1、The Picture of Dorian GraybyOscar WildeCHAPTER 0THE PREFACEThe artist is the creator of beautiful things. To reveal art andconceal the artist is arts aim. The critic is he who can translateinto another manner or a new material his impression of beautifulthings.The highest as the lowest form of criti
2、cism is a mode of autobiography.Those who find ugly meanings in beautiful things are corrupt withoutbeing charming. This is a fault.Those who find beautiful meanings in beautiful things are thecultivated. For these there is hope. They are the elect to whombeautiful things mean only beauty.There is n
3、o such thing as a moral or an immoral book. Books are wellwritten, or badly written. That is all.The nineteenth century dislike of realism is the rage of Caliban seeinghis own face in a glass.The nineteenth century dislike of romanticism is the rage of Calibannot seeing his own face in a glass. The
4、moral life of man forms partof the subject-matter of the artist, but the morality of art consistsin the perfect use of an imperfect medium. No artist desires to proveanything. Even things that are true can be proved. No artist hasethical sympathies. An ethical sympathy in an artist is anunpardonable
5、 mannerism of style. No artist is ever morbid. The artistcan express everything. Thought and language are to the artistinstruments of an art. Vice and virtue are to the artist materials foran art. From the point of view of form, the type of all the arts isthe art of the musician. From the point of v
6、iew of feeling, theactors craft is the type. All art is at once surface and symbol.Those who go beneath the surface do so at their peril. Those who readthe symbol do so at their peril. It is the spectator, and not life,that art really mirrors. Diversity of opinion about a work of artshows that the w
7、ork is new, complex, and vital. When critics disagree,the artist is in accord with himself. We can forgive a man for makinga useful thing as long as he does not admire it. The only excuse formaking a useless thing is that one admires it intensely.All art is quite useless.OSCAR WILDECHAPTER 1The stud
8、io was filled with the rich odour of roses, and when the lightsummer wind stirred amidst the trees of the garden, there came throughthe open door the heavy scent of the lilac, or the more delicateperfume of the pink-flowering thorn.From the corner of the divan of Persian saddle-bags on which he wasl
9、ying, smoking, as was his custom, innumerable cigarettes, Lord HenryWotton could just catch the gleam of the honey-sweet and honey-colouredblossoms of a laburnum, whose tremulous branches seemed hardly able tobear the burden of a beauty so flamelike as theirs; and now and thenthe fantastic shadows o
10、f birds in flight flitted across the longtussore-silk curtains that were stretched in front of the huge window,producing a kind of momentary Japanese effect, and making him think ofthose pallid, jade-faced painters of Tokyo who, through the medium ofan art that is necessarily immobile, seek to conve
11、y the sense ofswiftness and motion. The sullen murmur of the bees shouldering theirway through the long unmown grass, or circling with monotonousinsistence round the dusty gilt horns of the straggling woodbine,seemed to make the stillness more oppressive. The dim roar of Londonwas like the bourdon n
12、ote of a distant organ.In the centre of the room, clamped to an upright easel, stood thefull-length portrait of a young man of extraordinary personal beauty,and in front of it, some little distance away, was sitting the artisthimself, Basil Hallward, whose sudden disappearance some years agocaused,
13、at the time, such public excitement and gave rise to so manystrange conjectures.As the painter looked at the gracious and comely form he had soskilfully mirrored in his art, a smile of pleasure passed across hisface, and seemed about to linger there. But he suddenly started up,and closing his eyes,
14、placed his fingers upon the lids, as though hesought to imprison within his brain some curious dream from which hefeared he might awake.“It is your best work, Basil, the best thing you have ever done,“ saidLord Henry languidly. “You must certainly send it next year to theGrosvenor. The Academy is to
15、o large and too vulgar. Whenever I havegone there, there have been either so many people that I have not beenable to see the pictures, which was dreadful, or so many pictures thatI have not been able to see the people, which was worse. The Grosvenoris really the only place.“I dont think I shall send
16、 it anywhere,“ he answered, tossing his headback in that odd way that used to make his friends laugh at him atOxford. “No, I wont send it anywhere.“Lord Henry elevated his eyebrows and looked at him in amazement throughthe thin blue wreaths of smoke that curled up in such fanciful whorlsfrom his hea
17、vy, opium-tainted cigarette. “Not send it anywhere? Mydear fellow, why? Have you any reason? What odd chaps you paintersare! You do anything in the world to gain a reputation. As soon asyou have one, you seem to want to throw it away. It is silly of you,for there is only one thing in the world worse
18、 than being talked about,and that is not being talked about. A portrait like this would set youfar above all the young men in England, and make the old men quitejealous, if old men are ever capable of any emotion.“I know you will laugh at me,“ he replied, “but I really cant exhibitit. I have put too
19、 much of myself into it.“Lord Henry stretched himself out on the divan and laughed.“Yes, I knew you would; but it is quite true, all the same.“Too much of yourself in it! Upon my word, Basil, I didnt know youwere so vain; and I really cant see any resemblance between you, withyour rugged strong face
20、 and your coal-black hair, and this youngAdonis, who looks as if he was made out of ivory and rose-leaves. Why,my dear Basil, he is a Narcissus, and you-well, of course you have anintellectual expression and all that. But beauty, real beauty, endswhere an intellectual expression begins. Intellect is
21、 in itself a modeof exaggeration, and destroys the harmony of any face. The moment onesits down to think, one becomes all nose, or all forehead, or somethinghorrid. Look at the successful men in any of the learned professions.How perfectly hideous they are! Except, of course, in the Church. Butthen
22、in the Church they dont think. A bishop keeps on saying at theage of eighty what he was told to say when he was a boy of eighteen,and as a natural consequence he always looks absolutely delightful.Your mysterious young friend, whose name you have never told me, butwhose picture really fascinates me,
23、 never thinks. I feel quite sure ofthat. He is some brainless beautiful creature who should be alwayshere in winter when we have no flowers to look at, and always here insummer when we want something to chill our intelligence. Dont flatteryourself, Basil: you are not in the least like him.“You dont
24、understand me, Harry,“ answered the artist. “Of course I amnot like him. I know that perfectly well. Indeed, I should be sorryto look like him. You shrug your shoulders? I am telling you thetruth. There is a fatality about all physical and intellectualdistinction, the sort of fatality that seems to
25、dog through history thefaltering steps of kings. It is better not to be different from onesfellows. The ugly and the stupid have the best of it in this world.They can sit at their ease and gape at the play. If they know nothingof victory, they are at least spared the knowledge of defeat. Theylive as
26、 we all should live-undisturbed, indifferent, and withoutdisquiet. They neither bring ruin upon others, nor ever receive itfrom alien hands. Your rank and wealth, Harry; my brains, such as theyare-my art, whatever it may be worth; Dorian Grays good looks-weshall all suffer for what the gods have giv
27、en us, suffer terribly.“Dorian Gray? Is that his name?“ asked Lord Henry, walking across thestudio towards Basil Hallward.“Yes, that is his name. I didnt intend to tell it to you.“But why not?“Oh, I cant explain. When I like people immensely, I never tell theirnames to any one. It is like surrenderi
28、ng a part of them. I havegrown to love secrecy. It seems to be the one thing that can makemodern life mysterious or marvellous to us. The commonest thing isdelightful if one only hides it. When I leave town now I never tell mypeople where I am going. If I did, I would lose all my pleasure. Itis a si
29、lly habit, I dare say, but somehow it seems to bring a greatdeal of romance into ones life. I suppose you think me awfullyfoolish about it?“Not at all,“ answered Lord Henry, “not at all, my dear Basil. Youseem to forget that I am married, and the one charm of marriage is thatit makes a life of decep
30、tion absolutely necessary for both parties. Inever know where my wife is, and my wife never knows what I am doing.When we meet-we do meet occasionally, when we dine out together, or godown to the Dukes-we tell each other the most absurd stories with themost serious faces. My wife is very good at it-
31、much better, in fact,than I am. She never gets confused over her dates, and I always do.But when she does find me out, she makes no row at all. I sometimeswish she would; but she merely laughs at me.“I hate the way you talk about your married life, Harry,“ said BasilHallward, strolling towards the d
32、oor that led into the garden. “Ibelieve that you are really a very good husband, but that you arethoroughly ashamed of your own virtues. You are an extraordinaryfellow. You never say a moral thing, and you never do a wrong thing.Your cynicism is simply a pose.“Being natural is simply a pose, and the
33、 most irritating pose I know,“cried Lord Henry, laughing; and the two young men went out into thegarden together and ensconced themselves on a long bamboo seat thatstood in the shade of a tall laurel bush. The sunlight slipped overthe polished leaves. In the grass, white daisies were tremulous.After
34、 a pause, Lord Henry pulled out his watch. “I am afraid I must begoing, Basil,“ he murmured, “and before I go, I insist on youranswering a question I put to you some time ago.“What is that?“ said the painter, keeping his eyes fixed on the ground.“You know quite well.“I do not, Harry.“Well, I will te
35、ll you what it is. I want you to explain to me why youwont exhibit Dorian Grays picture. I want the real reason.“I told you the real reason.“No, you did not. You said it was because there was too much ofyourself in it. Now, that is childish.“Harry,“ said Basil Hallward, looking him straight in the f
36、ace, “everyportrait that is painted with feeling is a portrait of the artist, notof the sitter. The sitter is merely the accident, the occasion. It isnot he who is revealed by the painter; it is rather the painter who, onthe coloured canvas, reveals himself. The reason I will not exhibitthis picture
37、 is that I am afraid that I have shown in it the secret ofmy own soul.“Lord Henry laughed. “And what is that?“ he asked.“I will tell you,“ said Hallward; but an expression of perplexity cameover his face.“I am all expectation, Basil,“ continued his companion, glancing at him.“Oh, there is really ver
38、y little to tell, Harry,“ answered the painter;“and I am afraid you will hardly understand it. Perhaps you willhardly believe it.“Lord Henry smiled, and leaning down, plucked a pink-petalled daisy fromthe grass and examined it. “I am quite sure I shall understand it,“ hereplied, gazing intently at t
39、he little golden, white-feathered disk,“and as for believing things, I can believe anything, provided that itis quite incredible.“The wind shook some blossoms from the trees, and the heavylilac-blooms, with their clustering stars, moved to and fro in thelanguid air. A grasshopper began to chirrup by
40、 the wall, and like ablue thread a long thin dragon-fly floated past on its brown gauzewings. Lord Henry felt as if he could hear Basil Hallwards heartbeating, and wondered what was coming.“The story is simply this,“ said the painter after some time. “Twomonths ago I went to a crush at Lady Brandons
41、. You know we poorartists have to show ourselves in society from time to time, just toremind the public that we are not savages. With an evening coat and awhite tie, as you told me once, anybody, even a stock-broker, can gaina reputation for being civilized. Well, after I had been in the roomabout t
42、en minutes, talking to huge overdressed dowagers and tediousacademicians, I suddenly became conscious that some one was looking atme. I turned half-way round and saw Dorian Gray for the first time.When our eyes met, I felt that I was growing pale. A curious sensationof terror came over me. I knew th
43、at I had come face to face with someone whose mere personality was so fascinating that, if I allowed it todo so, it would absorb my whole nature, my whole soul, my very artitself. I did not want any external influence in my life. You knowyourself, Harry, how independent I am by nature. I have always
44、 been myown master; had at least always been so, till I met Dorian Gray.Then-but I dont know how to explain it to you. Something seemed totell me that I was on the verge of a terrible crisis in my life. I hada strange feeling that fate had in store for me exquisite joys andexquisite sorrows. I grew
45、afraid and turned to quit the room. It wasnot conscience that made me do so: it was a sort of cowardice. I takeno credit to myself for trying to escape.“Conscience and cowardice are really the same things, Basil.Conscience is the trade-name of the firm. That is all.“I dont believe that, Harry, and I
46、 dont believe you do either.However, whatever was my motive-and it may have been pride, for I usedto be very proud-I certainly struggled to the door. There, of course,I stumbled against Lady Brandon. You are not going to run away sosoon, Mr. Hallward? she screamed out. You know her curiously shrillv
47、oice?“Yes; she is a peacock in everything but beauty,“ said Lord Henry,pulling the daisy to bits with his long nervous fingers.“I could not get rid of her. She brought me up to royalties, andpeople with stars and garters, and elderly ladies with gigantic tiarasand parrot noses. She spoke of me as he
48、r dearest friend. I had onlymet her once before, but she took it into her head to lionize me. Ibelieve some picture of mine had made a great success at the time, atleast had been chattered about in the penny newspapers, which is thenineteenth-century standard of immortality. Suddenly I found myselff
49、ace to face with the young man whose personality had so strangelystirred me. We were quite close, almost touching. Our eyes met again.It was reckless of me, but I asked Lady Brandon to introduce me to him.Perhaps it was not so reckless, after all. It was simply inevitable.We would have spoken to each other without any introduction. I am sureof that. Dorian told me so afterwards. He, too, felt that we weredestined
