THEPREFACE
Theartististhecreatorofbeautifulthings.
Torevealartandconcealthe
artista
artistisart’saim.Thecriticishewhocantranslateintoanothermanneroranew
material
materialhisimpressionofbeautifulthings.Thehighestasthelowestformofcriticismisamodeofautobiography.
Thosewhofinduglymeaningsinbeautifulthingsarecorruptwithoutbeingcharming.
Thisisafault.
Thosewhofindbeautifulmeaningsinbeautifulthingsarethecultivated.
Forthesethereishope.
Theyaretheelecttowhombeautifulthingsmeanonlybeauty.
Thereisnosuchthingasamoraloranimmoralbook.
Booksarewellwritten,or
mal
badlywritten.Thatisall.
Thenineteenth
século
centurydislikeofrealismistherageofCalibanseeinghisownfaceinaglass.Thenineteenth
século
centurydislikeofromanticismistherageofCalibannotseeinghisownfaceinaglass.Themorallifeofmanformspartofthesubject-matterofthe
artista
artist,butthemoralityofartconsistsintheperfectuseofanimperfectmedium.No
artista
artistdesirestoproveanything.Eventhingsthataretruecanbeproved.
No
artista
artisthasethicalsympathies.Anethicalsympathyinan
artista
artistisanunpardonablemannerismofestilo
style.Noartistisevermorbid.
The
artista
artistcanexpresseverything.Thoughtandlanguagearetothe
artista
artistinstrumentsofanart.Vício
Viceandvirtuearetotheartista
artistmaterialsforanart.Fromthepointof
vista
viewofform,thetypeofalltheartsistheartofthemusician.Fromthepointof
vista
viewoffeeling,theactor’scraftisthetype.Allartisatonce
superfície
surfaceandsymbol.Thosewhogobeneaththe
superfície
surfacedosoattheirperil.Thosewhoreadthesymboldosoattheirperil.
Itisthespectator,andnotlife,thatartreally
espelha
mirrors.Diversityofopinionaboutaworkofartshowsthattheworkisnew,complex,andvital.
Whencriticsdisagree,the
artista
artistisinaccordwithhimself.Wecanforgiveamanformakinga
útil
usefulthingaslongashedoesnotadmireit.Theonlyexcuseformakinga
inútil
uselessthingisthatoneadmiresitintensely.Allartisquite
inútil
useless.CHAPTERI.
Thestudiowas
cheio
filledwiththerichodourofroses,andwhenthelightsummerwindstirredamidstthetreesofthejardim
garden,therecamethroughtheopendoortheheavyscentofthelilac,orthemoredelicateperfumeofthepink-floweringthorn.Fromthe
canto
cornerofthedivanofPersiansaddle-bagsonwhichhewaslying,smoking,aswashiscustom,innumerablecigarettes,LordHenryWottoncouldjustcatchthegleamofthehoney-sweetandhoney-colouredblossomsofalaburnum,whosetremulousbranchesseemeddificilmente
hardlyabletobeartheburdenofabeautysoflamelikeastheirs;andnowandthenthefantasticshadowsofbirdsinflightflittedacrossthelongtussore-silkcurtainsthatwerestretchedinfrontofthehugewindow,producingakindofmomentaryJapanese
efeito
effect,andmakinghimthinkofthosepallid,jade-facedpaintersofTokyowho,throughthemediumofanartthatisnecessarilyimmobile,procuram
seektoconveythesenseofswiftnessandmotion.Thesullenmurmurofthebeesshoulderingtheirwaythroughthelongunmown
grama
grass,orcirclingwithmonotonousinsistenceroundthedustygilthornsofthestragglingwoodbine,seemedtomakethestillnessmoreoppressive.ThedimroarofLondonwaslikethebourdon
nota
noteofadistantorgan.Inthecentreoftheroom,clampedtoanuprighteasel,stoodthefull-lengthportraitofayoungmanofextraordinarypersonalbeauty,andinfrontofit,somelittledistanceaway,wassittingthe
artista
artisthimself,BasilHallward,whosesúbito
suddendisappearancesomeyearsagocaused,atthetime,suchpublicexcitementandgaverisetosomanystrangeconjectures.Asthepainterlookedatthegraciousandcomelyformhehadsoskilfully
espelhado
mirroredinhisart,asmileofpleasurepassedacrosshisface,andseemedabouttolingerthere.Buthesuddenlystartedup,andclosinghiseyes,placedhisfingersuponthelids,asthoughhe
procurou
soughttoimprisonwithinhisbrainsomecurioso
curiousdreamfromwhichhefearedhemightawake.“Itisyourbestwork,Basil,thebestthingyouhaveeverdone,”saidLordHenrylanguidly.
“YoumustcertainlysenditnextyeartotheGrosvenor.
TheAcademyistoolargeandtoovulgar.
WheneverIhavegonethere,therehavebeeneithersomanypeoplethatIhavenotbeenabletoseethepictures,whichwasdreadful,orsomanypicturesthatIhavenotbeenabletoseethepeople,whichwasworse.
TheGrosvenorisreallytheonlyplace.”
“Idon’tthinkIshallsenditanywhere,”heanswered,tossinghisheadbackinthatoddwaythatusedtomakehisfriendslaughathimatOxford.
“No,Iwon’tsenditanywhere.”
LordHenryelevatedhiseyebrowsandlookedathiminamazementthroughthethinbluewreathsofsmokethatcurledupinsuchfancifulwhorlsfromhisheavy,opium-tainted
cigarro
cigarette.“Notsenditanywhere?
Mydear
companheiro
fellow,why?Haveyouanyreason?
Whatoddchapsyoupaintersare!
Youdoanythingintheworldtogaina
reputação
reputation.Assoonasyouhaveone,youseemtowanttothrowitaway.
Itissillyofyou,forthereisonlyonethingintheworldworsethanbeingtalkedabout,andthatisnotbeingtalkedabout.
AportraitlikethiswouldsetyoufarabovealltheyoungmeninEngland,andmaketheoldmenquite
ciúmes
jealous,ifoldmenareevercapableofanyemotion.”“Iknowyouwilllaughatme,”hereplied,“butIreallycan’texhibitit.
Ihaveputtoomuchofmyselfintoit.”
LordHenrystretchedhimselfoutonthedivanandlaughed.
“Yes,Iknewyouwould;
butitisquitetrue,allthesame.”
“Toomuchofyourselfinit!
Uponmyword,Basil,Ididn’tknowyouweresovain;
andIreallycan’tseeanyresemblancebetweenyou,withyourruggedstrongfaceandyourcoal-blackhair,andthisyoungAdonis,wholooksasifhewasmadeoutofivoryandrose-leaves.
Why,mydearBasil,heisaNarcissus,andyou—well,ofcourseyouhaveanintellectualexpressionandallthat.
Butbeauty,realbeauty,endswhereanintellectualexpressionbegins.
Intellectisinitselfamodeofexaggeration,and
destrói
destroystheharmonyofanyface.Themomentonesitsdowntothink,onebecomesallnose,orallforehead,orsomethinghorrid.
Lookatthe
sucesso
successfulmeninanyofthelearnedprofessions.How
perfeitamente
perfectlyhideoustheyare!Except,ofcourse,intheChurch.
ButthenintheChurchtheydon’tthink.
Abishopkeepsonsayingattheageofeightywhathewastoldtosaywhenhewasaboyofeighteen,andasa
natural
naturalconsequencehealwayslooksabsolutelydelightful.Yourmysteriousyoungfriend,whosenameyouhavenevertoldme,butwhosepicturereallyfascinatesme,neverthinks.
Ifeelquitesureofthat.
Heissomebrainlessbeautiful
criatura
creaturewhoshouldbealwayshereininverno
winterwhenwehavenoflowerstolookat,andalwayshereinsummerwhenwewantsomethingtochillourinteligência
intelligence.Don’tflatteryourself,Basil:
youarenotintheleastlikehim.”
“Youdon’tunderstandme,Harry,”answeredthe
artista
artist.“OfcourseIamnotlikehim.
Iknowthat
perfeitamente
perfectlywell.Indeed,Ishouldbesorrytolooklikehim.
Youshrugyourshoulders?
Iamtellingyouthetruth.
Thereisafatalityaboutall
física
physicalandintellectualdistinction,thesortoffatalitythatseemstodogthroughhistorythefalteringstepsofkings.Itisbetternottobedifferentfromone’sfellows.
Theuglyandthestupidhavethebestofitinthisworld.
Theycansitattheireaseandgapeattheplay.
Iftheyknownothingof
vitória
victory,theyareatleastsparedtheconhecimento
knowledgeofdefeat.Theyliveasweallshouldlive—undisturbed,indifferent,andwithoutdisquiet.
Theyneitherbring
ruína
ruinuponothers,noreverrecebem
receiveitfromalienhands.Yourrankandwealth,Harry;
mybrains,suchastheyare—myart,whateveritmaybeworth;
DorianGray’sgoodlooks—weshallall
sofrer
sufferforwhatthegodshavegivenus,sofrer
sufferterribly.”“DorianGray?
Isthathisname?”
askedLordHenry,walkingacrossthe
estúdio
studiotowardsBasilHallward.“Yes,thatishisname.
Ididn’tintendtotellittoyou.”
“Butwhynot?”
“Oh,Ican’texplain.
WhenIlikepeopleimmensely,Inevertelltheirnamestoanyone.
Itislike
entregar
surrenderingapartofthem.Ihavegrowntolovesecrecy.
Itseemstobetheonethingthatcanmakemodernlifemysteriousormarvelloustous.
Thecommonestthingisdelightfulifoneonlyhidesit.
WhenIleavetownnowInevertellmypeoplewhereIamgoing.
IfIdid,Iwouldloseallmypleasure.
Itisasillyhabit,Idaresay,but
alguma
somehowitseemstobringagreatdealofromanceintoone’slife.Isupposeyouthinkmeawfullyfoolishaboutit?”
“Notatall,”answeredLordHenry,“notatall,mydearBasil.
YouseemtoforgetthatIammarried,andtheonecharmofmarriageisthatitmakesalifeofdeceptionabsolutelynecessaryforbothparties.
Ineverknowwheremywifeis,andmywifeneverknowswhatIamdoing.
Whenwemeet—wedomeetoccasionally,whenwedineouttogether,orgodowntotheDuke’s—wetelleachotherthemostabsurdstorieswiththemostseriousfaces.
Mywifeisverygoodatit—muchbetter,infact,thanIam.
Shenevergets
confunde
confusedoverherdates,andIalwaysdo.Butwhenshedoesfindmeout,shemakesnorowatall.
Isometimeswishshewould;
butshemerelylaughsatme.”
“Ihatethewayyoutalkaboutyourmarriedlife,Harry,”saidBasilHallward,strollingtowardsthedoorthatledintothe
jardim
garden.“Ibelievethatyouarereallyaverygoodhusband,butthatyouarethoroughly
envergonhado
ashamedofyourownvirtues.Youarean
extraordinário
extraordinaryfellow.Youneversayamoralthing,andyouneverdoawrongthing.
Yourcynicismissimplyapose.”
“Being
natural
naturalissimplyapose,andthemostirritatingposeIknow,”criedLordHenry,laughing;andthetwoyoungmenwentoutintothe
jardim
gardentogetherandensconcedthemselvesonalongbambooseatthatstoodintheshadeofaalto
talllaurelbush.Thesunlight
escorregou
slippedoverthepolishedleaves.Inthe
grama
grass,whitedaisiesweretremulous.Afterapause,LordHenrypulledouthiswatch.
“IamafraidImustbegoing,Basil,”hemurmured,“andbeforeIgo,IinsistonyouransweringaquestionIputtoyousometimeago.”
“Whatisthat?”
saidthepainter,keepinghiseyesfixedontheground.
“Youknowquitewell.”
“Idonot,Harry.”
“Well,Iwilltellyouwhatitis.
Iwantyoutoexplaintomewhyyouwon’texhibitDorianGray’spicture.
Iwanttherealreason.”
“Itoldyoutherealreason.”
“No,youdidnot.
Yousaiditwasbecausetherewastoomuchofyourselfinit.
Now,thatischildish.”
“Harry,”saidBasilHallward,lookinghimstraightintheface,“everyportraitthatis
pintado
paintedwithfeelingisaportraitoftheartista
artist,notofthesitter.Thesitterismerelytheaccident,theoccasion.
Itisnothewhoisrevealedbythepainter;
itisratherthepainterwho,onthecolouredcanvas,revealshimself.
ThereasonIwillnotexhibitthispictureisthatIamafraidthatIhave
mostrado
showninitthesecretofmyownsoul.”LordHenrylaughed.
“Andwhatisthat?”
heasked.
“Iwilltellyou,”saidHallward;
butanexpressionofperplexitycameoverhisface.
“Iamallexpectation,Basil,”continuedhiscompanion,glancingathim.
“Oh,thereisreallyverylittletotell,Harry,”answeredthepainter;
“andIamafraidyouwill
dificilmente
hardlyunderstandit.Perhapsyouwill
dificilmente
hardlybelieveit.”LordHenrysmiled,andleaningdown,pluckedapink-petalleddaisyfromthe
grama
grassandexaminedit.“IamquitesureIshallunderstandit,”hereplied,gazingintentlyatthelittle
dourado
golden,white-feathereddisk,“andasforbelievingthings,Icanbelieveanything,providedthatitisquiteincredible.”Thewindshooksomeblossomsfromthetrees,andtheheavylilac-blooms,withtheirclusteringstars,movedtoandfrointhelanguidair.
Agrasshopperbegantochirrupbythewall,andlikeabluethreadalong
fina
thindragon-flyfloatedpastonitsmarrom
browngauzewings.LordHenryfeltasifhecouldhearBasilHallward’sheartbeating,andwonderedwhatwascoming.
“Thestoryissimplythis,”saidthepainteraftersometime.
“TwomonthsagoIwenttoacrushatLadyBrandon’s.
Youknowwepoorartistshavetoshowourselvesin
sociedade
societyfromtimetotime,justtolembrar
remindthepublicthatwearenotsavages.Withanevening
casaco
coatandawhitetie,asyoutoldmeonce,anybody,evenastock-broker,cangainareputação
reputationforbeingcivilized.Well,afterIhadbeenintheroomabouttenminutes,talkingtohugeoverdresseddowagersandtediousacademicians,Isuddenlybecameconsciousthatsomeonewaslookingatme.
Iturnedhalf-wayroundandsawDorianGrayforthefirsttime.
Whenoureyesmet,IfeltthatIwasgrowingpale.
Acurioussensationofterrorcameoverme.
IknewthatIhadcomefacetofacewithsomeonewhosemerepersonalitywassofascinatingthat,ifIallowedittodoso,itwouldabsorbmywholenature,mywholesoul,myveryartitself.
Ididnotwantanyexternalinfluenceinmylife.
Youknowyourself,Harry,howindependentIambynature.
Ihavealwaysbeenmyownmaster;
hadatleastalwaysbeenso,tillImetDorianGray.
Then—butIdon’tknowhowtoexplainittoyou.
SomethingseemedtotellmethatIwasonthevergeofaterrible
crise
crisisinmylife.Ihadastrangefeelingthat
destino
fatehadinstoreformeexquisitejoysandexquisitesorrows.Igrewafraidandturnedtoquittheroom.
Itwasnotconsciencethatmademedoso:
itwasasortofcowardice.
Itakeno
crédito
credittomyselffortryingtoescape.”“Conscienceandcowardicearereallythesamethings,Basil.
Conscienceisthetrade-nameofthe
empresa
firm.Thatisall.”
“Idon’tbelievethat,Harry,andIdon’tbelieveyoudoeither.
However,whateverwasmymotive—anditmayhavebeen
orgulho
pride,forIusedtobeveryproud—Icertainlylutei
struggledtothedoor.There,ofcourse,IstumbledagainstLadyBrandon.
‘Youarenotgoingtorunawaysosoon,Mr.Hallward?’she
gritou
screamedout.Youknowhercuriouslyshrillvoice?”
“Yes;
sheisapeacockineverythingbutbeauty,”saidLordHenry,pullingthedaisytobitswithhislongnervousfingers.
“Icouldnotgetridofher.
Shebroughtmeuptoroyalties,andpeoplewithstarsandgarters,andelderlyladieswithgigantictiarasandparrotnoses.
Shespokeofmeasherdearestfriend.
Ihadonlymetheroncebefore,butshetookitintoherheadtolionizeme.
Ibelievesomepictureofminehadmadeagreat
sucesso
successatthetime,atleasthadbeenchatteredaboutinthepennynewspapers,whichisthenineteenth-centurystandardofimmortality.SuddenlyIfoundmyselffacetofacewiththeyoungmanwhosepersonalityhadsostrangelystirredme.