THEPREFACE
Theartististhe
criador
creatorofbeautifulthings.To
revelar
revealartandconcealtheartistisart’saim.The
crítico
criticishewhocantraduzir
translateintoanothermanneroranewmaterialhisimpressão
impressionofbeautifulthings.Thehighestasthelowestformof
crítica
criticismisamodeofautobiography.Thosewhofinduglymeaningsinbeautifulthingsarecorruptwithoutbeingcharming.
Thisisafault.
Thosewhofindbeautifulmeaningsinbeautifulthingsarethecultivated.
Forthesethereishope.
Theyaretheelecttowhombeautifulthingsmeanonlybeauty.
Thereisnosuchthingasa
moral
moraloranimmoralbook.Booksarewellwritten,orbadlywritten.
Thatisall.
Thenineteenthcentury
aversão
dislikeofrealismistheraiva
rageofCalibanseeinghisownfaceinaglass.Thenineteenthcentury
aversão
dislikeofromanticismistheraiva
rageofCalibannotseeinghisownfaceinaglass.Themorallifeofmanformspartofthesubject-matteroftheartist,butthemoralityofartconsistsintheperfectuseofan
imperfeito
imperfectmedium.Noartistdesirestoproveanything.
Eventhingsthataretruecanbeproved.
Noartisthasethicalsympathies.
An
ética
ethicalsympathyinanartistisanunpardonablemannerismofstyle.Noartistisevermorbid.
Theartistcanexpresseverything.
Thoughtandlanguagearetotheartistinstrumentsofanart.
Viceand
virtude
virtuearetotheartistmaterialsforanart.Fromthepointofviewofform,thetypeofalltheartsistheartofthe
músico
musician.Fromthepointofviewoffeeling,theactor’s
ofício
craftisthetype.Allartisatoncesurfaceand
símbolo
symbol.Thosewhogobeneaththesurfacedosoattheirperil.
Thosewhoreadthe
símbolo
symboldosoattheirperil.Itisthespectator,andnotlife,thatartreallymirrors.
Diversidade
Diversityofopinionaboutaworkofartshowsthattheworkisnew,complex,andvital
vital.Whencriticsdisagree,theartistisin
acordo
accordwithhimself.Wecanforgiveamanformakingausefulthingaslongashedoesnot
admire
admireit.Theonlyexcuseformakingauselessthingisthatone
admira
admiresitintensely.Allartisquiteuseless.
Capítulo
CHAPTERI.Thestudiowasfilledwiththerichodourofroses,andwhenthelightsummerwindstirredamidstthetreesofthegarden,therecamethroughtheopendoortheheavy
cheiro
scentofthelilac,orthemoredelicado
delicateperfumeofthepink-floweringespinho
thorn.FromthecornerofthedivanofPersiansaddle-bagsonwhichhewaslying,smoking,aswashis
costume
custom,innumerablecigarettes,LordHenryWottoncouldjustcatchthegleamofthehoney-sweetandhoney-colouredblossomsofalaburnum,whosetremulousbranchesseemedhardlyabletobearthefardo
burdenofabeautysoflamelikeastheirs;andnowandthenthefantasticshadowsofbirdsinflightflittedacrossthelongtussore-silkcurtainsthatwerestretchedinfrontofthehugewindow,
produzindo
producingakindofmomentaryJapaneseeffect,andmakinghimthinkofthosepallid,jade-facedpaintersofTokyowho,throughthemeio
mediumofanartthatisnecessariamente
necessarilyimmobile,seektoconveythesenseofswiftnessandmovimento
motion.Thesullenmurmurofthebeesshoulderingtheirwaythroughthelongunmowngrass,orcirclingwithmonotonousinsistenceroundthedustygilthornsofthestragglingwoodbine,seemedtomakethestillnessmoreoppressive.
ThedimroarofLondonwaslikethebourdonnoteofa
distante
distantorgan.Inthecentreoftheroom,clampedtoan
ereto
uprighteasel,stoodthefull-lengthretrato
portraitofayoungmanofextraordinarypersonalbeauty,andinfrontofit,somelittledistanceaway,wassittingtheartisthimself,BasilHallward,whosesuddendesaparecimento
disappearancesomeyearsagocaused,atthetime,suchpublicexcitação
excitementandgaverisetosomanystrangeconjectures.Asthe
pintor
painterlookedatthegraciousandcomelyformhehadsoskilfullymirroredinhisart,asmileofpleasurepassedacrosshisface,andseemedabouttolingerthere.Buthesuddenlystartedup,andclosinghiseyes,placedhisfingersuponthelids,asthoughhesoughttoimprisonwithinhisbrainsomecuriousdreamfromwhichhefearedhemightawake.
“Itisyourbestwork,Basil,thebestthingyouhaveeverdone,”saidLordHenrylanguidly.
“YoumustcertainlysenditnextyeartotheGrosvenor.
The
Academia
Academyistoolargeandtoovulgar
vulgar.WheneverIhavegonethere,therehavebeeneithersomanypeoplethatIhavenotbeenabletoseethepictures,whichwas
terrível
dreadful,orsomanypicturesthatIhavenotbeenabletoseethepeople,whichwasworse.TheGrosvenorisreallytheonlyplace.”
“Idon’tthinkIshallsenditanywhere,”heanswered,tossinghisheadbackinthatoddwaythatusedtomakehisfriendslaughathimatOxford.
“No,Iwon’tsenditanywhere.”
LordHenryelevatedhiseyebrowsandlookedathiminamazementthroughthethinbluewreathsofsmokethat
enrolavam
curledupinsuchfancifulwhorlsfromhisheavy,opium-taintedcigarette.“Notsenditanywhere?
Mydearfellow,why?
Haveyouanyreason?
Whatoddchapsyoupaintersare!
Youdoanythingintheworldto
ganhar
gainareputation.Assoonasyouhaveone,youseemtowanttothrowitaway.
Itissillyofyou,forthereisonlyonethingintheworldworsethanbeingtalkedabout,andthatisnotbeingtalkedabout.
A
retrato
portraitlikethiswouldsetyoufarabovealltheyoungmeninEngland,andmaketheoldmenquitejealous,ifoldmenareevercapableofanyemotion.”“Iknowyouwilllaughatme,”he
respondeu
replied,“butIreallycan’texhibitit.Ihaveputtoomuchofmyselfintoit.”
LordHenrystretchedhimselfoutonthedivanandlaughed.
“Yes,Iknewyouwould;
butitisquitetrue,allthesame.”
“Toomuchofyourselfinit!
Uponmyword,Basil,Ididn’tknowyouwereso
vaidoso
vain;andIreallycan’tseeany
semelhança
resemblancebetweenyou,withyourrobusto
ruggedstrongfaceandyourcoal-blackhair,andthisyoungAdonis,wholooksasifhewasmadeoutofmarfim
ivoryandrose-leaves.Why,mydearBasil,heisaNarcissus,andyou—well,ofcourseyouhavean
intelectual
intellectualexpressionandallthat.Butbeauty,realbeauty,endswherean
intelectual
intellectualexpressionbegins.Intellectisinitselfa
modo
modeofexaggeration,anddestroystheharmonia
harmonyofanyface.Themomentonesitsdowntothink,onebecomesallnose,orall
testa
forehead,orsomethinghorrid.Lookatthesuccessfulmeninanyofthelearnedprofessions.
Howperfectlyhideoustheyare!
Except,ofcourse,intheChurch.
ButthenintheChurchtheydon’tthink.
A
bispo
bishopkeepsonsayingattheageofeightywhathewastoldtosaywhenhewasaboyofeighteen,andasanaturalconsequencehealwayslooksabsolutelydelicioso
delightful.Yourmysteriousyoungfriend,whosenameyouhavenevertoldme,butwhosepicturereallyfascinatesme,neverthinks.
Ifeelquitesureofthat.
Heissomebrainlessbeautifulcreaturewhoshouldbealwayshereinwinterwhenwehavenoflowerstolookat,andalwayshereinsummerwhenwewantsomethingtochillourintelligence.
Don’t
lisonjeies
flatteryourself,Basil:youarenotintheleastlikehim.”
“Youdon’tunderstandme,Harry,”answeredtheartist.
“OfcourseIamnotlikehim.
Iknowthatperfectlywell.
Indeed,Ishouldbesorrytolooklikehim.
Youshrugyourshoulders?
Iamtellingyouthetruth.
Thereisafatalityaboutallphysicaland
intelectual
intellectualdistinction,thesortoffatalitythatseemstodogthroughhistorythefalteringstepsofkings.Itisbetternottobedifferentfromone’sfellows.
Theuglyandthestupidhavethebestofitinthisworld.
Theycansitattheireaseandgapeattheplay.
Iftheyknownothingofvictory,theyareatleastsparedtheknowledgeofdefeat.
Theyliveasweallshouldlive—undisturbed,indifferent,andwithoutdisquiet.
Theyneitherbringruinuponothers,noreverreceiveitfromalienhands.
Your
posto
rankandwealth,Harry;mybrains,suchastheyare—myart,whateveritmaybeworth;
DorianGray’sgoodlooks—weshallallsufferforwhatthegodshavegivenus,sufferterribly.”
“DorianGray?
Isthathisname?”
askedLordHenry,walkingacrossthestudiotowardsBasilHallward.
“Yes,thatishisname.
Ididn’t
intenção
intendtotellittoyou.”“Butwhynot?”
“Oh,Ican’texplain.
WhenIlikepeople
imensamente
immensely,Inevertelltheirnamestoanyone.Itislikesurrenderingapartofthem.
Ihavegrowntolove
segredo
secrecy.Itseemstobetheonethingthatcanmakemodernlifemysteriousormarvelloustous.
Thecommonestthingisdelightfulifoneonlyhidesit.
WhenIleavetownnowInevertellmypeoplewhereIamgoing.
IfIdid,Iwouldloseallmypleasure.
Itisasilly
hábito
habit,Idaresay,butsomehowitseemstobringagreatdealofromance
romanceintoone’slife.Isupposeyouthinkme
muito
awfullyfoolishaboutit?”“Notatall,”answeredLordHenry,“notatall,mydearBasil.
YouseemtoforgetthatIammarried,andtheone
charme
charmofmarriageisthatitmakesalifeofengano
deceptionabsolutelynecessaryforbothparties.Ineverknowwheremywifeis,andmywifeneverknowswhatIamdoing.
Whenwemeet—wedomeet
ocasionalmente
occasionally,whenwedineouttogether,orgodowntotheDuke’s—wetelleachotherthemostabsurdstorieswiththemostseriousfaces.Mywifeisverygoodatit—muchbetter,infact,thanIam.
Shenevergetsconfusedoverherdates,andIalwaysdo.
Butwhenshedoesfindmeout,shemakesnorowatall.
Isometimeswishshewould;
butshe
apenas
merelylaughsatme.”“Ihatethewayyoutalkaboutyourmarriedlife,Harry,”saidBasilHallward,strollingtowardsthedoorthatledintothegarden.
“Ibelievethatyouarereallyaverygoodhusband,butthatyouare
completamente
thoroughlyashamedofyourownvirtues.Youareanextraordinaryfellow.
Youneversaya
moral
moralthing,andyouneverdoawrongthing.Yourcynicismissimplyapose.”
“Beingnaturalissimplyapose,andthemostirritatingposeIknow,”criedLordHenry,laughing;
andthetwoyoungmenwentoutintothegardentogetherandensconcedthemselvesonalong
bambu
bambooseatthatstoodinthesombra
shadeofatalllaurelbush.The
sol
sunlightslippedoverthepolishedleaves.Inthegrass,whitedaisiesweretremulous.
Aftera
pausa
pause,LordHenrypulledouthiswatch.“IamafraidImustbegoing,Basil,”hemurmured,“andbeforeIgo,I
insisto
insistonyouransweringaquestionIputtoyousometimeago.”“Whatisthat?”
saidthe
pintor
painter,keepinghiseyesfixedontheground.“Youknowquitewell.”
“Idonot,Harry.”
“Well,Iwilltellyouwhatitis.
Iwantyoutoexplaintomewhyyouwon’t
exibir
exhibitDorianGray’spicture.Iwanttherealreason.”
“Itoldyoutherealreason.”
“No,youdidnot.
Yousaiditwasbecausetherewastoomuchofyourselfinit.
Now,thatischildish.”
“Harry,”saidBasilHallward,lookinghimstraightintheface,“every
retrato
portraitthatispaintedwithfeelingisaretrato
portraitoftheartist,notofthesitter.Thesitteris
apenas
merelytheaccident,theoccasion.Itisnothewhois
revelado
revealedbythepainter;itisratherthe
pintor
painterwho,onthecolouredtela
canvas,revealshimself.ThereasonIwillnot
exibir
exhibitthispictureisthatIamafraidthatIhaveshowninitthesecretofmyownsoul.”LordHenrylaughed.
“Andwhatisthat?”
heasked.
“Iwilltellyou,”saidHallward;
butan
expressão
expressionofperplexitycameoverhisface.“Iamall
expectativa
expectation,Basil,”continuedhiscompanion,glancingathim.“Oh,thereisreallyverylittletotell,Harry,”answeredthe
pintor
painter;“andIamafraidyouwillhardlyunderstandit.
Perhapsyouwillhardlybelieveit.”
LordHenrysmiled,andleaningdown,
arrancou
pluckedapink-petalleddaisyfromthegrassandexaminou
examinedit.“IamquitesureIshallunderstandit,”he
respondeu
replied,gazingintentlyatthelittlegolden,white-feathereddisco
disk,“andasforbelievingthings,Icanbelieveanything,providedthatitisquiteincredible.”Thewindshooksomeblossomsfromthetrees,andtheheavylilac-blooms,withtheirclusteringstars,movedtoandfrointhelanguidair.
Agrasshopperbegantochirrupbythewall,andlikeablue
fio
threadalongthindragon-flyflutuando
floatedpastonitsbrowngauzewings.LordHenryfeltasifhecouldhearBasilHallward’sheartbeating,andwonderedwhatwascoming.
“Thestoryissimplythis,”saidthe
pintor
painteraftersometime.“TwomonthsagoIwenttoa
paixão
crushatLadyBrandon’s.Youknowwepoorartistshavetoshowourselvesinsocietyfromtimetotime,justtoremindthepublicthatwearenotsavages.
Withaneveningcoatandawhitetie,asyoutoldmeonce,anybody,evenastock-broker,can
ganhar
gainareputationforbeingcivilized.Well,afterIhadbeenintheroomabouttenminutes,talkingtohugeoverdresseddowagersandtediousacademicians,Isuddenlybecame
consciente
consciousthatsomeonewaslookingatme.Iturned
a meio caminho
half-wayroundandsawDorianGrayforthefirsttime.Whenoureyesmet,IfeltthatIwasgrowing
pálido
pale.Acurioussensationof
terror
terrorcameoverme.IknewthatIhadcomefacetofacewithsomeonewhose
mera
merepersonalitywassofascinatingthat,ifIallowedittodoso,itwouldabsorveria
absorbmywholenature,mywholesoul,myveryartitself.Ididnotwantanyexternal
influência
influenceinmylife.Youknowyourself,Harry,how
independente
independentIambynature.Ihavealwaysbeenmyownmaster;
hadatleastalwaysbeenso,tillImetDorianGray.
Then—butIdon’tknowhowtoexplainittoyou.
SomethingseemedtotellmethatIwasonthe
beira
vergeofaterriblecrisisinmylife.Ihadastrangefeelingthatfatehadinstoreformeexquisitejoysandexquisitesorrows.
Igrewafraidandturnedtoquittheroom.
Itwasnot
consciência
consciencethatmademedoso:itwasasortof
covardia
cowardice.Itakenocredittomyselffortryingtoescape.”
“Conscienceand
covardia
cowardicearereallythesamethings,Basil.Consciência
Conscienceisthetrade-nameofthefirm.Thatisall.”
“Idon’tbelievethat,Harry,andIdon’tbelieveyoudoeither.
However,whateverwasmymotive—anditmayhavebeenpride,forIusedtobeveryproud—Icertainlystruggledtothedoor.
There,ofcourse,I
tropecei
stumbledagainstLadyBrandon.‘Youarenotgoingtorunawaysosoon,Mr.Hallward?’shescreamedout.
Youknowhercuriouslyshrillvoice?”
“Yes;
sheisa
pavão
peacockineverythingbutbeauty,”saidLordHenry,pullingthemargarida
daisytobitswithhislongnervousfingers.“Icouldnotgetridofher.
Shebroughtmeuptoroyalties,andpeoplewithstarsandgarters,andelderlyladieswithgigantictiarasand
papagaio
parrotnoses.Shespokeofmeasherdearestfriend.
Ihadonlymetheroncebefore,butshetookitintoherheadtolionizeme.
Ibelievesomepictureofminehadmadeagreatsuccessatthetime,atleasthadbeenchatteredaboutinthepennynewspapers,whichisthenineteenth-century
padrão
standardofimmortality.SuddenlyIfoundmyselffacetofacewiththeyoungmanwhose
personalidade
personalityhadsostrangelystirredme.