THEPREFACE
Theartististhe
skaperen
creatorofbeautifulthings.To
avsløre
revealartandconcealtheartistisart’saim.Thecriticishewhocan
oversette
translateintoanothermanneroranewmaterialhisinntrykk
impressionofbeautifulthings.Thehighestasthe
laveste
lowestformofcriticismisamodeofautobiography.Thosewhofinduglymeaningsinbeautifulthingsare
korrupte
corruptwithoutbeingcharming.Thisisafault.
Thosewhofindbeautifulmeaningsinbeautifulthingsarethe
kultiverte
cultivated.Forthesethereishope.
Theyarethe
utvalgte
electtowhombeautifulthingsmeanonlybeauty.Thereisnosuchthingasa
moralsk
moraloranimmoralbook.Booksarewellwritten,orbadlywritten.
Thatisall.
Thenineteenthcentury
motvilje
dislikeofrealismistherageofCalibanseeinghisownfaceinaglass.Thenineteenthcentury
motvilje
dislikeofromanticismistherageofCalibannotseeinghisownfaceinaglass.The
moralske
morallifeofmanformspartofthesubject-matteroftheartist,butthemoral
moralityofartconsistsintheperfectuseofanufullkommen
imperfectmedium.Noartistdesirestoproveanything.
Eventhingsthataretruecanbeproved.
Noartisthas
etiske
ethicalsympathies.Anethicalsympathyinanartistisanunpardonablemannerismofstyle.
Noartistisevermorbid.
Theartistcanexpresseverything.
Thoughtandlanguagearetotheartistinstrumentsofanart.
Viceand
dyd
virtuearetotheartistmaterialsforanart.Fromthepointofviewofform,thetypeofalltheartsistheartofthemusician.
Fromthepointofviewoffeeling,theactor’scraftisthetype.
Allartisatoncesurfaceand
symbol
symbol.Thosewhogobeneaththesurfacedosoattheirperil.
Thosewhoreadthesymboldosoattheirperil.
Itisthespectator,andnotlife,thatartreallymirrors.
Diversityofopinionaboutaworkofartshowsthattheworkisnew,complex,and
viktig
vital.Whencriticsdisagree,theartistisin
samsvar
accordwithhimself.Wecanforgiveamanformakingausefulthingaslongashedoesnot
beundrer
admireit.Theonlyexcuseformakingauselessthingisthatone
beundrer
admiresitintensely.Allartisquiteuseless.
Kapittel
CHAPTERI.Thestudiowasfilledwiththerichodourofroses,andwhenthelightsummerwind
rørte
stirredamidstthetreesofthegarden,therecamethroughtheopendoortheheavyduften
scentofthelilac,orthemoredelicateperfumeofthepink-floweringtorn
thorn.FromthecornerofthedivanofPersiansaddle-bagsonwhichhewaslying,smoking,aswashis
skikk
custom,innumerablecigarettes,LordHenryWottoncouldjustcatchthegleamofthehoney-sweetandhoney-colouredblossomsofalaburnum,whosetremulousbranchesseemedhardlyabletobearthebyrden
burdenofabeautysoflamelikeastheirs;andnowandthenthefantasticshadowsofbirdsinflightflittedacrossthelongtussore-silkcurtainsthatwere
strakt
stretchedinfrontofthehugewindow,produsere
producingakindofmomentaryJapaneseeffect,andmakinghimthinkofthosepallid,jade-facedpaintersofTokyowho,throughthemediumofanartthatisnødvendigvis
necessarilyimmobile,seektoconveythesenseofswiftnessandbevegelse
motion.Thesullenmurmurofthebeesshoulderingtheirwaythroughthelongunmowngrass,orcirclingwithmonotonousinsistenceroundthe
støvete
dustygilthornsofthestragglingwoodbine,seemedtomakethestillnessmoreoppressive.Thedim
brøl
roarofLondonwaslikethebourdonnoteofadistantorgel
organ.Inthecentreoftheroom,clampedtoan
oppreist
uprighteasel,stoodthefull-lengthportraitofayoungmanofextraordinarypersonalbeauty,andinfrontofit,somelittledistanceaway,wassittingtheartisthimself,BasilHallward,whosesuddendisappearancesomeyearsagocaused,atthetime,suchpublicspenning
excitementandgaverisetosomanystrangeconjectures.Asthe
maleren
painterlookedatthegraciousandcomelyformhehadsoskilfullymirroredinhisart,asmileofpleasurepassedacrosshisface,andseemedabouttolingerthere.Buthesuddenlystartedup,andclosinghiseyes,placedhisfingersuponthelids,asthoughhesoughttoimprisonwithinhisbrainsomecuriousdreamfromwhichhefearedhemightawake.
“Itisyourbestwork,Basil,thebestthingyouhaveeverdone,”saidLordHenrylanguidly.
“YoumustcertainlysenditnextyeartotheGrosvenor.
The
Akademiet
Academyistoolargeandtoovulgært
vulgar.WheneverIhavegonethere,therehavebeeneithersomanypeoplethatIhavenotbeenabletoseethepictures,whichwas
forferdelig
dreadful,orsomanypicturesthatIhavenotbeenabletoseethepeople,whichwasworse.TheGrosvenorisreallytheonlyplace.”
“Idon’tthinkIshallsenditanywhere,”heanswered,
kastet
tossinghisheadbackinthatoddwaythatusedtomakehisfriendslaughathimatOxford.“No,Iwon’tsenditanywhere.”
LordHenryelevatedhiseyebrowsandlookedathiminamazementthroughthethinbluewreathsofsmokethat
krøllet
curledupinsuchfancifulwhorlsfromhisheavy,opium-taintedcigarette.“Notsenditanywhere?
Mydearfellow,why?
Haveyouanyreason?
Whatoddchapsyoupaintersare!
Youdoanythingintheworldto
få
gainareputation.Assoonasyouhaveone,youseemtowanttothrowitaway.
Itissillyofyou,forthereisonlyonethingintheworldworsethanbeingtalkedabout,andthatisnotbeingtalkedabout.
A
portrett
portraitlikethiswouldsetyoufarabovealltheyoungmeninEngland,andmaketheoldmenquitejealous,ifoldmenareevercapableofanyemotion.”“Iknowyouwilllaughatme,”he
svarte
replied,“butIreallycan’texhibitit.Ihaveputtoomuchofmyselfintoit.”
LordHenrystretchedhimselfoutonthedivanandlaughed.
“Yes,Iknewyouwould;
butitisquitetrue,allthesame.”
“Toomuchofyourselfinit!
Uponmyword,Basil,Ididn’tknowyouwereso
forfengelig
vain;andIreallycan’tseeany
likhet
resemblancebetweenyou,withyourruggedstrongfaceandyourcoal-blackhair,andthisyoungAdonis,wholooksasifhewasmadeoutofelfenben
ivoryandrose-leaves.Why,mydearBasil,heisaNarcissus,andyou—well,ofcourseyouhaveanintellectual
uttrykk
expressionandallthat.Butbeauty,realbeauty,endswhereanintellectual
uttrykk
expressionbegins.Intellectisinitselfamodeofexaggeration,anddestroystheharmonyofanyface.
Themomentonesitsdowntothink,onebecomesallnose,orall
pannen
forehead,orsomethinghorrid.Lookatthesuccessfulmeninanyofthelearnedprofessions.
Howperfectlyhideoustheyare!
Except,ofcourse,intheChurch.
ButthenintheChurchtheydon’tthink.
A
biskop
bishopkeepsonsayingattheageofeightywhathewastoldtosaywhenhewasaboyofeighteen,andasanaturalkonsekvens
consequencehealwayslooksabsolutelyherlig
delightful.Yourmysteriousyoungfriend,whosenameyouhavenevertoldme,butwhosepicturereallyfascinatesme,neverthinks.
Ifeelquitesureofthat.
Heissomebrainlessbeautifulcreaturewhoshouldbealwayshereinwinterwhenwehavenoflowerstolookat,andalwayshereinsummerwhenwewantsomethingtochillourintelligence.
Don’t
smigre
flatteryourself,Basil:youarenotintheleastlikehim.”
“Youdon’tunderstandme,Harry,”answeredtheartist.
“OfcourseIamnotlikehim.
Iknowthatperfectlywell.
Indeed,Ishouldbesorrytolooklikehim.
Youshrugyourshoulders?
Iamtellingyouthetruth.
Thereisafatalityaboutallphysicaland
intellektuelle
intellectualdistinction,thesortoffatalitythatseemstodogthroughhistorythefalteringstepsofkings.Itisbetternottobedifferentfromone’sfellows.
Theuglyandthestupidhavethebestofitinthisworld.
Theycansitattheir
lett
easeandgapeattheplay.Iftheyknownothingofvictory,theyareatleastsparedtheknowledgeofdefeat.
Theyliveasweallshouldlive—undisturbed,
likegyldig
indifferent,andwithoutdisquiet.Theyneitherbringruinuponothers,noreverreceiveitfromalienhands.
Your
rang
rankandwealth,Harry;mybrains,suchastheyare—myart,whateveritmaybeworth;
DorianGray’sgoodlooks—weshallallsufferforwhatthegodshavegivenus,sufferterribly.”
“DorianGray?
Isthathisname?”
askedLordHenry,walkingacrossthestudiotowardsBasilHallward.
“Yes,thatishisname.
Ididn’t
tenkt
intendtotellittoyou.”“Butwhynot?”
“Oh,Ican’texplain.
WhenIlikepeopleimmensely,Inevertelltheirnamestoanyone.
Itislikesurrenderingapartofthem.
Ihavegrowntolovesecrecy.
Itseemstobetheonethingthatcanmakemodernlife
mystisk
mysteriousormarvelloustous.Thecommonestthingis
herlig
delightfulifoneonlyhidesit.WhenIleavetownnowInevertellmypeoplewhereIamgoing.
IfIdid,Iwouldloseallmypleasure.
Itisasilly
vane
habit,Idaresay,butsomehowitseemstobringagreatdealofromantikk
romanceintoone’slife.Isupposeyouthinkme
fryktelig
awfullyfoolishaboutit?”“Notatall,”answeredLordHenry,“notatall,mydearBasil.
YouseemtoforgetthatIammarried,andtheonecharmofmarriageisthatitmakesalifeof
bedrag
deceptionabsolutelynecessaryforbothparties.Ineverknowwheremywifeis,andmywifeneverknowswhatIamdoing.
Whenwemeet—wedomeetoccasionally,whenwedineouttogether,orgodowntotheDuke’s—wetelleachotherthemostabsurdstorieswiththemostseriousfaces.
Mywifeisverygoodatit—muchbetter,infact,thanIam.
Shenevergetsconfusedoverherdates,andIalwaysdo.
Butwhenshedoesfindmeout,shemakesnorowatall.
Isometimeswishshewould;
butshe
bare
merelylaughsatme.”“Ihatethewayyoutalkaboutyourmarriedlife,Harry,”saidBasilHallward,
spasere
strollingtowardsthedoorthatledintothegarden.“Ibelievethatyouarereallyaverygoodhusband,butthatyouare
grundig
thoroughlyashamedofyourownvirtues.Youareanextraordinaryfellow.
Youneversaya
moralsk
moralthing,andyouneverdoawrongthing.Yourcynicismissimplyapose.”
“Beingnaturalissimplyapose,andthemostirritatingposeIknow,”criedLordHenry,laughing;
andthetwoyoungmenwentoutintothegardentogetherandensconcedthemselvesonalongbambooseatthatstoodinthe
skyggen
shadeofatalllaurelbush.Thesunlightslippedoverthepolishedleaves.
Inthegrass,whitedaisiesweretremulous.
Aftera
pause
pause,LordHenrypulledouthiswatch.“IamafraidImustbegoing,Basil,”hemurmured,“andbeforeIgo,I
insisterer
insistonyouransweringaquestionIputtoyousometimeago.”“Whatisthat?”
saidthe
maleren
painter,keepinghiseyesfixedontheground.“Youknowquitewell.”
“Idonot,Harry.”
“Well,Iwilltellyouwhatitis.
Iwantyoutoexplaintomewhyyouwon’texhibitDorianGray’spicture.
Iwanttherealreason.”
“Itoldyoutherealreason.”
“No,youdidnot.
Yousaiditwasbecausetherewastoomuchofyourselfinit.
Now,thatischildish.”
“Harry,”saidBasilHallward,lookinghimstraightintheface,“every
portrett
portraitthatispaintedwithfeelingisaportrett
portraitoftheartist,notofthesitter.Thesitteris
bare
merelytheaccident,theoccasion.Itisnothewhois
avslørt
revealedbythepainter;itisratherthe
maleren
painterwho,onthecolouredcanvas,avslører
revealshimself.ThereasonIwillnotexhibitthispictureisthatIamafraidthatIhaveshowninitthesecretofmyownsoul.”
LordHenrylaughed.
“Andwhatisthat?”
heasked.
“Iwilltellyou,”saidHallward;
butan
uttrykk
expressionofperplexitycameoverhisface.“Iamall
forventning
expectation,Basil,”continuedhiscompanion,glancingathim.“Oh,thereisreallyverylittletotell,Harry,”answeredthe
maleren
painter;“andIamafraidyouwillhardlyunderstandit.
Perhapsyouwillhardlybelieveit.”
LordHenrysmiled,andleaningdown,
plukket
pluckedapink-petalleddaisyfromthegrassandundersøkte
examinedit.“IamquitesureIshallunderstandit,”he
svarte
replied,gazingintentlyatthelittlegolden,white-feathereddisk
disk,“andasforbelievingthings,Icanbelieveanything,providedthatitisquiteincredible.”Thewindshooksomeblossomsfromthetrees,andtheheavylilac-blooms,withtheirclusteringstars,movedtoandfrointhelanguidair.
Agrasshopperbegantochirrupbythewall,andlikeablue
tråd
threadalongthindragon-flyflyter
floatedpastonitsbrowngauzewings.LordHenryfeltasifhecouldhearBasilHallward’sheartbeating,andwonderedwhatwascoming.
“Thestoryissimplythis,”saidthe
maleren
painteraftersometime.“TwomonthsagoIwenttoacrushatLadyBrandon’s.
Youknowwepoorartistshavetoshowourselvesinsocietyfromtimetotime,justtoremindthepublicthatwearenotsavages.
Withaneveningcoatandawhitetie,asyoutoldmeonce,anybody,evenastock-broker,can
få
gainareputationforbeingsivilisert
civilized.Well,afterIhadbeenintheroomabouttenminutes,talkingtohugeoverdresseddowagersandtediousacademicians,Isuddenlybecame
bevisst
consciousthatsomeonewaslookingatme.Iturned
halvveis
half-wayroundandsawDorianGrayforthefirsttime.Whenoureyesmet,IfeltthatIwasgrowing
blek
pale.Acurioussensationofterrorcameoverme.
IknewthatIhadcomefacetofacewithsomeonewhose
bare
merepersonalitywassofascinatingthat,ifIallowedittodoso,itwouldabsorbere
absorbmywholenature,mywholesoul,myveryartitself.Ididnotwantanyexternal
innflytelse
influenceinmylife.Youknowyourself,Harry,how
uavhengig
independentIambynature.Ihavealwaysbeenmyownmaster;
hadatleastalwaysbeenso,tillImetDorianGray.
Then—butIdon’tknowhowtoexplainittoyou.
SomethingseemedtotellmethatIwasonthe
randen
vergeofaterriblecrisisinmylife.Ihadastrangefeelingthatfatehadinstoreformeexquisitejoysandexquisitesorrows.
Igrewafraidandturnedtoquittheroom.
Itwasnot
samvittighet
consciencethatmademedoso:itwasasortof
feighet
cowardice.Itakenocredittomyselffortryingtoescape.”
“Conscienceand
feighet
cowardicearereallythesamethings,Basil.Samvittighet
Conscienceisthetrade-nameofthefirm.Thatisall.”
“Idon’tbelievethat,Harry,andIdon’tbelieveyoudoeither.
However,whateverwasmymotive—anditmayhavebeenpride,forIusedtobeveryproud—Icertainlystruggledtothedoor.
There,ofcourse,I
snublet
stumbledagainstLadyBrandon.‘Youarenotgoingtorunawaysosoon,Mr.Hallward?’shescreamedout.
Youknowhercuriouslyshrillvoice?”
“Yes;
sheisa
påfugl
peacockineverythingbutbeauty,”saidLordHenry,pullingthedaisy
daisytobitswithhislongnervousfingers.“Icouldnotgetridofher.
Shebroughtmeuptoroyalties,andpeoplewithstarsandgarters,andelderlyladieswithgigantictiarasand
papegøye
parrotnoses.Shespokeofmeasherdearestfriend.
Ihadonlymetheroncebefore,butshetookitintoherheadtolionizeme.
Ibelievesomepictureofminehadmadeagreatsuccessatthetime,atleasthadbeenchatteredaboutinthepennynewspapers,whichisthenineteenth-century
standarden
standardofimmortality.SuddenlyIfoundmyselffacetofacewiththeyoungmanwhose
personlighet
personalityhadsostrangelystirredme.