैतिक
ethicalsympathies.Anethicalsympathyinanartistisanunpardonablemannerismofstyle.
Noartistisevermorbid.
Theartistcanexpresseverything.
Thoughtandlanguagearetotheartistinstrumentsofanart.
Viceandvirtuearetotheartistmaterialsforanart.
Fromthepointofviewofform,thetypeofalltheartsistheartofthe
संगीतकार
musician.Fromthepointofviewoffeeling,theactor’s
शिल्प
craftisthetype.Allartisatoncesurfaceand
प्रतीक
symbol.Thosewhogobeneaththesurfacedosoattheirperil.
Thosewhoreadthe
प्रतीक
symboldosoattheirperil.Itisthe
दर्शक
spectator,andnotlife,thatartreallymirrors.विविधता
Diversityofopinionaboutaworkofartshowsthattheworkisnew,जटिल
complex,andvital.Whencritics
असहमत
disagree,theartistisinaccordwithhimself.Wecanforgiveamanformakingausefulthingaslongashedoesnot
प्रशंसा
admireit.Theonlyexcuseformakingauselessthingisthatoneadmiresitintensely.
Allartisquiteuseless.
अध्याय
CHAPTERI.Thestudiowasfilledwiththerichodourofroses,andwhenthelightsummerwindstirredamidstthetreesofthegarden,therecamethroughtheopendoortheheavy
गंध
scentofthelilac,orthemoreनाजुक
delicateperfumeofthepink-floweringthorn.FromthecornerofthedivanofPersiansaddle-bagsonwhichhewaslying,smoking,aswashiscustom,innumerablecigarettes,LordHenryWottoncouldjustcatchthegleamofthehoney-sweetandhoney-colouredblossomsofalaburnum,whosetremulousbranchesseemedhardlyabletobearthe
बोझ
burdenofabeautysoflamelikeastheirs;andnowandthenthefantasticshadowsofbirdsinflightflittedacrossthelongtussore-silkcurtainsthatwerestretchedinfrontofthehugewindow,producingakindofmomentaryJapaneseeffect,andmakinghimthinkofthosepallid,jade-facedpaintersofTokyowho,throughthemediumofanartthatisnecessarilyimmobile,seekto
व्यक्त
conveythesenseofswiftnessandगति
motion.Thesullenmurmurofthebeesshoulderingtheirwaythroughthelongunmowngrass,orcirclingwithmonotonousinsistenceroundthe
धूल
dustygilthornsofthestragglingwoodbine,seemedtomakethestillnessmoreदमनकारी
oppressive.ThedimroarofLondonwaslikethebourdonnoteofa
दूर
distantorgan.Inthecentreoftheroom,clampedtoan
सीधा
uprighteasel,stoodthefull-lengthचित्र
portraitofayoungmanofextraordinarypersonalbeauty,andinfrontofit,somelittledistanceaway,wassittingtheartisthimself,BasilHallward,whosesuddenगायब
disappearancesomeyearsagocaused,atthetime,suchpublicउत्तेजना
excitementandgaverisetosomanystrangeconjectures.Asthe
चित्रकार
painterlookedatthegraciousandcomelyformhehadsoskilfullymirroredinhisart,asmileofpleasurepassedacrosshisface,andseemedabouttolingerthere.Buthesuddenlystartedup,andclosinghiseyes,placedhisfingersuponthelids,asthoughhesoughtto
कैद
imprisonwithinhisbrainsomecuriousdreamfromwhichhefearedhemightawake.“Itisyourbestwork,
बेसिल
Basil,thebestthingyouhaveeverdone,”saidLordHenrylanguidly.“YoumustcertainlysenditnextyeartotheGrosvenor.
The
अकादमी
Academyistoolargeandtoovulgar.WheneverIhavegonethere,therehavebeeneithersomanypeoplethatIhavenotbeenabletoseethepictures,whichwas
भयानक
dreadful,orsomanypicturesthatIhavenotbeenabletoseethepeople,whichwasworse.TheGrosvenorisreallytheonlyplace.”
“Idon’tthinkIshallsenditanywhere,”heanswered,tossinghisheadbackinthatoddwaythatusedtomakehisfriendslaughathimatOxford.
“No,Iwon’tsenditanywhere.”
LordHenryelevatedhiseyebrowsandlookedathiminamazementthroughthethinbluewreathsofsmokethatcurledupinsuchfancifulwhorlsfromhisheavy,opium-taintedcigarette.
“Notsenditanywhere?
Mydearfellow,why?
Haveyouanyreason?
Whatoddchapsyoupaintersare!
Youdoanythingintheworldto
प्राप्त
gainareputation.Assoonasyouhaveone,youseemtowanttothrowitaway.
Itissillyofyou,forthereisonlyonethingintheworldworsethanbeingtalkedabout,andthatisnotbeingtalkedabout.
A
चित्र
portraitlikethiswouldsetyoufarabovealltheyoungmeninEngland,andmaketheoldmenquitejealous,ifoldmenareevercapableofanyemotion.”“Iknowyouwilllaughatme,”hereplied,“butIreallycan’texhibitit.
Ihaveputtoomuchofmyselfintoit.”
LordHenrystretchedhimselfoutonthedivanandlaughed.
“Yes,Iknewyouwould;
butitisquitetrue,allthesame.”
“Toomuchofyourselfinit!
Uponmyword,
बेसिल
Basil,Ididn’tknowyouweresovain;andIreallycan’tseeany
समानता
resemblancebetweenyou,withyourruggedstrongfaceandyourcoal-blackhair,andthisyoungAdonis,wholooksasifhewasmadeoutofivoryandrose-leaves.Why,mydear
बेसिल
Basil,heisaNarcissus,andyou—well,ofcourseyouhaveanबौद्धिक
intellectualexpressionandallthat.Butbeauty,realbeauty,endswherean
बौद्धिक
intellectualexpressionbegins.Intellectisinitselfamodeof
अतिशयोक्ति
exaggeration,anddestroystheharmonyofanyface.Themomentonesitsdowntothink,onebecomesallnose,orall
माथे
forehead,orsomethinghorrid.Lookatthesuccessfulmeninanyofthelearnedprofessions.
Howperfectly
घृणित
hideoustheyare!Except,ofcourse,intheChurch.
ButthenintheChurchtheydon’tthink.
A
बिशप
bishopkeepsonsayingattheageofeightywhathewastoldtosaywhenhewasaboyofeighteen,andasanaturalपरिणाम
consequencehealwayslooksabsolutelydelightful.Your
रहस्यमय
mysteriousyoungfriend,whosenameyouhavenevertoldme,butwhosepicturereallyfascinatesme,neverthinks.Ifeelquitesureofthat.
Heissomebrainlessbeautifulcreaturewhoshouldbealwayshereinwinterwhenwehavenoflowerstolookat,andalwayshereinsummerwhenwewantsomethingtochillourintelligence.
Don’t
चापलूसी
flatteryourself,Basil:youarenotintheleastlikehim.”
“Youdon’tunderstandme,Harry,”answeredtheartist.
“OfcourseIamnotlikehim.
Iknowthatperfectlywell.
Indeed,Ishouldbesorrytolooklikehim.
Youshrugyourshoulders?
Iamtellingyouthetruth.
Thereisafatalityaboutallphysicaland
बौद्धिक
intellectualdistinction,thesortoffatalitythatseemstodogthroughhistorythefalteringstepsofkings.Itisbetternottobedifferentfromone’sfellows.
Theuglyandthestupidhavethebestofitinthisworld.
Theycansitattheireaseandgapeattheplay.
Iftheyknownothingofvictory,theyareatleastsparedtheknowledgeofdefeat.
Theyliveasweallshouldlive—undisturbed,
उदासीन
indifferent,andwithoutdisquiet.Theyneitherbringruinuponothers,noreverreceiveitfromalienhands.
Your
रैंक
rankandwealth,Harry;mybrains,suchastheyare—myart,whateveritmaybeworth;
DorianGray’sgoodlooks—weshallallsufferforwhatthegodshavegivenus,sufferterribly.”
“Dorian
ग्रे
Gray?Isthathisname?”
askedLordHenry,walkingacrossthestudiotowards
बेसिल
BasilHallward.“Yes,thatishisname.
Ididn’t
इरादा
intendtotellittoyou.”“Butwhynot?”
“Oh,Ican’texplain.
WhenIlikepeopleimmensely,Inevertelltheirnamestoanyone.
Itislikesurrenderingapartofthem.
Ihavegrowntolovesecrecy.
Itseemstobetheonethingthatcanmakemodernlife
रहस्यमय
mysteriousormarvelloustous.Thecommonestthingisdelightfulifoneonlyhidesit.
WhenIleavetownnowInevertellmypeoplewhereIamgoing.
IfIdid,Iwouldloseallmypleasure.
Itisasilly
आदत
habit,Idaresay,butsomehowitseemstobringagreatdealofरोमांस
romanceintoone’slife.Isupposeyouthinkmeawfullyfoolishaboutit?”
“Notatall,”answeredLordHenry,“notatall,mydearBasil.
YouseemtoforgetthatIammarried,andtheone
आकर्षण
charmofmarriageisthatitmakesalifeofdeceptionabsolutelynecessaryforbothparties.Ineverknowwheremywifeis,andmywifeneverknowswhatIamdoing.
Whenwemeet—wedomeetoccasionally,whenwedineouttogether,orgodowntotheDuke’s—wetelleachotherthemostabsurdstorieswiththemostseriousfaces.
Mywifeisverygoodatit—muchbetter,infact,thanIam.
Shenevergetsconfusedoverherdates,andIalwaysdo.
Butwhenshedoesfindmeout,shemakesnorowatall.
Isometimeswishshewould;
butshe
केवल
merelylaughsatme.”“Ihatethewayyoutalkaboutyourmarriedlife,Harry,”said
बेसिल
BasilHallward,strollingtowardsthedoorthatledintothegarden.“Ibelievethatyouarereallyaverygoodhusband,butthatyouarethoroughlyashamedofyourownvirtues.
Youareanextraordinaryfellow.
Youneversaya
नैतिक
moralthing,andyouneverdoawrongthing.Yourcynicismissimplyapose.”
“Beingnaturalissimplya
मुद्रा
pose,andthemostirritatingमुद्रा
poseIknow,”criedLordHenry,laughing;andthetwoyoungmenwentoutintothegardentogetherandensconcedthemselvesonalong
बांस
bambooseatthatstoodintheछाया
shadeofatalllaurelbush.The
धूप
sunlightslippedoverthepolishedleaves.Inthegrass,whitedaisiesweretremulous.
Afterapause,LordHenrypulledouthiswatch.
“IamafraidImustbegoing,Basil,”hemurmured,“andbeforeIgo,I
जोर
insistonyouransweringaquestionIputtoyousometimeago.”“Whatisthat?”
saidthe
चित्रकार
painter,keepinghiseyesfixedontheground.“Youknowquitewell.”
“Idonot,Harry.”
“Well,Iwilltellyouwhatitis.
Iwantyoutoexplaintomewhyyouwon’texhibitDorianGray’spicture.
Iwanttherealreason.”
“Itoldyoutherealreason.”
“No,youdidnot.
Yousaiditwasbecausetherewastoomuchofyourselfinit.
Now,thatischildish.”
“Harry,”said
बेसिल
BasilHallward,lookinghimstraightintheface,“everyचित्र
portraitthatispaintedwithfeelingisaचित्र
portraitoftheartist,notofthesitter.Thesitteris
केवल
merelytheaccident,theoccasion.Itisnothewhoisrevealedbythe
चित्रकार
painter;itisratherthe
चित्रकार
painterwho,onthecolouredकैनवास
canvas,revealshimself.ThereasonIwillnotexhibitthispictureisthatIamafraidthatIhaveshowninitthesecretofmyownsoul.”
LordHenrylaughed.
“Andwhatisthat?”
heasked.
“Iwilltellyou,”saidHallward;
butanexpressionofperplexitycameoverhisface.
“Iamall
उम्मीद
expectation,Basil,”continuedhiscompanion,glancingathim.“Oh,thereisreallyverylittletotell,Harry,”answeredthe
चित्रकार
painter;“andIamafraidyouwillhardlyunderstandit.
Perhapsyouwillhardlybelieveit.”
LordHenrysmiled,andleaningdown,pluckedapink-petalled
डेज़ी
daisyfromthegrassandexaminedit.“IamquitesureIshallunderstandit,”hereplied,gazingintentlyatthelittlegolden,white-feathered
डिस्क
disk,“andasforbelievingthings,Icanbelieveanything,providedthatitisquiteincredible.”Thewindshooksomeblossomsfromthetrees,andtheheavylilac-blooms,withtheirclusteringstars,movedtoandfrointhelanguidair.
Agrasshopperbegantochirrupbythewall,andlikeabluethreadalongthindragon-flyfloatedpastonitsbrowngauzewings.
LordHenryfeltasifhecouldhear
बेसिल
BasilHallward’sheartbeating,andwonderedwhatwascoming.“Thestoryissimplythis,”saidthe
चित्रकार
painteraftersometime.“TwomonthsagoIwenttoa
क्रश
crushatLadyBrandon’s.Youknowwepoorartistshavetoshowourselvesinsocietyfromtimetotime,justtoremindthepublicthatwearenotsavages.
Withaneveningcoatandawhitetie,asyoutoldmeonce,anybody,evenastock-broker,can
प्राप्त
gainareputationforbeingसभ्य
civilized.Well,afterIhadbeenintheroomabouttenminutes,talkingtohugeoverdresseddowagersandtediousacademicians,Isuddenlybecameconsciousthatsomeonewaslookingatme.
Iturned
आधे रास्ते
half-wayroundandsawDorianग्रे
Grayforthefirsttime.Whenoureyesmet,IfeltthatIwasgrowing
पीला
pale.Acurioussensationofterrorcameoverme.
IknewthatIhadcomefacetofacewithsomeonewhosemere
व्यक्तित्व
personalitywassofascinatingthat,ifIallowedittodoso,itwouldअवशोषित
absorbmywholenature,mywholesoul,myveryartitself.Ididnotwantany
बाहरी
externalinfluenceinmylife.Youknowyourself,Harry,how
स्वतंत्र
independentIambynature.Ihavealwaysbeenmyownmaster;
hadatleastalwaysbeenso,tillImetDorian
ग्रे
Gray.Then—butIdon’tknowhowtoexplainittoyou.
SomethingseemedtotellmethatIwasonthe
कगार
vergeofaterriblecrisisinmylife.Ihadastrangefeelingthatfatehadinstoreformeexquisitejoysandexquisitesorrows.
Igrewafraidandturnedtoquittheroom.
Itwasnot
विवेक
consciencethatmademedoso:itwasasortof
कायरता
cowardice.Itakenocredittomyselffortryingtoescape.”
“Conscienceand
कायरता
cowardicearereallythesamethings,बेसिल
Basil.Conscienceisthetrade-nameofthefirm.
Thatisall.”
“Idon’tbelievethat,Harry,andIdon’tbelieveyoudoeither.
However,whateverwasmymotive—anditmayhavebeenpride,forIusedtobeveryproud—Icertainlystruggledtothedoor.
There,ofcourse,IstumbledagainstLadyBrandon.
‘Youarenotgoingtorunawaysosoon,Mr.Hallward?’shescreamedout.
Youknowhercuriouslyshrillvoice?”
“Yes;
sheisa
मोर
peacockineverythingbutbeauty,”saidLordHenry,pullingthedaisytobitswithhislongnervousfingers.“Icouldnotgetridofher.
Shebroughtmeuptoroyalties,andpeoplewithstarsandgarters,andelderlyladieswithgigantictiarasandparrotnoses.
Shespokeofmeasherdearestfriend.
Ihadonlymetheroncebefore,butshetookitintoherheadtolionizeme.
Ibelievesomepictureofminehadmadeagreatsuccessatthetime,atleasthadbeenchatteredaboutinthepennynewspapers,whichisthenineteenth-century
मानक
standardofimmortality.SuddenlyIfoundmyselffacetofacewiththeyoungmanwhose
व्यक्तित्व
personalityhadsostrangelystirredme.