THEPREFACE
Theartististhe
creador
creatorofbeautifulthings.To
revelar
revealartandconcealtheartistisart’saim.The
crítico
criticishewhocantraducir
translateintoanothermanneroranewmaterialhisimpresión
impressionofbeautifulthings.Thehighestasthelowestformof
crítica
criticismisamodeofautobiography.Thosewhofinduglymeaningsinbeautifulthingsarecorruptwithoutbeingcharming.
Thisisafault.
Thosewhofindbeautifulmeaningsinbeautifulthingsarethecultivated.
Forthesethereishope.
Theyaretheelecttowhombeautifulthingsmeanonlybeauty.
Thereisnosuchthingasa
moral
moraloranimmoralbook.Booksarewellwritten,orbadlywritten.
Thatisall.
Thenineteenthcentury
aversión
dislikeofrealismistherageofCalibanseeinghisownfaceinaglass.Thenineteenthcentury
aversión
dislikeofromanticismistherageofCalibannotseeinghisownfaceinaglass.Themorallifeofmanformspartofthesubject-matteroftheartist,butthemoralityofartconsistsintheperfectuseofan
imperfecto
imperfectmedium.Noartistdesirestoproveanything.
Eventhingsthataretruecanbeproved.
Noartisthasethicalsympathies.
An
ética
ethicalsympathyinanartistisanunpardonablemannerismofstyle.Noartistisever
morboso
morbid.Theartistcanexpresseverything.
Thoughtandlanguagearetotheartistinstrumentsofanart.
Viceand
virtud
virtuearetotheartistmaterialsforanart.Fromthepointofviewofform,thetypeofalltheartsistheartofthe
músico
musician.Fromthepointofviewoffeeling,theactor’s
oficio
craftisthetype.Allartisatoncesurfaceand
símbolo
symbol.Thosewhogobeneaththesurfacedosoattheirperil.
Thosewhoreadthe
símbolo
symboldosoattheirperil.Itisthespectator,andnotlife,thatartreallymirrors.
Diversidad
Diversityofopinionaboutaworkofartshowsthattheworkisnew,complex,andvital
vital.Whencriticsdisagree,theartistisinaccordwithhimself.
Wecanforgiveamanformakingausefulthingaslongashedoesnot
admire
admireit.Theonlyexcuseformakingauselessthingisthatone
admira
admiresitintensely.Allartisquiteuseless.
Capítulo
CHAPTERI.Thestudiowasfilledwiththerichodourofroses,andwhenthelightsummerwind
agitaba
stirredamidstthetreesofthegarden,therecamethroughtheopendoortheheavyolor
scentofthelilac,orthemoredelicado
delicateperfumeofthepink-floweringespina
thorn.FromthecornerofthedivanofPersiansaddle-bagsonwhichhewaslying,smoking,aswashis
costumbre
custom,innumerablecigarettes,LordHenryWottoncouldjustcatchthegleamofthehoney-sweetandhoney-colouredblossomsofalaburnum,whosetremulousbranchesseemedhardlyabletobearthecarga
burdenofabeautysoflamelikeastheirs;andnowandthenthefantasticshadowsofbirdsinflightflittedacrossthelongtussore-silkcurtainsthatwerestretchedinfrontofthehugewindow,
produciendo
producingakindofmomentaryJapaneseeffect,andmakinghimthinkofthosepallid,jade-facedpaintersofTokyowho,throughthemediumofanartthatisnecesariamente
necessarilyimmobile,seektoconveythesenseofswiftnessandmovimiento
motion.Thesullenmurmurofthebeesshoulderingtheirwaythroughthelongunmowngrass,orcirclingwithmonotonousinsistenceroundthedustygilthornsofthestragglingwoodbine,seemedtomakethestillnessmoreoppressive.
Thedim
rugido
roarofLondonwaslikethebourdonnoteofadistantórgano
organ.Inthecentreoftheroom,clampedtoanuprighteasel,stoodthefull-length
retrato
portraitofayoungmanofextraordinarypersonalbeauty,andinfrontofit,somelittledistanceaway,wassittingtheartisthimself,BasilHallward,whosesuddendesaparición
disappearancesomeyearsagocaused,atthetime,suchpublicexcitación
excitementandgaverisetosomanystrangeconjectures.Asthe
pintor
painterlookedatthegraciousandcomelyformhehadsoskilfullymirroredinhisart,asmileofpleasurepassedacrosshisface,andseemedabouttolingerthere.Buthesuddenlystartedup,andclosinghiseyes,placedhisfingersuponthelids,asthoughhesoughttoimprisonwithinhisbrainsomecuriousdreamfromwhichhefearedhemightawake.
“Itisyourbestwork,Basil,thebestthingyouhaveeverdone,”saidLordHenrylanguidly.
“YoumustcertainlysenditnextyeartotheGrosvenor.
The
Academia
Academyistoolargeandtoovulgar
vulgar.WheneverIhavegonethere,therehavebeeneithersomanypeoplethatIhavenotbeenabletoseethepictures,whichwas
terrible
dreadful,orsomanypicturesthatIhavenotbeenabletoseethepeople,whichwasworse.TheGrosvenorisreallytheonlyplace.”
“Idon’tthinkIshallsenditanywhere,”heanswered,tossinghisheadbackinthatoddwaythatusedtomakehisfriendslaughathimatOxford.
“No,Iwon’tsenditanywhere.”
LordHenryelevatedhiseyebrowsandlookedathiminamazementthroughthethinbluewreathsofsmokethatcurledupinsuchfancifulwhorlsfromhisheavy,opium-taintedcigarette.
“Notsenditanywhere?
Mydearfellow,why?
Haveyouanyreason?
Whatoddchapsyoupaintersare!
Youdoanythingintheworldto
ganar
gainareputation.Assoonasyouhaveone,youseemtowanttothrowitaway.
Itissillyofyou,forthereisonlyonethingintheworldworsethanbeingtalkedabout,andthatisnotbeingtalkedabout.
A
retrato
portraitlikethiswouldsetyoufarabovealltheyoungmeninEngland,andmaketheoldmenquitejealous,ifoldmenareevercapableofanyemotion.”“Iknowyouwilllaughatme,”he
respondió
replied,“butIreallycan’texhibitit.Ihaveputtoomuchofmyselfintoit.”
LordHenrystretchedhimselfoutonthedivanandlaughed.
“Yes,Iknewyouwould;
butitisquitetrue,allthesame.”
“Toomuchofyourselfinit!
Uponmyword,Basil,Ididn’tknowyouwereso
vanidoso
vain;andIreallycan’tseeany
parecido
resemblancebetweenyou,withyourrobusto
ruggedstrongfaceandyourcoal-blackhair,andthisyoungAdonis,wholooksasifhewasmadeoutofmarfil
ivoryandrose-leaves.Why,mydearBasil,heisaNarcissus,andyou—well,ofcourseyouhavean
intelectual
intellectualexpressionandallthat.Butbeauty,realbeauty,endswherean
intelectual
intellectualexpressionbegins.Intellectisinitselfamodeofexaggeration,anddestroysthe
armonía
harmonyofanyface.Themomentonesitsdowntothink,onebecomesallnose,orall
frente
forehead,orsomethinghorrid.Lookatthesuccessfulmeninanyofthelearnedprofessions.
Howperfectlyhideoustheyare!
Except,ofcourse,intheChurch.
ButthenintheChurchtheydon’tthink.
A
obispo
bishopkeepsonsayingattheageofeightywhathewastoldtosaywhenhewasaboyofeighteen,andasanaturalconsecuencia
consequencehealwayslooksabsolutelyencantador
delightful.Yourmysteriousyoungfriend,whosenameyouhavenevertoldme,butwhosepicturereallyfascinatesme,neverthinks.
Ifeelquitesureofthat.
Heissomebrainlessbeautifulcreaturewhoshouldbealwayshereinwinterwhenwehavenoflowerstolookat,andalwayshereinsummerwhenwewantsomethingtochillourintelligence.
Don’tflatteryourself,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
rango
rankandwealth,Harry;mybrains,suchastheyare—myart,whateveritmaybeworth;
DorianGray’sgoodlooks—weshallallsufferforwhatthegodshavegivenus,sufferterribly.”
“DorianGray?
Isthathisname?”
askedLordHenry,walkingacrossthestudiotowardsBasilHallward.
“Yes,thatishisname.
Ididn’t
intención
intendtotellittoyou.”“Butwhynot?”
“Oh,Ican’texplain.
WhenIlikepeople
inmensamente
immensely,Inevertelltheirnamestoanyone.Itislikesurrenderingapartofthem.
Ihavegrowntolove
secreto
secrecy.Itseemstobetheonethingthatcanmakemodernlifemysteriousormarvelloustous.
Thecommonestthingis
delicioso
delightfulifoneonlyhidesit.WhenIleavetownnowInevertellmypeoplewhereIamgoing.
IfIdid,Iwouldloseallmypleasure.
Itisasilly
hábito
habit,Idaresay,butsomehowitseemstobringagreatdealofromanceintoone’slife.Isupposeyouthinkmeawfullyfoolishaboutit?”
“Notatall,”answeredLordHenry,“notatall,mydearBasil.
YouseemtoforgetthatIammarried,andtheone
encanto
charmofmarriageisthatitmakesalifeofengaño
deceptionabsolutelynecessaryforbothparties.Ineverknowwheremywifeis,andmywifeneverknowswhatIamdoing.
Whenwemeet—wedomeet
ocasionalmente
occasionally,whenwedineouttogether,orgodowntotheDuke’s—wetelleachotherthemostabsurdstorieswiththemostseriousfaces.Mywifeisverygoodatit—muchbetter,infact,thanIam.
Shenevergetsconfusedoverherdates,andIalwaysdo.
Butwhenshedoesfindmeout,shemakesnorowatall.
Isometimeswishshewould;
butshe
sólo
merelylaughsatme.”“Ihatethewayyoutalkaboutyourmarriedlife,Harry,”saidBasilHallward,strollingtowardsthedoorthatledintothegarden.
“Ibelievethatyouarereallyaverygoodhusband,butthatyouarethoroughlyashamedofyourownvirtues.
Youareanextraordinaryfellow.
Youneversaya
moral
moralthing,andyouneverdoawrongthing.Yourcynicismissimplyapose.”
“Beingnaturalissimplyapose,andthemostirritatingposeIknow,”criedLordHenry,laughing;
andthetwoyoungmenwentoutintothegardentogetherandensconcedthemselvesonalong
bambú
bambooseatthatstoodinthesombra
shadeofatalllaurelbush.Thesunlightslippedoverthepolishedleaves.
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
exhibes
exhibitDorianGray’spicture.Iwanttherealreason.”
“Itoldyoutherealreason.”
“No,youdidnot.
Yousaiditwasbecausetherewastoomuchofyourselfinit.
Now,thatischildish.”
“Harry,”saidBasilHallward,lookinghimstraightintheface,“every
retrato
portraitthatispaintedwithfeelingisaretrato
portraitoftheartist,notofthesitter.Thesitterismerelytheaccident,theoccasion.
Itisnothewhois
revelado
revealedbythepainter;itisratherthe
pintor
painterwho,onthecolouredlienzo
canvas,revealshimself.ThereasonIwillnot
exhibir
exhibitthispictureisthatIamafraidthatIhaveshowninitthesecretofmyownsoul.”LordHenrylaughed.
“Andwhatisthat?”
heasked.
“Iwilltellyou,”saidHallward;
butan
expresión
expressionofperplexitycameoverhisface.“Iamall
expectativa
expectation,Basil,”continuedhiscompanion,glancingathim.“Oh,thereisreallyverylittletotell,Harry,”answeredthe
pintor
painter;“andIamafraidyouwillhardlyunderstandit.
Perhapsyouwillhardlybelieveit.”
LordHenrysmiled,andleaningdown,
arrancó
pluckedapink-petalleddaisyfromthegrassandexaminó
examinedit.“IamquitesureIshallunderstandit,”he
respondió
replied,gazingintentlyatthelittlegolden,white-feathereddisco
disk,“andasforbelievingthings,Icanbelieveanything,providedthatitisquiteincredible.”Thewindshooksomeblossomsfromthetrees,andtheheavylilac-blooms,withtheirclusteringstars,movedtoandfrointhelanguidair.
Agrasshopperbegantochirrupbythewall,andlikeablue
hilo
threadalongthindragon-flyflotó
floatedpastonitsbrowngauzewings.LordHenryfeltasifhecouldhearBasilHallward’sheartbeating,andwonderedwhatwascoming.
“Thestoryissimplythis,”saidthe
pintor
painteraftersometime.“TwomonthsagoIwenttoacrushatLadyBrandon’s.
Youknowwepoorartistshavetoshowourselvesinsocietyfromtimetotime,justtoremindthepublicthatwearenotsavages.
Withaneveningcoatandawhitetie,asyoutoldmeonce,anybody,evenastock-broker,can
ganar
gainareputationforbeingcivilized.Well,afterIhadbeenintheroomabouttenminutes,talkingtohugeoverdresseddowagersandtediousacademicians,Isuddenlybecameconsciousthatsomeonewaslookingatme.
Iturned
mitad
half-wayroundandsawDorianGrayforthefirsttime.Whenoureyesmet,IfeltthatIwasgrowing
pálido
pale.Acurioussensationofterrorcameoverme.
IknewthatIhadcomefacetofacewithsomeonewhosemere
personalidad
personalitywassofascinatingthat,ifIallowedittodoso,itwouldabsorbería
absorbmywholenature,mywholesoul,myveryartitself.Ididnotwantanyexternal
influencia
influenceinmylife.Youknowyourself,Harry,how
independiente
independentIambynature.Ihavealwaysbeenmyownmaster;
hadatleastalwaysbeenso,tillImetDorianGray.
Then—butIdon’tknowhowtoexplainittoyou.
SomethingseemedtotellmethatIwasonthe
borde
vergeofaterriblecrisisinmylife.Ihadastrangefeelingthatfatehadinstoreformeexquisitejoysandexquisitesorrows.
Igrewafraidandturnedtoquittheroom.
Itwasnotconsciencethatmademedoso:
itwasasortof
cobardía
cowardice.Itakenocredittomyselffortryingtoescape.”
“Conscienceand
cobardía
cowardicearereallythesamethings,Basil.Conscienceisthetrade-nameofthefirm.
Thatisall.”
“Idon’tbelievethat,Harry,andIdon’tbelieveyoudoeither.
However,whateverwasmymotive—anditmayhavebeenpride,forIusedtobeveryproud—Icertainlystruggledtothedoor.
There,ofcourse,IstumbledagainstLady
Brandon
Brandon.‘Youarenotgoingtorunawaysosoon,Mr.Hallward?’shescreamedout.
Youknowhercuriouslyshrillvoice?”
“Yes;
sheisa
pavo real
peacockineverythingbutbeauty,”saidLordHenry,pullingthedaisytobitswithhislongnervousfingers.“Icouldnotgetridofher.
Shebroughtmeuptoroyalties,andpeoplewithstarsandgarters,andelderlyladieswithgigantictiarasand
loro
parrotnoses.Shespokeofmeasherdearestfriend.
Ihadonlymetheroncebefore,butshetookitintoherheadtolionizeme.
Ibelievesomepictureofminehadmadeagreatsuccessatthetime,atleasthadbeenchatteredaboutinthepennynewspapers,whichisthenineteenth-century
estándar
standardofimmortality.SuddenlyIfoundmyselffacetofacewiththeyoungmanwhose
personalidad
personalityhadsostrangelystirredme.