THEPREFACE
Theartististhecreatorofbeautifulthings.
Torevealart
і
andconcealtheartistisart’saim.Thecriticishe
хто
whocantranslateintoanothermannerабо
oranewmaterialhisimpressionofbeautifulthings.Thehighestasthelowestformofcriticismisamodeofautobiography.
Ті
Thosewhofinduglymeaningsinbeautifulthingsarecorruptwithoutbeingcharming.Thisisafault.
Ті
Thosewhofindbeautifulmeaningsinbeautifulthingsarethecultivated.Forthesethereis
надія
hope.Theyaretheelecttowhom
красиві
beautifulthingsmeanonlybeauty.Thereis
немає
nosuchthingasamoralабо
oranimmoralbook.Booksare
добре
wellwritten,orbadlywritten.Thatis
все
all.ThenineteenthcenturydislikeofrealismistherageofCalibanseeinghisown
обличчя
faceinaglass.ThenineteenthcenturydislikeofromanticismistherageofCalibannotseeinghisown
обличчя
faceinaglass.Themoral
життя
lifeofmanformspartofthesubject-matteroftheartist,але
butthemoralityofartconsistsintheperfectuseofє
animperfectmedium.Noartistdesirestoprove
нічого
anything.Eventhingsthataretrue
можна
canbeproved.Noartisthasethicalsympathies.
Anethicalsympathyinanartistisanunpardonablemannerismofstyle.
Не
Noartistisevermorbid.Theartist
може
canexpresseverything.Thoughtandlanguagearetotheartistinstrumentsofanart.
Vice
і
andvirtuearetotheartistmaterialsforanart.Fromthe
точки
pointofviewofform,thetypeofвсіх
alltheartsistheartofthemusician.Fromthe
точки
pointofviewoffeeling,theactor’scraftisthetype.Все
Allartisatoncesurfaceі
andsymbol.Thosewhogobeneaththesurfacedosoattheirperil.
Ті
Thosewhoreadthesymboldosoattheirperil.Itisthespectator,
а
andnotlife,thatartнасправді
reallymirrors.Diversityofopinion
про
aboutaworkofartshowsщо
thattheworkisnew,complex,і
andvital.Whencriticsdisagree,theartistisinaccord
з
withhimself.Wecanforgiveamanformakingauseful
річ
thingaslongashedoesnotadmireвона
it.Theonlyexcuseformakingauseless
речі
thingisthatoneadmiresitintensely.Все
Allartisquiteuseless.CHAPTERI.
Thestudiowasfilledwiththerichodourofroses,
і
andwhenthelightsummerwindstirredamidstthetreesofthegarden,therecameчерез
throughtheopendoortheheavyscentofthelilac,або
orthemoredelicateperfumeofthepink-floweringthorn.FromthecornerofthedivanofPersiansaddle-bagsonwhichhewaslying,smoking,aswashiscustom,innumerablecigarettes,
Лорд
LordHenryWottoncouldjustcatchthegleamofthehoney-sweetі
andhoney-colouredblossomsofalaburnum,whosetremulousbranchesseemedhardlyabletobeartheburdenofabeautysoflamelikeastheirs;і
andnowandthenthefantasticshadowsofbirdsinflightflittedacrossthelongtussore-silkcurtainsthatwerestretchedinfrontofthehugewindow,producingakindofmomentaryJapaneseeffect,і
andmakinghimthinkofтих
thosepallid,jade-facedpaintersofTokyowho,throughthemediumofanartthatisnecessarilyimmobile,seektoconveythesenseofswiftnessі
andmotion.Thesullenmurmurofthebeesshoulderingtheirwaythroughthelongunmowngrass,
або
orcirclingwithmonotonousinsistenceroundthedustygilthornsofthestragglingwoodbine,seemedtomakethestillnessбільш
moreoppressive.ThedimroarofLondonwaslikethebourdonnoteofadistantorgan.
Inthecentreoftheroom,clampedtoanuprighteasel,stoodthefull-lengthportraitofayoungmanofextraordinarypersonalbeauty,andinfrontofit,somelittledistanceaway,wassittingtheartisthimself,BasilHallward,whosesuddendisappearancesomeyears
тому
agocaused,atthetime,suchpublicexcitementandgaverisetosomanystrangeconjectures.Asthepainterlookedatthegracious
і
andcomelyformhehadsoskilfullymirroredinhisart,asmileofpleasurepassedacrosshisобличчя
face,andseemedabouttolingerтам
there.Buthesuddenlystartedup,
і
andclosinghiseyes,placedhisfingersuponна
thelids,asthoughhesoughttoimprisonwithinhisbrainsomecuriousсон
dreamfromwhichhefearedhemightawake.“Itisyourbestwork,Basil,thebest
річ
thingyouhaveeverdone,”saidЛорд
LordHenrylanguidly.“Youmustcertainly
відправити
senditnextyeartotheGrosvenor.TheAcademyis
занадто
toolargeandtoovulgar.WheneverIhavegonethere,therehavebeeneithersomany
людей
peoplethatIhavenotbeenabletoпобачити
seethepictures,whichwasdreadful,orsomanypicturesщо
thatIhavenotbeenabletoпобачити
seethepeople,whichwasworse.TheGrosvenoris
дійсно
reallytheonlyplace.”“Idon’t
думаю
thinkIshallsenditanywhere,”heanswered,tossinghisheadназад
backinthatoddwayщо
thatusedtomakehisfriendslaughathimatOxford.“No,Iwon’tsenditanywhere.”
Лорд
LordHenryelevatedhiseyebrowsі
andlookedathiminamazementчерез
throughthethinbluewreathsofsmokeщо
thatcurledupinsuchfancifulwhorlsfromhisheavy,opium-taintedcigarette.“Notsenditanywhere?
Mydearfellow,
чому
why?Haveyouanyreason?
Whatoddchapsyoupaintersare!
Youdo
все
anythingintheworldtogainareputation.As
тільки
soonasyouhaveone,youseemtoхочете
wanttothrowitaway.Itissillyofyou,forthereis
тільки
onlyonethingintheсвіті
worldworsethanbeingtalkedпро
about,andthatisnotbeingtalkedпро
about.Aportraitlikethiswouldsetyou
далеко
farabovealltheyoungmeninEngland,і
andmaketheoldmenquitejealous,якщо
ifoldmenareevercapableofanyemotion.”“I
знаю
knowyouwilllaughatme,”hereplied,“butIдійсно
reallycan’texhibitit.Ihaveput
занадто
toomuchofmyselfintoit.”Лорд
LordHenrystretchedhimselfoutonthedivanі
andlaughed.“Yes,Iknewyouwould;
але
butitisquitetrue,все
allthesame.”“Toomuchofyourselfinit!
Uponmy
слово
word,Basil,Ididn’tknowyouweresovain;і
andIreallycan’tseeanyresemblanceміж
betweenyou,withyourruggedstrongfaceі
andyourcoal-blackhair,andthisyoungAdonis,який
wholooksasifhewasmadeoutofivoryі
androse-leaves.Why,mydearBasil,heisaNarcissus,andyou—well,of
звичайно
courseyouhaveanintellectualexpressionandвсе
allthat.Butbeauty,realbeauty,ends
де
whereanintellectualexpressionbegins.Intellectisinitselfamodeofexaggeration,
і
anddestroystheharmonyofanyобличчя
face.Themomentonesitsdowntothink,onebecomesallnose,orallforehead,or
щось
somethinghorrid.Lookatthesuccessfulmeninanyofthelearnedprofessions.
Як
Howperfectlyhideoustheyare!Except,of
звичайно
course,intheChurch.ButthenintheChurchtheydon’tthink.
Abishopkeepsonsayingattheageofeightywhathewastoldtosay
коли
whenhewasaboyofeighteen,і
andasanaturalconsequenceheзавжди
alwayslooksabsolutelydelightful.Yourmysteriousyoung
друг
friend,whosenameyouhaveніколи не
nevertoldme,butwhosepictureдуже
reallyfascinatesme,neverthinks.Ifeel
цілком
quitesureofthat.Heissomebrainlessbeautifulcreaturewhoshouldbe
завжди
alwayshereinwinterwhenwehaveне
noflowerstolookat,і
andalwayshereinsummerколи
whenwewantsomethingtochillourintelligence.Don’tflatteryourself,Basil:
youarenotin
на
theleastlikehim.”“Youdon’tunderstand
мене
me,Harry,”answeredtheartist.“OfcourseIamnot
як
likehim.Iknowthatperfectly
добре
well.Indeed,Ishouldbe
шкода
sorrytolooklikehim.Youshrugyourshoulders?
Iamtellingyouthetruth.
Існує
Thereisafatalityaboutвсіх
allphysicalandintellectualdistinction,thesortoffatalityяка
thatseemstodogthroughhistorythefalteringstepsofkings.Itis
краще
betternottobedifferentfromone’sfellows.Theugly
і
andthestupidhavetheнайкраще
bestofitinthisсвіту
world.Theycansitattheirease
і
andgapeattheplay.Якщо
Iftheyknownothingofvictory,theyareatleastsparedtheknowledgeofdefeat.Theyliveaswe
всі
allshouldlive—undisturbed,indifferent,andбез
withoutdisquiet.Theyneitherbringruinuponothers,noreverreceiveitfromalienhands.
Yourrank
і
andwealth,Harry;mybrains,
такий
suchastheyare—myart,whateveritmaybeworth;DorianGray’sgoodlooks—weshall
всі
allsufferforwhatthegodshavegivenнам
us,sufferterribly.”“DorianGray?
Isthathisname?”
asked
Лорд
LordHenry,walkingacrossthestudiotowardsBasilHallward.“Yes,thatishisname.
Ididn’tintendtotellittoyou.”
“But
чому
whynot?”“Oh,Ican’texplain.
Коли
WhenIlikepeopleimmensely,Inevertelltheirnamestoanyone.Itislikesurrendering
на
apartofthem.Ihavegrownto
любити
lovesecrecy.Itseemstobetheonething
що
thatcanmakemodernlifemysteriousабо
ormarvelloustous.Thecommonest
річ
thingisdelightfulifoneтільки
onlyhidesit.WhenIleave
міста
townnowInevertellmyлюдям
peoplewhereIamgoing.IfIdid,Iwouldloseallmypleasure.
Itisasillyhabit,Idare
сказати
say,butsomehowitseemstobringagreatdealofromanceintoone’sжиття
life.Isupposeyouthinkmeawfullyfoolish
про
aboutit?”“Notatall,”answered
Лорд
LordHenry,“notatall,mydearBasil.Youseemtoforget
що
thatIammarried,andtheonecharmofmarriageisщо
thatitmakesalifeofdeceptionabsolutelynecessaryforобох
bothparties.Ineverknow
де
wheremywifeis,andmyдружина
wifeneverknowswhatIamdoing.Коли
Whenwemeet—wedomeetoccasionally,коли
whenwedineouttogether,або
orgodowntotheDuke’s—wetelleachotherthemostabsurdstorieswiththemostseriousfaces.My
дружина
wifeisverygoodatit—muchкраще
better,infact,thanIam.She
ніколи не
nevergetsconfusedoverherdates,а
andIalwaysdo.But
коли
whenshedoesfindmeout,shemakesне
norowatall.I
іноді
sometimeswishshewould;butshemerelylaughsatme.”
“I
ненавиджу
hatethewayyoutalkпро
aboutyourmarriedlife,Harry,”saidBasilHallward,strollingtowardstheдверей
doorthatledintothegarden.“I
вірю
believethatyouarereallyaveryхороший
goodhusband,butthatyouarethoroughlyashamedofyourownvirtues.Youareanextraordinaryfellow.
You
ніколи не
neversayamoralthing,і
andyouneverdoawrongthing.Yourcynicismissimplyapose.”
“Beingnaturalissimplyapose,
і
andthemostirritatingposeIknow,”criedЛорд
LordHenry,laughing;andthetwoyoungmenwentoutintothegarden
разом
togetherandensconcedthemselvesonalongbambooseatщо
thatstoodintheshadeofatalllaurelbush.Thesunlightslipped
над
overthepolishedleaves.Inthegrass,
білі
whitedaisiesweretremulous.Afterapause,
Лорд
LordHenrypulledouthisгодинник
watch.“IamafraidImustbegoing,Basil,”hemurmured,“and
перш ніж
beforeIgo,Iinsistonyouransweringaзапитання
questionIputtoyousomeчас
timeago.”“Whatisthat?”
saidthepainter,keepinghiseyesfixedontheground.
“Youknow
досить
quitewell.”“Idonot,Harry.”
“Well,Iwilltellyouwhatitis.
I
хочу
wantyoutoexplaintomeчому
whyyouwon’texhibitDorianGray’spicture.I
хочу
wanttherealreason.”“Itoldyoutherealreason.”
“No,youdidnot.
Yousaiditwas
тому
becausetherewastoomuchofyourselfinце
it.Now,thatischildish.”
“Harry,”saidBasilHallward,lookinghimstraightinthe
обличчя
face,“everyportraitthatispaintedwithfeelingisaportraitoftheartist,notofthesitter.Thesitterismerelytheaccident,theoccasion.
Itisnothewhoisrevealedbythepainter;
itisratherthepainter
який
who,onthecolouredcanvas,revealshimself.The
причина
reasonIwillnotexhibitцю
thispictureisthatIamбоюся
afraidthatIhaveshowninitthesecretofmyownsoul.”Лорд
LordHenrylaughed.“Andwhatisthat?”
heasked.
“Iwilltellyou,”saidHallward;
але
butanexpressionofperplexitycameoverhisface.“Iam
все
allexpectation,Basil,”continuedhiscompanion,glancingathim.“Oh,thereisreallyvery
мало
littletotell,Harry,”answeredthepainter;“andIam
боюся
afraidyouwillhardlyunderstandце
it.Perhapsyouwillhardlybelieveit.”
Лорд
LordHenrysmiled,andleaningdown,pluckedapink-petalleddaisyfromthegrassі
andexaminedit.“Iamquite
впевнений
sureIshallunderstandit,”hereplied,gazingintentlyattheмаленький
littlegolden,white-feathereddisk,“andasforbelievingthings,Iможу
canbelieveanything,providedthatitisquiteincredible.”Thewindshooksomeblossomsfromthetrees,andtheheavylilac-blooms,withtheirclusteringstars,movedtoandfrointhelanguidair.
Agrasshopperbegantochirrupbythewall,
і
andlikeabluethreadalongthindragon-flyfloatedповз
pastonitsbrowngauzewings.LordHenryfeltasifhecouldhearBasilHallward’s
серце
heartbeating,andwonderedwhatwascoming.“Thestoryissimplythis,”saidthepainteraftersome
час
time.“TwomonthsagoIwenttoacrushat
Леді
LadyBrandon’s.Youknowwepoorartistshavetoshowourselvesinsocietyfromtimetotime,justtoremindthepublic
що
thatwearenotsavages.З
Withaneveningcoatandaбілим
whitetie,asyoutoldmeколись
once,anybody,evenastock-broker,може
cangainareputationforbeingcivilized.Ну
Well,afterIhadbeenintheкімнаті
roomabouttenminutes,talkingtohugeoverdresseddowagersі
andtediousacademicians,Isuddenlybecameconsciousщо
thatsomeonewaslookingatмене
me.Iturnedhalf-wayround
і
andsawDorianGrayforна
thefirsttime.Whenoureyesmet,Ifelt
що
thatIwasgrowingpale.Acurioussensationofterrorcameover
мене
me.IknewthatIhadcome
обличчя
facetofacewithsomeonewhosemerepersonalitywassofascinatingщо
that,ifIallowedittoзробити
doso,itwouldabsorbmywholenature,mywholesoul,myveryartitself.Ididnotwantanyexternalinfluenceinmy
житті
life.Youknowyourself,Harry,
наскільки
howindependentIambynature.Ihave
завжди
alwaysbeenmyownmaster;hadatleast
завжди
alwaysbeenso,tillImetDorianGray.Then—butIdon’t
знаю
knowhowtoexplainittoyou.Щось
Somethingseemedtotellmeщо
thatIwasonthevergeofaterriblecrisisinmyжитті
life.Ihadastrangefeeling
що
thatfatehadinstoreformeexquisitejoysі
andexquisitesorrows.Igrewafraid
і
andturnedtoquittheroom.Itwasnotconsciencethatmademe
зробити
doso:itwasasortofcowardice.
Itake
не
nocredittomyselffortryingtoescape.”“Conscience
і
andcowardicearereallytheж
samethings,Basil.Conscienceisthetrade-nameofthefirm.
Thatisall.”
“Idon’t
вірю
believethat,Harry,andIdon’tвірю
believeyoudoeither.However,whateverwasmymotive—anditmayhavebeenpride,forIusedtobe
дуже
veryproud—Icertainlystruggledtotheдверей
door.There,ofcourse,Istumbledagainst
Леді
LadyBrandon.‘Youarenotgoingtorunawaysosoon,Mr.Hallward?’shescreamedout.
Youknowhercuriouslyshrillvoice?”
“Yes;
sheisapeacockineverythingbutbeauty,”said
Лорд
LordHenry,pullingthedaisytobitswithhislongnervousfingers.“Icouldnotgetridof
неї
her.Shebroughtmeuptoroyalties,
і
andpeoplewithstarsandgarters,і
andelderlyladieswithgigantictiarasі
andparrotnoses.Shespokeofmeasherdearest
друга
friend.Ihadonlymetheronce
раніше
before,butshetookitintoherheadtolionizeмене
me.Ibelievesomepictureofminehadmadea
великий
greatsuccessatthetime,atleasthadbeenchatteredпро
aboutinthepennynewspapers,whichisthenineteenth-centurystandardofimmortality.SuddenlyIfoundmyself
обличчя
facetofacewiththeyoungmanwhosepersonalityhadsostrangelystirredмене
me.