THEPREFACE
Theartististhecreatorofbeautifulthings.
Toreveal
kunst
artandconcealtheartistisart’saim.Thecriticishewhocantranslateintoanothermanneroranewmaterialhisimpressionofbeautifulthings.
Thehighestasthelowest
formen
formofcriticismisamodeofautobiography.Thosewhofinduglymeaningsinbeautifulthingsarecorruptwithoutbeingcharming.
Thisisa
feil
fault.Thosewhofindbeautifulmeaningsinbeautifulthingsarethecultivated.
Forthesethereishope.
Theyaretheelecttowhombeautifulthingsmeanonly
skjønnhet
beauty.Thereisnosuchthingasamoraloranimmoralbook.
Booksarewellwritten,orbadlywritten.
Thatisall.
ThenineteenthcenturydislikeofrealismistherageofCalibanseeinghisownfaceina
glass
glass.ThenineteenthcenturydislikeofromanticismistherageofCalibannotseeinghisownfaceina
glass
glass.Themorallifeofmanformspartofthesubject-matteroftheartist,butthemoralityofartconsistsintheperfectuseofanimperfectmedium.
Noartistdesiresto
bevise
proveanything.Eventhingsthataretruecanbeproved.
Noartisthasethicalsympathies.
Anethicalsympathyinanartistisanunpardonablemannerismofstyle.
Noartistisevermorbid.
Theartistcanexpresseverything.
Thoughtandlanguagearetotheartistinstrumentsofan
kunst
art.Viceandvirtuearetotheartistmaterialsforan
kunst
art.Fromthepointofviewofform,the
typen
typeofalltheartsisthekunst
artofthemusician.Fromthepointofviewoffeeling,theactor’scraftisthe
typen
type.Allartisatoncesurfaceandsymbol.
Thosewhogobeneaththesurfacedosoattheirperil.
Thosewhoreadthesymboldosoattheirperil.
Itisthespectator,andnotlife,thatartreallymirrors.
Diversityofopinionaboutaworkofartshowsthattheworkisnew,complex,andvital.
Whencriticsdisagree,theartistisinaccordwithhimself.
Wecan
tilgi
forgiveamanformakingausefulthingaslongashedoesnotadmireit.Theonlyexcuseformakingauselessthingisthatoneadmiresitintensely.
All
kunst
artisquiteuseless.CHAPTERI.
Thestudiowasfilledwiththe
rike
richodourofroses,andwhenthelightsummerwindstirredamidstthetreesofthegarden,therecamethroughtheopendoorthetunge
heavyscentofthelilac,orthemoredelicateperfumeofthepink-floweringthorn.FromthecornerofthedivanofPersiansaddle-bagsonwhichhewaslying,smoking,aswashiscustom,innumerablecigarettes,LordHenryWottoncouldjustcatchthegleamofthehoney-sweetandhoney-colouredblossomsofalaburnum,
hvis
whosetremulousbranchesseemedhardlyabletobære
beartheburdenofaskjønnhet
beautysoflamelikeastheirs;andnowandthenthefantasticshadowsofbirdsinflightflitted
over
acrossthelongtussore-silkcurtainsthatwerestretchedinfrontofthestore
hugewindow,producingakindofmomentaryJapaneseeffect,andmakinghimthinkofthosepallid,jade-facedpaintersofTokyowho,throughthemediumofankunst
artthatisnecessarilyimmobile,seektoconveythesenseofswiftnessandmotion.Thesullenmurmurofthebeesshoulderingtheirwaythroughthelongunmowngrass,orcirclingwithmonotonousinsistence
rundt
roundthedustygilthornsofthestragglingwoodbine,syntes
seemedtomakethestillnessmoreoppressive.ThedimroarofLondonwaslikethebourdonnoteofadistantorgan.
Inthecentreoftheroom,clampedtoanuprighteasel,stoodthefull-lengthportraitofayoungmanofextraordinary
personlig
personalbeauty,andinfrontofit,somelittledistanceaway,wassittingtheartisthimself,BasilHallward,hvis
whosesuddendisappearancesomeyearsagocaused,atthetime,suchoffentlig
publicexcitementandgaverisetosomanystrangeconjectures.Asthepainterlookedatthegraciousandcomelyformhehadsoskilfullymirroredinhis
kunst
art,asmileofpleasurepassedover
acrosshisface,andseemedabouttolingerthere.Buthe
plutselig
suddenlystartedup,andclosinghiseyes,placedhisfingersuponthelids,asthoughhesoughttoimprisonwithinhishjernen
brainsomecuriousdreamfromwhichhefryktet
fearedhemightawake.“Itisyourbestwork,Basil,thebestthingyouhaveeverdone,”saidLordHenrylanguidly.
“Youmust
sikkert
certainlysenditnextyeartotheGrosvenor.TheAcademyistoo
stort
largeandtoovulgar.WheneverIhavegonethere,therehavebeeneithersomanypeoplethatIhavenotbeenabletoseethepictures,whichwasdreadful,orsomanypicturesthatIhavenotbeenabletoseethepeople,whichwas
verre
worse.TheGrosvenorisreallytheonlyplace.”
“Idon’tthinkIshallsenditanywhere,”heanswered,tossinghisheadbackinthatoddwaythatusedtomakehisfriends
le
laughathimatOxford.“No,Iwon’tsenditanywhere.”
LordHenryelevatedhiseyebrowsandlookedathiminamazementthroughthethin
blå
bluewreathsofsmokethatcurledupinsuchfancifulwhorlsfromhistunge
heavy,opium-taintedcigarette.“Notsenditanywhere?
Mydearfellow,why?
Haveyouanyreason?
Whatoddchapsyoupaintersare!
Youdoanythingintheworldtogainareputation.
Assoonasyouhaveone,youseemtowantto
kaste
throwitaway.Itissillyofyou,forthereisonlyonethingintheworld
verre
worsethanbeingtalkedabout,andthatisnotbeingtalkedabout.Aportraitlikethiswouldsetyoufar
over
abovealltheyoungmeninEngland,andmaketheoldmenquitejealous,ifoldmenareevercapableofanyemotion.”“Iknowyouwill
le
laughatme,”hereplied,“butIreallycan’texhibitit.Ihaveputtoomuchofmyselfintoit.”
LordHenrystretchedhimselfoutonthedivanand
lo
laughed.“Yes,Iknewyouwould;
butitisquitetrue,allthesame.”
“Toomuchofyourselfinit!
Uponmyword,Basil,Ididn’tknowyouweresovain;
andIreallycan’tseeanyresemblancebetweenyou,withyourruggedstrongfaceandyourcoal-blackhair,andthisyoungAdonis,wholooksasifhewasmadeoutofivoryandrose-leaves.
Why,mydearBasil,heisaNarcissus,andyou—well,ofcourseyouhaveanintellectualexpressionandallthat.
But
skjønnhet
beauty,realbeauty,endswhereanintellectualexpressionbegynner
begins.Intellectisinitselfamodeofexaggeration,anddestroystheharmonyofanyface.
Themomentonesitsdowntothink,onebecomesall
nesen
nose,orallforehead,orsomethinghorrid.Lookatthesuccessfulmeninanyofthelearnedprofessions.
Howperfectlyhideoustheyare!
Bortsett fra
Except,ofcourse,intheKirken
Church.Buttheninthe
Kirken
Churchtheydon’tthink.Abishopkeepsonsayingatthe
alder
ageofeightywhathewastoldtosaywhenhewasaboyofeighteen,andasanaturalconsequencehealwayslookshelt
absolutelydelightful.Yourmysteriousyoungfriend,
hvis
whosenameyouhavenevertoldme,buthvis
whosepicturereallyfascinatesme,neverthinks.Ifeelquitesureofthat.
Heissomebrainlessbeautifulcreaturewhoshouldbealwayshereinwinterwhenwehavenoflowerstolookat,andalwaysherein
sommeren
summerwhenwewantsomethingtochillourintelligence.Don’tflatteryourself,Basil:
youarenotintheleastlikehim.”
“Youdon’tunderstandme,Harry,”answeredtheartist.
“OfcourseIamnotlikehim.
Iknowthatperfectlywell.
Indeed,Ishouldbesorrytolooklikehim.
Youshrugyourshoulders?
Iamtellingyouthetruth.
Thereisafatalityaboutallphysicalandintellectualdistinction,thesortoffatalitythatseemstodogthroughhistorythefalteringstepsofkings.
Itisbetternottobedifferentfromone’sfellows.
Theuglyandthestupidhavethebestofitinthisworld.
Theycansitattheireaseandgapeattheplay.
Iftheyknownothingofvictory,theyareatleastsparedtheknowledgeofdefeat.
Theyliveasweallshouldlive—undisturbed,indifferent,andwithoutdisquiet.
They
verken
neitherbringruinuponothers,eller
noreverreceiveitfromalienhands.Yourrankandwealth,Harry;
mybrains,suchastheyare—my
kunst
art,whateveritmaybeverdt
worth;DorianGray’sgoodlooks—weshallallsufferforwhatthegodshavegivenus,sufferterribly.”
“DorianGray?
Isthathisname?”
askedLordHenry,walking
over
acrossthestudiotowardsBasilHallward.“Yes,thatishisname.
Ididn’tintendtotellittoyou.”
“Butwhynot?”
“Oh,Ican’t
forklare
explain.WhenIlikepeopleimmensely,Inevertelltheirnamestoanyone.
Itislikesurrenderingapartofthem.
Ihavegrowntolovesecrecy.
Itseemstobetheonethingthatcanmakemodernlifemysteriousormarvelloustous.
Thecommonestthingisdelightfulifoneonly
skjuler
hidesit.WhenIleavetownnowInevertellmypeoplewhereIamgoing.
IfIdid,Iwouldloseallmy
glede
pleasure.Itisasillyhabit,I
våger
daresay,butsomehowitseemstobringagreatdealofromanceintoone’slife.I
antar
supposeyouthinkmeawfullyfoolishaboutit?”“Notatall,”answeredLordHenry,“notatall,mydearBasil.
You
ser ut
seemtoforgetthatIammarried,andtheonecharmofekteskap
marriageisthatitmakesalifeofdeceptionabsolutt
absolutelynecessaryforbothparties.Ineverknowwheremywifeis,andmywifeneverknowswhatIamdoing.
Whenwemeet—wedomeetoccasionally,whenwedineouttogether,orgodowntotheDuke’s—wetelleachotherthemostabsurdstorieswiththemostseriousfaces.
Mywifeisverygoodatit—muchbetter,infact,thanIam.
Shenevergetsconfusedoverherdates,andIalwaysdo.
Butwhenshedoesfindmeout,shemakesnorowatall.
Isometimeswishshewould;
butshemerelylaughsatme.”
“Ihatethewayyoutalkaboutyourmarriedlife,Harry,”saidBasilHallward,strollingtowardsthedoorthat
førte
ledintothegarden.“Ibelievethatyouarereallyaverygoodhusband,butthatyouarethoroughlyashamedofyourownvirtues.
Youareanextraordinaryfellow.
Youneversayamoralthing,andyouneverdoawrongthing.
Yourcynicismis
bare
simplyapose.”“Beingnaturalis
bare
simplyapose,andthemostirritatingposeIknow,”criedLordHenry,lo
laughing;andthetwoyoungmenwentoutintothegardentogetherandensconcedthemselvesonalongbambooseatthatstoodintheshadeofatalllaurelbush.
Thesunlightslippedoverthepolishedleaves.
Inthegrass,whitedaisiesweretremulous.
Afterapause,LordHenry
trakk
pulledouthiswatch.“IamafraidImustbegoing,Basil,”hemurmured,“andbeforeIgo,IinsistonyouransweringaquestionIputtoyousometimeago.”
“Whatisthat?”
saidthepainter,keepinghiseyesfixedonthe
bakken
ground.“Youknowquitewell.”
“Idonot,Harry.”
“Well,Iwilltellyouwhatitis.
Iwantyouto
forklare
explaintomewhyyouwon’texhibitDorianGray’sbilde
picture.Iwanttherealreason.”
“Itoldyoutherealreason.”
“No,youdidnot.
Yousaiditwasbecausetherewastoomuchofyourselfinit.
Now,thatischildish.”
“Harry,”saidBasilHallward,lookinghim
rett
straightintheface,“everyportraitthatispaintedwithfeelingisaportraitoftheartist,notofthesitter.Thesitterismerelytheaccident,theoccasion.
Itisnothewhoisrevealedbythepainter;
itis
snarere
ratherthepainterwho,onthecolouredcanvas,revealshimself.ThereasonIwillnotexhibitthispictureisthatIamafraidthatIhaveshowninitthesecretofmyownsoul.”
LordHenry
lo
laughed.“Andwhatisthat?”
heasked.
“Iwilltellyou,”saidHallward;
butanexpressionofperplexitycameoverhisface.
“Iamallexpectation,Basil,”
fortsatte
continuedhiscompanion,glancingathim.“Oh,thereisreallyverylittletotell,Harry,”answeredthepainter;
“andIamafraidyouwillhardlyunderstandit.
Perhapsyouwillhardlybelieveit.”
LordHenry
smilte
smiled,andleaningdown,pluckedapink-petalleddaisyfromthegrassandexaminedit.“IamquitesureIshallunderstandit,”hereplied,gazingintentlyatthelittlegolden,white-feathereddisk,“andasforbelievingthings,Icanbelieveanything,providedthatitisquiteincredible.”
Thewindshooksomeblossomsfromthetrees,andthe
tunge
heavylilac-blooms,withtheirclusteringstars,movedtoandfrointhelanguidair.Agrasshopper
begynte
begantochirrupbytheveggen
wall,andlikeabluethreadalongthindragon-flyfloatedpastonitsbrowngauzewings.LordHenryfeltasifhecouldhearBasilHallward’sheartbeating,and
lurte
wonderedwhatwascoming.“Thestoryissimplythis,”saidthepainteraftersometime.
“TwomonthsagoIwenttoacrushatLadyBrandon’s.
Youknowwepoorartistshavetoshowourselvesinsocietyfromtimetotime,justtoremindthe
publikum
publicthatwearenotsavages.Withaneveningcoatandawhitetie,asyoutoldmeonce,anybody,evenastock-broker,cangainareputationforbeingcivilized.
Well,afterIhadbeenintheroomabouttenminutes,talkingto
store
hugeoverdresseddowagersandtediousacademicians,Iplutselig
suddenlybecameconsciousthatsomeonewaslookingatme.Iturnedhalf-wayroundandsawDorianGrayforthefirsttime.
Whenoureyesmet,IfeltthatIwasgrowingpale.
Acurioussensationofterrorcameoverme.
IknewthatIhadcomefacetofacewithsomeonewhosemerepersonalitywassofascinatingthat,ifI
tillot
allowedittodoso,itwouldabsorbmywholenatur
nature,mywholesoul,myverykunst
artitself.Ididnotwantanyexternalinfluenceinmylife.
Youknowyourself,Harry,howindependentIamby
natur
nature.Ihavealwaysbeenmyownmaster;
hadatleastalwaysbeenso,tillImetDorianGray.
Then—butIdon’tknowhowto
forklare
explainittoyou.Something
syntes
seemedtotellmethatIwasonthevergeofaforferdelig
terriblecrisisinmylife.Ihada
merkelig
strangefeelingthatfatehadinbutikken
storeformeexquisitejoysandexquisitesorrows.Igrewafraidandturnedtoquittheroom.
Itwasnotconsciencethatmademedoso:
itwasasortofcowardice.
Itakenocredittomyselffortryingtoescape.”
“Conscienceandcowardicearereallythesamethings,Basil.
Conscienceisthetrade-nameofthefirm.
Thatisall.”
“Idon’tbelievethat,Harry,andIdon’tbelieveyoudoeither.
Men
However,whateverwasmymotive—anditmayhavebeenpride,forIusedtobeveryproud—Isikkert
certainlystruggledtothedoor.There,ofcourse,IstumbledagainstLadyBrandon.
‘Youarenotgoingtorunawaysosoon,Mr.Hallward?’shescreamedout.
Youknowhercuriouslyshrillvoice?”
“Yes;
sheisapeacockineverythingbutbeauty,”saidLordHenry,
trakk
pullingthedaisytobitswithhislongnervousfingers.“Icouldnotgetridofher.
Shebroughtmeuptoroyalties,andpeoplewithstarsandgarters,andelderlyladieswithgigantictiarasandparrotnoses.
Shespokeofmeasherdearestfriend.
Ihadonlymetheroncebefore,butshetookitintoherheadtolionizeme.
Ibelievesome
bilde
pictureofminehadmadeagreatsuccessatthetime,atleasthadbeenchatteredaboutinthepennynewspapers,whichisthenineteenth-centurystandardofimmortality.Plutselig
SuddenlyIfoundmyselffacetofacewiththeyoungmanhvis
whosepersonalityhadsostrangelystirredme.