THEPREFACE
Theartististhecreatorofbeautifulthings.
Torevealartandconcealtheartistisart’saim.
Thecriticishewhocantranslateintoanothermanneroranewmaterialhisimpressionofbeautifulthings.
Thehighestasthelowestformofcriticismisamodeofautobiography.
Thosewhofinduglymeaningsinbeautifulthingsarecorruptwithoutbeing
çekici
charming.Thisisafault.
Thosewhofindbeautifulmeaningsinbeautifulthingsarethecultivated.
Forthesethereishope.
Theyaretheelecttowhombeautifulthingsmeanonlybeauty.
Thereisnosuchthingasamoraloranimmoralbook.
Booksarewellwritten,or
kötü
badlywritten.Thatisall.
ThenineteenthcenturydislikeofrealismistherageofCalibanseeinghisownfaceinaglass.
ThenineteenthcenturydislikeofromanticismistherageofCalibannotseeinghisownfaceinaglass.
Themorallifeofmanformspartofthesubject-matteroftheartist,butthemoralityofartconsistsintheperfectuseofanimperfectmedium.
No
sanatçı
artistdesirestoproveanything.Eventhingsthataretruecanbeproved.
Noartisthasethicalsympathies.
Anethicalsympathyinanartistisanunpardonablemannerismof
stil
style.Noartistisevermorbid.
The
sanatçı
artistcanexpresseverything.Thoughtandlanguagearetotheartistinstrumentsofanart.
Viceandvirtuearetothe
sanatçı
artistmaterialsforanart.Fromthepointofviewofform,thetypeofalltheartsistheartofthemusician.
Fromthepointofviewoffeeling,theactor’scraftisthetype.
Allartisatonce
yüzey
surfaceandsymbol.Thosewhogobeneaththesurfacedosoattheirperil.
Thosewhoreadthesymboldosoattheirperil.
Itisthespectator,andnotlife,thatartreallymirrors.
Diversityof
fikir
opinionaboutaworkofartshowsthattheworkisnew,complex,andvital.Whencriticsdisagree,the
sanatçı
artistisinaccordwithhimself.Wecanforgiveamanformakinga
yararlı
usefulthingaslongashedoesnotadmireit.Theonlyexcuseformakingauselessthingisthatoneadmiresitintensely.
Allartisquite
işe yaramaz
useless.CHAPTERI.
Thestudiowasfilledwiththerichodourofroses,andwhenthelightsummerwindstirredamidstthetreesofthegarden,therecamethroughtheopendoortheheavyscentofthelilac,orthemoredelicateperfumeofthepink-floweringthorn.
FromthecornerofthedivanofPersiansaddle-bagsonwhichhewaslying,smoking,aswashiscustom,innumerablecigarettes,LordHenryWottoncouldjustcatchthegleamofthehoney-sweetandhoney-colouredblossomsofalaburnum,whosetremulousbranchesseemed
zor
hardlyabletobeartheburdenofabeautysoflamelikeastheirs;andnowandthenthefantasticshadowsofbirdsinflightflittedacrossthelongtussore-silkcurtainsthatwerestretchedinfrontofthehugewindow,producingakindofmomentaryJapanese
etkisi
effect,andmakinghimthinkofthosepallid,jade-facedpaintersofTokyowho,throughthemediumofanartthatisnecessarilyimmobile,seektoconveythesenseofswiftnessandmotion.Thesullenmurmurofthebeesshoulderingtheirwaythroughthelongunmowngrass,orcirclingwithmonotonousinsistenceroundthedustygilthornsofthestragglingwoodbine,seemedtomakethestillnessmoreoppressive.
ThedimroarofLondonwaslikethebourdonnoteofadistantorgan.
Inthecentreoftheroom,clampedtoanuprighteasel,stoodthefull-lengthportraitofayoungmanof
olağanüstü
extraordinarypersonalbeauty,andinfrontofit,somelittledistanceaway,wassittingtheartisthimself,BasilHallward,whoseaniden
suddendisappearancesomeyearsagocaused,atthetime,suchpublicexcitementandgaverisetosomanystrangeconjectures.Asthepainterlookedatthegraciousandcomelyformhehadsoskilfullymirroredinhisart,asmileofpleasurepassedacrosshisface,andseemedabouttolingerthere.
Buthesuddenlystartedup,andclosinghiseyes,placedhisfingersuponthelids,asthoughhesoughttoimprisonwithinhisbrainsome
tuhaf
curiousdreamfromwhichhefearedhemightawake.“Itisyourbestwork,Basil,thebestthingyouhaveeverdone,”saidLordHenrylanguidly.
“YoumustcertainlysenditnextyeartotheGrosvenor.
TheAcademyistoolargeandtoovulgar.
WheneverIhavegonethere,therehavebeeneithersomanypeoplethatIhavenotbeenabletoseethepictures,whichwasdreadful,orsomanypicturesthatIhavenotbeenabletoseethepeople,whichwasworse.
TheGrosvenorisreallytheonlyplace.”
“Idon’tthinkIshallsenditanywhere,”heanswered,tossinghisheadbackinthat
tuhaf
oddwaythatusedtomakehisfriendslaughathimatOxford.“No,Iwon’tsenditanywhere.”
LordHenryelevatedhiseyebrowsandlookedathiminamazementthroughthe
ince
thinbluewreathsofsmokethatcurledupinsuchfancifulwhorlsfromhisheavy,opium-taintedcigarette.“Notsenditanywhere?
Mydearfellow,why?
Haveyouanyreason?
What
tuhaf
oddchapsyoupaintersare!Youdoanythingintheworldtogainareputation.
Assoonasyouhaveone,youseemtowanttothrowitaway.
Itissillyofyou,forthereisonlyonethingintheworldworsethanbeingtalkedabout,andthatisnotbeingtalkedabout.
AportraitlikethiswouldsetyoufarabovealltheyoungmeninEngland,andmaketheoldmenquite
kıskanç
jealous,ifoldmenareevercapableofanyemotion.”“Iknowyouwilllaughatme,”hereplied,“butIreallycan’texhibitit.
Ihaveputtoomuchofmyselfintoit.”
LordHenrystretchedhimselfoutonthedivanandlaughed.
“Yes,Iknewyouwould;
butitisquitetrue,allthesame.”
“Toomuchofyourselfinit!
Uponmyword,Basil,Ididn’tknowyouweresovain;
andIreallycan’tseeanyresemblancebetweenyou,withyourruggedstrongfaceandyourcoal-blackhair,andthisyoungAdonis,wholooksasifhewasmadeoutofivoryandrose-leaves.
Why,mydearBasil,heisaNarcissus,andyou—well,ofcourseyouhaveanintellectualexpressionandallthat.
Butbeauty,realbeauty,endswhereanintellectualexpressionbegins.
Intellectisinitselfamodeofexaggeration,anddestroystheharmonyofanyface.
Themomentonesitsdowntothink,onebecomesallnose,orallforehead,orsomethinghorrid.
Lookatthe
başarılı
successfulmeninanyofthelearnedprofessions.Howperfectlyhideoustheyare!
Except,ofcourse,intheChurch.
ButthenintheChurchtheydon’tthink.
Abishopkeepsonsayingattheageofeightywhathewastoldtosaywhenhewasaboyofeighteen,andasa
doğal
naturalconsequencehealwayslooksabsolutelydelightful.Yourmysteriousyoungfriend,whosenameyouhavenevertoldme,butwhosepicturereallyfascinatesme,neverthinks.
Ifeelquitesureofthat.
Heissomebrainlessbeautifulcreaturewhoshouldbealwaysherein
kışın
winterwhenwehavenoflowerstolookat,andalwayshereinsummerwhenwewantsomethingtochillourintelligence.Don’tflatteryourself,Basil:
youarenotintheleastlikehim.”
“Youdon’tunderstandme,Harry,”answeredthe
sanatçı
artist.“OfcourseIamnotlikehim.
Iknowthatperfectlywell.
Gerçekten
Indeed,Ishouldbesorrytolooklikehim.Youshrugyourshoulders?
Iamtellingyouthetruth.
Thereisafatalityaboutall
fiziksel
physicalandintellectualdistinction,thesortoffatalitythatseemstodogthroughhistorythefalteringstepsofkings.Itisbetternottobedifferentfromone’sfellows.
Theuglyandthestupidhavethebestofitinthisworld.
Theycansitattheireaseandgapeattheplay.
Iftheyknownothingofvictory,theyareatleastsparedtheknowledgeofdefeat.
Theyliveasweallshouldlive—undisturbed,indifferent,andwithoutdisquiet.
Theyneitherbringruinuponothers,norever
alırlar
receiveitfromalienhands.Yourrankandwealth,Harry;
mybrains,suchastheyare—myart,whateveritmaybeworth;
DorianGray’sgoodlooks—weshallall
acı
sufferforwhatthegodshavegivenus,acı
sufferterribly.”“DorianGray?
Isthathisname?”
askedLordHenry,walkingacrossthestudio
doğru
towardsBasilHallward.“Yes,thatishisname.
Ididn’tintendtotellittoyou.”
“Butwhynot?”
“Oh,Ican’texplain.
WhenIlikepeopleimmensely,Inevertelltheirnamestoanyone.
Itislikesurrenderingapartofthem.
Ihavegrowntolovesecrecy.
Itseemstobetheonethingthatcanmake
modern
modernlifemysteriousormarvelloustous.Thecommonestthingisdelightfulifoneonlyhidesit.
WhenIleavetownnowInevertellmypeoplewhereIamgoing.
IfIdid,Iwouldloseallmypleasure.
Itisasillyhabit,Idaresay,butsomehowitseemstobringagreatdealofromanceintoone’slife.
Isupposeyouthinkmeawfullyfoolishaboutit?”
“Notatall,”answeredLordHenry,“notatall,mydearBasil.
YouseemtoforgetthatIammarried,andtheonecharmofmarriageisthatitmakesalifeofdeceptionabsolutelynecessaryforbothparties.
Ineverknowwheremywifeis,andmywifeneverknowswhatIamdoing.
Whenwemeet—wedomeetoccasionally,whenwedineouttogether,orgodowntotheDuke’s—wetelleachotherthemostabsurdstorieswiththemostseriousfaces.
Mywifeisverygoodatit—muchbetter,infact,thanIam.
Shenevergetsconfusedoverherdates,andIalwaysdo.
Butwhenshedoesfindmeout,shemakesnorowatall.
Isometimeswishshewould;
butshemerelylaughsatme.”
“Ihatethewayyoutalkaboutyourmarriedlife,Harry,”saidBasilHallward,strolling
doğru
towardsthedoorthatledintothegarden.“Ibelievethatyouarereallyaverygoodhusband,butthatyouarethoroughlyashamedofyourownvirtues.
Youarean
olağanüstü
extraordinaryfellow.Youneversayamoralthing,andyouneverdoawrongthing.
Yourcynicismissimplyapose.”
“Beingnaturalissimplyapose,andthemostirritatingposeIknow,”criedLordHenry,laughing;
andthetwoyoungmenwentoutintothegardentogetherandensconcedthemselvesonalongbambooseatthatstoodintheshadeofatalllaurelbush.
Thesunlightslippedoverthepolishedleaves.
Inthegrass,whitedaisiesweretremulous.
Afterapause,LordHenrypulledouthiswatch.
“IamafraidImustbegoing,Basil,”hemurmured,“andbeforeIgo,IinsistonyouransweringaquestionIputtoyousometimeago.”
“Whatisthat?”
saidthepainter,keepinghiseyesfixedontheground.
“Youknowquitewell.”
“Idonot,Harry.”
“Well,Iwilltellyouwhatitis.
Iwantyoutoexplaintomewhyyouwon’texhibitDorianGray’spicture.
Iwanttherealreason.”
“Itoldyoutherealreason.”
“No,youdidnot.
Yousaiditwasbecausetherewastoomuchofyourselfinit.
Now,thatischildish.”
“Harry,”saidBasilHallward,lookinghimstraightintheface,“everyportraitthatispaintedwithfeelingisaportraitoftheartist,notofthesitter.
Thesitterismerelytheaccident,theoccasion.
Itisnothewhoisrevealedbythepainter;
itisratherthepainterwho,onthecolouredcanvas,revealshimself.
ThereasonIwillnotexhibitthispictureisthatIamafraidthatIhaveshowninitthesecretofmyownsoul.”
LordHenrylaughed.
“Andwhatisthat?”
heasked.
“Iwilltellyou,”saidHallward;
butanexpressionofperplexitycameoverhisface.
“Iamallexpectation,Basil,”continuedhiscompanion,glancingathim.
“Oh,thereisreallyverylittletotell,Harry,”answeredthepainter;
“andIamafraidyouwillhardlyunderstandit.
Perhapsyouwillhardlybelieveit.”
LordHenrysmiled,andleaningdown,pluckedapink-petalleddaisyfromthegrassandexaminedit.
“IamquitesureIshallunderstandit,”hereplied,gazingintentlyatthelittle
altın
golden,white-feathereddisk,“andasforbelievingthings,Icanbelieveanything,providedthatitisquiteincredible.”Thewindshooksomeblossomsfromthetrees,andtheheavylilac-blooms,withtheirclusteringstars,movedtoandfrointhelanguidair.
Agrasshopperbegantochirrupbythewall,andlikeabluethreadalong
ince
thindragon-flyfloatedpastonitskahverengi
browngauzewings.LordHenryfeltasifhecouldhearBasilHallward’sheartbeating,andwonderedwhatwascoming.
“Thestoryissimplythis,”saidthepainteraftersometime.
“TwomonthsagoIwenttoacrushatLadyBrandon’s.
Youknowwepoorartistshavetoshowourselvesinsocietyfromtimetotime,justtoremindthepublicthatwearenotsavages.
Withaneveningcoatandawhitetie,asyoutoldmeonce,anybody,evenastock-broker,cangaina
üne
reputationforbeingcivilized.Well,afterIhadbeenintheroomabouttenminutes,talkingtohugeoverdresseddowagersandtediousacademicians,Isuddenlybecameconsciousthatsomeonewaslookingatme.
Iturnedhalf-wayroundandsawDorianGrayforthefirsttime.
Whenoureyesmet,IfeltthatIwasgrowingpale.
Acurioussensationofterrorcameoverme.
IknewthatIhadcomefacetofacewithsomeonewhosemerepersonalitywassofascinatingthat,ifIallowedittodoso,itwouldabsorbmywholenature,mywholesoul,myveryartitself.
Ididnotwantanyexternalinfluenceinmylife.
Youknowyourself,Harry,howindependentIambynature.
Ihavealwaysbeenmyownmaster;
hadatleastalwaysbeenso,tillImetDorianGray.
Then—butIdon’tknowhowtoexplainittoyou.
SomethingseemedtotellmethatIwasonthevergeofaterriblecrisisinmylife.
Ihadastrangefeelingthatfatehadinstoreformeexquisitejoysandexquisitesorrows.
Igrewafraidandturnedtoquittheroom.
Itwasnotconsciencethatmademedoso:
itwasasortofcowardice.
Itakenocredittomyselffortryingtoescape.”
“Conscienceandcowardicearereallythesamethings,Basil.
Conscienceisthetrade-nameofthefirm.
Thatisall.”
“Idon’tbelievethat,Harry,andIdon’tbelieveyoudoeither.
However,whateverwasmymotive—anditmayhavebeen
gurur
pride,forIusedtobeveryproud—Icertainlystruggledtothedoor.There,ofcourse,IstumbledagainstLadyBrandon.
‘Youarenotgoingtorunawaysosoon,Mr.Hallward?’she
bağırdı
screamedout.Youknowhercuriouslyshrillvoice?”
“Yes;
sheisapeacockineverythingbutbeauty,”saidLordHenry,pullingthedaisytobitswithhislongnervousfingers.
“Icouldnotgetridofher.
Shebroughtmeuptoroyalties,andpeoplewithstarsandgarters,andelderlyladieswithgigantictiarasandparrotnoses.
Shespokeofmeasherdearestfriend.
Ihadonlymetheroncebefore,butshetookitintoherheadtolionizeme.
Ibelievesomepictureofminehadmadeagreat
başarı
successatthetime,atleasthadbeenchatteredaboutinthepennynewspapers,whichisthenineteenth-centurystandardofimmortality.SuddenlyIfoundmyselffacetofacewiththeyoungmanwhosepersonalityhadsostrangelystirredme.