The Picture of Dorian Gray | Gradually Hardening Italian B2 Books

The Picture of Dorian Gray | Gradually Hardening Italian B2 Books

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THEPREFACE
Theartististhe
creatore
creator
ofbeautifulthings.
To
rivelare
reveal
artandconcealtheartistisart’saim.
The
critico
critic
ishewhocan
tradurre
translate
intoanothermanneroranewmaterialhis
impressione
impression
ofbeautifulthings.
Thehighestasthelowestformof
critica
criticism
isamodeofautobiography.
Thosewhofinduglymeaningsinbeautifulthingsarecorruptwithoutbeingcharming.
Thisisafault.
Thosewhofindbeautifulmeaningsinbeautifulthingsarethecultivated.
Forthesethereishope.
Theyaretheelecttowhombeautifulthingsmeanonlybeauty.
Thereisnosuchthingasa
morale
moral
oranimmoralbook.
Booksarewellwritten,orbadlywritten.
Thatisall.
Thenineteenthcenturydislikeofrealismisthe
rabbia
rage
ofCalibanseeinghisownfaceinaglass.
Thenineteenthcenturydislikeofromanticismisthe
rabbia
rage
ofCalibannotseeinghisownfaceinaglass.
The
morale
moral
lifeofmanformspartofthesubject-matteroftheartist,butthe
moralità
morality
ofartconsistsintheperfectuseofan
imperfetto
imperfect
medium.
Noartistdesirestoproveanything.
Eventhingsthataretruecanbeproved.
Noartisthasethicalsympathies.
Anethical
simpatia
sympathy
inanartistisanunpardonablemannerismofstyle.
Noartistisever
morboso
morbid
.
Theartistcanexpresseverything.
Thoughtandlanguagearetotheartistinstrumentsofanart.
Viceand
virtù
virtue
aretotheartistmaterialsforanart.
Fromthepointofviewofform,thetypeofalltheartsistheartofthe
musicista
musician
.
Fromthepointofviewoffeeling,theactor’scraftisthetype.
Allartisatoncesurfaceand
simbolo
symbol
.
Thosewhogobeneaththesurfacedosoattheirperil.
Thosewhoreadthe
simbolo
symbol
dosoattheirperil.
Itisthespectator,andnotlife,thatartreallymirrors.
Diversità
Diversity
ofopinionaboutaworkofartshowsthattheworkisnew,complex,and
vitale
vital
.
Whencriticsdisagree,theartistisinaccordwithhimself.
Wecanforgiveamanformakingausefulthingaslongashedoesnot
ammira
admire
it.
Theonlyexcuseformakingauselessthingisthatoneadmiresit
intensamente
intensely
.
Allartisquiteuseless.
Capitolo
CHAPTER
I.
Thestudiowasfilledwiththerichodourofroses,andwhenthelightsummerwindstirredamidstthetreesofthegarden,therecamethroughtheopendoortheheavyscentofthelilac,orthemore
delicato
delicate
perfumeofthepink-flowering
spina
thorn
.
FromthecornerofthedivanofPersiansaddle-bagsonwhichhewaslying,smoking,aswashiscustom,innumerablecigarettes,LordHenryWottoncouldjustcatchthegleamofthehoney-sweetandhoney-colouredblossomsofalaburnum,whosetremulousbranchesseemedhardlyabletobearthe
peso
burden
ofabeautysoflamelikeastheirs;
andnowandthenthefantasticshadowsofbirdsinflightflittedacrossthelongtussore-silkcurtainsthatwerestretchedinfrontofthehugewindow,producingakindofmomentaryJapaneseeffect,andmakinghimthinkofthosepallid,jade-facedpaintersofTokyowho,throughthe
mezzo
medium
ofanartthatis
necessariamente
necessarily
immobile,seektoconveythesenseofswiftnessandmotion.
Thesullenmurmurofthebeesshoulderingtheirwaythroughthelongunmowngrass,orcirclingwithmonotonousinsistenceroundthedustygilthornsofthestragglingwoodbine,seemedtomakethestillnessmoreoppressive.
The
fioco
dim
roarofLondonwaslikethebourdonnoteofa
lontano
distant
organ.
Inthecentreoftheroom,clampedtoan
verticale
upright
easel,stoodthefull-length
ritratto
portrait
ofayoungmanofextraordinarypersonalbeauty,andinfrontofit,somelittledistanceaway,wassittingtheartisthimself,BasilHallward,whosesudden
scomparsa
disappearance
someyearsagocaused,atthetime,suchpublic
eccitazione
excitement
andgaverisetosomanystrangeconjectures.
Asthe
pittore
painter
lookedatthegraciousandcomelyformhehadsoskilfullymirroredinhisart,asmileofpleasurepassedacrosshisface,andseemedabouttolingerthere.
Buthesuddenlystartedup,andclosinghiseyes,placedhisfingersuponthelids,asthoughhesoughttoimprisonwithinhisbrainsomecuriousdreamfromwhichhefearedhemightawake.
“Itisyourbestwork,Basil,thebestthingyouhaveeverdone,”saidLordHenrylanguidly.
“YoumustcertainlysenditnextyeartotheGrosvenor.
TheAcademyistoolargeandtoo
volgare
vulgar
.
WheneverIhavegonethere,therehavebeeneithersomanypeoplethatIhavenotbeenabletoseethepictures,whichwas
terribile
dreadful
,orsomanypicturesthatIhavenotbeenabletoseethepeople,whichwasworse.
TheGrosvenorisreallytheonlyplace.”
“Idon’tthinkIshallsenditanywhere,”heanswered,tossinghisheadbackinthatoddwaythatusedtomakehisfriendslaughathimatOxford.
“No,Iwon’tsenditanywhere.”
LordHenryelevatedhiseyebrowsandlookedathiminamazementthroughthethinbluewreathsofsmokethat
arricciavano
curled
upinsuchfancifulwhorlsfromhisheavy,opium-taintedcigarette.
“Notsenditanywhere?
Mydearfellow,why?
Haveyouanyreason?
Whatoddchapsyoupaintersare!
Youdoanythingintheworldtogainareputation.
Assoonasyouhaveone,youseemtowanttothrowitaway.
Itissillyofyou,forthereisonlyonethingintheworldworsethanbeingtalkedabout,andthatisnotbeingtalkedabout.
A
ritratto
portrait
likethiswouldsetyoufarabovealltheyoungmeninEngland,andmaketheoldmenquitejealous,ifoldmenareevercapableofanyemotion.”
“Iknowyouwilllaughatme,”hereplied,“butIreallycan’texhibitit.
Ihaveputtoomuchofmyselfintoit.”
LordHenrystretchedhimselfoutonthedivanandlaughed.
“Yes,Iknewyouwould;
butitisquitetrue,allthesame.”
“Toomuchofyourselfinit!
Uponmyword,Basil,Ididn’tknowyouweresovain;
andIreallycan’tseeany
somiglianza
resemblance
betweenyou,withyourruggedstrongfaceandyourcoal-blackhair,andthisyoungAdonis,wholooksasifhewasmadeoutof
avorio
ivory
androse-leaves.
Why,mydearBasil,heisaNarcissus,andyou—well,ofcourseyouhavean
intellettuale
intellectual
expressionandallthat.
Butbeauty,realbeauty,endswherean
intellettuale
intellectual
expressionbegins.
Intellectisinitselfa
modo
mode
ofexaggeration,anddestroystheharmonyofanyface.
Themomentonesitsdowntothink,onebecomesallnose,orallforehead,orsomething
orribile
horrid
.
Lookatthesuccessfulmeninanyofthelearnedprofessions.
Howperfectlyhideoustheyare!
Except,ofcourse,intheChurch.
ButthenintheChurchtheydon’tthink.
A
vescovo
bishop
keepsonsayingattheageofeightywhathewastoldtosaywhenhewasaboyofeighteen,andasanaturalconsequencehealwayslooksabsolutely
delizioso
delightful
.
Yourmysteriousyoungfriend,whosenameyouhavenevertoldme,butwhosepicturereallyfascinatesme,neverthinks.
Ifeelquitesureofthat.
Heissomebrainlessbeautifulcreaturewhoshouldbealwayshereinwinterwhenwehavenoflowerstolookat,andalwayshereinsummerwhenwewantsomethingtochillourintelligence.
Don’t
adulare
flatter
yourself,Basil:
youarenotintheleastlikehim.”
“Youdon’tunderstandme,Harry,”answeredtheartist.
“OfcourseIamnotlikehim.
Iknowthatperfectlywell.
Indeed,Ishouldbesorrytolooklikehim.
Youshrugyourshoulders?
Iamtellingyouthetruth.
Thereisafatalityaboutallphysicaland
intellettuale
intellectual
distinction,thesortoffatalitythatseemstodogthroughhistorythefalteringstepsofkings.
Itisbetternottobedifferentfromone’sfellows.
Theuglyandthestupidhavethebestofitinthisworld.
Theycansitattheir
agio
ease
andgapeattheplay.
Iftheyknownothingofvictory,theyareatleastsparedtheknowledgeofdefeat.
Theyliveasweallshouldlive—undisturbed,indifferent,andwithoutdisquiet.
Theyneitherbringruinuponothers,noreverreceiveitfromalienhands.
Your
rango
rank
andwealth,Harry;
mybrains,suchastheyare—myart,whateveritmaybeworth;
DorianGray’sgoodlooks—weshallallsufferforwhatthegodshavegivenus,sufferterribly.”
“DorianGray?
Isthathisname?”
askedLordHenry,walkingacrossthestudiotowardsBasilHallward.
“Yes,thatishisname.
Ididn’tintendtotellittoyou.”
“Butwhynot?”
“Oh,Ican’texplain.
WhenIlikepeople
immensamente
immensely
,Inevertelltheirnamestoanyone.
Itislikesurrenderingapartofthem.
Ihavegrowntolovesecrecy.
Itseemstobetheonethingthatcanmakemodernlifemysteriousormarvelloustous.
Thecommonestthingisdelightfulifoneonlyhidesit.
WhenIleavetownnowInevertellmypeoplewhereIamgoing.
IfIdid,Iwouldloseallmypleasure.
Itisasillyhabit,Idaresay,butsomehowitseemstobringagreatdealof
romanticismo
romance
intoone’slife.
Isupposeyouthinkme
terribilmente
awfully
foolishaboutit?”
“Notatall,”answeredLordHenry,“notatall,mydearBasil.
YouseemtoforgetthatIammarried,andtheonecharmofmarriageisthatitmakesalifeof
inganno
deception
absolutelynecessaryforbothparties.
Ineverknowwheremywifeis,andmywifeneverknowswhatIamdoing.
Whenwemeet—wedomeetoccasionally,whenwedineouttogether,orgodowntotheDuke’s—wetelleachotherthemostabsurdstorieswiththemostseriousfaces.
Mywifeisverygoodatit—muchbetter,infact,thanIam.
Shenevergetsconfusedoverherdates,andIalwaysdo.
Butwhenshedoesfindmeout,shemakesnorowatall.
Isometimeswishshewould;
butshemerelylaughsatme.”
“Ihatethewayyoutalkaboutyourmarriedlife,Harry,”saidBasilHallward,strollingtowardsthedoorthatledintothegarden.
“Ibelievethatyouarereallyaverygoodhusband,butthatyouarethoroughlyashamedofyourownvirtues.
Youareanextraordinaryfellow.
Youneversaya
morale
moral
thing,andyouneverdoawrongthing.
Yourcynicismissimplyapose.”
“Beingnaturalissimplyapose,andthemost
irritante
irritating
poseIknow,”criedLordHenry,laughing;
andthetwoyoungmenwentoutintothegardentogetherandensconcedthemselvesonalong
bambù
bamboo
seatthatstoodintheshadeofatall
alloro
laurel
bush.
Thesunlightslippedoverthepolishedleaves.
Inthegrass,whitedaisiesweretremulous.
Aftera
pausa
pause
,LordHenrypulledouthiswatch.
“IamafraidImustbegoing,Basil,”hemurmured,“andbeforeIgo,I
insisto
insist
onyouransweringaquestionIputtoyousometimeago.”
“Whatisthat?”
saidthe
pittore
painter
,keepinghiseyesfixedontheground.
“Youknowquitewell.”
“Idonot,Harry.”
“Well,Iwilltellyouwhatitis.
Iwantyoutoexplaintomewhyyouwon’t
esporre
exhibit
DorianGray’spicture.
Iwanttherealreason.”
“Itoldyoutherealreason.”
“No,youdidnot.
Yousaiditwasbecausetherewastoomuchofyourselfinit.
Now,thatischildish.”
“Harry,”saidBasilHallward,lookinghimstraightintheface,“every
ritratto
portrait
thatispaintedwithfeelingisa
ritratto
portrait
oftheartist,notofthesitter.
Thesitterismerelytheaccident,theoccasion.
Itisnothewhois
rivelato
revealed
bythepainter;
itisratherthe
pittore
painter
who,onthecoloured
tela
canvas
,revealshimself.
ThereasonIwillnot
esporrò
exhibit
thispictureisthatIamafraidthatIhaveshowninitthesecretofmyownsoul.”
LordHenrylaughed.
“Andwhatisthat?”
heasked.
“Iwilltellyou,”saidHallward;
butanexpressionofperplexitycameoverhisface.
“Iamallexpectation,Basil,”continuedhis
compagno
companion
,glancingathim.
“Oh,thereisreallyverylittletotell,Harry,”answeredthe
pittore
painter
;
“andIamafraidyouwillhardlyunderstandit.
Perhapsyouwillhardlybelieveit.”
LordHenrysmiled,andleaningdown,pluckedapink-petalled
margherita
daisy
fromthegrassandexaminedit.
“IamquitesureIshallunderstandit,”hereplied,gazingintentlyatthelittlegolden,white-feathered
disco
disk
,“andasforbelievingthings,Icanbelieveanything,providedthatitisquiteincredible.”
Thewindshooksomeblossomsfromthetrees,andtheheavylilac-blooms,withtheirclusteringstars,movedtoandfrointhelanguidair.
Agrasshopperbegantochirrupbythewall,andlikeablue
filo
thread
alongthindragon-fly
galleggiava
floated
pastonitsbrowngauzewings.
LordHenryfeltasifhecouldhearBasilHallward’sheartbeating,andwonderedwhatwascoming.
“Thestoryissimplythis,”saidthe
pittore
painter
aftersometime.
“TwomonthsagoIwenttoacrushatLadyBrandon’s.
Youknowwepoorartistshavetoshowourselvesinsocietyfromtimetotime,justtoremindthepublicthatwearenotsavages.
Withaneveningcoatandawhitetie,asyoutoldmeonce,anybody,evenastock-broker,can
guadagnare
gain
areputationforbeingcivilized.
Well,afterIhadbeenintheroomabouttenminutes,talkingtohugeoverdresseddowagersandtediousacademicians,Isuddenlybecameconsciousthatsomeonewaslookingatme.
Iturnedhalf-wayroundandsawDorianGrayforthefirsttime.
Whenoureyesmet,IfeltthatIwasgrowing
pallido
pale
.
Acurioussensationof
terrore
terror
cameoverme.
IknewthatIhadcomefacetofacewithsomeonewhose
semplice
mere
personalitywassofascinatingthat,ifIallowedittodoso,itwould
assorbito
absorb
mywholenature,mywholesoul,myveryartitself.
Ididnotwantanyexternal
influenza
influence
inmylife.
Youknowyourself,Harry,how
indipendente
independent
Iambynature.
Ihavealwaysbeenmyownmaster;
hadatleastalwaysbeenso,tillImetDorianGray.
Then—butIdon’tknowhowtoexplainittoyou.
SomethingseemedtotellmethatIwasonthevergeofaterriblecrisisinmylife.
Ihadastrangefeelingthatfatehadinstoreformeexquisitejoysandexquisitesorrows.
Igrewafraidandturnedtoquittheroom.
Itwasnot
coscienza
conscience
thatmademedoso:
itwasasortof
codardia
cowardice
.
Itakenocredittomyselffortryingtoescape.”
“Conscienceand
codardia
cowardice
arereallythesamethings,Basil.
Coscienza
Conscience
isthetrade-nameofthefirm.
Thatisall.”
“Idon’tbelievethat,Harry,andIdon’tbelieveyoudoeither.
However,whateverwasmymotive—anditmayhavebeenpride,forIusedtobeveryproud—Icertainlystruggledtothedoor.
There,ofcourse,IstumbledagainstLady
Brandon
Brandon
.
‘Youarenotgoingtorunawaysosoon,Mr.Hallward?’shescreamedout.
Youknowhercuriouslyshrillvoice?”
“Yes;
sheisa
pavone
peacock
ineverythingbutbeauty,”saidLordHenry,pullingthe
margherita
daisy
tobitswithhislongnervousfingers.
“Icouldnotgetridofher.
Shebroughtmeuptoroyalties,andpeoplewithstarsandgarters,andelderlyladieswithgigantictiarasand
pappagallo
parrot
noses.
Shespokeofmeasherdearestfriend.
Ihadonlymetheroncebefore,butshetookitintoherheadtolionizeme.
Ibelievesomepictureofminehadmadeagreatsuccessatthetime,atleasthadbeenchatteredaboutinthepennynewspapers,whichisthenineteenth-century
standard
standard
ofimmortality.
SuddenlyIfoundmyselffacetofacewiththeyoungmanwhose
personalità
personality
hadsostrangelystirredme.