THEPREFACE
Theartististhe
sáng tạo
creatorofbeautifulthings.Torevealartandconcealtheartistisart’saim.
The
phê bình
criticishewhocandịch
translateintoanothermanneroranewmaterialhisấn tượng
impressionofbeautifulthings.Thehighestasthe
thấp
lowestformofcriticismisamodeofautobiography.Thosewhofinduglymeaningsinbeautifulthingsare
tham nhũng
corruptwithoutbeingcharming.Thisisafault.
Thosewhofindbeautifulmeaningsinbeautifulthingsarethecultivated.
Forthesethereishope.
Theyaretheelecttowhombeautifulthingsmeanonlybeauty.
Thereisnosuchthingasa
đạo đức
moraloranimmoralbook.Booksarewellwritten,orbadlywritten.
Thatisall.
ThenineteenthcenturydislikeofrealismistherageofCalibanseeinghisownfaceinaglass.
ThenineteenthcenturydislikeofromanticismistherageofCalibannotseeinghisownfaceinaglass.
Themorallifeofmanformspartofthesubject-matteroftheartist,butthemoralityofartconsistsintheperfectuseofanimperfect
phương tiện
medium.Noartistdesirestoproveanything.
Eventhingsthataretruecanbeproved.
Noartisthas
đạo đức
ethicalsympathies.Anethicalsympathyinanartistisanunpardonablemannerismofstyle.
Noartistisevermorbid.
Theartistcanexpresseverything.
Thoughtandlanguagearetotheartistinstrumentsofanart.
Viceandvirtuearetotheartistmaterialsforanart.
Fromthepointofviewofform,thetypeofalltheartsistheartofthe
nhạc sĩ
musician.Fromthepointofviewoffeeling,theactor’s
nghề
craftisthetype.Allartisatoncesurfaceand
biểu tượng
symbol.Thosewhogobeneaththesurfacedosoattheirperil.
Thosewhoreadthe
biểu tượng
symboldosoattheirperil.Itisthe
khán giả
spectator,andnotlife,thatartreallymirrors.Đa dạng
Diversityofopinionaboutaworkofartshowsthattheworkisnew,complex,andvital.Whencritics
đồng ý
disagree,theartistisinaccordwithhimself.Wecanforgiveamanformakingausefulthingaslongashedoesnot
ngưỡng mộ
admireit.Theonlyexcuseformakingauselessthingisthatoneadmiresitintensely.
Allartisquiteuseless.
Chương
CHAPTERI.Thestudiowasfilledwiththerichodourofroses,andwhenthelightsummerwindstirredamidstthetreesofthegarden,therecamethroughtheopendoortheheavy
mùi
scentofthelilac,orthemoredelicatethơm
perfumeofthepink-floweringthorn.FromthecornerofthedivanofPersiansaddle-bagsonwhichhewaslying,smoking,aswashiscustom,innumerablecigarettes,LordHenryWottoncouldjustcatchthegleamofthehoney-sweetandhoney-colouredblossomsofalaburnum,whosetremulousbranchesseemedhardlyabletobearthe
gánh nặng
burdenofabeautysoflamelikeastheirs;andnowandthenthefantasticshadowsofbirdsinflightflittedacrossthelongtussore-silkcurtainsthatwerestretchedinfrontofthehugewindow,producingakindofmomentaryJapaneseeffect,andmakinghimthinkofthosepallid,jade-facedpaintersofTokyowho,throughthemediumofanartthatisnecessarilyimmobile,seektoconveythesenseofswiftnessandmotion.
Thesullenmurmurofthebeesshoulderingtheirwaythroughthelongunmowngrass,orcirclingwithmonotonousinsistenceroundthe
bụi
dustygilthornsofthestragglingwoodbine,seemedtomakethestillnessmoreoppressive.ThedimroarofLondonwaslikethebourdonnoteofa
xa
distantorgan.Inthecentreoftheroom,clampedtoan
thẳng
uprighteasel,stoodthefull-lengthportraitofayoungmanofextraordinarypersonalbeauty,andinfrontofit,somelittledistanceaway,wassittingtheartisthimself,Basil
BasilHallward,whosesuddendisappearancesomeyearsagocaused,atthetime,suchpublicexcitementandgaverisetosomanystrangeconjectures.Asthe
họa sĩ
painterlookedatthegraciousandcomelyformhehadsoskilfullymirroredinhisart,asmileofpleasurepassedacrosshisface,andseemedabouttolingerthere.Buthesuddenlystartedup,andclosinghiseyes,placedhisfingersuponthelids,asthoughhesoughttoimprisonwithinhisbrainsomecuriousdreamfromwhichhefearedhemightawake.
“Itisyourbestwork,
Basil
Basil,thebestthingyouhaveeverdone,”saidLordHenrylanguidly.“YoumustcertainlysenditnextyeartotheGrosvenor.
TheAcademyistoolargeandtoovulgar.
WheneverIhavegonethere,therehavebeeneithersomanypeoplethatIhavenotbeenabletoseethepictures,whichwasdreadful,orsomanypicturesthatIhavenotbeenabletoseethepeople,whichwasworse.
TheGrosvenorisreallytheonlyplace.”
“Idon’tthinkIshallsenditanywhere,”heanswered,tossinghisheadbackinthatoddwaythatusedtomakehisfriendslaughathimatOxford.
“No,Iwon’tsenditanywhere.”
LordHenryelevatedhiseyebrowsandlookedathimin
ngạc nhiên
amazementthroughthethinbluewreathsofsmokethatcurledupinsuchfancifulwhorlsfromhisheavy,opium-taintedcigarette.“Notsenditanywhere?
Mydearfellow,why?
Haveyouanyreason?
Whatoddchapsyoupaintersare!
Youdoanythingintheworldto
được
gainareputation.Assoonasyouhaveone,youseemtowanttothrowitaway.
Itissillyofyou,forthereisonlyonethingintheworldworsethanbeingtalkedabout,andthatisnotbeingtalkedabout.
AportraitlikethiswouldsetyoufarabovealltheyoungmeninEngland,andmaketheoldmenquitejealous,ifoldmenareevercapableofanyemotion.”
“Iknowyouwilllaughatme,”hereplied,“butIreallycan’texhibitit.
Ihaveputtoomuchofmyselfintoit.”
LordHenrystretchedhimselfoutonthedivanandlaughed.
“Yes,Iknewyouwould;
butitisquitetrue,allthesame.”
“Toomuchofyourselfinit!
Uponmyword,
Basil
Basil,Ididn’tknowyouweresovain;andIreallycan’tseeanyresemblancebetweenyou,withyour
gồ ghề
ruggedstrongfaceandyourcoal-blackhair,andthisyoungAdonis,wholooksasifhewasmadeoutofngà
ivoryandrose-leaves.Why,mydear
Basil
Basil,heisaNarcissus,andyou—well,ofcourseyouhaveantrí tuệ
intellectualexpressionandallthat.Butbeauty,realbeauty,endswherean
trí tuệ
intellectualexpressionbegins.Intellectisinitselfamodeofexaggeration,anddestroysthe
hài hòa
harmonyofanyface.Themomentonesitsdowntothink,onebecomesallnose,orall
trán
forehead,orsomethinghorrid.Lookatthesuccessfulmeninanyofthelearnedprofessions.
Howperfectlyhideoustheyare!
Except,ofcourse,intheChurch.
ButthenintheChurchtheydon’tthink.
Abishopkeepsonsayingattheageofeightywhathewastoldtosaywhenhewasaboyofeighteen,andasanatural
hậu quả
consequencehealwayslooksabsolutelythú vị
delightful.Yourmysteriousyoungfriend,whosenameyouhavenevertoldme,butwhosepicturereallyfascinatesme,neverthinks.
Ifeelquitesureofthat.
Heissomebrainlessbeautifulcreaturewhoshouldbealwayshereinwinterwhenwehavenoflowerstolookat,andalwayshereinsummerwhenwewantsomethingtochillourintelligence.
Don’tflatteryourself,
Basil
Basil:youarenotintheleastlikehim.”
“Youdon’tunderstandme,Harry,”answeredtheartist.
“OfcourseIamnotlikehim.
Iknowthatperfectlywell.
Indeed,Ishouldbesorrytolooklikehim.
Youshrugyourshoulders?
Iamtellingyouthetruth.
Thereisafatalityaboutallphysicaland
trí tuệ
intellectualdistinction,thesortoffatalitythatseemstodogthroughhistorythefalteringstepsofkings.Itisbetternottobedifferentfromone’sfellows.
Theuglyandthestupidhavethebestofitinthisworld.
Theycansitattheir
thoải mái
easeandgapeattheplay.Iftheyknownothingofvictory,theyareatleastsparedtheknowledgeofdefeat.
Theyliveasweallshouldlive—undisturbed,indifferent,andwithoutdisquiet.
Theyneitherbringruinuponothers,noreverreceiveitfromalienhands.
Your
cấp bậc
rankandwealth,Harry;mybrains,suchastheyare—myart,whateveritmaybeworth;
DorianGray’sgoodlooks—weshallallsufferforwhatthegodshavegivenus,sufferterribly.”
“DorianGray?
Isthathisname?”
askedLordHenry,walkingacrossthestudiotowards
Basil
BasilHallward.“Yes,thatishisname.
Ididn’t
định
intendtotellittoyou.”“Butwhynot?”
“Oh,Ican’texplain.
WhenIlikepeopleimmensely,Inevertelltheirnamestoanyone.
Itislikesurrenderingapartofthem.
Ihavegrowntolove
bí mật
secrecy.Itseemstobetheonethingthatcanmakemodernlife
bí ẩn
mysteriousormarvelloustous.Thecommonestthingis
thú vị
delightfulifoneonlyhidesit.WhenIleavetownnowInevertellmypeoplewhereIamgoing.
IfIdid,Iwouldloseallmypleasure.
Itisasilly
thói quen
habit,Idaresay,butsomehowitseemstobringagreatdealoflãng mạn
romanceintoone’slife.Isupposeyouthinkmeawfullyfoolishaboutit?”
“Notatall,”answeredLordHenry,“notatall,mydear
Basil
Basil.YouseemtoforgetthatIammarried,andtheonecharmofmarriageisthatitmakesalifeofdeceptionabsolutelynecessaryforbothparties.
Ineverknowwheremywifeis,andmywifeneverknowswhatIamdoing.
Whenwemeet—wedomeet
thỉnh thoảng
occasionally,whenwedineouttogether,orgodowntotheDuke’s—wetelleachotherthemostabsurdstorieswiththemostseriousfaces.Mywifeisverygoodatit—muchbetter,infact,thanIam.
Shenevergetsconfusedoverherdates,andIalwaysdo.
Butwhenshedoesfindmeout,shemakesnorowatall.
Isometimeswishshewould;
butshe
chỉ
merelylaughsatme.”“Ihatethewayyoutalkaboutyourmarriedlife,Harry,”said
Basil
BasilHallward,strollingtowardsthedoorthatledintothegarden.“Ibelievethatyouarereallyaverygoodhusband,butthatyouarethoroughlyashamedofyourownvirtues.
Youareanextraordinaryfellow.
Youneversaya
đạo đức
moralthing,andyouneverdoawrongthing.Yourcynicismissimplyapose.”
“Beingnaturalissimplyapose,andthemostirritatingposeIknow,”criedLordHenry,laughing;
andthetwoyoungmenwentoutintothegardentogetherandensconcedthemselvesonalong
tre
bambooseatthatstoodinthebóng
shadeofatalllaurelbush.The
ánh sáng mặt trời
sunlightslippedoverthepolishedleaves.Inthegrass,whitedaisiesweretremulous.
Aftera
tạm dừng
pause,LordHenrypulledouthiswatch.“IamafraidImustbegoing,Basil,”hemurmured,“andbeforeIgo,IinsistonyouransweringaquestionIputtoyousometimeago.”
“Whatisthat?”
saidthe
họa sĩ
painter,keepinghiseyesfixedontheground.“Youknowquitewell.”
“Idonot,Harry.”
“Well,Iwilltellyouwhatitis.
Iwantyoutoexplaintomewhyyouwon’texhibitDorianGray’spicture.
Iwanttherealreason.”
“Itoldyoutherealreason.”
“No,youdidnot.
Yousaiditwasbecausetherewastoomuchofyourselfinit.
Now,thatischildish.”
“Harry,”said
Basil
BasilHallward,lookinghimstraightintheface,“everyportraitthatispaintedwithfeelingisaportraitoftheartist,notofthesitter.Thesitterismerelytheaccident,the
dịp
occasion.Itisnothewhoisrevealedbythe
họa sĩ
painter;itisratherthe
họa sĩ
painterwho,onthecolouredvải
canvas,revealshimself.ThereasonIwillnotexhibitthispictureisthatIamafraidthatIhaveshowninitthesecretofmyownsoul.”
LordHenrylaughed.
“Andwhatisthat?”
heasked.
“Iwilltellyou,”saidHallward;
butan
biểu
expressionofperplexitycameoverhisface.“Iamall
mong đợi
expectation,Basil,”continuedhiscompanion,glancingathim.“Oh,thereisreallyverylittletotell,Harry,”answeredthe
họa sĩ
painter;“andIamafraidyouwillhardlyunderstandit.
Perhapsyouwillhardlybelieveit.”
LordHenrysmiled,andleaningdown,pluckedapink-petalled
cúc
daisyfromthegrassandexaminedit.“IamquitesureIshallunderstandit,”hereplied,gazingintentlyatthelittlegolden,white-feathered
đĩa
disk,“andasforbelievingthings,Icanbelieveanything,providedthatitisquiteincredible.”Thewindshooksomeblossomsfromthetrees,andtheheavylilac-blooms,withtheirclusteringstars,movedtoandfrointhelanguidair.
Agrasshopperbegantochirrupbythewall,andlikeablue
sợi
threadalongthindragon-flyfloatedpastonitsbrowngauzewings.LordHenryfeltasifhecouldhear
Basil
BasilHallward’sheartbeating,andwonderedwhatwascoming.“Thestoryissimplythis,”saidthe
họa sĩ
painteraftersometime.“TwomonthsagoIwenttoacrushatLadyBrandon’s.
Youknowwepoorartistshavetoshowourselvesinsocietyfromtimetotime,justtoremindthepublicthatwearenotsavages.
Withaneveningcoatandawhitetie,asyoutoldmeonce,anybody,evenastock-broker,cangainareputationforbeingcivilized.
Well,afterIhadbeenintheroomabouttenminutes,talkingtohugeoverdresseddowagersandtediousacademicians,Isuddenlybecame
thức
consciousthatsomeonewaslookingatme.Iturnedhalf-wayroundandsawDorianGrayforthefirsttime.
Whenoureyesmet,IfeltthatIwasgrowing
nhạt
pale.Acurioussensationofterrorcameoverme.
IknewthatIhadcomefacetofacewithsomeonewhosemerepersonalitywasso
hấp dẫn
fascinatingthat,ifIallowedittodoso,itwouldabsorbmywholenature,mywholesoul,myveryartitself.Ididnotwantanyexternal
ảnh hưởng
influenceinmylife.Youknowyourself,Harry,how
độc lập
independentIambynature.Ihavealwaysbeenmyownmaster;
hadatleastalwaysbeenso,tillImetDorianGray.
Then—butIdon’tknowhowtoexplainittoyou.
SomethingseemedtotellmethatIwasonthevergeofaterriblecrisisinmylife.
Ihadastrangefeelingthatfatehadinstoreformeexquisitejoysandexquisitesorrows.
Igrewafraidandturnedtoquittheroom.
Itwasnotconsciencethatmademedoso:
itwasasortofcowardice.
Itakenocredittomyselffortryingtoescape.”
“Conscienceandcowardicearereallythesamethings,
Basil
Basil.Conscienceisthetrade-nameofthefirm.
Thatisall.”
“Idon’tbelievethat,Harry,andIdon’tbelieveyoudoeither.
However,whateverwasmymotive—anditmayhavebeenpride,forIusedtobeveryproud—Icertainlystruggledtothedoor.
There,ofcourse,IstumbledagainstLady
Brandon
Brandon.‘Youarenotgoingtorunawaysosoon,Mr.Hallward?’shescreamedout.
Youknowhercuriouslyshrillvoice?”
“Yes;
sheisapeacockineverythingbutbeauty,”saidLordHenry,pullingthe
cúc
daisytobitswithhislongnervousfingers.“Icouldnotgetridofher.
Shebroughtmeuptoroyalties,andpeoplewithstarsandgarters,andelderlyladieswithgigantictiarasand
vẹt
parrotnoses.Shespokeofmeasherdearestfriend.
Ihadonlymetheroncebefore,butshetookitintoherheadtolionizeme.
Ibelievesomepictureofminehadmadeagreatsuccessatthetime,atleasthadbeenchatteredaboutinthepennynewspapers,whichisthenineteenth-centurystandardofimmortality.
SuddenlyIfoundmyselffacetofacewiththeyoungmanwhosepersonalityhadsostrangelystirredme.