The Picture of Dorian Gray | Gradually Hardening Norwegian B2

The Picture of Dorian Gray | Gradually Hardening Norwegian B2

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THEPREFACE
Theartististhe
skaperen
creator
ofbeautifulthings.
To
avsløre
reveal
artandconcealtheartistisart’saim.
Thecriticishewhocan
oversette
translate
intoanothermanneroranewmaterialhis
inntrykk
impression
ofbeautifulthings.
Thehighestasthe
laveste
lowest
formofcriticismisamodeofautobiography.
Thosewhofinduglymeaningsinbeautifulthingsare
korrupte
corrupt
withoutbeingcharming.
Thisisafault.
Thosewhofindbeautifulmeaningsinbeautifulthingsarethe
kultiverte
cultivated
.
Forthesethereishope.
Theyarethe
utvalgte
elect
towhombeautifulthingsmeanonlybeauty.
Thereisnosuchthingasa
moralsk
moral
oranimmoralbook.
Booksarewellwritten,orbadlywritten.
Thatisall.
Thenineteenthcentury
motvilje
dislike
ofrealismistherageofCalibanseeinghisownfaceinaglass.
Thenineteenthcentury
motvilje
dislike
ofromanticismistherageofCalibannotseeinghisownfaceinaglass.
The
moralske
moral
lifeofmanformspartofthesubject-matteroftheartist,butthe
moral
morality
ofartconsistsintheperfectuseofan
ufullkommen
imperfect
medium.
Noartistdesirestoproveanything.
Eventhingsthataretruecanbeproved.
Noartisthas
etiske
ethical
sympathies.
Anethicalsympathyinanartistisanunpardonablemannerismofstyle.
Noartistisevermorbid.
Theartistcanexpresseverything.
Thoughtandlanguagearetotheartistinstrumentsofanart.
Viceand
dyd
virtue
aretotheartistmaterialsforanart.
Fromthepointofviewofform,thetypeofalltheartsistheartofthemusician.
Fromthepointofviewoffeeling,theactor’scraftisthetype.
Allartisatoncesurfaceand
symbol
symbol
.
Thosewhogobeneaththesurfacedosoattheirperil.
Thosewhoreadthesymboldosoattheirperil.
Itisthespectator,andnotlife,thatartreallymirrors.
Diversityofopinionaboutaworkofartshowsthattheworkisnew,complex,and
viktig
vital
.
Whencriticsdisagree,theartistisin
samsvar
accord
withhimself.
Wecanforgiveamanformakingausefulthingaslongashedoesnot
beundrer
admire
it.
Theonlyexcuseformakingauselessthingisthatone
beundrer
admires
itintensely.
Allartisquiteuseless.
Kapittel
CHAPTER
I.
Thestudiowasfilledwiththerichodourofroses,andwhenthelightsummerwind
rørte
stirred
amidstthetreesofthegarden,therecamethroughtheopendoortheheavy
duften
scent
ofthelilac,orthemoredelicateperfumeofthepink-flowering
torn
thorn
.
FromthecornerofthedivanofPersiansaddle-bagsonwhichhewaslying,smoking,aswashis
skikk
custom
,innumerablecigarettes,LordHenryWottoncouldjustcatchthegleamofthehoney-sweetandhoney-colouredblossomsofalaburnum,whosetremulousbranchesseemedhardlyabletobearthe
byrden
burden
ofabeautysoflamelikeastheirs;
andnowandthenthefantasticshadowsofbirdsinflightflittedacrossthelongtussore-silkcurtainsthatwere
strakt
stretched
infrontofthehugewindow,
produsere
producing
akindofmomentaryJapaneseeffect,andmakinghimthinkofthosepallid,jade-facedpaintersofTokyowho,throughthemediumofanartthatis
nødvendigvis
necessarily
immobile,seektoconveythesenseofswiftnessand
bevegelse
motion
.
Thesullenmurmurofthebeesshoulderingtheirwaythroughthelongunmowngrass,orcirclingwithmonotonousinsistenceroundthe
støvete
dusty
gilthornsofthestragglingwoodbine,seemedtomakethestillnessmoreoppressive.
Thedim
brøl
roar
ofLondonwaslikethebourdonnoteofadistant
orgel
organ
.
Inthecentreoftheroom,clampedtoan
oppreist
upright
easel,stoodthefull-lengthportraitofayoungmanofextraordinarypersonalbeauty,andinfrontofit,somelittledistanceaway,wassittingtheartisthimself,BasilHallward,whosesuddendisappearancesomeyearsagocaused,atthetime,suchpublic
spenning
excitement
andgaverisetosomanystrangeconjectures.
Asthe
maleren
painter
lookedatthegraciousandcomelyformhehadsoskilfullymirroredinhisart,asmileofpleasurepassedacrosshisface,andseemedabouttolingerthere.
Buthesuddenlystartedup,andclosinghiseyes,placedhisfingersuponthelids,asthoughhesoughttoimprisonwithinhisbrainsomecuriousdreamfromwhichhefearedhemightawake.
“Itisyourbestwork,Basil,thebestthingyouhaveeverdone,”saidLordHenrylanguidly.
“YoumustcertainlysenditnextyeartotheGrosvenor.
The
Akademiet
Academy
istoolargeandtoo
vulgært
vulgar
.
WheneverIhavegonethere,therehavebeeneithersomanypeoplethatIhavenotbeenabletoseethepictures,whichwas
forferdelig
dreadful
,orsomanypicturesthatIhavenotbeenabletoseethepeople,whichwasworse.
TheGrosvenorisreallytheonlyplace.”
“Idon’tthinkIshallsenditanywhere,”heanswered,
kastet
tossing
hisheadbackinthatoddwaythatusedtomakehisfriendslaughathimatOxford.
“No,Iwon’tsenditanywhere.”
LordHenryelevatedhiseyebrowsandlookedathiminamazementthroughthethinbluewreathsofsmokethat
krøllet
curled
upinsuchfancifulwhorlsfromhisheavy,opium-taintedcigarette.
“Notsenditanywhere?
Mydearfellow,why?
Haveyouanyreason?
Whatoddchapsyoupaintersare!
Youdoanythingintheworldto
gain
areputation.
Assoonasyouhaveone,youseemtowanttothrowitaway.
Itissillyofyou,forthereisonlyonethingintheworldworsethanbeingtalkedabout,andthatisnotbeingtalkedabout.
A
portrett
portrait
likethiswouldsetyoufarabovealltheyoungmeninEngland,andmaketheoldmenquitejealous,ifoldmenareevercapableofanyemotion.”
“Iknowyouwilllaughatme,”he
svarte
replied
,“butIreallycan’texhibitit.
Ihaveputtoomuchofmyselfintoit.”
LordHenrystretchedhimselfoutonthedivanandlaughed.
“Yes,Iknewyouwould;
butitisquitetrue,allthesame.”
“Toomuchofyourselfinit!
Uponmyword,Basil,Ididn’tknowyouwereso
forfengelig
vain
;
andIreallycan’tseeany
likhet
resemblance
betweenyou,withyourruggedstrongfaceandyourcoal-blackhair,andthisyoungAdonis,wholooksasifhewasmadeoutof
elfenben
ivory
androse-leaves.
Why,mydearBasil,heisaNarcissus,andyou—well,ofcourseyouhaveanintellectual
uttrykk
expression
andallthat.
Butbeauty,realbeauty,endswhereanintellectual
uttrykk
expression
begins.
Intellectisinitselfamodeofexaggeration,anddestroystheharmonyofanyface.
Themomentonesitsdowntothink,onebecomesallnose,orall
pannen
forehead
,orsomethinghorrid.
Lookatthesuccessfulmeninanyofthelearnedprofessions.
Howperfectlyhideoustheyare!
Except,ofcourse,intheChurch.
ButthenintheChurchtheydon’tthink.
A
biskop
bishop
keepsonsayingattheageofeightywhathewastoldtosaywhenhewasaboyofeighteen,andasanatural
konsekvens
consequence
healwayslooksabsolutely
herlig
delightful
.
Yourmysteriousyoungfriend,whosenameyouhavenevertoldme,butwhosepicturereallyfascinatesme,neverthinks.
Ifeelquitesureofthat.
Heissomebrainlessbeautifulcreaturewhoshouldbealwayshereinwinterwhenwehavenoflowerstolookat,andalwayshereinsummerwhenwewantsomethingtochillourintelligence.
Don’t
smigre
flatter
yourself,Basil:
youarenotintheleastlikehim.”
“Youdon’tunderstandme,Harry,”answeredtheartist.
“OfcourseIamnotlikehim.
Iknowthatperfectlywell.
Indeed,Ishouldbesorrytolooklikehim.
Youshrugyourshoulders?
Iamtellingyouthetruth.
Thereisafatalityaboutallphysicaland
intellektuelle
intellectual
distinction,thesortoffatalitythatseemstodogthroughhistorythefalteringstepsofkings.
Itisbetternottobedifferentfromone’sfellows.
Theuglyandthestupidhavethebestofitinthisworld.
Theycansitattheir
lett
ease
andgapeattheplay.
Iftheyknownothingofvictory,theyareatleastsparedtheknowledgeofdefeat.
Theyliveasweallshouldlive—undisturbed,
likegyldig
indifferent
,andwithoutdisquiet.
Theyneitherbringruinuponothers,noreverreceiveitfromalienhands.
Your
rang
rank
andwealth,Harry;
mybrains,suchastheyare—myart,whateveritmaybeworth;
DorianGray’sgoodlooks—weshallallsufferforwhatthegodshavegivenus,sufferterribly.”
“DorianGray?
Isthathisname?”
askedLordHenry,walkingacrossthestudiotowardsBasilHallward.
“Yes,thatishisname.
Ididn’t
tenkt
intend
totellittoyou.”
“Butwhynot?”
“Oh,Ican’texplain.
WhenIlikepeopleimmensely,Inevertelltheirnamestoanyone.
Itislikesurrenderingapartofthem.
Ihavegrowntolovesecrecy.
Itseemstobetheonethingthatcanmakemodernlife
mystisk
mysterious
ormarvelloustous.
Thecommonestthingis
herlig
delightful
ifoneonlyhidesit.
WhenIleavetownnowInevertellmypeoplewhereIamgoing.
IfIdid,Iwouldloseallmypleasure.
Itisasilly
vane
habit
,Idaresay,butsomehowitseemstobringagreatdealof
romantikk
romance
intoone’slife.
Isupposeyouthinkme
fryktelig
awfully
foolishaboutit?”
“Notatall,”answeredLordHenry,“notatall,mydearBasil.
YouseemtoforgetthatIammarried,andtheonecharmofmarriageisthatitmakesalifeof
bedrag
deception
absolutelynecessaryforbothparties.
Ineverknowwheremywifeis,andmywifeneverknowswhatIamdoing.
Whenwemeet—wedomeetoccasionally,whenwedineouttogether,orgodowntotheDuke’s—wetelleachotherthemostabsurdstorieswiththemostseriousfaces.
Mywifeisverygoodatit—muchbetter,infact,thanIam.
Shenevergetsconfusedoverherdates,andIalwaysdo.
Butwhenshedoesfindmeout,shemakesnorowatall.
Isometimeswishshewould;
butshe
bare
merely
laughsatme.”
“Ihatethewayyoutalkaboutyourmarriedlife,Harry,”saidBasilHallward,
spasere
strolling
towardsthedoorthatledintothegarden.
“Ibelievethatyouarereallyaverygoodhusband,butthatyouare
grundig
thoroughly
ashamedofyourownvirtues.
Youareanextraordinaryfellow.
Youneversaya
moralsk
moral
thing,andyouneverdoawrongthing.
Yourcynicismissimplyapose.”
“Beingnaturalissimplyapose,andthemostirritatingposeIknow,”criedLordHenry,laughing;
andthetwoyoungmenwentoutintothegardentogetherandensconcedthemselvesonalongbambooseatthatstoodinthe
skyggen
shade
ofatalllaurelbush.
Thesunlightslippedoverthepolishedleaves.
Inthegrass,whitedaisiesweretremulous.
Aftera
pause
pause
,LordHenrypulledouthiswatch.
“IamafraidImustbegoing,Basil,”hemurmured,“andbeforeIgo,I
insisterer
insist
onyouransweringaquestionIputtoyousometimeago.”
“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
portrait
thatispaintedwithfeelingisa
portrett
portrait
oftheartist,notofthesitter.
Thesitteris
bare
merely
theaccident,theoccasion.
Itisnothewhois
avslørt
revealed
bythepainter;
itisratherthe
maleren
painter
who,onthecolouredcanvas,
avslører
reveals
himself.
ThereasonIwillnotexhibitthispictureisthatIamafraidthatIhaveshowninitthesecretofmyownsoul.”
LordHenrylaughed.
“Andwhatisthat?”
heasked.
“Iwilltellyou,”saidHallward;
butan
uttrykk
expression
ofperplexitycameoverhisface.
“Iamall
forventning
expectation
,Basil,”continuedhiscompanion,glancingathim.
“Oh,thereisreallyverylittletotell,Harry,”answeredthe
maleren
painter
;
“andIamafraidyouwillhardlyunderstandit.
Perhapsyouwillhardlybelieveit.”
LordHenrysmiled,andleaningdown,
plukket
plucked
apink-petalleddaisyfromthegrassand
undersøkte
examined
it.
“IamquitesureIshallunderstandit,”he
svarte
replied
,gazingintentlyatthelittlegolden,white-feathered
disk
disk
,“andasforbelievingthings,Icanbelieveanything,providedthatitisquiteincredible.”
Thewindshooksomeblossomsfromthetrees,andtheheavylilac-blooms,withtheirclusteringstars,movedtoandfrointhelanguidair.
Agrasshopperbegantochirrupbythewall,andlikeablue
tråd
thread
alongthindragon-fly
flyter
floated
pastonitsbrowngauzewings.
LordHenryfeltasifhecouldhearBasilHallward’sheartbeating,andwonderedwhatwascoming.
“Thestoryissimplythis,”saidthe
maleren
painter
aftersometime.
“TwomonthsagoIwenttoacrushatLadyBrandon’s.
Youknowwepoorartistshavetoshowourselvesinsocietyfromtimetotime,justtoremindthepublicthatwearenotsavages.
Withaneveningcoatandawhitetie,asyoutoldmeonce,anybody,evenastock-broker,can
gain
areputationforbeing
sivilisert
civilized
.
Well,afterIhadbeenintheroomabouttenminutes,talkingtohugeoverdresseddowagersandtediousacademicians,Isuddenlybecame
bevisst
conscious
thatsomeonewaslookingatme.
Iturned
halvveis
half-way
roundandsawDorianGrayforthefirsttime.
Whenoureyesmet,IfeltthatIwasgrowing
blek
pale
.
Acurioussensationofterrorcameoverme.
IknewthatIhadcomefacetofacewithsomeonewhose
bare
mere
personalitywassofascinatingthat,ifIallowedittodoso,itwould
absorbere
absorb
mywholenature,mywholesoul,myveryartitself.
Ididnotwantanyexternal
innflytelse
influence
inmylife.
Youknowyourself,Harry,how
uavhengig
independent
Iambynature.
Ihavealwaysbeenmyownmaster;
hadatleastalwaysbeenso,tillImetDorianGray.
Then—butIdon’tknowhowtoexplainittoyou.
SomethingseemedtotellmethatIwasonthe
randen
verge
ofaterriblecrisisinmylife.
Ihadastrangefeelingthatfatehadinstoreformeexquisitejoysandexquisitesorrows.
Igrewafraidandturnedtoquittheroom.
Itwasnot
samvittighet
conscience
thatmademedoso:
itwasasortof
feighet
cowardice
.
Itakenocredittomyselffortryingtoescape.”
“Conscienceand
feighet
cowardice
arereallythesamethings,Basil.
Samvittighet
Conscience
isthetrade-nameofthefirm.
Thatisall.”
“Idon’tbelievethat,Harry,andIdon’tbelieveyoudoeither.
However,whateverwasmymotive—anditmayhavebeenpride,forIusedtobeveryproud—Icertainlystruggledtothedoor.
There,ofcourse,I
snublet
stumbled
againstLadyBrandon.
‘Youarenotgoingtorunawaysosoon,Mr.Hallward?’shescreamedout.
Youknowhercuriouslyshrillvoice?”
“Yes;
sheisa
påfugl
peacock
ineverythingbutbeauty,”saidLordHenry,pullingthe
daisy
daisy
tobitswithhislongnervousfingers.
“Icouldnotgetridofher.
Shebroughtmeuptoroyalties,andpeoplewithstarsandgarters,andelderlyladieswithgigantictiarasand
papegøye
parrot
noses.
Shespokeofmeasherdearestfriend.
Ihadonlymetheroncebefore,butshetookitintoherheadtolionizeme.
Ibelievesomepictureofminehadmadeagreatsuccessatthetime,atleasthadbeenchatteredaboutinthepennynewspapers,whichisthenineteenth-century
standarden
standard
ofimmortality.
SuddenlyIfoundmyselffacetofacewiththeyoungmanwhose
personlighet
personality
hadsostrangelystirredme.