THEPREFACE
Theartististhecreatorof
vakre
beautifulthings.Torevealart
og
andconcealtheartistisart’saim.Den
Thecriticishewhokan
cantranslateintoanothermannereller
oranewmaterialhisimpressionofvakre
beautifulthings.Thehighestas
den
thelowestformofcriticismisen
amodeofautobiography.Those
som
whofinduglymeaningsinvakre
beautifulthingsarecorruptwithoutbeingcharming.Dette
Thisisafault.Those
som
whofindbeautifulmeaningsinvakre
beautifulthingsarethecultivated.For
disse
thesethereishope.Theyaretheelecttowhom
vakre
beautifulthingsmeanonlybeauty.Det
Thereisnosuchthingasamoraleller
oranimmoralbook.Booksare
godt
wellwritten,orbadlywritten.Det
Thatisall.ThenineteenthcenturydislikeofrealismistherageofCaliban
se
seeinghisownfaceinet
aglass.ThenineteenthcenturydislikeofromanticismistherageofCalibannot
se
seeinghisownfaceinet
aglass.Themorallifeofmanforms
del
partofthesubject-matterofden
theartist,butthemoralityofartconsistsinden
theperfectuseofanimperfectmedium.Ingen
Noartistdesirestoprovenoe
anything.Eventhingsthatare
sant
truecanbeproved.Noartist
har
hasethicalsympathies.Anethicalsympathyin
en
anartistisanunpardonablemannerismofstyle.Ingen
Noartistisevermorbid.Theartist
kan
canexpresseverything.Thoughtandlanguagearetotheartistinstrumentsof
en
anart.Viceandvirtuearetotheartistmaterialsfor
en
anart.Fromthepointofviewofform,thetypeof
alle
alltheartsistheartofthemusician.Fromthepointofviewoffeeling,theactor’scraftisthetype.
Allartisatoncesurface
og
andsymbol.Thosewhogobeneaththesurface
gjør
dosoattheirperil.Those
som
whoreadthesymboldosoattheirperil.Itisthespectator,
og
andnotlife,thatartvirkelig
reallymirrors.Diversityofopinion
om
aboutaworkofartviser
showsthattheworkisnytt
new,complex,andvital.Whencriticsdisagree,theartistisinaccord
med
withhimself.Wecanforgive
en
amanformakingausefulting
thingaslongashedoesnotadmiredet
it.Theonlyexcusefor
lage
makingauselessthingisthatoneadmiresitintensely.Allartis
helt
quiteuseless.CHAPTERI.
Thestudiowasfilled
med
withtherichodourofroses,og
andwhenthelightsummerwindstirredamidstden
thetreesofthegarden,det
therecamethroughtheopendøren
doortheheavyscentofden
thelilac,orthemoredelicateperfumeofden
thepink-floweringthorn.FromthecornerofthedivanofPersiansaddle-bagsonwhichhewas
lå
lying,smoking,aswashiscustom,innumerablecigarettes,LordHenryWottonkunne
couldjustcatchthegleamofthehoney-sweetog
andhoney-colouredblossomsofalaburnum,whosetremulousbranchesseemedhardlystand
abletobeartheburdenofen
abeautysoflamelikeastheirs;og
andnowandthenthefantasticshadowsofbirdsinflightflittedacrossthelongtussore-silkcurtainsthatwerestretchedinforan
frontofthehugewindow,producingakindofmomentaryJapaneseeffect,og
andmakinghimthinkofthosepallid,jade-facedpaintersofTokyowho,gjennom
throughthemediumofanartthatisnecessarilyimmobile,seektoconveythesenseofswiftnessog
andmotion.Thesullenmurmurofthebeesshoulderingtheir
vei
waythroughthelongunmowngrass,eller
orcirclingwithmonotonousinsistenceroundthedustygilthornsofthestragglingwoodbine,seemedtogjøre
makethestillnessmoreoppressive.Den
ThedimroarofLondonwassom
likethebourdonnoteofet
adistantorgan.Inthecentreofthe
rommet
room,clampedtoanuprighteasel,stoodthefull-lengthportraitofaung
youngmanofextraordinarypersonalbeauty,og
andinfrontofit,noen
somelittledistanceaway,wassatt
sittingtheartisthimself,BasilHallward,whosesuddendisappearancenoen
someyearsagocaused,atthetiden
time,suchpublicexcitementandgaverisetosomange
manystrangeconjectures.Asthepainter
så
lookedatthegraciousandcomelyformhehadde
hadsoskilfullymirroredinhisart,et
asmileofpleasurepassedacrosshisansiktet
face,andseemedabouttolingerder
there.Buthesuddenlystarted
opp
up,andclosinghiseyes,plassert
placedhisfingersuponthelids,asom
thoughhesoughttoimprisonwithinhisbrainnoen
somecuriousdreamfromwhichhefearedhekunne
mightawake.“Itisyour
beste
bestwork,Basil,thebestthingyouhar
haveeverdone,”saidLordHenrylanguidly.“You
må
mustcertainlysenditnextår
yeartotheGrosvenor.TheAcademyis
for
toolargeandtoovulgar.WheneverI
har
havegonethere,therehavebeenenten
eithersomanypeoplethatIhar
havenotbeenabletose
seethepictures,whichwasdreadful,eller
orsomanypicturesthatIhar
havenotbeenabletose
seethepeople,whichwasworse.TheGrosvenoris
virkelig
reallytheonlyplace.”“Idon’t
tror
thinkIshallsenditanywhere,”hesvarte
answered,tossinghisheadbackinthatoddmåten
waythatusedtomakehisfriendslaughathimatOxford.“No,Iwon’t
sende
senditanywhere.”LordHenryelevatedhiseyebrows
og
andlookedathiminamazementgjennom
throughthethinbluewreathsofsmokesom
thatcurledupinsuchfancifulwhorlsfromhisheavy,opium-taintedcigarette.“Not
sende
senditanywhere?Mydearfellow,
hvorfor
why?Haveyouanyreason?
Whatoddchapsyoupainters
er
are!Youdoanythinginthe
verden
worldtogainareputation.As
snart
soonasyouhaveone,youseemtovil
wanttothrowitaway.Itissillyofyou,forthereis
bare
onlyonethingintheverden
worldworsethanbeingtalkedom
about,andthatisnotbeingsnakket
talkedabout.Aportraitlike
dette
thiswouldsetyoufaraboveallde
theyoungmeninEngland,og
andmaketheoldmenganske
quitejealous,ifoldmenareevercapableofanyemotion.”“I
vet
knowyouwilllaughatme,”hereplied,“butIvirkelig
reallycan’texhibitit.I
har
haveputtoomuchofmyselfintoit.”LordHenrystretchedhimself
ut
outonthedivanandlaughed.“Yes,I
visste
knewyouwould;butitis
helt
quitetrue,allthesame.”“Too
mye
muchofyourselfinit!Uponmy
ord
word,Basil,Ididn’tknowyouweresovain;og
andIreallycan’tseenoen
anyresemblancebetweenyou,withyourruggedstrongansikt
faceandyourcoal-blackhair,og
andthisyoungAdonis,wholooksasom
ifhewasmadeoutofivoryog
androse-leaves.Why,mydearBasil,heisaNarcissus,
og
andyou—well,ofcourseyouhar
haveanintellectualexpressionandalt
allthat.Butbeauty,realbeauty,ends
der
whereanintellectualexpressionbegins.Intellectisinitselfamodeofexaggeration,
og
anddestroystheharmonyofhelst
anyface.Themomentonesits
ned
downtothink,onebecomesallnose,eller
orallforehead,orsomethinghorrid.Se
Lookatthesuccessfulmeninnoen
anyofthelearnedprofessions.Hvor
Howperfectlyhideoustheyare!Except,of
selvfølgelig
course,intheChurch.ButthenintheChurchtheydon’t
tenker
think.Abishopkeepson
si
sayingattheageofeightywhathewastoldtosi
saywhenhewasagutt
boyofeighteen,andasen
anaturalconsequencehealwaysser
looksabsolutelydelightful.Yourmysterious
unge
youngfriend,whosenameyouhar
havenevertoldme,butwhosepicturevirkelig
reallyfascinatesme,neverthinks.I
føler
feelquitesureofthat.Heis
noen
somebrainlessbeautifulcreaturewhoburde
shouldbealwayshereinwinternår
whenwehavenoflowerstose
lookat,andalwayshereinsummernår
whenwewantsomethingtochillourintelligence.Don’tflatteryourself,Basil:
youarenotintheleast
som
likehim.”“Youdon’tunderstand
meg
me,Harry,”answeredtheartist.“Of
selvfølgelig
courseIamnotlikeham
him.Iknowthatperfectly
godt
well.Indeed,Ishouldbe
lei
sorrytolooklikehim.Youshrugyourshoulders?
Iam
forteller
tellingyouthetruth.Thereis
en
afatalityaboutallphysicalog
andintellectualdistinction,thesortoffatalitythatseemstohund
dogthroughhistorythefalteringstepsofkings.Itis
bedre
betternottobedifferentfromone’sfellows.De
Theuglyandthestupidhar
havethebestofitindenne
thisworld.Theycansitattheirease
og
andgapeattheplay.Ifthey
vet
knownothingofvictory,theyareatleastsparedtheknowledgeofdefeat.They
leve
liveasweallshouldlive—undisturbed,indifferent,og
andwithoutdisquiet.Theyneither
bringer
bringruinuponothers,noreverreceiveitfromalienhands.Yourrank
og
andwealth,Harry;mybrains,
slik
suchastheyare—myart,hva
whateveritmaybeworth;DorianGray’s
gode
goodlooks—weshallallsufferforwhatthegodshar
havegivenus,sufferterribly.”“DorianGray?
Is
det
thathisname?”askedLordHenry,
går
walkingacrossthestudiotowardsBasilHallward.“Yes,
det
thatishisname.Ididn’tintendto
fortelle
tellittoyou.”“But
hvorfor
whynot?”“Oh,Ican’texplain.
Når
WhenIlikepeopleimmensely,Ialdri
nevertelltheirnamestonoen
anyone.Itislikesurrendering
en
apartofthem.I
har
havegrowntolovesecrecy.Itseemstobetheonethingthat
kan
canmakemodernlifemysteriouseller
ormarvelloustous.Thecommonestthingisdelightful
hvis
ifoneonlyhidesit.Når
WhenIleavetownnowIaldri
nevertellmypeoplewhereIamgoing.Hvis
IfIdid,Iwouldmiste
loseallmypleasure.Itis
en
asillyhabit,Idaresi
say,butsomehowitseemstobringe
bringagreatdealofromanceintoone’sliv
life.Isupposeyouthinkmeawfullyfoolish
om
aboutit?”“Notatall,”
svarte
answeredLordHenry,“notatall,mykjære
dearBasil.Youseemto
glemme
forgetthatIammarried,og
andtheonecharmofmarriageisthatitgjør
makesalifeofdeceptionabsolutelynecessaryforbegge
bothparties.Ineverknow
hvor
wheremywifeis,andmykone
wifeneverknowswhatIamdoing.Når
Whenwemeet—wedomeetoccasionally,når
whenwedineouttogether,eller
orgodowntotheDuke’s—weforteller
telleachotherthemostabsurdstoriesmed
withthemostseriousfaces.My
kone
wifeisverygoodatit—muchbedre
better,infact,thanIam.She
aldri
nevergetsconfusedoverherdates,og
andIalwaysdo.But
når
whenshedoesfindmeut
out,shemakesnorowatall.I
noen ganger
sometimeswishshewould;butshemerelylaughsatme.”
“I
hater
hatethewayyoutalkom
aboutyourmarriedlife,Harry,”sa
saidBasilHallward,strollingtowardsthedøren
doorthatledintothegarden.“I
tror
believethatyouarereallyen
averygoodhusband,butat
thatyouarethoroughlyashamedofyouregne
ownvirtues.Youareanextraordinaryfellow.
You
aldri
neversayamoralthing,og
andyouneverdoafeil
wrongthing.Yourcynicismissimply
en
apose.”“Beingnaturalissimply
en
apose,andthemostirritatingposeIknow,”criedLordHenry,laughing;og
andthetwoyoungmengikk
wentoutintothegardensammen
togetherandensconcedthemselvesonen
alongbambooseatthatstoodinde
theshadeofatalllaurelbush.De
Thesunlightslippedoverthepolishedleaves.Inthegrass,whitedaisiesweretremulous.
Etter
Afterapause,LordHenrypulledut
outhiswatch.“Iam
redd
afraidImustbegoing,Basil,”hemurmured,“andfør
beforeIgo,Iinsistonyoursvarer
answeringaquestionIputtoyounoen
sometimeago.”“Whatisthat?”
sa
saidthepainter,keepinghiseyesfixedontheground.“You
vet
knowquitewell.”“Idonot,Harry.”
“Well,I
vil
willtellyouwhatiter
is.Iwantyoutoexplaintome
hvorfor
whyyouwon’texhibitDorianGray’spicture.I
vil
wanttherealreason.”“I
fortalte
toldyoutherealreason.”“No,you
gjorde
didnot.Yousaiditwas
fordi
becausetherewastoomuchofyourselfinit.Nå
Now,thatischildish.”“Harry,”
sa
saidBasilHallward,lookinghimstraightintheansiktet
face,“everyportraitthatispaintedmed
withfeelingisaportraitoftheartist,notofthesitter.Thesitterismerelytheaccident,theoccasion.
Itisnothe
som
whoisrevealedbythepainter;itisratherthepainter
som
who,onthecolouredcanvas,revealshimself.ThereasonI
vil
willnotexhibitthispictureisthatIamredd
afraidthatIhaveshowninitthesecretofmyegen
ownsoul.”LordHenrylaughed.
“Andwhatisthat?”
he
spurte
asked.“Iwilltellyou,”
sa
saidHallward;butanexpressionofperplexity
kom
cameoverhisface.“Iamallexpectation,Basil,”continuedhiscompanion,glancingat
ham
him.“Oh,thereisreallyvery
lite
littletotell,Harry,”answeredthepainter;“andIam
redd
afraidyouwillhardlyunderstanddet
it.Perhapsyouwillhardly
tro
believeit.”LordHenrysmiled,
og
andleaningdown,pluckedapink-petalleddaisyfromthegrassog
andexaminedit.“Iam
ganske
quitesureIshallunderstandit,”hereplied,gazingintentlyatthelille
littlegolden,white-feathereddisk,“andasfortro
believingthings,Icanbelievealt
anything,providedthatitisganske
quiteincredible.”Thewindshook
noen
someblossomsfromthetrees,og
andtheheavylilac-blooms,withtheirclusteringstars,flyttet
movedtoandfrointhelanguidair.En
Agrasshopperbegantochirrupbythewall,og
andlikeabluethreaden
alongthindragon-flyfloatedforbi
pastonitsbrowngauzewings.LordHenryfeltas
om
ifhecouldhearBasilHallward’shjerte
heartbeating,andwonderedwhatwaskom
coming.“Thestoryissimplythis,”
sa
saidthepainteraftersometime.“Twomonths
siden
agoIwenttoacrushatLady
LadyBrandon’s.Youknowwe
stakkars
poorartistshavetoshowourselvesinsocietyfromtid
timetotime,justtoremindthepublicat
thatwearenotsavages.Med
Withaneveningcoatandawhitetie,asyoufortalte
toldmeonce,anybody,evenastock-broker,kan
cangainareputationforbeingcivilized.Vel
Well,afterIhadbeenintherommet
roomabouttenminutes,talkingtohugeoverdresseddowagersog
andtediousacademicians,Isuddenlyble
becameconsciousthatsomeonewasse
lookingatme.Iturnedhalf-wayround
og
andsawDorianGrayfortheførste
firsttime.Whenoureyes
møttes
met,IfeltthatIwasgrowingpale.En
Acurioussensationofterrorkom
cameoverme.IknewthatI
hadde
hadcomefacetofacemed
withsomeonewhosemerepersonalitywassofascinatingthat,ifIallowedittogjøre
doso,itwouldabsorbmyhele
wholenature,mywholesoul,myveryartitself.Ididnot
ville
wantanyexternalinfluenceinmylivet
life.Youknowyourself,Harry,
hvor
howindependentIambynature.I
har
havealwaysbeenmyownmaster;hadde
hadatleastalwaysbeenso,tillImøtte
metDorianGray.Then—butIdon’t
vet
knowhowtoexplainittoyou.Noe
Somethingseemedtotellmeat
thatIwasonthevergeofen
aterriblecrisisinmylivet
life.Ihadastrangefeeling
at
thatfatehadinstoreformeexquisitejoysog
andexquisitesorrows.Igrew
redd
afraidandturnedtoquittherommet
room.Itwasnotconsciencethat
gjøre
mademedoso:itwas
en
asortofcowardice.I
tar
takenocredittomyselfforprøve
tryingtoescape.”“Conscienceandcowardiceare
virkelig
reallythesamethings,Basil.Conscienceisthetrade-nameofthefirm.
Det
Thatisall.”“Idon’t
tror
believethat,Harry,andIdon’ttror
believeyoudoeither.However,
hva
whateverwasmymotive—anditkan
mayhavebeenpride,forIpleide
usedtobeveryproud—Icertainlystruggledtothedøren
door.There,ofcourse,Istumbled
mot
againstLadyBrandon.‘Youarenotgoingto
løpe
runawaysosoon,Mr.Hallward?’shescreamedut
out.Youknowhercuriouslyshrillvoice?”
“Yes;
sheis
en
apeacockineverythingbutbeauty,”sa
saidLordHenry,pullingthedaisytobitsmed
withhislongnervousfingers.“I
kunne
couldnotgetridofhenne
her.Shebroughtmeuptoroyalties,
og
andpeoplewithstarsandgarters,og
andelderlyladieswithgigantictiarasog
andparrotnoses.Shespokeofmeasherdearest
venn
friend.Ihadonlymetheronce
før
before,butshetookitintoherhodet
headtolionizeme.I
tror
believesomepictureofminehadde
hadmadeagreatsuccessatden
thetime,atleasthadbeenchatteredom
aboutinthepennynewspapers,som
whichisthenineteenth-centurystandardofimmortality.SuddenlyI
fant
foundmyselffacetofacemed
withtheyoungmanwhosepersonalityhadde
hadsostrangelystirredme.