THEPREFACE
Theartististhecreatorofbeautifulthings.
Torevealart
in
andconcealtheartistisart’saim.Thecriticishe
ki
whocantranslateintoanothermannerali
oranewmaterialhisimpressionofbeautifulthings.Thehighestasthelowestformofcriticismisamodeofautobiography.
Those
ki
whofinduglymeaningsinbeautifulthingsarecorruptwithoutbeingcharming.To
Thisisafault.Those
ki
whofindbeautifulmeaningsinčudovite
beautifulthingsarethecultivated.For
te
thesethereishope.Theyaretheelecttowhom
lepe
beautifulthingsmeanonlybeauty.Thereis
ne
nosuchthingasamoralali
oranimmoralbook.Booksare
dobro
wellwritten,orbadlywritten.To
Thatisall.ThenineteenthcenturydislikeofrealismistherageofCalibanseeinghisown
obraz
faceinaglass.ThenineteenthcenturydislikeofromanticismistherageofCalibannotseeinghisownfaceinaglass.
Themoral
življenje
lifeofmanformspartofthesubject-matteroftheartist,toda
butthemoralityofartconsistsintheperfectuseofanimperfectmedium.Ne
Noartistdesirestoproveničesar
anything.Eventhingsthataretrue
lahko
canbeproved.Noartisthasethicalsympathies.
Anethicalsympathyinanartistisanunpardonablemannerismofstyle.
Ni
Noartistisevermorbid.Theartist
lahko
canexpresseverything.Thoughtandlanguagearetotheartistinstrumentsofanart.
Vice
in
andvirtuearetotheartistmaterialsforanart.Fromthepointofviewofform,thetypeof
vseh
alltheartsistheartofthemusician.Fromthepointofviewoffeeling,theactor’scraftisthetype.
Allartisatoncesurface
in
andsymbol.Thosewhogobeneaththesurfacedosoattheirperil.
Those
ki
whoreadthesymboldosoattheirperil.Itisthespectator,andnot
življenje
life,thatartreallymirrors.Diversityofopinion
o
aboutaworkofartshowsda
thattheworkisnew,complex,in
andvital.Whencriticsdisagree,theartistisinaccord
s
withhimself.Wecanforgiveamanformakingauseful
stvar
thingaslongashedoesnotadmireit.The
edini
onlyexcuseformakingauselessthingisda
thatoneadmiresitintensely.Allartis
povsem
quiteuseless.CHAPTERI.
Thestudiowasfilled
z
withtherichodourofroses,in
andwhenthelightsummerwindstirredamidstje
thetreesofthegarden,therecameskozi
throughtheopendoortheheavyscentofje
thelilac,orthemoredelicateperfumeofje
thepink-floweringthorn.FromthecornerofthedivanofPersiansaddle-bagsonwhichhewaslying,smoking,aswashiscustom,innumerablecigarettes,LordHenryWottoncould
pravkar
justcatchthegleamofthehoney-sweetin
andhoney-colouredblossomsofalaburnum,whosetremulousbranchesseemedhardlyabletobeartheburdenofabeautysoflamelikeastheirs;in
andnowandthenthefantasticshadowsofbirdsinflightflittedacrossthelongtussore-silkcurtainsthatwerestretchedinfrontofthehugewindow,producingakindofmomentaryJapaneseeffect,in
andmakinghimthinkofthosepallid,jade-facedpaintersofTokyowho,throughthemediumofanartthatisnecessarilyimmobile,seektoconveythesenseofswiftnessin
andmotion.Thesullenmurmurof
je
thebeesshoulderingtheirwaythroughje
thelongunmowngrass,orcirclingz
withmonotonousinsistenceroundthedustygilthornsofje
thestragglingwoodbine,seemedtomakeje
thestillnessmoreoppressive.ThedimroarofLondonwas
kot
likethebourdonnoteofadistantorgan.Inthecentreoftheroom,clampedtoanuprighteasel,stoodthefull-lengthportraitofayoungmanofextraordinarypersonalbeauty,
in
andinfrontofit,nekaj
somelittledistanceaway,wassittingtheartisthimself,BasilHallward,whosesuddendisappearancenekaj
someyearsagocaused,atthečasu
time,suchpublicexcitementandgaverisetosomanystrangeconjectures.Asthepainterlookedatthegracious
in
andcomelyformhehadsoskilfullymirroredinhisart,asmileofpleasurepassedacrosshisface,in
andseemedabouttolingertam
there.Buthesuddenlystartedup,andclosinghiseyes,placedhisfingersuponthelids,asthoughhesoughttoimprisonwithinhisbrain
nekaj
somecuriousdreamfromwhichhefearedhemightawake.“Itisyourbest
delo
work,Basil,thebestthingyouhaveeverdone,”saidLordHenrylanguidly.“Youmustcertainlysenditnext
leto
yeartotheGrosvenor.TheAcademyis
preveč
toolargeandtoovulgar.WheneverIhavegone
tam
there,therehavebeeneithersoveliko
manypeoplethatIhavenotbeenabletoseeje
thepictures,whichwasdreadful,ali
orsomanypicturesthatIhavenotbeenabletoseeje
thepeople,whichwasworse.TheGrosvenoris
res
reallytheonlyplace.”“Idon’tthinkIshallsenditanywhere,”heanswered,tossinghis
glavo
headbackinthatoddnačin
waythatusedtomakehisfriendslaughathimatOxford.“No,Iwon’tsenditanywhere.”
LordHenryelevatedhiseyebrows
in
andlookedathiminamazementskozi
throughthethinbluewreathsofsmokeki
thatcurledupinsuchfancifulwhorlsfromhisheavy,opium-taintedcigarette.“Notsenditanywhere?
My
dragi
dearfellow,why?Haveyouany
razlog
reason?Whatoddchapsyoupaintersare!
Youdoanythinginthe
svetu
worldtogainareputation.Assoonasyouhaveone,youseemtowanttothrowit
stran
away.Itissillyofyou,forthereis
samo
onlyonethinginthesvetu
worldworsethanbeingtalkedo
about,andthatisnotbeingtalkedo
about.Aportraitlikethiswouldsetyou
daleč
farabovealltheyoungmeninEngland,in
andmaketheoldmenzelo
quitejealous,ifoldmenareevercapableofanyemotion.”“Iknowyouwilllaughatme,”hereplied,“butI
res
reallycan’texhibitit.Ihaveput
preveč
toomuchofmyselfintoit.”LordHenrystretchedhimselfouton
je
thedivanandlaughed.“Yes,Iknewyouwould;
ampak
butitisquitetrue,allthesame.”“Toomuchofyourselfinit!
Uponmy
besedo
word,Basil,Ididn’tknowyouweresovain;in
andIreallycan’tseeanyresemblancemed
betweenyou,withyourruggedstrongfacein
andyourcoal-blackhair,andtem
thisyoungAdonis,wholooksasifhewasmadeoutofivoryin
androse-leaves.Why,mydearBasil,heisaNarcissus,
in
andyou—well,ofcourseyouhaveanintellectualexpressionin
andallthat.Butbeauty,realbeauty,ends
kjer
whereanintellectualexpressionbegins.Intellectisinitselfamodeofexaggeration,
in
anddestroystheharmonyofanyface.Themomentonesitsdowntothink,onebecomes
vse
allnose,orallforehead,ali
orsomethinghorrid.Lookatthesuccessfulmeninanyofthelearnedprofessions.
Kako
Howperfectlyhideoustheyare!Except,of
seveda
course,intheChurch.ButthenintheChurchtheydon’tthink.
Abishopkeepsonsayingattheageofeightywhathewastoldtosay
ko
whenhewasaboyofeighteen,in
andasanaturalconsequencehevedno
alwayslooksabsolutelydelightful.Yourmysterious
mladi
youngfriend,whosenameyouhavenikoli
nevertoldme,butwhosepictureresnično
reallyfascinatesme,neverthinks.Ifeelquitesureof
to
that.Heissomebrainlessbeautifulcreature
ki
whoshouldbealwayshereinwinterko
whenwehavenoflowerstolookat,in
andalwayshereinsummerko
whenwewantsomethingtochillourintelligence.Don’tflatteryourself,Basil:
youarenotintheleast
kot
likehim.”“Youdon’tunderstandme,Harry,”answered
je
theartist.“OfcourseIamnot
kot
likehim.Iknowthatperfectlywell.
Indeed,Ishouldbe
žal
sorrytolooklikehim.Youshrugyourshoulders?
Iamtellingyouthetruth.
Thereisafatalityabout
vseh
allphysicalandintellectualdistinction,thesortoffatalitythatseemstodogskozi
throughhistorythefalteringstepsofkings.Itis
bolje
betternottobedifferentfromone’sfellows.Theugly
in
andthestupidhavethebestofitintem
thisworld.Theycansitattheirease
in
andgapeattheplay.Če
Iftheyknownothingofvictory,theyareatvsaj
leastsparedtheknowledgeofdefeat.Theyliveaswe
vsi
allshouldlive—undisturbed,indifferent,andbrez
withoutdisquiet.Theyneitherbringruinuponothers,noreverreceiveitfromalienhands.
Yourrank
in
andwealth,Harry;mybrains,suchastheyare—myart,
karkoli
whateveritmaybeworth;DorianGray’s
dober
goodlooks—weshallallsufferforwhatje
thegodshavegivenus,sufferterribly.”“DorianGray?
Is
to
thathisname?”askedLordHenry,walkingacross
je
thestudiotowardsBasilHallward.“Yes,thatishis
ime
name.Ididn’tintendtotellittoyou.”
“Butwhynot?”
“Oh,Ican’texplain.
Ko
WhenIlikepeopleimmensely,Ineverpovem
telltheirnamestoanyone.Itis
kot
likesurrenderingapartofnjih
them.Ihavegrowntolovesecrecy.
Itseemstobe
je
theonethingthatcanmakemodernživljenje
lifemysteriousormarvelloustonam
us.Thecommonestthingisdelightful
če
ifoneonlyhidesit.Ko
WhenIleavetownnowInikoli
nevertellmypeoplewhereIamgoing.Če
IfIdid,Iwouldloseallmypleasure.Itisasillyhabit,Idare
reči
say,butsomehowitseemstobringaveliko
greatdealofromanceintoone’sživljenje
life.Isupposeyouthinkmeawfullyfoolishaboutit?”
“Notatall,”answeredLordHenry,“notatall,my
dragi
dearBasil.YouseemtoforgetthatIam
poročen
married,andtheonecharmofmarriageisthatitmakesaživljenje
lifeofdeceptionabsolutelynecessaryforobe
bothparties.Ineverknow
kje
wheremywifeis,andmyžena
wifeneverknowswhatIamdoing.Ko
Whenwemeet—wedomeetoccasionally,ko
whenwedineouttogether,orgodowntotheDuke’s—wetelleachotherthenajbolj
mostabsurdstorieswiththenajbolj
mostseriousfaces.Mywifeis
zelo
verygoodatit—muchbetter,infact,kot
thanIam.Shenevergetsconfusedoverherdates,andI
vedno
alwaysdo.Butwhenshedoesfindmeout,shemakes
ne
norowatall.I
včasih
sometimeswishshewould;butshemerelylaughsatme.”
“Ihate
je
thewayyoutalkaboutyourmarriedlife,Harry,”saidBasilHallward,strollingtowardsje
thedoorthatledintoje
thegarden.“Ibelievethatyouare
res
reallyaverygoodhusband,vendar
butthatyouarethoroughlyashamedofyourownvirtues.Youareanextraordinaryfellow.
You
nikoli
neversayamoralthing,in
andyouneverdoawrongthing.Yourcynicismissimplyapose.”
“Beingnaturalissimplyapose,
in
andthemostirritatingposeIknow,”criedLordHenry,laughing;in
andthetwoyoungmenwentoutintothegardenskupaj
togetherandensconcedthemselvesonalongbambooseatki
thatstoodintheshadeofatalllaurelbush.Je
Thesunlightslippedoverthepolishedleaves.Inthegrass,
bele
whitedaisiesweretremulous.After
je
apause,LordHenrypulledouthiswatch.“IamafraidImustbegoing,Basil,”hemurmured,“andbeforeI
iti
go,Iinsistonyouransweringavprašanje
questionIputtoyounekaj
sometimeago.”“Whatisthat?”
said
je
thepainter,keepinghiseyesfixedonje
theground.“Youknowquitewell.”
“Idonot,Harry.”
“Well,Iwill
povedal
tellyouwhatitis.Iwantyoutoexplaintomewhyyouwon’texhibitDorianGray’spicture.
Iwanttherealreason.”
“Itoldyouthe
pravi
realreason.”“No,youdidnot.
Yousaiditwas
ker
becausetherewastoomuchofyourselfinto
it.Now,thatischildish.”
“Harry,”saidBasilHallward,lookinghimstraightinthe
obraz
face,“everyportraitthatispaintedz
withfeelingisaportraitoftheartist,notofthesitter.Thesitterismerelytheaccident,theoccasion.
Itisnothe
ki
whoisrevealedbythepainter;itisratherthepainter
ki
who,onthecolouredcanvas,revealshimself.The
razlog
reasonIwillnotexhibitte
thispictureisthatIamafraidda
thatIhaveshowninitthesecretofmyownsoul.”LordHenrylaughed.
“Andwhatisthat?”
heasked.
“Iwill
povedal
tellyou,”saidHallward;but
je
anexpressionofperplexitycameoverhisface.“Iamallexpectation,Basil,”continuedhiscompanion,glancingat
ga
him.“Oh,thereisreally
zelo
verylittletotell,Harry,”answeredthepainter;“andIamafraidyouwillhardlyunderstandit.
Morda
Perhapsyouwillhardlybelieveit.”LordHenrysmiled,
in
andleaningdown,pluckedapink-petalleddaisyfromthegrassin
andexaminedit.“Iam
povsem
quitesureIshallunderstandit,”hereplied,gazingintentlyatthelittlegolden,white-feathereddisk,“andasforbelievingthings,Ilahko
canbelieveanything,providedthatitispovsem
quiteincredible.”Thewindshook
nekaj
someblossomsfromthetrees,in
andtheheavylilac-blooms,withtheirclusteringstars,movedtoin
andfrointhelanguidzraku
air.Agrasshopperbegantochirrupbythewall,
in
andlikeabluethreadalongthindragon-flyfloatedmimo
pastonitsbrowngauzewings.LordHenryfeltasifhecouldhearBasilHallward’s
srca
heartbeating,andwonderedwhatwascoming.“Thestoryissimplythis,”saidthepainter
po
aftersometime.“TwomonthsagoIwenttoacrushatLadyBrandon’s.
Youknowwe
ubogi
poorartistshavetoshowourselvesinsocietyfromtimetotime,samo
justtoremindthepublicthatwearenotsavages.Z
Withaneveningcoatandabelo
whitetie,asyoutoldmenekoč
once,anybody,evenastock-broker,lahko
cangainareputationforbeingcivilized.No
Well,afterIhadbeeninthesobi
roomabouttenminutes,talkingtohugeoverdresseddowagersin
andtediousacademicians,Isuddenlybecameconsciousthatsomeonewaslookingatme.Iturnedhalf-wayround
in
andsawDorianGrayfortheprvič
firsttime.Whenoureyesmet,Ifelt
da
thatIwasgrowingpale.Je
Acurioussensationofterrorcameoverme.IknewthatIhadcomefacetoface
z
withsomeonewhosemerepersonalitywassofascinatingthat,če
ifIallowedittodoso,itwouldabsorbmywholenature,mywholesoul,myveryartitself.Ididnotwantanyexternalinfluenceinmylife.
Youknowyourself,Harry,
kako
howindependentIambynature.Ihave
vedno
alwaysbeenmyownmaster;hadat
vsaj
leastalwaysbeenso,tillImetDorianGray.Then—butIdon’t
vem
knowhowtoexplainittoyou.Nekaj
SomethingseemedtotellmethatIwasonthevergeofaterriblecrisisinmylife.Ihadastrangefeeling
da
thatfatehadinstoreformeexquisitejoysin
andexquisitesorrows.Igrewafraid
in
andturnedtoquitthesobo
room.Itwasnotconsciencethatmademedoso:
itwas
je
asortofcowardice.Itake
ne
nocredittomyselffortryingtoescape.”“Conscience
in
andcowardicearereallythesamethings,Basil.Conscienceisthetrade-nameofthefirm.
To
Thatisall.”“Idon’tbelievethat,Harry,
in
andIdon’tbelieveyoudoeither.However,whateverwasmymotive—andit
morda
mayhavebeenpride,forIusedtobezelo
veryproud—Icertainlystruggledtoje
thedoor.There,ofcourse,IstumbledagainstLadyBrandon.
‘Youarenotgoingtorunawayso
kmalu
soon,Mr.Hallward?’shescreamedout.Youknowhercuriouslyshrillvoice?”
“Yes;
sheisapeacockin
vsem
everythingbutbeauty,”saidLordHenry,pullingthedaisytobitsz
withhislongnervousfingers.“Icouldnotgetridofher.
Shebroughtmeuptoroyalties,
in
andpeoplewithstarsandgarters,in
andelderlyladieswithgigantictiarasin
andparrotnoses.Shespokeofmeasherdearestfriend.
Ihad
samo
onlymetheroncebefore,butshetookitintoherglavo
headtolionizeme.Ibelievesomepictureofminehadmadeagreatsuccessatthe
času
time,atleasthadbeenchatteredo
aboutinthepennynewspapers,kar
whichisthenineteenth-centurystandardofimmortality.SuddenlyIfoundmyself
obraz
facetofacewiththeyoungmanwhosepersonalityhadsostrangelystirredme.