THEPREFACE
Theartististhecreatorofbeautifulthings.
To
avslöja
revealartandconcealtheartistisart’saim.Thecriticishewhocan
översätta
translateintoanothermanneroranewmaterialhisintryck
impressionofbeautifulthings.Thehighestasthe
lägsta
lowestformofcriticismisasätt
modeofautobiography.Thosewhofinduglymeaningsinbeautifulthingsare
korrupta
corruptwithoutbeingcharming.Thisisafault.
Thosewhofindbeautifulmeaningsinbeautifulthingsarethe
kultiverade
cultivated.Forthesethereishope.
Theyarethe
utvalda
electtowhombeautifulthingsmeanonlybeauty.Thereisnosuchthingasa
moralisk
moraloranimmoralbook.Booksarewellwritten,orbadlywritten.
Thatisall.
Thenineteenthcentury
motvilja
dislikeofrealismistheraseri
rageofCalibanseeinghisownfaceinaglass.Thenineteenthcentury
motvilja
dislikeofromanticismistheraseri
rageofCalibannotseeinghisownfaceinaglass.The
moraliska
morallifeofmanformspartofthesubject-matteroftheartist,butthemoral
moralityofartconsistsintheperfectuseofanimperfectmedium
medium.Noartistdesirestoproveanything.
Eventhingsthataretruecanbeproved.
Noartisthas
etiska
ethicalsympathies.Anethicalsympathyinanartistisanunpardonablemannerismofstyle.
Noartistisever
sjuklig
morbid.Theartistcanexpresseverything.
Thoughtandlanguagearetotheartistinstrumentsofanart.
Viceand
dygd
virtuearetotheartistmaterialsforanart.Fromthepointofviewofform,thetypeofalltheartsistheartofthemusician.
Fromthepointofviewoffeeling,theactor’s
hantverk
craftisthetype.Allartisatoncesurfaceand
symbol
symbol.Thosewhogobeneaththesurfacedosoattheirperil.
Thosewhoreadthesymboldosoattheirperil.
Itisthespectator,andnotlife,thatartreallymirrors.
Diversityofopinionaboutaworkofartshowsthattheworkisnew,complex,andvital.
Whencritics
oense
disagree,theartistisinaccordwithhimself.Wecanforgiveamanformakingausefulthingaslongashedoesnot
beundrar
admireit.Theonlyexcuseformakingauselessthingisthatone
beundrar
admiresitintensely.Allartisquiteuseless.
Kapitel
CHAPTERI.Thestudiowasfilledwiththerichodourofroses,andwhenthelightsummerwind
rörde
stirredamidstthetreesofthegarden,therecamethroughtheopendoortheheavydoften
scentofthelilac,orthemorekänsliga
delicateperfumeofthepink-floweringtaggen
thorn.FromthecornerofthedivanofPersiansaddle-bagsonwhichhewaslying,smoking,aswashiscustom,innumerablecigarettes,LordHenryWottoncouldjustcatchthegleamofthehoney-sweetandhoney-colouredblossomsofalaburnum,whosetremulousbranchesseemedhardlyabletobeartheburdenofabeautysoflamelikeastheirs;
andnowandthenthefantasticshadowsofbirdsinflightflittedacrossthelongtussore-silkcurtainsthatwerestretchedinfrontofthehugewindow,producingakindofmomentaryJapaneseeffect,andmakinghimthinkofthosepallid,jade-facedpaintersofTokyowho,throughthemediumofanartthatis
nödvändigtvis
necessarilyimmobile,seektoconveythesenseofswiftnessandrörelse
motion.Thesullenmurmurofthebeesshoulderingtheirwaythroughthelongunmowngrass,orcirclingwithmonotonousinsistenceroundthe
dammiga
dustygilthornsofthestragglingwoodbine,seemedtomakethestillnessmoreoppressive.Thedim
dån
roarofLondonwaslikethebourdonnoteofaavlägsen
distantorgan.Inthecentreoftheroom,clampedtoanuprighteasel,stoodthefull-lengthportraitofayoungmanofextraordinarypersonalbeauty,andinfrontofit,somelittledistanceaway,wassittingtheartisthimself,BasilHallward,whosesudden
försvinnande
disappearancesomeyearsagocaused,atthetime,suchpublicexcitementandgaverisetosomanystrangeconjectures.Asthepainterlookedatthegraciousandcomelyformhehadsoskilfullymirroredinhisart,asmileofpleasurepassedacrosshisface,andseemedaboutto
dröja
lingerthere.Buthesuddenlystartedup,andclosinghiseyes,placedhisfingersuponthelids,asthoughhesoughttoimprisonwithinhisbrainsomecuriousdreamfromwhichhefearedhemightawake.
“Itisyourbestwork,Basil,thebestthingyouhaveeverdone,”saidLordHenrylanguidly.
“YoumustcertainlysenditnextyeartotheGrosvenor.
The
Akademin
Academyistoolargeandtoovulgär
vulgar.WheneverIhavegonethere,therehavebeeneithersomanypeoplethatIhavenotbeenabletoseethepictures,whichwasdreadful,orsomanypicturesthatIhavenotbeenabletoseethepeople,whichwasworse.
TheGrosvenorisreallytheonlyplace.”
“Idon’tthinkIshallsenditanywhere,”heanswered,
kastade
tossinghisheadbackinthatoddwaythatusedtomakehisfriendslaughathimatOxford.“No,Iwon’tsenditanywhere.”
LordHenryelevatedhiseyebrowsandlookedathiminamazementthroughthethinbluewreathsofsmokethat
kröp
curledupinsuchfancifulwhorlsfromhisheavy,opium-taintedcigarette.“Notsenditanywhere?
Mydearfellow,why?
Haveyouanyreason?
Whatoddchapsyoupaintersare!
Youdoanythingintheworldto
få
gainareputation.Assoonasyouhaveone,youseemtowanttothrowitaway.
Itissillyofyou,forthereisonlyonethingintheworldworsethanbeingtalkedabout,andthatisnotbeingtalkedabout.
A
porträtt
portraitlikethiswouldsetyoufarabovealltheyoungmeninEngland,andmaketheoldmenquitejealous,ifoldmenareevercapableofanyemotion.”“Iknowyouwilllaughatme,”he
svarade
replied,“butIreallycan’texhibitit.Ihaveputtoomuchofmyselfintoit.”
LordHenrystretchedhimselfoutonthedivanandlaughed.
“Yes,Iknewyouwould;
butitisquitetrue,allthesame.”
“Toomuchofyourselfinit!
Uponmyword,Basil,Ididn’tknowyouwereso
fåfänga
vain;andIreallycan’tseeany
likhet
resemblancebetweenyou,withyourruggedstrongfaceandyourcoal-blackhair,andthisyoungAdonis,wholooksasifhewasmadeoutofelfenben
ivoryandrose-leaves.Why,mydearBasil,heisaNarcissus,andyou—well,ofcourseyouhaveanintellectual
uttryck
expressionandallthat.Butbeauty,realbeauty,endswhereanintellectual
uttryck
expressionbegins.Intellectisinitselfa
sätt
modeofexaggeration,anddestroystheharmonyofanyface.Themomentonesitsdowntothink,onebecomesallnose,orall
pannan
forehead,orsomethinghorrid.Lookatthesuccessfulmeninanyofthelearnedprofessions.
Howperfectlyhideoustheyare!
Except,ofcourse,intheChurch.
ButthenintheChurchtheydon’tthink.
A
biskop
bishopkeepsonsayingattheageofeightywhathewastoldtosaywhenhewasaboyofeighteen,andasanaturalföljd
consequencehealwayslooksabsolutelyförtjusande
delightful.Yourmysteriousyoungfriend,whosenameyouhavenevertoldme,butwhosepicturereallyfascinatesme,neverthinks.
Ifeelquitesureofthat.
Heissomebrainlessbeautifulcreaturewhoshouldbealwayshereinwinterwhenwehavenoflowerstolookat,andalwayshereinsummerwhenwewantsomethingtochillourintelligence.
Don’t
smickra
flatteryourself,Basil:youarenotintheleastlikehim.”
“Youdon’tunderstandme,Harry,”answeredtheartist.
“OfcourseIamnotlikehim.
Iknowthatperfectlywell.
Indeed,Ishouldbesorrytolooklikehim.
Youshrugyourshoulders?
Iamtellingyouthetruth.
Thereisafatalityaboutallphysicaland
intellektuell
intellectualdistinction,thesortoffatalitythatseemstodogthroughhistorythefalteringstepsofkings.Itisbetternottobedifferentfromone’sfellows.
Theuglyandthestupidhavethebestofitinthisworld.
Theycansitattheireaseandgapeattheplay.
Iftheyknownothingofvictory,theyareatleastsparedtheknowledgeofdefeat.
Theyliveasweallshouldlive—undisturbed,indifferent,andwithoutdisquiet.
Theyneitherbringruinuponothers,noreverreceiveitfromalienhands.
Your
rang
rankandwealth,Harry;mybrains,suchastheyare—myart,whateveritmaybeworth;
DorianGray’sgoodlooks—weshallallsufferforwhatthegodshavegivenus,sufferterribly.”
“DorianGray?
Isthathisname?”
askedLordHenry,walkingacrossthestudiotowardsBasilHallward.
“Yes,thatishisname.
Ididn’t
tänkt
intendtotellittoyou.”“Butwhynot?”
“Oh,Ican’texplain.
WhenIlikepeople
oerhört
immensely,Inevertelltheirnamestoanyone.Itislikesurrenderingapartofthem.
Ihavegrowntolove
hemlighet
secrecy.Itseemstobetheonethingthatcanmakemodernlifemysteriousormarvelloustous.
Thecommonestthingisdelightfulifoneonlyhidesit.
WhenIleavetownnowInevertellmypeoplewhereIamgoing.
IfIdid,Iwouldloseallmypleasure.
Itisasilly
vana
habit,Idaresay,butsomehowitseemstobringagreatdealofromantik
romanceintoone’slife.Isupposeyouthinkme
hemskt
awfullyfoolishaboutit?”“Notatall,”answeredLordHenry,“notatall,mydearBasil.
YouseemtoforgetthatIammarried,andtheone
charm
charmofmarriageisthatitmakesalifeofbedrägeri
deceptionabsolutelynecessaryforbothparties.Ineverknowwheremywifeis,andmywifeneverknowswhatIamdoing.
Whenwemeet—wedomeet
ibland
occasionally,whenwedineouttogether,orgodowntotheDuke’s—wetelleachotherthemostabsurdstorieswiththemostseriousfaces.Mywifeisverygoodatit—muchbetter,infact,thanIam.
Shenevergetsconfusedoverherdates,andIalwaysdo.
Butwhenshedoesfindmeout,shemakesnorowatall.
Isometimeswishshewould;
butshe
bara
merelylaughsatme.”“Ihatethewayyoutalkaboutyourmarriedlife,Harry,”saidBasilHallward,strollingtowardsthedoorthatledintothegarden.
“Ibelievethatyouarereallyaverygoodhusband,butthatyouarethoroughlyashamedofyourownvirtues.
Youareanextraordinaryfellow.
Youneversayamoralthing,andyouneverdoawrongthing.
Yourcynicismissimplyapose.”
“Beingnaturalissimplyapose,andthemostirritatingposeIknow,”criedLordHenry,laughing;
andthetwoyoungmenwentoutintothegardentogetherandensconcedthemselvesonalongbambooseatthatstoodintheshadeofatalllaurelbush.
Thesunlightslippedoverthepolishedleaves.
Inthegrass,whitedaisiesweretremulous.
Aftera
paus
pause,LordHenrypulledouthiswatch.“IamafraidImustbegoing,Basil,”hemurmured,“andbeforeIgo,I
insisterar
insistonyouransweringaquestionIputtoyousometimeago.”“Whatisthat?”
saidthepainter,keepinghiseyesfixedontheground.
“Youknowquitewell.”
“Idonot,Harry.”
“Well,Iwilltellyouwhatitis.
Iwantyoutoexplaintomewhyyouwon’t
ställa ut
exhibitDorianGray’spicture.Iwanttherealreason.”
“Itoldyoutherealreason.”
“No,youdidnot.
Yousaiditwasbecausetherewastoomuchofyourselfinit.
Now,thatischildish.”
“Harry,”saidBasilHallward,lookinghimstraightintheface,“every
porträtt
portraitthatispaintedwithfeelingisaporträtt
portraitoftheartist,notofthesitter.Thesitteris
bara
merelytheaccident,theoccasion.Itisnothewhoisrevealedbythepainter;
itisratherthepainterwho,onthe
färgade
colouredcanvas,revealshimself.ThereasonIwillnotexhibitthispictureisthatIamafraidthatIhaveshowninitthesecretofmyownsoul.”
LordHenrylaughed.
“Andwhatisthat?”
heasked.
“Iwilltellyou,”saidHallward;
butan
uttryck
expressionofperplexitycameoverhisface.“Iamall
förväntan
expectation,Basil,”continuedhiscompanion,glancingathim.“Oh,thereisreallyverylittletotell,Harry,”answeredthepainter;
“andIamafraidyouwillhardlyunderstandit.
Perhapsyouwillhardlybelieveit.”
LordHenrysmiled,andleaningdown,
plockade
pluckedapink-petalleddaisyfromthegrassandundersökte
examinedit.“IamquitesureIshallunderstandit,”he
svarade
replied,gazingintentlyatthelittlegolden,white-feathereddisk,“andasforbelievingthings,Icanbelieveanything,providedthatitisquiteincredible.”Thewindshooksomeblossomsfromthetrees,andtheheavylilac-blooms,withtheirclusteringstars,movedtoandfrointhelanguidair.
Agrasshopperbegantochirrupbythewall,andlikeablue
tråd
threadalongthindragon-flyflöt
floatedpastonitsbrowngauzewings.LordHenryfeltasifhecouldhearBasilHallward’sheartbeating,andwonderedwhatwascoming.
“Thestoryissimplythis,”saidthepainteraftersometime.
“TwomonthsagoIwenttoacrushatLadyBrandon’s.
Youknowwepoorartistshavetoshowourselvesinsocietyfromtimetotime,justtoremindthepublicthatwearenotsavages.
Withaneveningcoatandawhitetie,asyoutoldmeonce,anybody,evenastock-broker,can
få
gainareputationforbeingciviliserad
civilized.Well,afterIhadbeenintheroomabouttenminutes,talkingtohugeoverdresseddowagersand
tråkiga
tediousacademicians,Isuddenlybecamemedveten
consciousthatsomeonewaslookingatme.Iturned
halvvägs
half-wayroundandsawDorianGrayforthefirsttime.Whenoureyesmet,IfeltthatIwasgrowing
blek
pale.Acurioussensationof
skräck
terrorcameoverme.IknewthatIhadcomefacetofacewithsomeonewhosemere
personlighet
personalitywassofascinatingthat,ifIallowedittodoso,itwouldabsorbera
absorbmywholenature,mywholesoul,myveryartitself.Ididnotwantany
yttre
externalinfluenceinmylife.Youknowyourself,Harry,how
oberoende
independentIambynature.Ihavealwaysbeenmyownmaster;
hadatleastalwaysbeenso,tillImetDorianGray.
Then—butIdon’tknowhowtoexplainittoyou.
SomethingseemedtotellmethatIwasonthevergeofaterriblecrisisinmylife.
Ihadastrangefeelingthatfatehadinstoreforme
utsökta
exquisitejoysandexquisitesorrows.Igrewafraidandturnedtoquittheroom.
Itwasnot
samvete
consciencethatmademedoso:itwasasortof
feghet
cowardice.Itakenocredittomyselffortryingtoescape.”
“Conscienceand
feghet
cowardicearereallythesamethings,Basil.Conscienceisthetrade-nameofthefirm.
Thatisall.”
“Idon’tbelievethat,Harry,andIdon’tbelieveyoudoeither.
However,whateverwasmymotive—anditmayhavebeenpride,forIusedtobeveryproud—Icertainlystruggledtothedoor.
There,ofcourse,I
snubblade
stumbledagainstLadyBrandon.‘Youarenotgoingtorunawaysosoon,Mr.Hallward?’shescreamedout.
Youknowhercuriouslyshrillvoice?”
“Yes;
sheisa
påfågel
peacockineverythingbutbeauty,”saidLordHenry,pullingthedaisy
daisytobitswithhislongnervousfingers.“Icouldnotgetridofher.
Shebroughtmeuptoroyalties,andpeoplewithstarsandgarters,andelderlyladieswithgigantictiarasandparrotnoses.
Shespokeofmeasherdearestfriend.
Ihadonlymetheroncebefore,butshetookitintoherheadtolionizeme.
Ibelievesomepictureofminehadmadeagreatsuccessatthetime,atleasthadbeenchatteredaboutinthepennynewspapers,whichisthenineteenth-century
standard
standardofimmortality.SuddenlyIfoundmyselffacetofacewiththeyoungmanwhose
personlighet
personalityhadsostrangelystirredme.