THEPREFACE
Theartististhe
creatore
creatorofbeautifulthings.To
rivelare
revealartandconcealtheartistisart’saim.The
critico
criticishewhocantradurre
translateintoanothermanneroranewmaterialhisimpressione
impressionofbeautifulthings.Thehighestasthelowestformof
critica
criticismisamodeofautobiography.Thosewhofinduglymeaningsinbeautifulthingsarecorruptwithoutbeingcharming.
Thisisafault.
Thosewhofindbeautifulmeaningsinbeautifulthingsarethecultivated.
Forthesethereishope.
Theyaretheelecttowhombeautifulthingsmeanonlybeauty.
Thereisnosuchthingasa
morale
moraloranimmoralbook.Booksarewellwritten,orbadlywritten.
Thatisall.
Thenineteenthcenturydislikeofrealismisthe
rabbia
rageofCalibanseeinghisownfaceinaglass.Thenineteenthcenturydislikeofromanticismisthe
rabbia
rageofCalibannotseeinghisownfaceinaglass.The
morale
morallifeofmanformspartofthesubject-matteroftheartist,butthemoralità
moralityofartconsistsintheperfectuseofanimperfetto
imperfectmedium.Noartistdesirestoproveanything.
Eventhingsthataretruecanbeproved.
Noartisthasethicalsympathies.
Anethical
simpatia
sympathyinanartistisanunpardonablemannerismofstyle.Noartistisever
morboso
morbid.Theartistcanexpresseverything.
Thoughtandlanguagearetotheartistinstrumentsofanart.
Viceand
virtù
virtuearetotheartistmaterialsforanart.Fromthepointofviewofform,thetypeofalltheartsistheartofthe
musicista
musician.Fromthepointofviewoffeeling,theactor’scraftisthetype.
Allartisatoncesurfaceand
simbolo
symbol.Thosewhogobeneaththesurfacedosoattheirperil.
Thosewhoreadthe
simbolo
symboldosoattheirperil.Itisthespectator,andnotlife,thatartreallymirrors.
Diversità
Diversityofopinionaboutaworkofartshowsthattheworkisnew,complex,andvitale
vital.Whencriticsdisagree,theartistisinaccordwithhimself.
Wecanforgiveamanformakingausefulthingaslongashedoesnot
ammira
admireit.Theonlyexcuseformakingauselessthingisthatoneadmiresit
intensamente
intensely.Allartisquiteuseless.
Capitolo
CHAPTERI.Thestudiowasfilledwiththerichodourofroses,andwhenthelightsummerwindstirredamidstthetreesofthegarden,therecamethroughtheopendoortheheavyscentofthelilac,orthemore
delicato
delicateperfumeofthepink-floweringspina
thorn.FromthecornerofthedivanofPersiansaddle-bagsonwhichhewaslying,smoking,aswashiscustom,innumerablecigarettes,LordHenryWottoncouldjustcatchthegleamofthehoney-sweetandhoney-colouredblossomsofalaburnum,whosetremulousbranchesseemedhardlyabletobearthe
peso
burdenofabeautysoflamelikeastheirs;andnowandthenthefantasticshadowsofbirdsinflightflittedacrossthelongtussore-silkcurtainsthatwerestretchedinfrontofthehugewindow,producingakindofmomentaryJapaneseeffect,andmakinghimthinkofthosepallid,jade-facedpaintersofTokyowho,throughthe
mezzo
mediumofanartthatisnecessariamente
necessarilyimmobile,seektoconveythesenseofswiftnessandmotion.Thesullenmurmurofthebeesshoulderingtheirwaythroughthelongunmowngrass,orcirclingwithmonotonousinsistenceroundthedustygilthornsofthestragglingwoodbine,seemedtomakethestillnessmoreoppressive.
The
fioco
dimroarofLondonwaslikethebourdonnoteofalontano
distantorgan.Inthecentreoftheroom,clampedtoan
verticale
uprighteasel,stoodthefull-lengthritratto
portraitofayoungmanofextraordinarypersonalbeauty,andinfrontofit,somelittledistanceaway,wassittingtheartisthimself,BasilHallward,whosesuddenscomparsa
disappearancesomeyearsagocaused,atthetime,suchpubliceccitazione
excitementandgaverisetosomanystrangeconjectures.Asthe
pittore
painterlookedatthegraciousandcomelyformhehadsoskilfullymirroredinhisart,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
curledupinsuchfancifulwhorlsfromhisheavy,opium-taintedcigarette.“Notsenditanywhere?
Mydearfellow,why?
Haveyouanyreason?
Whatoddchapsyoupaintersare!
Youdoanythingintheworldtogainareputation.
Assoonasyouhaveone,youseemtowanttothrowitaway.
Itissillyofyou,forthereisonlyonethingintheworldworsethanbeingtalkedabout,andthatisnotbeingtalkedabout.
A
ritratto
portraitlikethiswouldsetyoufarabovealltheyoungmeninEngland,andmaketheoldmenquitejealous,ifoldmenareevercapableofanyemotion.”“Iknowyouwilllaughatme,”hereplied,“butIreallycan’texhibitit.
Ihaveputtoomuchofmyselfintoit.”
LordHenrystretchedhimselfoutonthedivanandlaughed.
“Yes,Iknewyouwould;
butitisquitetrue,allthesame.”
“Toomuchofyourselfinit!
Uponmyword,Basil,Ididn’tknowyouweresovain;
andIreallycan’tseeany
somiglianza
resemblancebetweenyou,withyourruggedstrongfaceandyourcoal-blackhair,andthisyoungAdonis,wholooksasifhewasmadeoutofavorio
ivoryandrose-leaves.Why,mydearBasil,heisaNarcissus,andyou—well,ofcourseyouhavean
intellettuale
intellectualexpressionandallthat.Butbeauty,realbeauty,endswherean
intellettuale
intellectualexpressionbegins.Intellectisinitselfa
modo
modeofexaggeration,anddestroystheharmonyofanyface.Themomentonesitsdowntothink,onebecomesallnose,orallforehead,orsomething
orribile
horrid.Lookatthesuccessfulmeninanyofthelearnedprofessions.
Howperfectlyhideoustheyare!
Except,ofcourse,intheChurch.
ButthenintheChurchtheydon’tthink.
A
vescovo
bishopkeepsonsayingattheageofeightywhathewastoldtosaywhenhewasaboyofeighteen,andasanaturalconsequencehealwayslooksabsolutelydelizioso
delightful.Yourmysteriousyoungfriend,whosenameyouhavenevertoldme,butwhosepicturereallyfascinatesme,neverthinks.
Ifeelquitesureofthat.
Heissomebrainlessbeautifulcreaturewhoshouldbealwayshereinwinterwhenwehavenoflowerstolookat,andalwayshereinsummerwhenwewantsomethingtochillourintelligence.
Don’t
adulare
flatteryourself,Basil:youarenotintheleastlikehim.”
“Youdon’tunderstandme,Harry,”answeredtheartist.
“OfcourseIamnotlikehim.
Iknowthatperfectlywell.
Indeed,Ishouldbesorrytolooklikehim.
Youshrugyourshoulders?
Iamtellingyouthetruth.
Thereisafatalityaboutallphysicaland
intellettuale
intellectualdistinction,thesortoffatalitythatseemstodogthroughhistorythefalteringstepsofkings.Itisbetternottobedifferentfromone’sfellows.
Theuglyandthestupidhavethebestofitinthisworld.
Theycansitattheir
agio
easeandgapeattheplay.Iftheyknownothingofvictory,theyareatleastsparedtheknowledgeofdefeat.
Theyliveasweallshouldlive—undisturbed,indifferent,andwithoutdisquiet.
Theyneitherbringruinuponothers,noreverreceiveitfromalienhands.
Your
rango
rankandwealth,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
romanceintoone’slife.Isupposeyouthinkme
terribilmente
awfullyfoolishaboutit?”“Notatall,”answeredLordHenry,“notatall,mydearBasil.
YouseemtoforgetthatIammarried,andtheonecharmofmarriageisthatitmakesalifeof
inganno
deceptionabsolutelynecessaryforbothparties.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
moralthing,andyouneverdoawrongthing.Yourcynicismissimplyapose.”
“Beingnaturalissimplyapose,andthemost
irritante
irritatingposeIknow,”criedLordHenry,laughing;andthetwoyoungmenwentoutintothegardentogetherandensconcedthemselvesonalong
bambù
bambooseatthatstoodintheshadeofatallalloro
laurelbush.Thesunlightslippedoverthepolishedleaves.
Inthegrass,whitedaisiesweretremulous.
Aftera
pausa
pause,LordHenrypulledouthiswatch.“IamafraidImustbegoing,Basil,”hemurmured,“andbeforeIgo,I
insisto
insistonyouransweringaquestionIputtoyousometimeago.”“Whatisthat?”
saidthe
pittore
painter,keepinghiseyesfixedontheground.“Youknowquitewell.”
“Idonot,Harry.”
“Well,Iwilltellyouwhatitis.
Iwantyoutoexplaintomewhyyouwon’t
esporre
exhibitDorianGray’spicture.Iwanttherealreason.”
“Itoldyoutherealreason.”
“No,youdidnot.
Yousaiditwasbecausetherewastoomuchofyourselfinit.
Now,thatischildish.”
“Harry,”saidBasilHallward,lookinghimstraightintheface,“every
ritratto
portraitthatispaintedwithfeelingisaritratto
portraitoftheartist,notofthesitter.Thesitterismerelytheaccident,theoccasion.
Itisnothewhois
rivelato
revealedbythepainter;itisratherthe
pittore
painterwho,onthecolouredtela
canvas,revealshimself.ThereasonIwillnot
esporrò
exhibitthispictureisthatIamafraidthatIhaveshowninitthesecretofmyownsoul.”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
daisyfromthegrassandexaminedit.“IamquitesureIshallunderstandit,”hereplied,gazingintentlyatthelittlegolden,white-feathered
disco
disk,“andasforbelievingthings,Icanbelieveanything,providedthatitisquiteincredible.”Thewindshooksomeblossomsfromthetrees,andtheheavylilac-blooms,withtheirclusteringstars,movedtoandfrointhelanguidair.
Agrasshopperbegantochirrupbythewall,andlikeablue
filo
threadalongthindragon-flygalleggiava
floatedpastonitsbrowngauzewings.LordHenryfeltasifhecouldhearBasilHallward’sheartbeating,andwonderedwhatwascoming.
“Thestoryissimplythis,”saidthe
pittore
painteraftersometime.“TwomonthsagoIwenttoacrushatLadyBrandon’s.
Youknowwepoorartistshavetoshowourselvesinsocietyfromtimetotime,justtoremindthepublicthatwearenotsavages.
Withaneveningcoatandawhitetie,asyoutoldmeonce,anybody,evenastock-broker,can
guadagnare
gainareputationforbeingcivilized.Well,afterIhadbeenintheroomabouttenminutes,talkingtohugeoverdresseddowagersandtediousacademicians,Isuddenlybecameconsciousthatsomeonewaslookingatme.
Iturnedhalf-wayroundandsawDorianGrayforthefirsttime.
Whenoureyesmet,IfeltthatIwasgrowing
pallido
pale.Acurioussensationof
terrore
terrorcameoverme.IknewthatIhadcomefacetofacewithsomeonewhose
semplice
merepersonalitywassofascinatingthat,ifIallowedittodoso,itwouldassorbito
absorbmywholenature,mywholesoul,myveryartitself.Ididnotwantanyexternal
influenza
influenceinmylife.Youknowyourself,Harry,how
indipendente
independentIambynature.Ihavealwaysbeenmyownmaster;
hadatleastalwaysbeenso,tillImetDorianGray.
Then—butIdon’tknowhowtoexplainittoyou.
SomethingseemedtotellmethatIwasonthevergeofaterriblecrisisinmylife.
Ihadastrangefeelingthatfatehadinstoreformeexquisitejoysandexquisitesorrows.
Igrewafraidandturnedtoquittheroom.
Itwasnot
coscienza
consciencethatmademedoso:itwasasortof
codardia
cowardice.Itakenocredittomyselffortryingtoescape.”
“Conscienceand
codardia
cowardicearereallythesamethings,Basil.Coscienza
Conscienceisthetrade-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
peacockineverythingbutbeauty,”saidLordHenry,pullingthemargherita
daisytobitswithhislongnervousfingers.“Icouldnotgetridofher.
Shebroughtmeuptoroyalties,andpeoplewithstarsandgarters,andelderlyladieswithgigantictiarasand
pappagallo
parrotnoses.Shespokeofmeasherdearestfriend.
Ihadonlymetheroncebefore,butshetookitintoherheadtolionizeme.
Ibelievesomepictureofminehadmadeagreatsuccessatthetime,atleasthadbeenchatteredaboutinthepennynewspapers,whichisthenineteenth-century
standard
standardofimmortality.SuddenlyIfoundmyselffacetofacewiththeyoungmanwhose
personalità
personalityhadsostrangelystirredme.