THEPREFACE
Theartistis
những
thecreatorofbeautifulthings.Torevealart
và
andconcealtheartistisart’smục tiêu
aim.Thecriticishe
người
whocantranslateintoanothercách
manneroranewmaterialhisấn tượng
impressionofbeautifulthings.Thehighestasthe
thấp
lowestformofcriticismismột
amodeofautobiography.Those
người
whofinduglymeaningsinđẹp
beautifulthingsarecorruptwithoutbeingcharming.Đây
Thisisafault.Those
người
whofindbeautifulmeaningsinđẹp
beautifulthingsarethecultivated.For
những
thesethereishope.Theyare
những
theelecttowhombeautifulthingsmeanchỉ
onlybeauty.Thereisnosuchthingasa
đạo đức
moraloranimmoralbook.Booksare
tốt
wellwritten,orbadlywritten.Đó
Thatisall.ThenineteenthcenturydislikeofrealismistherageofCalibanseeinghisownfaceina
kính
glass.ThenineteenthcenturydislikeofromanticismistherageofCalibannotseeinghisownfaceina
kính
glass.Themorallifeofmanforms
phần
partofthesubject-matterofthenghệ sĩ
artist,butthemoralityofartconsistsintheperfectsử dụng
useofanimperfectmedium.Không
Noartistdesirestoproveanything.Ngay cả
Eventhingsthataretruecó thể
canbeproved.Noartisthas
đạo đức
ethicalsympathies.Anethicalsympathyin
một
anartistisanunpardonablemannerismofphong cách
style.Noartistisevermorbid.
The
nghệ sĩ
artistcanexpresseverything.Thought
và
andlanguagearetothenghệ sĩ
artistinstrumentsofanart.Vice
và
andvirtuearetothenghệ sĩ
artistmaterialsforanart.From
các
thepointofviewofhình thức
form,thetypeofallcác
theartsistheartofcác
themusician.Fromthepointofviewoffeeling,theactor’s
nghề
craftisthetype.Allartisatoncesurface
và
andsymbol.Thosewhogobeneaththesurface
làm
dosoattheirperil.Those
người
whoreadthesymboldosoattheirperil.Itisthe
khán giả
spectator,andnotlife,thatartthực sự
reallymirrors.Diversityofopinion
về
aboutaworkofartshowsthatthetác phẩm
workisnew,complex,andvital.Khi
Whencriticsdisagree,theartistisinaccordvới
withhimself.Wecanforgive
một
amanformakingausefulthứ
thingaslongashedoesnotngưỡng mộ
admireit.Theonlyexcuseformakingauseless
thứ
thingisthatoneadmiresitintensely.Tất cả
Allartisquiteuseless.Chương
CHAPTERI.Thestudiowasfilledwith
những
therichodourofroses,và
andwhenthelightsummergió
windstirredamidstthetreesofnhững
thegarden,therecamethroughnhững
theopendoortheheavymùi
scentofthelilac,ornhững
themoredelicateperfumeofnhững
thepink-floweringthorn.Fromthe
góc
cornerofthedivanofPersiansaddle-bagsonđó
whichhewaslying,smoking,aswashiscustom,innumerablecigarettes,Chúa
LordHenryWottoncouldjustbắt
catchthegleamofthehoney-sweetvà
andhoney-colouredblossomsofalaburnum,có
whosetremulousbranchesseemedhardlyabletochịu
beartheburdenofabeautysoflamelikeastheirs;và
andnowandthenthetuyệt vời
fantasticshadowsofbirdsinbay
flightflittedacrossthelongtussore-silkcurtainsthatwerestretchedintrước
frontofthehugewindow,producingaloại
kindofmomentaryJapaneseeffect,và
andmakinghimthinkofthosepallid,jade-facedpaintersofTokyongười
who,throughthemediumofanartthatisnecessarilyimmobile,seektoconveythecảm giác
senseofswiftnessandmotion.Những
Thesullenmurmurofthebeesshoulderingtheirwayqua
throughthelongunmowngrass,hoặc
orcirclingwithmonotonousinsistenceroundnhững
thedustygilthornsofnhững
thestragglingwoodbine,seemedtolàm
makethestillnessmoreoppressive.ThedimroarofLondonwaslikethebourdonnoteof
một
adistantorgan.Inthe
trung tâm
centreoftheroom,clampedtoanthẳng
uprighteasel,stoodthefull-lengthportraitofatrẻ
youngmanofextraordinarypersonalbeauty,và
andinfrontofit,somechút
littledistanceaway,wassittingthenghệ sĩ
artisthimself,BasilHallward,whosesuddenbiến mất
disappearancesomeyearsagocaused,atthetime,suchcông
publicexcitementandgaverisetosomanystrangeconjectures.Asthe
họa sĩ
painterlookedatthegraciousvà
andcomelyformhehadsoskilfullymirroredinhisart,một
asmileofpleasurepassedqua
acrosshisface,andseemedvề
abouttolingerthere.Buthe
đột nhiên
suddenlystartedup,andclosinghiseyes,placedhisfingersuponthelids,asthoughhesoughttoimprisonwithinhisnão
brainsomecuriousdreamfrommà
whichhefearedhemightthức
awake.“Itisyourbestwork,
Basil
Basil,thebestthingyouđã
haveeverdone,”saidLordHenrylanguidly.“You
phải
mustcertainlysenditnextnăm
yeartotheGrosvenor.TheAcademyis
quá
toolargeandtoovulgar.WheneverIhavegonethere,therehavebeeneitherso
nhiều
manypeoplethatIhavenotbeenthể
abletoseethepictures,whichwasdreadful,orsonhiều
manypicturesthatIhavenotbeenthể
abletoseethepeople,whichwastệ
worse.TheGrosvenorisreallythe
duy nhất
onlyplace.”“Idon’tthinkIshall
gửi
senditanywhere,”heanswered,tossinghisđầu
headbackinthatoddcách
waythatusedtomakehisfriendscười
laughathimatOxford.“No,Iwon’t
gửi
senditanywhere.”LordHenryelevatedhiseyebrows
và
andlookedathiminngạc nhiên
amazementthroughthethinbluewreathsofkhói
smokethatcurledupinsuchfancifulwhorlsfromhisheavy,opium-taintedcigarette.“Not
gửi
senditanywhere?Mydearfellow,
sao
why?Haveyouanyreason?
What
kỳ quặc
oddchapsyoupaintersare!You
làm
doanythingintheworldtođược
gainareputation.Assoonasyou
có
haveone,youseemtomuốn
wanttothrowitaway.Itissillyofyou,forthereis
chỉ
onlyonethingintheworldtệ
worsethanbeingtalkedabout,và
andthatisnotbeingtalkedabout.Một
Aportraitlikethiswouldđặt
setyoufaraboveallnhững
theyoungmeninEngland,và
andmaketheoldmenkhá
quitejealous,ifoldmenareevercapableofbất kỳ
anyemotion.”“Iknowyou
sẽ
willlaughatme,”hereplied,“butIthực sự
reallycan’texhibitit.I
đã
haveputtoomuchofmyselfintoit.”Chúa
LordHenrystretchedhimselfoutonthedivanvà
andlaughed.“Yes,Iknewyouwould;
nhưng
butitisquitetrue,tất cả
allthesame.”“Toomuchofyourselfin
đó
it!Uponmyword,Basil,Ididn’t
biết
knowyouweresovain;và
andIreallycan’tseebất kỳ
anyresemblancebetweenyou,withyourgồ ghề
ruggedstrongfaceandyourcoal-blacktóc
hair,andthisyoungAdonis,người
wholooksasifhewasmadeoutofngà
ivoryandrose-leaves.Why,my
thân
dearBasil,heisaNarcissus,và
andyou—well,ofcourseyoucó
haveanintellectualexpressionandtất cả
allthat.Butbeauty,realbeauty,ends
nơi
whereanintellectualexpressionbegins.Trí tuệ
Intellectisinitselfamodeofexaggeration,và
anddestroystheharmonyofbất kỳ
anyface.Themomentonesits
xuống
downtothink,onebecomestất cả
allnose,orallforehead,hoặc
orsomethinghorrid.Lookat
những
thesuccessfulmeninanyofnhững
thelearnedprofessions.Howperfectlyhideousthey
là
are!Except,ofcourse,intheChurch.
Nhưng
ButthenintheChurchtheydon’tthink.Một
Abishopkeepsonsayingatnhững
theageofeightywhathewastoldtosaykhi
whenhewasaboyofeighteen,và
andasanaturalconsequenceheluôn luôn
alwayslooksabsolutelydelightful.Your
bí ẩn
mysteriousyoungfriend,whosenameyouhavenevertoldtôi
me,butwhosepicturereallyfascinatestôi
me,neverthinks.Ifeel
khá
quitesureofthat.Heis
một
somebrainlessbeautifulcreaturewhonên
shouldbealwayshereinmùa đông
winterwhenwehavenoflowerstonhìn
lookat,andalwayshereinsummerkhi
whenwewantsomethingtochillourthông minh
intelligence.Don’tflatteryourself,Basil:
youarenotintheleastlikehim.”
“Youdon’t
hiểu
understandme,Harry,”answeredthenghệ sĩ
artist.“OfcourseIamnotlike
anh ta
him.Iknowthatperfectlywell.
Thật
Indeed,Ishouldbesorrytotrông
looklikehim.Youshrugyourshoulders?
Iamtellingyouthe
sự thật
truth.Thereisafatality
về
aboutallphysicalandintellectualsự khác biệt
distinction,thesortoffatalitythatseemstodogqua
throughhistorythefalteringstepsofkings.Itisbetternottobe
khác
differentfromone’sfellows.The
xấu xí
uglyandthestupidhavenhững
thebestofitinnày
thisworld.Theycansitattheir
thoải mái
easeandgapeattheplay.Nếu
Iftheyknownothingofvictory,theyareatít
leastsparedtheknowledgeofthất bại
defeat.Theyliveaswe
tất cả
allshouldlive—undisturbed,indifferent,andkhông
withoutdisquiet.Theyneitherbringruinuponothers,
cũng
noreverreceiveitfromalienhands.Your
cấp bậc
rankandwealth,Harry;mybrains,suchastheyare—myart,
bất cứ điều gì
whateveritmaybeworth;DorianGray’s
chịu
goodlooks—weshallallsufferforwhatthegodsđã
havegivenus,sufferterribly.”“DorianGray?
Is
đó
thathisname?”askedLordHenry,walking
qua
acrossthestudiotowardsBasilHallward.“Yes,
đó
thatishisname.Ididn’t
định
intendtotellittoyou.”“But
sao
whynot?”“Oh,Ican’t
giải thích
explain.WhenIlikepeopleimmensely,I
không bao giờ
nevertelltheirnamestoanyai
one.Itislikesurrendering
một
apartofthem.I
đã
havegrowntolovesecrecy.Itseemstobetheone
điều
thingthatcanmakemoderncuộc sống
lifemysteriousormarvelloustous.Thecommonest
điều
thingisdelightfulifonechỉ
onlyhidesit.WhenIleave
thị trấn
townnowInevertellmyngười
peoplewhereIamgoing.Nếu
IfIdid,Iwouldmất
loseallmypleasure.Itis
một
asillyhabit,Idarenói
say,butsomehowitseemstobringmột
agreatdealofromanceintoone’scuộc sống
life.Isupposeyouthinkmeawfullyfoolish
về
aboutit?”“Notatall,”answered
Chúa
LordHenry,“notatall,mythân
dearBasil.Youseemto
quên
forgetthatIammarried,và
andtheonecharmofmarriageisrằng
thatitmakesalifeofdeceptionhoàn toàn
absolutelynecessaryforbothparties.I
không bao giờ
neverknowwheremywifeđang
is,andmywifeneverknowswhatIamdoing.Khi
Whenwemeet—wedomeetthỉnh thoảng
occasionally,whenwedineouttogether,hoặc
orgodowntotheDuke’s—wetelleachothernhững
themostabsurdstorieswithnhững
themostseriousfaces.My
vợ
wifeisverygoodatit—muchbetter,infact,thanIam.She
không bao giờ
nevergetsconfusedoverherdates,và
andIalwaysdo.But
khi
whenshedoesfindmera
out,shemakesnorowatall.I
đôi khi
sometimeswishshewould;butshe
chỉ
merelylaughsatme.”“I
ghét
hatethewayyoutalkvề
aboutyourmarriedlife,Harry,”saidBasil
BasilHallward,strollingtowardsthedoorthatledintothegarden.“I
tin
believethatyouarereallymột
averygoodhusband,butrằng
thatyouarethoroughlyashamedofyourriêng
ownvirtues.Youareanextraordinaryfellow.
You
không bao giờ
neversayamoralthing,và
andyouneverdoawrongđiều
thing.Yourcynicismissimply
một
apose.”“Beingnaturalis
chỉ đơn giản
simplyapose,andthenhất
mostirritatingposeIknow,”criedChúa
LordHenry,laughing;andthe
hai
twoyoungmenwentoutintothevườn
gardentogetherandensconcedthemselvesonmột
alongbambooseatthatstoodinthebóng
shadeofatalllaurelbụi
bush.Thesunlightslippedover
những
thepolishedleaves.Inthe
cỏ
grass,whitedaisiesweretremulous.Sau
Afterapause,LordHenrypulledra
outhiswatch.“IamafraidI
phải
mustbegoing,Basil,”hemurmured,“andbeforeIđi
go,IinsistonyouransweringaquestionIđặt
puttoyousometimeago.”“Whatisthat?”
saidthe
họa sĩ
painter,keepinghiseyesfixedontheground.“You
biết
knowquitewell.”“Idonot,Harry.”
“Well,I
sẽ
willtellyouwhatitlà
is.Iwantyouto
giải thích
explaintomewhyyouwon’texhibitDorianGray’sbức tranh
picture.Iwanttherealreason.”
“Itoldyoutherealreason.”
“No,youdidnot.
Yousaiditwasbecausetherewas
quá
toomuchofyourselfinit.Bây giờ
Now,thatischildish.”“Harry,”said
Basil
BasilHallward,lookinghimstraightinnhững
theface,“everyportraitthatispaintedvới
withfeelingisaportraitofnhững
theartist,notofthesitter.Thesitterismerelythe
tai nạn
accident,theoccasion.Itisnothewhoisrevealedbythe
họa sĩ
painter;itisratherthe
họa sĩ
painterwho,onthecolouredvải
canvas,revealshimself.ThereasonIwillnotexhibit
này
thispictureisthatIamsợ
afraidthatIhaveshowninitthebí mật
secretofmyownsoul.”Chúa
LordHenrylaughed.“Andwhatisthat?”
heasked.
“I
sẽ
willtellyou,”saidHallward;nhưng
butanexpressionofperplexitycameoverhisface.“Iam
tất cả
allexpectation,Basil,”continuedhiscompanion,glancingatanh ta
him.“Oh,thereisreally
rất
verylittletotell,Harry,”answeredthehọa sĩ
painter;“andIamafraidyou
sẽ
willhardlyunderstandit.Perhapsyou
sẽ
willhardlybelieveit.”LordHenrysmiled,
và
andleaningdown,pluckedapink-petalledcúc
daisyfromthegrassandexaminednó
it.“IamquitesureIshall
hiểu
understandit,”hereplied,gazingintentlyatthenhỏ
littlegolden,white-feathereddisk,“andasforbelievingthings,Icó thể
canbelieveanything,providedthatitiskhá
quiteincredible.”Thewindshook
một
someblossomsfromthetrees,và
andtheheavylilac-blooms,withtheirclusteringstars,movedtovà
andfrointhelanguidkhí
air.Agrasshopperbegantochirrupbythewall,
và
andlikeabluethreadmột
alongthindragon-flyfloatedqua
pastonitsbrowngauzewings.Chúa
LordHenryfeltasifhecouldnghe
hearBasilHallward’sheartbeating,và
andwonderedwhatwascoming.“The
chuyện
storyissimplythis,”saidthehọa sĩ
painteraftersometime.“Twomonths
trước
agoIwenttoacrushatLady
LadyBrandon’s.Youknowwepoorartistshavetoshowourselvesinsocietyfromtimetotime,
chỉ
justtoremindthepublicrằng
thatwearenotsavages.Với
Withaneveningcoatandatrắng
whitetie,asyoutoldmelần
once,anybody,evenastock-broker,có thể
cangainareputationforbeingcivilized.Vâng
Well,afterIhadbeeninthephòng
roomabouttenminutes,talkingtolớn
hugeoverdresseddowagersandtediousacademicians,Iđột nhiên
suddenlybecameconsciousthatsomeai
onewaslookingatme.Iturnedhalf-wayround
và
andsawDorianGrayforthefirstlần
time.Whenoureyesmet,IfeltthatIwasgrowing
nhạt
pale.Acurioussensationofterrorcameover
tôi
me.IknewthatIhadcomefacetoface
với
withsomeonewhosemerepersonalitywassohấp dẫn
fascinatingthat,ifIallowedittolàm
doso,itwouldabsorbmywholenature,mywholelinh hồn
soul,myveryartitself.Ididnot
muốn
wantanyexternalinfluenceinmycuộc sống
life.Youknowyourself,Harry,how
độc lập
independentIambynature.Ihave
luôn luôn
alwaysbeenmyownmaster;hadat
ít
leastalwaysbeenso,tillImetDorianGray.Then—butIdon’t
biết
knowhowtoexplainittoyou.Gì
SomethingseemedtotellmethatIwasonthevergeofmột
aterriblecrisisinmycuộc sống
life.Ihadastrangefeeling
rằng
thatfatehadinstoreformeexquisitejoysvà
andexquisitesorrows.Igrew
sợ
afraidandturnedtoquitthephòng
room.Itwasnotconsciencethatmademe
làm
doso:itwasa
loại
sortofcowardice.Itake
không
nocredittomyselffortryingtoescape.”“Conscience
và
andcowardicearereallythetương tự
samethings,Basil.Conscienceisthetrade-nameofthefirm.
Đó
Thatisall.”“Idon’t
tin
believethat,Harry,andIdon’ttin
believeyoudoeither.However,whateverwasmymotive—andit
có thể
mayhavebeenpride,forIusedtoberất
veryproud—Icertainlystruggledtothecửa
door.There,ofcourse,Istumbledagainst
Lady
LadyBrandon.‘Youarenotgoingto
chạy
runawaysosoon,Mr.Hallward?’shescreamedout.You
biết
knowhercuriouslyshrillvoice?”“Yes;
sheis
một
apeacockineverythingbutbeauty,”saidChúa
LordHenry,pullingthedaisytobitswithhisdài
longnervousfingers.“Icouldnotgetridofher.
Shebroughtmeuptoroyalties,
và
andpeoplewithstarsandgarters,và
andelderlyladieswithgigantictiarasvà
andparrotnoses.Shespokeofmeasherdearestfriend.
Ihad
chỉ
onlymetheroncebefore,nhưng
butshetookitintoherđầu
headtolionizeme.I
tin
believesomepictureofminehadmadealớn
greatsuccessatthetime,atít
leasthadbeenchatteredaboutincác
thepennynewspapers,whichiscác
thenineteenth-centurystandardofimmortality.Đột nhiên
SuddenlyIfoundmyselffacetofacevới
withtheyoungmanwhosepersonalityhadsostrangelystirredme.