The Picture of Dorian Gray | Gradually Hardening Swedish B2 Books

The Picture of Dorian Gray | Gradually Hardening Swedish B2 Books

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THEPREFACE
Theartististhecreatorofbeautifulthings.
To
avslöja
reveal
artandconcealtheartistisart’saim.
Thecriticishewhocan
översätta
translate
intoanothermanneroranewmaterialhis
intryck
impression
ofbeautifulthings.
Thehighestasthe
lägsta
lowest
formofcriticismisa
sätt
mode
ofautobiography.
Thosewhofinduglymeaningsinbeautifulthingsare
korrupta
corrupt
withoutbeingcharming.
Thisisafault.
Thosewhofindbeautifulmeaningsinbeautifulthingsarethe
kultiverade
cultivated
.
Forthesethereishope.
Theyarethe
utvalda
elect
towhombeautifulthingsmeanonlybeauty.
Thereisnosuchthingasa
moralisk
moral
oranimmoralbook.
Booksarewellwritten,orbadlywritten.
Thatisall.
Thenineteenthcentury
motvilja
dislike
ofrealismisthe
raseri
rage
ofCalibanseeinghisownfaceinaglass.
Thenineteenthcentury
motvilja
dislike
ofromanticismisthe
raseri
rage
ofCalibannotseeinghisownfaceinaglass.
The
moraliska
moral
lifeofmanformspartofthesubject-matteroftheartist,butthe
moral
morality
ofartconsistsintheperfectuseofanimperfect
medium
medium
.
Noartistdesirestoproveanything.
Eventhingsthataretruecanbeproved.
Noartisthas
etiska
ethical
sympathies.
Anethicalsympathyinanartistisanunpardonablemannerismofstyle.
Noartistisever
sjuklig
morbid
.
Theartistcanexpresseverything.
Thoughtandlanguagearetotheartistinstrumentsofanart.
Viceand
dygd
virtue
aretotheartistmaterialsforanart.
Fromthepointofviewofform,thetypeofalltheartsistheartofthemusician.
Fromthepointofviewoffeeling,theactor’s
hantverk
craft
isthetype.
Allartisatoncesurfaceand
symbol
symbol
.
Thosewhogobeneaththesurfacedosoattheirperil.
Thosewhoreadthesymboldosoattheirperil.
Itisthespectator,andnotlife,thatartreallymirrors.
Diversityofopinionaboutaworkofartshowsthattheworkisnew,complex,andvital.
Whencritics
oense
disagree
,theartistisinaccordwithhimself.
Wecanforgiveamanformakingausefulthingaslongashedoesnot
beundrar
admire
it.
Theonlyexcuseformakingauselessthingisthatone
beundrar
admires
itintensely.
Allartisquiteuseless.
Kapitel
CHAPTER
I.
Thestudiowasfilledwiththerichodourofroses,andwhenthelightsummerwind
rörde
stirred
amidstthetreesofthegarden,therecamethroughtheopendoortheheavy
doften
scent
ofthelilac,orthemore
känsliga
delicate
perfumeofthepink-flowering
taggen
thorn
.
FromthecornerofthedivanofPersiansaddle-bagsonwhichhewaslying,smoking,aswashiscustom,innumerablecigarettes,LordHenryWottoncouldjustcatchthegleamofthehoney-sweetandhoney-colouredblossomsofalaburnum,whosetremulousbranchesseemedhardlyabletobeartheburdenofabeautysoflamelikeastheirs;
andnowandthenthefantasticshadowsofbirdsinflightflittedacrossthelongtussore-silkcurtainsthatwerestretchedinfrontofthehugewindow,producingakindofmomentaryJapaneseeffect,andmakinghimthinkofthosepallid,jade-facedpaintersofTokyowho,throughthemediumofanartthatis
nödvändigtvis
necessarily
immobile,seektoconveythesenseofswiftnessand
rörelse
motion
.
Thesullenmurmurofthebeesshoulderingtheirwaythroughthelongunmowngrass,orcirclingwithmonotonousinsistenceroundthe
dammiga
dusty
gilthornsofthestragglingwoodbine,seemedtomakethestillnessmoreoppressive.
Thedim
dån
roar
ofLondonwaslikethebourdonnoteofa
avlägsen
distant
organ.
Inthecentreoftheroom,clampedtoanuprighteasel,stoodthefull-lengthportraitofayoungmanofextraordinarypersonalbeauty,andinfrontofit,somelittledistanceaway,wassittingtheartisthimself,BasilHallward,whosesudden
försvinnande
disappearance
someyearsagocaused,atthetime,suchpublicexcitementandgaverisetosomanystrangeconjectures.
Asthepainterlookedatthegraciousandcomelyformhehadsoskilfullymirroredinhisart,asmileofpleasurepassedacrosshisface,andseemedaboutto
dröja
linger
there.
Buthesuddenlystartedup,andclosinghiseyes,placedhisfingersuponthelids,asthoughhesoughttoimprisonwithinhisbrainsomecuriousdreamfromwhichhefearedhemightawake.
“Itisyourbestwork,Basil,thebestthingyouhaveeverdone,”saidLordHenrylanguidly.
“YoumustcertainlysenditnextyeartotheGrosvenor.
The
Akademin
Academy
istoolargeandtoo
vulgär
vulgar
.
WheneverIhavegonethere,therehavebeeneithersomanypeoplethatIhavenotbeenabletoseethepictures,whichwasdreadful,orsomanypicturesthatIhavenotbeenabletoseethepeople,whichwasworse.
TheGrosvenorisreallytheonlyplace.”
“Idon’tthinkIshallsenditanywhere,”heanswered,
kastade
tossing
hisheadbackinthatoddwaythatusedtomakehisfriendslaughathimatOxford.
“No,Iwon’tsenditanywhere.”
LordHenryelevatedhiseyebrowsandlookedathiminamazementthroughthethinbluewreathsofsmokethat
kröp
curled
upinsuchfancifulwhorlsfromhisheavy,opium-taintedcigarette.
“Notsenditanywhere?
Mydearfellow,why?
Haveyouanyreason?
Whatoddchapsyoupaintersare!
Youdoanythingintheworldto
gain
areputation.
Assoonasyouhaveone,youseemtowanttothrowitaway.
Itissillyofyou,forthereisonlyonethingintheworldworsethanbeingtalkedabout,andthatisnotbeingtalkedabout.
A
porträtt
portrait
likethiswouldsetyoufarabovealltheyoungmeninEngland,andmaketheoldmenquitejealous,ifoldmenareevercapableofanyemotion.”
“Iknowyouwilllaughatme,”he
svarade
replied
,“butIreallycan’texhibitit.
Ihaveputtoomuchofmyselfintoit.”
LordHenrystretchedhimselfoutonthedivanandlaughed.
“Yes,Iknewyouwould;
butitisquitetrue,allthesame.”
“Toomuchofyourselfinit!
Uponmyword,Basil,Ididn’tknowyouwereso
fåfänga
vain
;
andIreallycan’tseeany
likhet
resemblance
betweenyou,withyourruggedstrongfaceandyourcoal-blackhair,andthisyoungAdonis,wholooksasifhewasmadeoutof
elfenben
ivory
androse-leaves.
Why,mydearBasil,heisaNarcissus,andyou—well,ofcourseyouhaveanintellectual
uttryck
expression
andallthat.
Butbeauty,realbeauty,endswhereanintellectual
uttryck
expression
begins.
Intellectisinitselfa
sätt
mode
ofexaggeration,anddestroystheharmonyofanyface.
Themomentonesitsdowntothink,onebecomesallnose,orall
pannan
forehead
,orsomethinghorrid.
Lookatthesuccessfulmeninanyofthelearnedprofessions.
Howperfectlyhideoustheyare!
Except,ofcourse,intheChurch.
ButthenintheChurchtheydon’tthink.
A
biskop
bishop
keepsonsayingattheageofeightywhathewastoldtosaywhenhewasaboyofeighteen,andasanatural
följd
consequence
healwayslooksabsolutely
förtjusande
delightful
.
Yourmysteriousyoungfriend,whosenameyouhavenevertoldme,butwhosepicturereallyfascinatesme,neverthinks.
Ifeelquitesureofthat.
Heissomebrainlessbeautifulcreaturewhoshouldbealwayshereinwinterwhenwehavenoflowerstolookat,andalwayshereinsummerwhenwewantsomethingtochillourintelligence.
Don’t
smickra
flatter
yourself,Basil:
youarenotintheleastlikehim.”
“Youdon’tunderstandme,Harry,”answeredtheartist.
“OfcourseIamnotlikehim.
Iknowthatperfectlywell.
Indeed,Ishouldbesorrytolooklikehim.
Youshrugyourshoulders?
Iamtellingyouthetruth.
Thereisafatalityaboutallphysicaland
intellektuell
intellectual
distinction,thesortoffatalitythatseemstodogthroughhistorythefalteringstepsofkings.
Itisbetternottobedifferentfromone’sfellows.
Theuglyandthestupidhavethebestofitinthisworld.
Theycansitattheireaseandgapeattheplay.
Iftheyknownothingofvictory,theyareatleastsparedtheknowledgeofdefeat.
Theyliveasweallshouldlive—undisturbed,indifferent,andwithoutdisquiet.
Theyneitherbringruinuponothers,noreverreceiveitfromalienhands.
Your
rang
rank
andwealth,Harry;
mybrains,suchastheyare—myart,whateveritmaybeworth;
DorianGray’sgoodlooks—weshallallsufferforwhatthegodshavegivenus,sufferterribly.”
“DorianGray?
Isthathisname?”
askedLordHenry,walkingacrossthestudiotowardsBasilHallward.
“Yes,thatishisname.
Ididn’t
tänkt
intend
totellittoyou.”
“Butwhynot?”
“Oh,Ican’texplain.
WhenIlikepeople
oerhört
immensely
,Inevertelltheirnamestoanyone.
Itislikesurrenderingapartofthem.
Ihavegrowntolove
hemlighet
secrecy
.
Itseemstobetheonethingthatcanmakemodernlifemysteriousormarvelloustous.
Thecommonestthingisdelightfulifoneonlyhidesit.
WhenIleavetownnowInevertellmypeoplewhereIamgoing.
IfIdid,Iwouldloseallmypleasure.
Itisasilly
vana
habit
,Idaresay,butsomehowitseemstobringagreatdealof
romantik
romance
intoone’slife.
Isupposeyouthinkme
hemskt
awfully
foolishaboutit?”
“Notatall,”answeredLordHenry,“notatall,mydearBasil.
YouseemtoforgetthatIammarried,andtheone
charm
charm
ofmarriageisthatitmakesalifeof
bedrägeri
deception
absolutelynecessaryforbothparties.
Ineverknowwheremywifeis,andmywifeneverknowswhatIamdoing.
Whenwemeet—wedomeet
ibland
occasionally
,whenwedineouttogether,orgodowntotheDuke’s—wetelleachotherthemostabsurdstorieswiththemostseriousfaces.
Mywifeisverygoodatit—muchbetter,infact,thanIam.
Shenevergetsconfusedoverherdates,andIalwaysdo.
Butwhenshedoesfindmeout,shemakesnorowatall.
Isometimeswishshewould;
butshe
bara
merely
laughsatme.”
“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
insist
onyouransweringaquestionIputtoyousometimeago.”
“Whatisthat?”
saidthepainter,keepinghiseyesfixedontheground.
“Youknowquitewell.”
“Idonot,Harry.”
“Well,Iwilltellyouwhatitis.
Iwantyoutoexplaintomewhyyouwon’t
ställa ut
exhibit
DorianGray’spicture.
Iwanttherealreason.”
“Itoldyoutherealreason.”
“No,youdidnot.
Yousaiditwasbecausetherewastoomuchofyourselfinit.
Now,thatischildish.”
“Harry,”saidBasilHallward,lookinghimstraightintheface,“every
porträtt
portrait
thatispaintedwithfeelingisa
porträtt
portrait
oftheartist,notofthesitter.
Thesitteris
bara
merely
theaccident,theoccasion.
Itisnothewhoisrevealedbythepainter;
itisratherthepainterwho,onthe
färgade
coloured
canvas,revealshimself.
ThereasonIwillnotexhibitthispictureisthatIamafraidthatIhaveshowninitthesecretofmyownsoul.”
LordHenrylaughed.
“Andwhatisthat?”
heasked.
“Iwilltellyou,”saidHallward;
butan
uttryck
expression
ofperplexitycameoverhisface.
“Iamall
förväntan
expectation
,Basil,”continuedhiscompanion,glancingathim.
“Oh,thereisreallyverylittletotell,Harry,”answeredthepainter;
“andIamafraidyouwillhardlyunderstandit.
Perhapsyouwillhardlybelieveit.”
LordHenrysmiled,andleaningdown,
plockade
plucked
apink-petalleddaisyfromthegrassand
undersökte
examined
it.
“IamquitesureIshallunderstandit,”he
svarade
replied
,gazingintentlyatthelittlegolden,white-feathereddisk,“andasforbelievingthings,Icanbelieveanything,providedthatitisquiteincredible.”
Thewindshooksomeblossomsfromthetrees,andtheheavylilac-blooms,withtheirclusteringstars,movedtoandfrointhelanguidair.
Agrasshopperbegantochirrupbythewall,andlikeablue
tråd
thread
alongthindragon-fly
flöt
floated
pastonitsbrowngauzewings.
LordHenryfeltasifhecouldhearBasilHallward’sheartbeating,andwonderedwhatwascoming.
“Thestoryissimplythis,”saidthepainteraftersometime.
“TwomonthsagoIwenttoacrushatLadyBrandon’s.
Youknowwepoorartistshavetoshowourselvesinsocietyfromtimetotime,justtoremindthepublicthatwearenotsavages.
Withaneveningcoatandawhitetie,asyoutoldmeonce,anybody,evenastock-broker,can
gain
areputationforbeing
civiliserad
civilized
.
Well,afterIhadbeenintheroomabouttenminutes,talkingtohugeoverdresseddowagersand
tråkiga
tedious
academicians,Isuddenlybecame
medveten
conscious
thatsomeonewaslookingatme.
Iturned
halvvägs
half-way
roundandsawDorianGrayforthefirsttime.
Whenoureyesmet,IfeltthatIwasgrowing
blek
pale
.
Acurioussensationof
skräck
terror
cameoverme.
IknewthatIhadcomefacetofacewithsomeonewhosemere
personlighet
personality
wassofascinatingthat,ifIallowedittodoso,itwould
absorbera
absorb
mywholenature,mywholesoul,myveryartitself.
Ididnotwantany
yttre
external
influenceinmylife.
Youknowyourself,Harry,how
oberoende
independent
Iambynature.
Ihavealwaysbeenmyownmaster;
hadatleastalwaysbeenso,tillImetDorianGray.
Then—butIdon’tknowhowtoexplainittoyou.
SomethingseemedtotellmethatIwasonthevergeofaterriblecrisisinmylife.
Ihadastrangefeelingthatfatehadinstoreforme
utsökta
exquisite
joysandexquisitesorrows.
Igrewafraidandturnedtoquittheroom.
Itwasnot
samvete
conscience
thatmademedoso:
itwasasortof
feghet
cowardice
.
Itakenocredittomyselffortryingtoescape.”
“Conscienceand
feghet
cowardice
arereallythesamethings,Basil.
Conscienceisthetrade-nameofthefirm.
Thatisall.”
“Idon’tbelievethat,Harry,andIdon’tbelieveyoudoeither.
However,whateverwasmymotive—anditmayhavebeenpride,forIusedtobeveryproud—Icertainlystruggledtothedoor.
There,ofcourse,I
snubblade
stumbled
againstLadyBrandon.
‘Youarenotgoingtorunawaysosoon,Mr.Hallward?’shescreamedout.
Youknowhercuriouslyshrillvoice?”
“Yes;
sheisa
påfågel
peacock
ineverythingbutbeauty,”saidLordHenry,pullingthe
daisy
daisy
tobitswithhislongnervousfingers.
“Icouldnotgetridofher.
Shebroughtmeuptoroyalties,andpeoplewithstarsandgarters,andelderlyladieswithgigantictiarasandparrotnoses.
Shespokeofmeasherdearestfriend.
Ihadonlymetheroncebefore,butshetookitintoherheadtolionizeme.
Ibelievesomepictureofminehadmadeagreatsuccessatthetime,atleasthadbeenchatteredaboutinthepennynewspapers,whichisthenineteenth-century
standard
standard
ofimmortality.
SuddenlyIfoundmyselffacetofacewiththeyoungmanwhose
personlighet
personality
hadsostrangelystirredme.