THEPREFACE
Theartistis
il
thecreatorofbeautifulthings.Torevealart
e
andconcealtheartistisart’saim.Thecriticishe
che
whocantranslateintoanothermannero
oranewmaterialhisimpressionofbeautifulthings.La
Thehighestasthelowestformofcriticismisun
amodeofautobiography.Those
che
whofinduglymeaningsinbeautifulthingsarecorruptsenza
withoutbeingcharming.Thisis
un
afault.Thosewhofindbeautifulmeaningsinbeautifulthingsare
i
thecultivated.Forthesethereis
speranza
hope.Theyaretheelecttowhombeautifulthings
significano
meanonlybeauty.Thereis
non
nosuchthingasamoralo
oranimmoralbook.Booksarewellwritten,
o
orbadlywritten.Thatis
tutto
all.ThenineteenthcenturydislikeofrealismistherageofCaliban
vede
seeinghisownfaceinaglass.ThenineteenthcenturydislikeofromanticismistherageofCalibannot
visto
seeinghisownfaceinaglass.La
Themorallifeofmanformsparte
partofthesubject-matterofla
theartist,butthemoralityofartconsistsinla
theperfectuseofanimperfectmedium.Nessun
Noartistdesirestoprovequalcosa
anything.Eventhingsthataretruecanbeproved.
Nessun
Noartisthasethicalsympathies.Anethicalsympathyinanartistisanunpardonablemannerismofstyle.
Nessun
Noartistisevermorbid.Theartistcanexpress
tutto
everything.Thoughtandlanguageareto
il
theartistinstrumentsofanart.Vice
e
andvirtuearetotheartistmaterialsforun
anart.Fromthepointofviewofform,thetypeof
tutte
alltheartsistheartofthemusician.From
il
thepointofviewoffeeling,il
theactor’scraftisthetype.Allartisatoncesurface
e
andsymbol.Thosewhogobeneath
la
thesurfacedosoattheirperil.Those
che
whoreadthesymboldosoattheirperil.Itisthespectator,
e
andnotlife,thatartreallymirrors.Diversityofopinion
su
aboutaworkofartmostra
showsthattheworkisnew,complex,e
andvital.Whencriticsdisagree,
i
theartistisinaccordwithhimself.Wecanforgivea
uomo
manformakingausefulcosa
thingaslongashefatto
doesnotadmireit.Theonly
scusa
excuseformakingauselesscosa
thingisthatoneadmiresitintensely.Tutto
Allartisquiteuseless.CHAPTERI.
Il
Thestudiowasfilledwithil
therichodourofroses,e
andwhenthelightsummerwindstirredamidstil
thetreesofthegarden,therecamethroughil
theopendoortheheavyscentofil
thelilac,orthemoredelicateperfumeofil
thepink-floweringthorn.FromthecornerofthedivanofPersiansaddle-bagson
cui
whichhewaslying,smoking,aswashiscustom,innumerablecigarettes,LordHenryWottoncouldjustcatchthegleamofthehoney-sweete
andhoney-colouredblossomsofalaburnum,whosetremulousbranchesseemedhardlyabletobeartheburdenofabeautysoflamelikeastheirs;e
andnowandthenthefantasticshadowsofbirdsinflightflittedacrossthelongtussore-silkcurtainsthatwerestretchedindavanti
frontofthehugewindow,producingakindofmomentaryJapaneseeffect,e
andmakinghimthinkofthosepallid,jade-facedpaintersofTokyowho,throughthemediumofanartthatisnecessarilyimmobile,seektoconveythesenseofswiftnesse
andmotion.Thesullenmurmurofthebeesshoulderingtheir
strada
waythroughthelongunmowngrass,o
orcirclingwithmonotonousinsistenceroundthedustygilthornsofthestragglingwoodbine,seemedtorendere
makethestillnessmoreoppressive.ThedimroarofLondonwas
come
likethebourdonnoteofun
adistantorgan.Inthecentreoftheroom,clampedtoanuprighteasel,stoodthefull-lengthportraitofa
giovane
youngmanofextraordinarypersonalbeauty,e
andinfrontofit,qualche
somelittledistanceaway,wasseduto
sittingtheartisthimself,BasilHallward,whosesuddendisappearancequalche
someyearsagocaused,atthetime,tale
suchpublicexcitementandgaverisetosomanystrangeconjectures.Asthepainter
guardava
lookedatthegraciousandcomelyformheaveva
hadsoskilfullymirroredinhisart,un
asmileofpleasurepassedacrosshisviso
face,andseemedabouttolingerthere.Ma
Buthesuddenlystartedup,e
andclosinghiseyes,placedhisfingersuponle
thelids,asthoughhesoughttoimprisonwithinhisbrainsomecurioussogno
dreamfromwhichhefearedhemightawake.“Itisyour
migliore
bestwork,Basil,thebestcosa
thingyouhaveeverdone,”disse
saidLordHenrylanguidly.“You
dovrai
mustcertainlysenditnextyeartotheGrosvenor.TheAcademyistoolarge
e
andtoovulgar.WheneverIhave
andato
gonethere,therehavebeeneithersomanypersone
peoplethatIhavenotbeenabletovedere
seethepictures,whichwasdreadful,orsomanypicturesthatIhavenotbeenabletovedere
seethepeople,whichwasworse.Il
TheGrosvenorisreallytheonlyplace.”“Idon’tthinkIshallsenditanywhere,”he
rispose
answered,tossinghisheadbackinche
thatoddwaythatusedtofaceva
makehisfriendslaughathimatOxford.“No,Iwon’tsenditanywhere.”
LordHenryelevatedhiseyebrows
e
andlookedathiminamazementattraverso
throughthethinbluewreathsofsmokeche
thatcurledupinsuchfancifulwhorlsfromhisheavy,opium-taintedcigarette.“Notsenditanywhere?
My
caro
dearfellow,why?Haveyouany
motivo
reason?Whatoddchapsyoupainters
siete
are!Youdoanythinginthe
mondo
worldtogainareputation.As
appena
soonasyouhaveone,youseemtowanttothrowitaway.Itissillyofyou,forthereis
solo
onlyonethinginthemondo
worldworsethanbeingtalkedabout,e
andthatisnotbeingparlato
talkedabout.Aportraitlike
questo
thiswouldsetyoufarabovetutti
alltheyoungmeninEngland,e
andmaketheoldmenquitejealous,se
ifoldmenareevercapableofanyemotion.”“Iknowyouwilllaughatme,”hereplied,“butI
davvero
reallycan’texhibitit.I
ho
haveputtoomuchofmyselfintoit.”LordHenrystretchedhimselfoutonthedivan
e
andlaughed.“Yes,Iknewyouwould;
ma
butitisquitetrue,tutto
allthesame.”“Toomuchofyourselfin
esso
it!Uponmyword,Basil,Ididn’t
sapevo
knowyouweresovain;e
andIreallycan’tseeanyresemblancetra
betweenyou,withyourruggedstrongfaccia
faceandyourcoal-blackhair,e
andthisyoungAdonis,wholooksasifhewasmadeoutofivorye
androse-leaves.Why,mydearBasil,heisaNarcissus,
e
andyou—well,ofcourseyouhai
haveanintellectualexpressionandtutto
allthat.Butbeauty,realbeauty,ends
dove
whereanintellectualexpressionbegins.Intellectisinitself
un
amodeofexaggeration,anddestroystheharmonyofqualsiasi
anyface.Themomentone
siede
sitsdowntothink,onediventa
becomesallnose,orallforehead,o
orsomethinghorrid.Lookatthesuccessfulmenin
qualsiasi
anyofthelearnedprofessions.Come
Howperfectlyhideoustheyare!Except,ofcourse,intheChurch.
Ma
ButthenintheChurchtheydon’tpensano
think.Abishopkeepsonsayingattheageofeightywhathewastoldtosay
quando
whenhewasaboyofeighteen,e
andasanaturalconsequencehesempre
alwayslooksabsolutelydelightful.Yourmysterious
giovane
youngfriend,whosenameyouhai
havenevertoldme,butwhosepicturedavvero
reallyfascinatesme,neverthinks.Ifeel
abbastanza
quitesureofthat.Heissomebrainlessbeautifulcreature
che
whoshouldbealwayshereinwinterquando
whenwehavenoflowerstoguardare
lookat,andalwayshereinsummerquando
whenwewantsomethingtochillourintelligence.Don’tflatteryourself,Basil:
youarenotintheleast
come
likehim.”“Youdon’tunderstand
mi
me,Harry,”answeredtheartist.“OfcourseIamnot
come
likehim.Iknowthatperfectly
bene
well.Indeed,Ishouldbesorrytolooklike
lui
him.Youshrugyourshoulders?
Iam
dicendo
tellingyouthetruth.Thereis
una
afatalityaboutallphysicale
andintellectualdistinction,thesortoffatalityche
thatseemstodogthroughhistorythefalteringstepsofkings.Itis
meglio
betternottobedifferentfromone’sfellows.Theugly
e
andthestupidhavethemeglio
bestofitinthismondo
world.Theycansitattheirease
e
andgapeattheplay.Se
Iftheyknownothingofvictory,theyareatalmeno
leastsparedtheknowledgeofdefeat.They
vivere
liveasweallshouldlive—undisturbed,indifferent,e
andwithoutdisquiet.Theyneither
portano
bringruinuponothers,noreverreceiveitfromalienhands.Yourrank
e
andwealth,Harry;mybrains,suchastheyare—myart,
qualunque
whateveritmaybeworth;DorianGray’sgoodlooks—weshall
tutti
allsufferforwhatthegodshanno
havegivenus,sufferterribly.”“DorianGray?
Isthathisname?”
chiese
askedLordHenry,walkingacrossthestudiotowardsBasilHallward.“Yes,thatishis
nome
name.Ididn’tintendtotellittoyou.”
“But
perché
whynot?”“Oh,Ican’texplain.
Quando
WhenIlikepeopleimmensely,Ineverdico
telltheirnamestoanyone.Itis
come
likesurrenderingapartofloro
them.Ihavegrownto
amare
lovesecrecy.Itseemstobetheone
cosa
thingthatcanmakemodernvita
lifemysteriousormarvelloustous.Thecommonest
cosa
thingisdelightfulifonesolo
onlyhidesit.WhenI
lascio
leavetownnowIneverdico
tellmypeoplewhereIamvado
going.IfIdid,Iwould
perderei
loseallmypleasure.Itisasillyhabit,Idare
dire
say,butsomehowitseemstoportare
bringagreatdealofromanceintoone’svita
life.Isupposeyouthinkmeawfullyfoolishaboutit?”
“Notatall,”
rispose
answeredLordHenry,“notatall,mycaro
dearBasil.Youseemto
dimentichi
forgetthatIammarried,e
andtheonecharmofmarriageische
thatitmakesalifeofdeceptionabsolutelynecessaryforentrambe
bothparties.Ineverknow
dove
wheremywifeis,andmymoglie
wifeneverknowswhatIamfacendo
doing.Whenwemeet—wedo
incontriamo
meetoccasionally,whenwedineoutinsieme
together,orgodowntole
theDuke’s—wetelleachotherle
themostabsurdstorieswithle
themostseriousfaces.My
moglie
wifeisverygoodatit—muchmeglio
better,infact,thanIam.Shenevergetsconfusedoverherdates,
e
andIalwaysdo.But
quando
whenshedoesfindmeout,shefa
makesnorowatall.I
a volte
sometimeswishshewould;butshemerelylaughsatme.”
“Ihatethe
modo
wayyoutalkaboutyourmarriedvita
life,Harry,”saidBasilHallward,strollingtowardstheporta
doorthatledintothegarden.“I
credo
believethatyouarereallyun
averygoodhusband,butche
thatyouarethoroughlyashamedofyourownvirtues.Youare
un
anextraordinaryfellow.Younever
dici
sayamoralthing,andyouneverfai
doawrongthing.Yourcynicismissimply
una
apose.”“Beingnaturalissimply
una
apose,andthemostirritatingposeIknow,”criedLordHenry,laughing;e
andthetwoyoungmenwentuscirono
outintothegardentogethere
andensconcedthemselvesonalungo
longbambooseatthatstoodini
theshadeofatalllaurelbush.La
Thesunlightslippedoverthepolishedleaves.In
le
thegrass,whitedaisiesweretremulous.Dopo
Afterapause,LordHenrypulledfuori
outhiswatch.“IamafraidImustbe
andare
going,Basil,”hemurmured,“andbeforeIandare
go,Iinsistonyourrisponda
answeringaquestionIputtoyouqualche
sometimeago.”“Whatisthat?”
disse
saidthepainter,keepinghiseyesfixedonil
theground.“Youknowquitewell.”
“Idonot,Harry.”
“Well,Iwill
dirò
tellyouwhatitis.Iwantyoutoexplaintomewhyyouwon’texhibitDorianGray’spicture.
Iwant
la
therealreason.”“Itoldyou
il
therealreason.”“No,you
fatto
didnot.Yousaiditwasbecausetherewastoomuchofyourselfin
esso
it.Now,thatischildish.”
“Harry,”
disse
saidBasilHallward,lookinghimstraightinthefaccia
face,“everyportraitthatispaintedwithfeelingisun
aportraitoftheartist,notofthesitter.La
Thesitterismerelytheaccident,la
theoccasion.Itisnothe
che
whoisrevealedbythepainter;itisrather
il
thepainterwho,onthecolouredcanvas,revealshimself.The
ragione
reasonIwillnotexhibitquesto
thispictureisthatIamafraidche
thatIhaveshowninitthesecretofmyownsoul.”LordHenrylaughed.
“Andwhatisthat?”
he
chiesto
asked.“Iwilltellyou,”
disse
saidHallward;butanexpressionofperplexitycameoverhis
faccia
face.“Iamallexpectation,Basil,”continuedhiscompanion,glancingathim.
“Oh,thereis
davvero
reallyverylittletotell,Harry,”rispose
answeredthepainter;“andIamafraidyouwillhardlyunderstandit.
Forse
Perhapsyouwillhardlybelieveit.”LordHenrysmiled,
e
andleaningdown,pluckedapink-petalleddaisyfromthegrasse
andexaminedit.“Iam
abbastanza
quitesureIshallunderstandit,”hereplied,gazingintentlyatthepiccolo
littlegolden,white-feathereddisk,“andasforcredere
believingthings,Icanbelievequalsiasi cosa
anything,providedthatitisabbastanza
quiteincredible.”Thewindshook
alcuni
someblossomsfromthetrees,e
andtheheavylilac-blooms,withtheirclusteringstars,movedtoe
andfrointhelanguidair.Agrasshopperbegantochirrupbythewall,
e
andlikeabluethreadalongthindragon-flyfloatedpastonitsbrowngauzewings.LordHenryfeltas
se
ifhecouldhearBasilHallward’scuore
heartbeating,andwonderedwhatwascoming.“The
storia
storyissimplythis,”saidil
thepainteraftersometime.“Twomonths
fa
agoIwenttoacrushatLadyBrandon’s.You
sai
knowwepoorartistshavetoshowourselvesinsocietyfromtimetotime,solo
justtoremindthepublicche
thatwearenotsavages.Di
Withaneveningcoatandawhitetie,asyoudetto
toldmeonce,anybody,evenastock-broker,cangainareputationforbeingcivilized.Well,
dopo
afterIhadbeenintheroomcirca
abouttenminutes,talkingtohugeoverdresseddowagerse
andtediousacademicians,Isuddenlybecameconsciousche
thatsomeonewaslookingatme.I
girato
turnedhalf-wayroundandsawDorianGrayforla
thefirsttime.Whenoureyes
incontrarono
met,IfeltthatIwasgrowingpale.Una
Acurioussensationofterrorcameovermi
me.IknewthatI
avrebbe
hadcomefacetofacewithsomeonewhosemerepersonalitywassofascinatingche
that,ifIallowedittofaccia
doso,itwouldabsorbmywholenature,mywholesoul,myveryartitself.Ididnotwantanyexternalinfluenceinmy
vita
life.Youknowyourself,Harry,
quanto
howindependentIambynature.Ihave
sempre
alwaysbeenmyownmaster;ho
hadatleastalwaysbeenso,tillIincontrato
metDorianGray.Then—butIdon’t
so
knowhowtoexplainittoyou.Qualcosa
Somethingseemedtotellmeche
thatIwasonthevergeofuna
aterriblecrisisinmyvita
life.Ihadastrangefeeling
che
thatfatehadinstoreformeexquisitejoyse
andexquisitesorrows.Igrewafraid
e
andturnedtoquittheroom.Itwasnotconsciencethatmademedoso:
itwas
una
asortofcowardice.I
prendo
takenocredittomyselffortryingtoescape.”“Conscience
e
andcowardicearereallythesamethings,Basil.Conscienceisthetrade-nameofthefirm.
Thatisall.”
“Idon’tbelieve
che
that,Harry,andIdon’tbelieveyoudoeither.However,
qualunque
whateverwasmymotive—anditmayho
havebeenpride,forIusedtobeveryproud—Icertainlystruggledtotheporta
door.There,ofcourse,IstumbledagainstLadyBrandon.
‘Youarenotgoingtorunawayso
presto
soon,Mr.Hallward?’shescreamedout.Youknowhercuriouslyshrillvoice?”
“Yes;
sheis
un
apeacockineverythingbutbeauty,”disse
saidLordHenry,pullingthedaisytobitswithhislongnervousfingers.“Icouldnotgetridof
lei
her.Shebroughtmeuptoroyalties,
e
andpeoplewithstarsandgarters,e
andelderlyladieswithgigantictiarase
andparrotnoses.Shespokeofmeasherdearestfriend.
Ihad
solo
onlymetheroncebefore,ma
butshetookitintoherheadtolionizeme.I
credo
believesomepictureofminehadmadeun
agreatsuccessatthetime,atalmeno
leasthadbeenchatteredaboutinthepennynewspapers,che
whichisthenineteenth-centurystandardofimmortality.SuddenlyIfoundmyself
faccia
facetofacewiththegiovane
youngmanwhosepersonalityhadsostrangelystirredme.