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    "text": "The Picture of Dorian Gray\n\nby Oscar Wilde\n\nContents\n\nTHE PREFACE\nCHAPTER I.\nCHAPTER II.\nCHAPTER III.\nCHAPTER IV.\nCHAPTER V.\nCHAPTER VI.\nCHAPTER VII.\nCHAPTER VIII.\nCHAPTER IX.\nCHAPTER X.\nCHAPTER XI.\nCHAPTER XII.\nCHAPTER XIII.\nCHAPTER XIV.\nCHAPTER XV.\nCHAPTER XVI.\nCHAPTER XVII.\nCHAPTER XVIII.\nCHAPTER XIX.\nCHAPTER XX.\n\nTHE PREFACE\n\nThe artist is the creator of beautiful things. To reveal art and\nconceal the artist is art’s aim. The critic is he who can translate\ninto another manner or a new material his impression of beautiful\nthings.\n\nThe highest as the lowest form of criticism is a mode of autobiography.\nThose who find ugly meanings in beautiful things are corrupt without\nbeing charming. This is a fault.\n\nThose who find beautiful meanings in beautiful things are the\ncultivated. For these there is hope. They are the elect to whom\nbeautiful things mean only beauty.",
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    "text": "There is no such thing as a moral or an immoral book. Books are well\nwritten, or badly written. That is all.\n\nThe nineteenth century dislike of realism is the rage of Caliban seeing\nhis own face in a glass.\n\nThe nineteenth century dislike of romanticism is the rage of Caliban\nnot seeing his own face in a glass. The moral life of man forms part of\nthe subject-matter of the artist, but the morality of art consists in\nthe perfect use of an imperfect medium. No artist desires to prove\nanything. Even things that are true can be proved. No artist has\nethical sympathies. An ethical sympathy in an artist is an unpardonable\nmannerism of style. No artist is ever morbid. The artist can express\neverything. Thought and language are to the artist instruments of an\nart. Vice and virtue are to the artist materials for an art. From the\npoint of view of form, the type of all the arts is the art of the\nmusician. From the point of view of feeling, the actor’s craft is the\ntype. All art is at once surface and symbol. Those who go beneath the\nsurface do so at their peril. Those who read the symbol do so at their\nperil. It is the spectator, and not life, that art really mirrors.\nDiversity of opinion about a work of art shows that the work is new,\ncomplex, and vital. When critics disagree, the artist is in accord with\nhimself. We can forgive a man for making a useful thing as long as he\ndoes not admire it. The only excuse for making a useless thing is that\none admires it intensely.",
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    "text": "All art is quite useless.\n\nOSCAR WILDE\n\nCHAPTER I.\n\nThe studio was filled with the rich odour of roses, and when the light\nsummer wind stirred amidst the trees of the garden, there came through\nthe open door the heavy scent of the lilac, or the more delicate\nperfume of the pink-flowering thorn.\n\nFrom the corner of the divan of Persian saddle-bags on which he was\nlying, smoking, as was his custom, innumerable cigarettes, Lord Henry\nWotton could just catch the gleam of the honey-sweet and honey-coloured\nblossoms of a laburnum, whose tremulous branches seemed hardly able to\nbear the burden of a beauty so flamelike as theirs; and now and then\nthe fantastic shadows of birds in flight flitted across the long\ntussore-silk curtains that were stretched in front of the huge window,\nproducing a kind of momentary Japanese effect, and making him think of\nthose pallid, jade-faced painters of Tokyo who, through the medium of\nan art that is necessarily immobile, seek to convey the sense of\nswiftness and motion. The sullen murmur of the bees shouldering their\nway through the long unmown grass, or circling with monotonous\ninsistence round the dusty gilt horns of the straggling woodbine,\nseemed to make the stillness more oppressive. The dim roar of London\nwas like the bourdon note of a distant organ.",
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    "text": "In the centre of the room, clamped to an upright easel, stood the\nfull-length portrait of a young man of extraordinary personal beauty,\nand in front of it, some little distance away, was sitting the artist\nhimself, Basil Hallward, whose sudden disappearance some years ago\ncaused, at the time, such public excitement and gave rise to so many\nstrange conjectures.\n\nAs the painter looked at the gracious and comely form he had so\nskilfully mirrored in his art, a smile of pleasure passed across his\nface, and seemed about to linger there. But he suddenly started up, and\nclosing his eyes, placed his fingers upon the lids, as though he sought\nto imprison within his brain some curious dream from which he feared he\nmight awake.\n\n“It is your best work, Basil, the best thing you have ever done,” said\nLord Henry languidly. “You must certainly send it next year to the\nGrosvenor. The Academy is too large and too vulgar. Whenever I have\ngone there, there have been either so many people that I have not been\nable to see the pictures, which was dreadful, or so many pictures that\nI have not been able to see the people, which was worse. The Grosvenor\nis really the only place.”",
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    "text": "“I don’t think I shall send it anywhere,” he answered, tossing his head\nback in that odd way that used to make his friends laugh at him at\nOxford. “No, I won’t send it anywhere.”\n\nLord Henry elevated his eyebrows and looked at him in amazement through\nthe thin blue wreaths of smoke that curled up in such fanciful whorls\nfrom his heavy, opium-tainted cigarette. “Not send it anywhere? My dear\nfellow, why? Have you any reason? What odd chaps you painters are! You\ndo anything in the world to gain a reputation. As soon as you have one,\nyou seem to want to throw it away. It is silly of you, for there is\nonly one thing in the world worse than being talked about, and that is\nnot being talked about. A portrait like this would set you far above\nall the young men in England, and make the old men quite jealous, if\nold men are ever capable of any emotion.”",
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    "text": "“I know you will laugh at me,” he replied, “but I really can’t exhibit\nit. I have put too much of myself into it.”\n\nLord Henry stretched himself out on the divan and laughed.\n\n“Yes, I knew you would; but it is quite true, all the same.”\n\n“Too much of yourself in it! Upon my word, Basil, I didn’t know you\nwere so vain; and I really can’t see any resemblance between you, with\nyour rugged strong face and your coal-black hair, and this young\nAdonis, who looks as if he was made out of ivory and rose-leaves. Why,\nmy dear Basil, he is a Narcissus, and you—well, of course you have an\nintellectual expression and all that. But beauty, real beauty, ends\nwhere an intellectual expression begins. Intellect is in itself a mode\nof exaggeration, and destroys the harmony of any face. The moment one\nsits down to think, one becomes all nose, or all forehead, or something\nhorrid. Look at the successful men in any of the learned professions.\nHow perfectly hideous they are! Except, of course, in the Church. But\nthen in the Church they don’t think. A bishop keeps on saying at the\nage of eighty what he was told to say when he was a boy of eighteen,\nand as a natural consequence he always looks absolutely delightful.\nYour mysterious young friend, whose name you have never told me, but\nwhose picture really fascinates me, never thinks. I feel quite sure of\nthat. He is some brainless beautiful creature who should be always here\nin winter when we have no flowers to look at, and always here in summer\nwhen we want something to chill our intelligence. Don’t flatter\nyourself, Basil: you are not in the least like him.”",
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    "text": "“You don’t understand me, Harry,” answered the artist. “Of course I am\nnot like him. I know that perfectly well. Indeed, I should be sorry to\nlook like him. You shrug your shoulders? I am telling you the truth.\nThere is a fatality about all physical and intellectual distinction,\nthe sort of fatality that seems to dog through history the faltering\nsteps of kings. It is better not to be different from one’s fellows.\nThe ugly and the stupid have the best of it in this world. They can sit\nat their ease and gape at the play. If they know nothing of victory,\nthey are at least spared the knowledge of defeat. They live as we all\nshould live—undisturbed, indifferent, and without disquiet. They\nneither bring ruin upon others, nor ever receive it from alien hands.\nYour rank and wealth, Harry; my brains, such as they are—my art,\nwhatever it may be worth; Dorian Gray’s good looks—we shall all suffer\nfor what the gods have given us, suffer terribly.”",
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    "text": "“Dorian Gray? Is that his name?” asked Lord Henry, walking across the\nstudio towards Basil Hallward.\n\n“Yes, that is his name. I didn’t intend to tell it to you.”\n\n“But why not?”\n\n“Oh, I can’t explain. When I like people immensely, I never tell their\nnames to any one. It is like surrendering a part of them. I have grown\nto love secrecy. It seems to be the one thing that can make modern life\nmysterious or marvellous to us. The commonest thing is delightful if\none only hides it. When I leave town now I never tell my people where I\nam going. If I did, I would lose all my pleasure. It is a silly habit,\nI dare say, but somehow it seems to bring a great deal of romance into\none’s life. I suppose you think me awfully foolish about it?”\n\n“Not at all,” answered Lord Henry, “not at all, my dear Basil. You seem\nto forget that I am married, and the one charm of marriage is that it\nmakes a life of deception absolutely necessary for both parties. I\nnever know where my wife is, and my wife never knows what I am doing.\nWhen we meet—we do meet occasionally, when we dine out together, or go\ndown to the Duke’s—we tell each other the most absurd stories with the\nmost serious faces. My wife is very good at it—much better, in fact,\nthan I am. She never gets confused over her dates, and I always do. But\nwhen she does find me out, she makes no row at all. I sometimes wish\nshe would; but she merely laughs at me.”",
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    "text": "“I hate the way you talk about your married life, Harry,” said Basil\nHallward, strolling towards the door that led into the garden. “I\nbelieve that you are really a very good husband, but that you are\nthoroughly ashamed of your own virtues. You are an extraordinary\nfellow. You never say a moral thing, and you never do a wrong thing.\nYour cynicism is simply a pose.”\n\n“Being natural is simply a pose, and the most irritating pose I know,”\ncried Lord Henry, laughing; and the two young men went out into the\ngarden together and ensconced themselves on a long bamboo seat that\nstood in the shade of a tall laurel bush. The sunlight slipped over the\npolished leaves. In the grass, white daisies were tremulous.\n\nAfter a pause, Lord Henry pulled out his watch. “I am afraid I must be\ngoing, Basil,” he murmured, “and before I go, I insist on your\nanswering a question I put to you some time ago.”",
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    "text": "“What is that?” said the painter, keeping his eyes fixed on the ground.\n\n“You know quite well.”\n\n“I do not, Harry.”\n\n“Well, I will tell you what it is. I want you to explain to me why you\nwon’t exhibit Dorian Gray’s picture. I want the real reason.”\n\n“I told you the real reason.”\n\n“No, you did not. You said it was because there was too much of\nyourself in it. Now, that is childish.”\n\n“Harry,” said Basil Hallward, looking him straight in the face, “every\nportrait that is painted with feeling is a portrait of the artist, not\nof the sitter. The sitter is merely the accident, the occasion. It is\nnot he who is revealed by the painter; it is rather the painter who, on\nthe coloured canvas, reveals himself. The reason I will not exhibit\nthis picture is that I am afraid that I have shown in it the secret of\nmy own soul.”",
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    "text": "Lord Henry laughed. “And what is that?” he asked.\n\n“I will tell you,” said Hallward; but an expression of perplexity came\nover his face.\n\n“I am all expectation, Basil,” continued his companion, glancing at\nhim.\n\n“Oh, there is really very little to tell, Harry,” answered the painter;\n“and I am afraid you will hardly understand it. Perhaps you will hardly\nbelieve it.”\n\nLord Henry smiled, and leaning down, plucked a pink-petalled daisy from\nthe grass and examined it. “I am quite sure I shall understand it,” he\nreplied, gazing intently at the little golden, white-feathered disk,\n“and as for believing things, I can believe anything, provided that it\nis quite incredible.”\n\nThe wind shook some blossoms from the trees, and the heavy\nlilac-blooms, with their clustering stars, moved to and fro in the\nlanguid air. A grasshopper began to chirrup by the wall, and like a\nblue thread a long thin dragon-fly floated past on its brown gauze\nwings. Lord Henry felt as if he could hear Basil Hallward’s heart\nbeating, and wondered what was coming.",
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    "text": "“The story is simply this,” said the painter after some time. “Two\nmonths ago I went to a crush at Lady Brandon’s. You know we poor\nartists have to show ourselves in society from time to time, just to\nremind the public that we are not savages. With an evening coat and a\nwhite tie, as you told me once, anybody, even a stock-broker, can gain\na reputation for being civilized. Well, after I had been in the room\nabout ten minutes, talking to huge overdressed dowagers and tedious\nacademicians, I suddenly became conscious that some one was looking at\nme. I turned half-way round and saw Dorian Gray for the first time.\nWhen our eyes met, I felt that I was growing pale. A curious sensation\nof terror came over me. I knew that I had come face to face with some\none whose mere personality was so fascinating that, if I allowed it to\ndo so, it would absorb my whole nature, my whole soul, my very art\nitself. I did not want any external influence in my life. You know\nyourself, Harry, how independent I am by nature. I have always been my\nown master; had at least always been so, till I met Dorian Gray.\nThen—but I don’t know how to explain it to you. Something seemed to\ntell me that I was on the verge of a terrible crisis in my life. I had\na strange feeling that fate had in store for me exquisite joys and\nexquisite sorrows. I grew afraid and turned to quit the room. It was\nnot conscience that made me do so: it was a sort of cowardice. I take\nno credit to myself for trying to escape.”",
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    "text": "“Conscience and cowardice are really the same things, Basil. Conscience\nis the trade-name of the firm. That is all.”\n\n“I don’t believe that, Harry, and I don’t believe you do either.\nHowever, whatever was my motive—and it may have been pride, for I used\nto be very proud—I certainly struggled to the door. There, of course, I\nstumbled against Lady Brandon. ‘You are not going to run away so soon,\nMr. Hallward?’ she screamed out. You know her curiously shrill voice?”\n\n“Yes; she is a peacock in everything but beauty,” said Lord Henry,\npulling the daisy to bits with his long nervous fingers.\n\n“I could not get rid of her. She brought me up to royalties, and people\nwith stars and garters, and elderly ladies with gigantic tiaras and\nparrot noses. She spoke of me as her dearest friend. I had only met her\nonce before, but she took it into her head to lionize me. I believe\nsome picture of mine had made a great success at the time, at least had\nbeen chattered about in the penny newspapers, which is the\nnineteenth-century standard of immortality. Suddenly I found myself\nface to face with the young man whose personality had so strangely\nstirred me. We were quite close, almost touching. Our eyes met again.\nIt was reckless of me, but I asked Lady Brandon to introduce me to him.\nPerhaps it was not so reckless, after all. It was simply inevitable. We\nwould have spoken to each other without any introduction. I am sure of\nthat. Dorian told me so afterwards. He, too, felt that we were destined\nto know each other.”",
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    "text": "“And how did Lady Brandon describe this wonderful young man?” asked his\ncompanion. “I know she goes in for giving a rapid _précis_ of all her\nguests. I remember her bringing me up to a truculent and red-faced old\ngentleman covered all over with orders and ribbons, and hissing into my\near, in a tragic whisper which must have been perfectly audible to\neverybody in the room, the most astounding details. I simply fled. I\nlike to find out people for myself. But Lady Brandon treats her guests\nexactly as an auctioneer treats his goods. She either explains them\nentirely away, or tells one everything about them except what one wants\nto know.”\n\n“Poor Lady Brandon! You are hard on her, Harry!” said Hallward\nlistlessly.\n\n“My dear fellow, she tried to found a _salon_, and only succeeded in\nopening a restaurant. How could I admire her? But tell me, what did she\nsay about Mr. Dorian Gray?”",
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    "text": "“Oh, something like, ‘Charming boy—poor dear mother and I absolutely\ninseparable. Quite forget what he does—afraid he—doesn’t do\nanything—oh, yes, plays the piano—or is it the violin, dear Mr. Gray?’\nNeither of us could help laughing, and we became friends at once.”\n\n“Laughter is not at all a bad beginning for a friendship, and it is far\nthe best ending for one,” said the young lord, plucking another daisy.\n\nHallward shook his head. “You don’t understand what friendship is,\nHarry,” he murmured—“or what enmity is, for that matter. You like every\none; that is to say, you are indifferent to every one.”\n\n“How horribly unjust of you!” cried Lord Henry, tilting his hat back\nand looking up at the little clouds that, like ravelled skeins of\nglossy white silk, were drifting across the hollowed turquoise of the\nsummer sky. “Yes; horribly unjust of you. I make a great difference\nbetween people. I choose my friends for their good looks, my\nacquaintances for their good characters, and my enemies for their good\nintellects. A man cannot be too careful in the choice of his enemies. I\nhave not got one who is a fool. They are all men of some intellectual\npower, and consequently they all appreciate me. Is that very vain of\nme? I think it is rather vain.”",
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    "text": "“I should think it was, Harry. But according to your category I must be\nmerely an acquaintance.”\n\n“My dear old Basil, you are much more than an acquaintance.”\n\n“And much less than a friend. A sort of brother, I suppose?”\n\n“Oh, brothers! I don’t care for brothers. My elder brother won’t die,\nand my younger brothers seem never to do anything else.”\n\n“Harry!” exclaimed Hallward, frowning.\n\n“My dear fellow, I am not quite serious. But I can’t help detesting my\nrelations. I suppose it comes from the fact that none of us can stand\nother people having the same faults as ourselves. I quite sympathize\nwith the rage of the English democracy against what they call the vices\nof the upper orders. The masses feel that drunkenness, stupidity, and\nimmorality should be their own special property, and that if any one of\nus makes an ass of himself, he is poaching on their preserves. When\npoor Southwark got into the divorce court, their indignation was quite\nmagnificent. And yet I don’t suppose that ten per cent of the\nproletariat live correctly.”",
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    "text": "“I don’t agree with a single word that you have said, and, what is\nmore, Harry, I feel sure you don’t either.”\n\nLord Henry stroked his pointed brown beard and tapped the toe of his\npatent-leather boot with a tasselled ebony cane. “How English you are\nBasil! That is the second time you have made that observation. If one\nputs forward an idea to a true Englishman—always a rash thing to do—he\nnever dreams of considering whether the idea is right or wrong. The\nonly thing he considers of any importance is whether one believes it\noneself. Now, the value of an idea has nothing whatsoever to do with\nthe sincerity of the man who expresses it. Indeed, the probabilities\nare that the more insincere the man is, the more purely intellectual\nwill the idea be, as in that case it will not be coloured by either his\nwants, his desires, or his prejudices. However, I don’t propose to\ndiscuss politics, sociology, or metaphysics with you. I like persons\nbetter than principles, and I like persons with no principles better\nthan anything else in the world. Tell me more about Mr. Dorian Gray.\nHow often do you see him?”",
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    "text": "“Every day. I couldn’t be happy if I didn’t see him every day. He is\nabsolutely necessary to me.”\n\n“How extraordinary! I thought you would never care for anything but\nyour art.”\n\n“He is all my art to me now,” said the painter gravely. “I sometimes\nthink, Harry, that there are only two eras of any importance in the\nworld’s history. The first is the appearance of a new medium for art,\nand the second is the appearance of a new personality for art also.\nWhat the invention of oil-painting was to the Venetians, the face of\nAntinous was to late Greek sculpture, and the face of Dorian Gray will\nsome day be to me. It is not merely that I paint from him, draw from\nhim, sketch from him. Of course, I have done all that. But he is much\nmore to me than a model or a sitter. I won’t tell you that I am\ndissatisfied with what I have done of him, or that his beauty is such\nthat art cannot express it. There is nothing that art cannot express,\nand I know that the work I have done, since I met Dorian Gray, is good\nwork, is the best work of my life. But in some curious way—I wonder\nwill you understand me?—his personality has suggested to me an entirely\nnew manner in art, an entirely new mode of style. I see things\ndifferently, I think of them differently. I can now recreate life in a\nway that was hidden from me before. ‘A dream of form in days of\nthought’—who is it who says that? I forget; but it is what Dorian Gray\nhas been to me. The merely visible presence of this lad—for he seems to\nme little more than a lad, though he is really over twenty—his merely\nvisible presence—ah! I wonder can you realize all that that means?\nUnconsciously he defines for me the lines of a fresh school, a school\nthat is to have in it all the passion of the romantic spirit, all the\nperfection of the spirit that is Greek. The harmony of soul and\nbody—how much that is! We in our madness have separated the two, and\nhave invented a realism that is vulgar, an ideality that is void.\nHarry! if you only knew what Dorian Gray is to me! You remember that\nlandscape of mine, for which Agnew offered me such a huge price but\nwhich I would not part with? It is one of the best things I have ever\ndone. And why is it so? Because, while I was painting it, Dorian Gray\nsat beside me. Some subtle influence passed from him to me, and for the\nfirst time in my life I saw in the plain woodland the wonder I had\nalways looked for and always missed.”",
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    "text": "“Basil, this is extraordinary! I must see Dorian Gray.”\n\nHallward got up from the seat and walked up and down the garden. After\nsome time he came back. “Harry,” he said, “Dorian Gray is to me simply\na motive in art. You might see nothing in him. I see everything in him.\nHe is never more present in my work than when no image of him is there.\nHe is a suggestion, as I have said, of a new manner. I find him in the\ncurves of certain lines, in the loveliness and subtleties of certain\ncolours. That is all.”\n\n“Then why won’t you exhibit his portrait?” asked Lord Henry.\n\n“Because, without intending it, I have put into it some expression of\nall this curious artistic idolatry, of which, of course, I have never\ncared to speak to him. He knows nothing about it. He shall never know\nanything about it. But the world might guess it, and I will not bare my\nsoul to their shallow prying eyes. My heart shall never be put under\ntheir microscope. There is too much of myself in the thing, Harry—too\nmuch of myself!”",
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    "text": "“Poets are not so scrupulous as you are. They know how useful passion\nis for publication. Nowadays a broken heart will run to many editions.”\n\n“I hate them for it,” cried Hallward. “An artist should create\nbeautiful things, but should put nothing of his own life into them. We\nlive in an age when men treat art as if it were meant to be a form of\nautobiography. We have lost the abstract sense of beauty. Some day I\nwill show the world what it is; and for that reason the world shall\nnever see my portrait of Dorian Gray.”\n\n“I think you are wrong, Basil, but I won’t argue with you. It is only\nthe intellectually lost who ever argue. Tell me, is Dorian Gray very\nfond of you?”\n\nThe painter considered for a few moments. “He likes me,” he answered\nafter a pause; “I know he likes me. Of course I flatter him dreadfully.\nI find a strange pleasure in saying things to him that I know I shall\nbe sorry for having said. As a rule, he is charming to me, and we sit\nin the studio and talk of a thousand things. Now and then, however, he\nis horribly thoughtless, and seems to take a real delight in giving me\npain. Then I feel, Harry, that I have given away my whole soul to some\none who treats it as if it were a flower to put in his coat, a bit of\ndecoration to charm his vanity, an ornament for a summer’s day.”",
    "meta": {
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    "id": "dorian_chunk_20",
    "text": "“Days in summer, Basil, are apt to linger,” murmured Lord Henry.\n“Perhaps you will tire sooner than he will. It is a sad thing to think\nof, but there is no doubt that genius lasts longer than beauty. That\naccounts for the fact that we all take such pains to over-educate\nourselves. In the wild struggle for existence, we want to have\nsomething that endures, and so we fill our minds with rubbish and\nfacts, in the silly hope of keeping our place. The thoroughly\nwell-informed man—that is the modern ideal. And the mind of the\nthoroughly well-informed man is a dreadful thing. It is like a\n_bric-à-brac_ shop, all monsters and dust, with everything priced above\nits proper value. I think you will tire first, all the same. Some day\nyou will look at your friend, and he will seem to you to be a little\nout of drawing, or you won’t like his tone of colour, or something. You\nwill bitterly reproach him in your own heart, and seriously think that\nhe has behaved very badly to you. The next time he calls, you will be\nperfectly cold and indifferent. It will be a great pity, for it will\nalter you. What you have told me is quite a romance, a romance of art\none might call it, and the worst of having a romance of any kind is\nthat it leaves one so unromantic.”",
    "meta": {
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    "id": "dorian_chunk_21",
    "text": "“Harry, don’t talk like that. As long as I live, the personality of\nDorian Gray will dominate me. You can’t feel what I feel. You change\ntoo often.”\n\n“Ah, my dear Basil, that is exactly why I can feel it. Those who are\nfaithful know only the trivial side of love: it is the faithless who\nknow love’s tragedies.” And Lord Henry struck a light on a dainty\nsilver case and began to smoke a cigarette with a self-conscious and\nsatisfied air, as if he had summed up the world in a phrase. There was\na rustle of chirruping sparrows in the green lacquer leaves of the ivy,\nand the blue cloud-shadows chased themselves across the grass like\nswallows. How pleasant it was in the garden! And how delightful other\npeople’s emotions were!—much more delightful than their ideas, it\nseemed to him. One’s own soul, and the passions of one’s friends—those\nwere the fascinating things in life. He pictured to himself with silent\namusement the tedious luncheon that he had missed by staying so long\nwith Basil Hallward. Had he gone to his aunt’s, he would have been sure\nto have met Lord Goodbody there, and the whole conversation would have\nbeen about the feeding of the poor and the necessity for model\nlodging-houses. Each class would have preached the importance of those\nvirtues, for whose exercise there was no necessity in their own lives.\nThe rich would have spoken on the value of thrift, and the idle grown\neloquent over the dignity of labour. It was charming to have escaped\nall that! As he thought of his aunt, an idea seemed to strike him. He\nturned to Hallward and said, “My dear fellow, I have just remembered.”",
    "meta": {
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    "id": "dorian_chunk_22",
    "text": "“Remembered what, Harry?”\n\n“Where I heard the name of Dorian Gray.”\n\n“Where was it?” asked Hallward, with a slight frown.\n\n“Don’t look so angry, Basil. It was at my aunt, Lady Agatha’s. She told\nme she had discovered a wonderful young man who was going to help her\nin the East End, and that his name was Dorian Gray. I am bound to state\nthat she never told me he was good-looking. Women have no appreciation\nof good looks; at least, good women have not. She said that he was very\nearnest and had a beautiful nature. I at once pictured to myself a\ncreature with spectacles and lank hair, horribly freckled, and tramping\nabout on huge feet. I wish I had known it was your friend.”\n\n“I am very glad you didn’t, Harry.”\n\n“Why?”\n\n“I don’t want you to meet him.”\n\n“You don’t want me to meet him?”\n\n“No.”\n\n“Mr. Dorian Gray is in the studio, sir,” said the butler, coming into\nthe garden.",
    "meta": {
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    "id": "dorian_chunk_23",
    "text": "“You don’t want me to meet him?”\n\n“No.”\n\n“Mr. Dorian Gray is in the studio, sir,” said the butler, coming into\nthe garden.\n\n“You must introduce me now,” cried Lord Henry, laughing.\n\nThe painter turned to his servant, who stood blinking in the sunlight.\n“Ask Mr. Gray to wait, Parker: I shall be in in a few moments.” The man\nbowed and went up the walk.\n\nThen he looked at Lord Henry. “Dorian Gray is my dearest friend,” he\nsaid. “He has a simple and a beautiful nature. Your aunt was quite\nright in what she said of him. Don’t spoil him. Don’t try to influence\nhim. Your influence would be bad. The world is wide, and has many\nmarvellous people in it. Don’t take away from me the one person who\ngives to my art whatever charm it possesses: my life as an artist\ndepends on him. Mind, Harry, I trust you.” He spoke very slowly, and\nthe words seemed wrung out of him almost against his will.",
    "meta": {
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    "id": "dorian_chunk_24",
    "text": "“What nonsense you talk!” said Lord Henry, smiling, and taking Hallward\nby the arm, he almost led him into the house.\n\nCHAPTER II.\n\nAs they entered they saw Dorian Gray. He was seated at the piano, with\nhis back to them, turning over the pages of a volume of Schumann’s\n“Forest Scenes.” “You must lend me these, Basil,” he cried. “I want to\nlearn them. They are perfectly charming.”\n\n“That entirely depends on how you sit to-day, Dorian.”\n\n“Oh, I am tired of sitting, and I don’t want a life-sized portrait of\nmyself,” answered the lad, swinging round on the music-stool in a\nwilful, petulant manner. When he caught sight of Lord Henry, a faint\nblush coloured his cheeks for a moment, and he started up. “I beg your\npardon, Basil, but I didn’t know you had any one with you.”\n\n“This is Lord Henry Wotton, Dorian, an old Oxford friend of mine. I\nhave just been telling him what a capital sitter you were, and now you\nhave spoiled everything.”",
    "meta": {
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    "id": "dorian_chunk_25",
    "text": "“You have not spoiled my pleasure in meeting you, Mr. Gray,” said Lord\nHenry, stepping forward and extending his hand. “My aunt has often\nspoken to me about you. You are one of her favourites, and, I am\nafraid, one of her victims also.”\n\n“I am in Lady Agatha’s black books at present,” answered Dorian with a\nfunny look of penitence. “I promised to go to a club in Whitechapel\nwith her last Tuesday, and I really forgot all about it. We were to\nhave played a duet together—three duets, I believe. I don’t know what\nshe will say to me. I am far too frightened to call.”\n\n“Oh, I will make your peace with my aunt. She is quite devoted to you.\nAnd I don’t think it really matters about your not being there. The\naudience probably thought it was a duet. When Aunt Agatha sits down to\nthe piano, she makes quite enough noise for two people.”",
    "meta": {
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    "id": "dorian_chunk_26",
    "text": "“That is very horrid to her, and not very nice to me,” answered Dorian,\nlaughing.\n\nLord Henry looked at him. Yes, he was certainly wonderfully handsome,\nwith his finely curved scarlet lips, his frank blue eyes, his crisp\ngold hair. There was something in his face that made one trust him at\nonce. All the candour of youth was there, as well as all youth’s\npassionate purity. One felt that he had kept himself unspotted from the\nworld. No wonder Basil Hallward worshipped him.\n\n“You are too charming to go in for philanthropy, Mr. Gray—far too\ncharming.” And Lord Henry flung himself down on the divan and opened\nhis cigarette-case.\n\nThe painter had been busy mixing his colours and getting his brushes\nready. He was looking worried, and when he heard Lord Henry’s last\nremark, he glanced at him, hesitated for a moment, and then said,\n“Harry, I want to finish this picture to-day. Would you think it\nawfully rude of me if I asked you to go away?”",
    "meta": {
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    "id": "dorian_chunk_27",
    "text": "Lord Henry smiled and looked at Dorian Gray. “Am I to go, Mr. Gray?” he\nasked.\n\n“Oh, please don’t, Lord Henry. I see that Basil is in one of his sulky\nmoods, and I can’t bear him when he sulks. Besides, I want you to tell\nme why I should not go in for philanthropy.”\n\n“I don’t know that I shall tell you that, Mr. Gray. It is so tedious a\nsubject that one would have to talk seriously about it. But I certainly\nshall not run away, now that you have asked me to stop. You don’t\nreally mind, Basil, do you? You have often told me that you liked your\nsitters to have some one to chat to.”\n\nHallward bit his lip. “If Dorian wishes it, of course you must stay.\nDorian’s whims are laws to everybody, except himself.”\n\nLord Henry took up his hat and gloves. “You are very pressing, Basil,\nbut I am afraid I must go. I have promised to meet a man at the\nOrleans. Good-bye, Mr. Gray. Come and see me some afternoon in Curzon\nStreet. I am nearly always at home at five o’clock. Write to me when\nyou are coming. I should be sorry to miss you.”",
    "meta": {
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    "id": "dorian_chunk_28",
    "text": "“Basil,” cried Dorian Gray, “if Lord Henry Wotton goes, I shall go,\ntoo. You never open your lips while you are painting, and it is\nhorribly dull standing on a platform and trying to look pleasant. Ask\nhim to stay. I insist upon it.”\n\n“Stay, Harry, to oblige Dorian, and to oblige me,” said Hallward,\ngazing intently at his picture. “It is quite true, I never talk when I\nam working, and never listen either, and it must be dreadfully tedious\nfor my unfortunate sitters. I beg you to stay.”\n\n“But what about my man at the Orleans?”\n\nThe painter laughed. “I don’t think there will be any difficulty about\nthat. Sit down again, Harry. And now, Dorian, get up on the platform,\nand don’t move about too much, or pay any attention to what Lord Henry\nsays. He has a very bad influence over all his friends, with the single\nexception of myself.”",
    "meta": {
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    "id": "dorian_chunk_29",
    "text": "Dorian Gray stepped up on the dais with the air of a young Greek\nmartyr, and made a little _moue_ of discontent to Lord Henry, to whom\nhe had rather taken a fancy. He was so unlike Basil. They made a\ndelightful contrast. And he had such a beautiful voice. After a few\nmoments he said to him, “Have you really a very bad influence, Lord\nHenry? As bad as Basil says?”\n\n“There is no such thing as a good influence, Mr. Gray. All influence is\nimmoral—immoral from the scientific point of view.”\n\n“Why?”\n\n“Because to influence a person is to give him one’s own soul. He does\nnot think his natural thoughts, or burn with his natural passions. His\nvirtues are not real to him. His sins, if there are such things as\nsins, are borrowed. He becomes an echo of some one else’s music, an\nactor of a part that has not been written for him. The aim of life is\nself-development. To realize one’s nature perfectly—that is what each\nof us is here for. People are afraid of themselves, nowadays. They have\nforgotten the highest of all duties, the duty that one owes to one’s\nself. Of course, they are charitable. They feed the hungry and clothe\nthe beggar. But their own souls starve, and are naked. Courage has gone\nout of our race. Perhaps we never really had it. The terror of society,\nwhich is the basis of morals, the terror of God, which is the secret of\nreligion—these are the two things that govern us. And yet—”",
    "meta": {
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    "id": "dorian_chunk_30",
    "text": "“Just turn your head a little more to the right, Dorian, like a good\nboy,” said the painter, deep in his work and conscious only that a look\nhad come into the lad’s face that he had never seen there before.\n\n“And yet,” continued Lord Henry, in his low, musical voice, and with\nthat graceful wave of the hand that was always so characteristic of\nhim, and that he had even in his Eton days, “I believe that if one man\nwere to live out his life fully and completely, were to give form to\nevery feeling, expression to every thought, reality to every dream—I\nbelieve that the world would gain such a fresh impulse of joy that we\nwould forget all the maladies of mediævalism, and return to the\nHellenic ideal—to something finer, richer than the Hellenic ideal, it\nmay be. But the bravest man amongst us is afraid of himself. The\nmutilation of the savage has its tragic survival in the self-denial\nthat mars our lives. We are punished for our refusals. Every impulse\nthat we strive to strangle broods in the mind and poisons us. The body\nsins once, and has done with its sin, for action is a mode of\npurification. Nothing remains then but the recollection of a pleasure,\nor the luxury of a regret. The only way to get rid of a temptation is\nto yield to it. Resist it, and your soul grows sick with longing for\nthe things it has forbidden to itself, with desire for what its\nmonstrous laws have made monstrous and unlawful. It has been said that\nthe great events of the world take place in the brain. It is in the\nbrain, and the brain only, that the great sins of the world take place\nalso. You, Mr. Gray, you yourself, with your rose-red youth and your\nrose-white boyhood, you have had passions that have made you afraid,\nthoughts that have filled you with terror, day-dreams and sleeping\ndreams whose mere memory might stain your cheek with shame—”",
    "meta": {
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    "id": "dorian_chunk_31",
    "text": "“Stop!” faltered Dorian Gray, “stop! you bewilder me. I don’t know what\nto say. There is some answer to you, but I cannot find it. Don’t speak.\nLet me think. Or, rather, let me try not to think.”\n\nFor nearly ten minutes he stood there, motionless, with parted lips and\neyes strangely bright. He was dimly conscious that entirely fresh\ninfluences were at work within him. Yet they seemed to him to have come\nreally from himself. The few words that Basil’s friend had said to\nhim—words spoken by chance, no doubt, and with wilful paradox in\nthem—had touched some secret chord that had never been touched before,\nbut that he felt was now vibrating and throbbing to curious pulses.\n\nMusic had stirred him like that. Music had troubled him many times. But\nmusic was not articulate. It was not a new world, but rather another\nchaos, that it created in us. Words! Mere words! How terrible they\nwere! How clear, and vivid, and cruel! One could not escape from them.\nAnd yet what a subtle magic there was in them! They seemed to be able\nto give a plastic form to formless things, and to have a music of their\nown as sweet as that of viol or of lute. Mere words! Was there anything\nso real as words?",
    "meta": {
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    "id": "dorian_chunk_32",
    "text": "Yes; there had been things in his boyhood that he had not understood.\nHe understood them now. Life suddenly became fiery-coloured to him. It\nseemed to him that he had been walking in fire. Why had he not known\nit?\n\nWith his subtle smile, Lord Henry watched him. He knew the precise\npsychological moment when to say nothing. He felt intensely interested.\nHe was amazed at the sudden impression that his words had produced,\nand, remembering a book that he had read when he was sixteen, a book\nwhich had revealed to him much that he had not known before, he\nwondered whether Dorian Gray was passing through a similar experience.\nHe had merely shot an arrow into the air. Had it hit the mark? How\nfascinating the lad was!\n\nHallward painted away with that marvellous bold touch of his, that had\nthe true refinement and perfect delicacy that in art, at any rate comes\nonly from strength. He was unconscious of the silence.",
    "meta": {
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    "id": "dorian_chunk_33",
    "text": "“Basil, I am tired of standing,” cried Dorian Gray suddenly. “I must go\nout and sit in the garden. The air is stifling here.”\n\n“My dear fellow, I am so sorry. When I am painting, I can’t think of\nanything else. But you never sat better. You were perfectly still. And\nI have caught the effect I wanted—the half-parted lips and the bright\nlook in the eyes. I don’t know what Harry has been saying to you, but\nhe has certainly made you have the most wonderful expression. I suppose\nhe has been paying you compliments. You mustn’t believe a word that he\nsays.”\n\n“He has certainly not been paying me compliments. Perhaps that is the\nreason that I don’t believe anything he has told me.”\n\n“You know you believe it all,” said Lord Henry, looking at him with his\ndreamy languorous eyes. “I will go out to the garden with you. It is\nhorribly hot in the studio. Basil, let us have something iced to drink,\nsomething with strawberries in it.”",
    "meta": {
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    "id": "dorian_chunk_34",
    "text": "“Certainly, Harry. Just touch the bell, and when Parker comes I will\ntell him what you want. I have got to work up this background, so I\nwill join you later on. Don’t keep Dorian too long. I have never been\nin better form for painting than I am to-day. This is going to be my\nmasterpiece. It is my masterpiece as it stands.”\n\nLord Henry went out to the garden and found Dorian Gray burying his\nface in the great cool lilac-blossoms, feverishly drinking in their\nperfume as if it had been wine. He came close to him and put his hand\nupon his shoulder. “You are quite right to do that,” he murmured.\n“Nothing can cure the soul but the senses, just as nothing can cure the\nsenses but the soul.”\n\nThe lad started and drew back. He was bareheaded, and the leaves had\ntossed his rebellious curls and tangled all their gilded threads. There\nwas a look of fear in his eyes, such as people have when they are\nsuddenly awakened. His finely chiselled nostrils quivered, and some\nhidden nerve shook the scarlet of his lips and left them trembling.",
    "meta": {
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    "id": "dorian_chunk_35",
    "text": "“Yes,” continued Lord Henry, “that is one of the great secrets of\nlife—to cure the soul by means of the senses, and the senses by means\nof the soul. You are a wonderful creation. You know more than you think\nyou know, just as you know less than you want to know.”\n\nDorian Gray frowned and turned his head away. He could not help liking\nthe tall, graceful young man who was standing by him. His romantic,\nolive-coloured face and worn expression interested him. There was\nsomething in his low languid voice that was absolutely fascinating. His\ncool, white, flowerlike hands, even, had a curious charm. They moved,\nas he spoke, like music, and seemed to have a language of their own.\nBut he felt afraid of him, and ashamed of being afraid. Why had it been\nleft for a stranger to reveal him to himself? He had known Basil\nHallward for months, but the friendship between them had never altered\nhim. Suddenly there had come some one across his life who seemed to\nhave disclosed to him life’s mystery. And, yet, what was there to be\nafraid of? He was not a schoolboy or a girl. It was absurd to be\nfrightened.",
    "meta": {
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    "id": "dorian_chunk_36",
    "text": "“Let us go and sit in the shade,” said Lord Henry. “Parker has brought\nout the drinks, and if you stay any longer in this glare, you will be\nquite spoiled, and Basil will never paint you again. You really must\nnot allow yourself to become sunburnt. It would be unbecoming.”\n\n“What can it matter?” cried Dorian Gray, laughing, as he sat down on\nthe seat at the end of the garden.\n\n“It should matter everything to you, Mr. Gray.”\n\n“Why?”\n\n“Because you have the most marvellous youth, and youth is the one thing\nworth having.”\n\n“I don’t feel that, Lord Henry.”\n\n“No, you don’t feel it now. Some day, when you are old and wrinkled and\nugly, when thought has seared your forehead with its lines, and passion\nbranded your lips with its hideous fires, you will feel it, you will\nfeel it terribly. Now, wherever you go, you charm the world. Will it\nalways be so? ... You have a wonderfully beautiful face, Mr. Gray.\nDon’t frown. You have. And beauty is a form of genius—is higher,\nindeed, than genius, as it needs no explanation. It is of the great\nfacts of the world, like sunlight, or spring-time, or the reflection in\ndark waters of that silver shell we call the moon. It cannot be\nquestioned. It has its divine right of sovereignty. It makes princes of\nthose who have it. You smile? Ah! when you have lost it you won’t\nsmile.... People say sometimes that beauty is only superficial. That\nmay be so, but at least it is not so superficial as thought is. To me,\nbeauty is the wonder of wonders. It is only shallow people who do not\njudge by appearances. The true mystery of the world is the visible, not\nthe invisible.... Yes, Mr. Gray, the gods have been good to you. But\nwhat the gods give they quickly take away. You have only a few years in\nwhich to live really, perfectly, and fully. When your youth goes, your\nbeauty will go with it, and then you will suddenly discover that there\nare no triumphs left for you, or have to content yourself with those\nmean triumphs that the memory of your past will make more bitter than\ndefeats. Every month as it wanes brings you nearer to something\ndreadful. Time is jealous of you, and wars against your lilies and your\nroses. You will become sallow, and hollow-cheeked, and dull-eyed. You\nwill suffer horribly.... Ah! realize your youth while you have it.\nDon’t squander the gold of your days, listening to the tedious, trying\nto improve the hopeless failure, or giving away your life to the\nignorant, the common, and the vulgar. These are the sickly aims, the\nfalse ideals, of our age. Live! Live the wonderful life that is in you!\nLet nothing be lost upon you. Be always searching for new sensations.\nBe afraid of nothing.... A new Hedonism—that is what our century wants.\nYou might be its visible symbol. With your personality there is nothing\nyou could not do. The world belongs to you for a season.... The moment\nI met you I saw that you were quite unconscious of what you really are,\nof what you really might be. There was so much in you that charmed me\nthat I felt I must tell you something about yourself. I thought how\ntragic it would be if you were wasted. For there is such a little time\nthat your youth will last—such a little time. The common hill-flowers\nwither, but they blossom again. The laburnum will be as yellow next\nJune as it is now. In a month there will be purple stars on the\nclematis, and year after year the green night of its leaves will hold\nits purple stars. But we never get back our youth. The pulse of joy\nthat beats in us at twenty becomes sluggish. Our limbs fail, our senses\nrot. We degenerate into hideous puppets, haunted by the memory of the\npassions of which we were too much afraid, and the exquisite\ntemptations that we had not the courage to yield to. Youth! Youth!\nThere is absolutely nothing in the world but youth!”",
    "meta": {
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    "id": "dorian_chunk_37",
    "text": "Dorian Gray listened, open-eyed and wondering. The spray of lilac fell\nfrom his hand upon the gravel. A furry bee came and buzzed round it for\na moment. Then it began to scramble all over the oval stellated globe\nof the tiny blossoms. He watched it with that strange interest in\ntrivial things that we try to develop when things of high import make\nus afraid, or when we are stirred by some new emotion for which we\ncannot find expression, or when some thought that terrifies us lays\nsudden siege to the brain and calls on us to yield. After a time the\nbee flew away. He saw it creeping into the stained trumpet of a Tyrian\nconvolvulus. The flower seemed to quiver, and then swayed gently to and\nfro.\n\nSuddenly the painter appeared at the door of the studio and made\nstaccato signs for them to come in. They turned to each other and\nsmiled.",
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    "id": "dorian_chunk_38",
    "text": "“I am waiting,” he cried. “Do come in. The light is quite perfect, and\nyou can bring your drinks.”\n\nThey rose up and sauntered down the walk together. Two green-and-white\nbutterflies fluttered past them, and in the pear-tree at the corner of\nthe garden a thrush began to sing.\n\n“You are glad you have met me, Mr. Gray,” said Lord Henry, looking at\nhim.\n\n“Yes, I am glad now. I wonder shall I always be glad?”\n\n“Always! That is a dreadful word. It makes me shudder when I hear it.\nWomen are so fond of using it. They spoil every romance by trying to\nmake it last for ever. It is a meaningless word, too. The only\ndifference between a caprice and a lifelong passion is that the caprice\nlasts a little longer.”\n\nAs they entered the studio, Dorian Gray put his hand upon Lord Henry’s\narm. “In that case, let our friendship be a caprice,” he murmured,\nflushing at his own boldness, then stepped up on the platform and\nresumed his pose.",
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    "text": "Lord Henry flung himself into a large wicker arm-chair and watched him.\nThe sweep and dash of the brush on the canvas made the only sound that\nbroke the stillness, except when, now and then, Hallward stepped back\nto look at his work from a distance. In the slanting beams that\nstreamed through the open doorway the dust danced and was golden. The\nheavy scent of the roses seemed to brood over everything.\n\nAfter about a quarter of an hour Hallward stopped painting, looked for\na long time at Dorian Gray, and then for a long time at the picture,\nbiting the end of one of his huge brushes and frowning. “It is quite\nfinished,” he cried at last, and stooping down he wrote his name in\nlong vermilion letters on the left-hand corner of the canvas.\n\nLord Henry came over and examined the picture. It was certainly a\nwonderful work of art, and a wonderful likeness as well.",
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    "id": "dorian_chunk_40",
    "text": "“My dear fellow, I congratulate you most warmly,” he said. “It is the\nfinest portrait of modern times. Mr. Gray, come over and look at\nyourself.”\n\nThe lad started, as if awakened from some dream.\n\n“Is it really finished?” he murmured, stepping down from the platform.\n\n“Quite finished,” said the painter. “And you have sat splendidly\nto-day. I am awfully obliged to you.”\n\n“That is entirely due to me,” broke in Lord Henry. “Isn’t it, Mr.\nGray?”\n\nDorian made no answer, but passed listlessly in front of his picture\nand turned towards it. When he saw it he drew back, and his cheeks\nflushed for a moment with pleasure. A look of joy came into his eyes,\nas if he had recognized himself for the first time. He stood there\nmotionless and in wonder, dimly conscious that Hallward was speaking to\nhim, but not catching the meaning of his words. The sense of his own\nbeauty came on him like a revelation. He had never felt it before.\nBasil Hallward’s compliments had seemed to him to be merely the\ncharming exaggeration of friendship. He had listened to them, laughed\nat them, forgotten them. They had not influenced his nature. Then had\ncome Lord Henry Wotton with his strange panegyric on youth, his\nterrible warning of its brevity. That had stirred him at the time, and\nnow, as he stood gazing at the shadow of his own loveliness, the full\nreality of the description flashed across him. Yes, there would be a\nday when his face would be wrinkled and wizen, his eyes dim and\ncolourless, the grace of his figure broken and deformed. The scarlet\nwould pass away from his lips and the gold steal from his hair. The\nlife that was to make his soul would mar his body. He would become\ndreadful, hideous, and uncouth.",
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    "id": "dorian_chunk_41",
    "text": "As he thought of it, a sharp pang of pain struck through him like a\nknife and made each delicate fibre of his nature quiver. His eyes\ndeepened into amethyst, and across them came a mist of tears. He felt\nas if a hand of ice had been laid upon his heart.\n\n“Don’t you like it?” cried Hallward at last, stung a little by the\nlad’s silence, not understanding what it meant.\n\n“Of course he likes it,” said Lord Henry. “Who wouldn’t like it? It is\none of the greatest things in modern art. I will give you anything you\nlike to ask for it. I must have it.”\n\n“It is not my property, Harry.”\n\n“Whose property is it?”\n\n“Dorian’s, of course,” answered the painter.\n\n“He is a very lucky fellow.”\n\n“How sad it is!” murmured Dorian Gray with his eyes still fixed upon\nhis own portrait. “How sad it is! I shall grow old, and horrible, and\ndreadful. But this picture will remain always young. It will never be\nolder than this particular day of June.... If it were only the other\nway! If it were I who was to be always young, and the picture that was\nto grow old! For that—for that—I would give everything! Yes, there is\nnothing in the whole world I would not give! I would give my soul for\nthat!”",
    "meta": {
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    "id": "dorian_chunk_42",
    "text": "“You would hardly care for such an arrangement, Basil,” cried Lord\nHenry, laughing. “It would be rather hard lines on your work.”\n\n“I should object very strongly, Harry,” said Hallward.\n\nDorian Gray turned and looked at him. “I believe you would, Basil. You\nlike your art better than your friends. I am no more to you than a\ngreen bronze figure. Hardly as much, I dare say.”\n\nThe painter stared in amazement. It was so unlike Dorian to speak like\nthat. What had happened? He seemed quite angry. His face was flushed\nand his cheeks burning.\n\n“Yes,” he continued, “I am less to you than your ivory Hermes or your\nsilver Faun. You will like them always. How long will you like me? Till\nI have my first wrinkle, I suppose. I know, now, that when one loses\none’s good looks, whatever they may be, one loses everything. Your\npicture has taught me that. Lord Henry Wotton is perfectly right. Youth\nis the only thing worth having. When I find that I am growing old, I\nshall kill myself.”",
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    "id": "dorian_chunk_43",
    "text": "Hallward turned pale and caught his hand. “Dorian! Dorian!” he cried,\n“don’t talk like that. I have never had such a friend as you, and I\nshall never have such another. You are not jealous of material things,\nare you?—you who are finer than any of them!”\n\n“I am jealous of everything whose beauty does not die. I am jealous of\nthe portrait you have painted of me. Why should it keep what I must\nlose? Every moment that passes takes something from me and gives\nsomething to it. Oh, if it were only the other way! If the picture\ncould change, and I could be always what I am now! Why did you paint\nit? It will mock me some day—mock me horribly!” The hot tears welled\ninto his eyes; he tore his hand away and, flinging himself on the\ndivan, he buried his face in the cushions, as though he was praying.\n\n“This is your doing, Harry,” said the painter bitterly.",
    "meta": {
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    "id": "dorian_chunk_44",
    "text": "“I am jealous of everything whose beauty does not die. I am jealous of\nthe portrait you have painted of me. Why should it keep what I must\nlose? Every moment that passes takes something from me and gives\nsomething to it. Oh, if it were only the other way! If the picture\ncould change, and I could be always what I am now! Why did you paint\nit? It will mock me some day—mock me horribly!” The hot tears welled\ninto his eyes; he tore his hand away and, flinging himself on the\ndivan, he buried his face in the cushions, as though he was praying.\n\n“This is your doing, Harry,” said the painter bitterly.\n\nLord Henry shrugged his shoulders. “It is the real Dorian Gray—that is\nall.”\n\n“It is not.”\n\n“If it is not, what have I to do with it?”\n\n“You should have gone away when I asked you,” he muttered.\n\n“I stayed when you asked me,” was Lord Henry’s answer.",
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    "id": "dorian_chunk_45",
    "text": "“If it is not, what have I to do with it?”\n\n“You should have gone away when I asked you,” he muttered.\n\n“I stayed when you asked me,” was Lord Henry’s answer.\n\n“Harry, I can’t quarrel with my two best friends at once, but between\nyou both you have made me hate the finest piece of work I have ever\ndone, and I will destroy it. What is it but canvas and colour? I will\nnot let it come across our three lives and mar them.”\n\nDorian Gray lifted his golden head from the pillow, and with pallid\nface and tear-stained eyes, looked at him as he walked over to the deal\npainting-table that was set beneath the high curtained window. What was\nhe doing there? His fingers were straying about among the litter of tin\ntubes and dry brushes, seeking for something. Yes, it was for the long\npalette-knife, with its thin blade of lithe steel. He had found it at\nlast. He was going to rip up the canvas.",
    "meta": {
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    "id": "dorian_chunk_46",
    "text": "With a stifled sob the lad leaped from the couch, and, rushing over to\nHallward, tore the knife out of his hand, and flung it to the end of\nthe studio. “Don’t, Basil, don’t!” he cried. “It would be murder!”\n\n“I am glad you appreciate my work at last, Dorian,” said the painter\ncoldly when he had recovered from his surprise. “I never thought you\nwould.”\n\n“Appreciate it? I am in love with it, Basil. It is part of myself. I\nfeel that.”\n\n“Well, as soon as you are dry, you shall be varnished, and framed, and\nsent home. Then you can do what you like with yourself.” And he walked\nacross the room and rang the bell for tea. “You will have tea, of\ncourse, Dorian? And so will you, Harry? Or do you object to such simple\npleasures?”\n\n“I adore simple pleasures,” said Lord Henry. “They are the last refuge\nof the complex. But I don’t like scenes, except on the stage. What\nabsurd fellows you are, both of you! I wonder who it was defined man as\na rational animal. It was the most premature definition ever given. Man\nis many things, but he is not rational. I am glad he is not, after\nall—though I wish you chaps would not squabble over the picture. You\nhad much better let me have it, Basil. This silly boy doesn’t really\nwant it, and I really do.”",
    "meta": {
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    "id": "dorian_chunk_47",
    "text": "“If you let any one have it but me, Basil, I shall never forgive you!”\ncried Dorian Gray; “and I don’t allow people to call me a silly boy.”\n\n“You know the picture is yours, Dorian. I gave it to you before it\nexisted.”\n\n“And you know you have been a little silly, Mr. Gray, and that you\ndon’t really object to being reminded that you are extremely young.”\n\n“I should have objected very strongly this morning, Lord Henry.”\n\n“Ah! this morning! You have lived since then.”\n\nThere came a knock at the door, and the butler entered with a laden\ntea-tray and set it down upon a small Japanese table. There was a\nrattle of cups and saucers and the hissing of a fluted Georgian urn.\nTwo globe-shaped china dishes were brought in by a page. Dorian Gray\nwent over and poured out the tea. The two men sauntered languidly to\nthe table and examined what was under the covers.",
    "meta": {
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    "id": "dorian_chunk_48",
    "text": "“Let us go to the theatre to-night,” said Lord Henry. “There is sure to\nbe something on, somewhere. I have promised to dine at White’s, but it\nis only with an old friend, so I can send him a wire to say that I am\nill, or that I am prevented from coming in consequence of a subsequent\nengagement. I think that would be a rather nice excuse: it would have\nall the surprise of candour.”\n\n“It is such a bore putting on one’s dress-clothes,” muttered Hallward.\n“And, when one has them on, they are so horrid.”\n\n“Yes,” answered Lord Henry dreamily, “the costume of the nineteenth\ncentury is detestable. It is so sombre, so depressing. Sin is the only\nreal colour-element left in modern life.”\n\n“You really must not say things like that before Dorian, Harry.”\n\n“Before which Dorian? The one who is pouring out tea for us, or the one\nin the picture?”",
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    "id": "dorian_chunk_49",
    "text": "“You really must not say things like that before Dorian, Harry.”\n\n“Before which Dorian? The one who is pouring out tea for us, or the one\nin the picture?”\n\n“Before either.”\n\n“I should like to come to the theatre with you, Lord Henry,” said the\nlad.\n\n“Then you shall come; and you will come, too, Basil, won’t you?”\n\n“I can’t, really. I would sooner not. I have a lot of work to do.”\n\n“Well, then, you and I will go alone, Mr. Gray.”\n\n“I should like that awfully.”\n\nThe painter bit his lip and walked over, cup in hand, to the picture.\n“I shall stay with the real Dorian,” he said, sadly.\n\n“Is it the real Dorian?” cried the original of the portrait, strolling\nacross to him. “Am I really like that?”\n\n“Yes; you are just like that.”\n\n“How wonderful, Basil!”\n\n“At least you are like it in appearance. But it will never alter,”\nsighed Hallward. “That is something.”",
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    "id": "dorian_chunk_50",
    "text": "“How wonderful, Basil!”\n\n“At least you are like it in appearance. But it will never alter,”\nsighed Hallward. “That is something.”\n\n“What a fuss people make about fidelity!” exclaimed Lord Henry. “Why,\neven in love it is purely a question for physiology. It has nothing to\ndo with our own will. Young men want to be faithful, and are not; old\nmen want to be faithless, and cannot: that is all one can say.”\n\n“Don’t go to the theatre to-night, Dorian,” said Hallward. “Stop and\ndine with me.”\n\n“I can’t, Basil.”\n\n“Why?”\n\n“Because I have promised Lord Henry Wotton to go with him.”\n\n“He won’t like you the better for keeping your promises. He always\nbreaks his own. I beg you not to go.”\n\nDorian Gray laughed and shook his head.\n\n“I entreat you.”\n\nThe lad hesitated, and looked over at Lord Henry, who was watching them\nfrom the tea-table with an amused smile.",
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    "id": "dorian_chunk_51",
    "text": "“I entreat you.”\n\nThe lad hesitated, and looked over at Lord Henry, who was watching them\nfrom the tea-table with an amused smile.\n\n“I must go, Basil,” he answered.\n\n“Very well,” said Hallward, and he went over and laid down his cup on\nthe tray. “It is rather late, and, as you have to dress, you had better\nlose no time. Good-bye, Harry. Good-bye, Dorian. Come and see me soon.\nCome to-morrow.”\n\n“Certainly.”\n\n“You won’t forget?”\n\n“No, of course not,” cried Dorian.\n\n“And ... Harry!”\n\n“Yes, Basil?”\n\n“Remember what I asked you, when we were in the garden this morning.”\n\n“I have forgotten it.”\n\n“I trust you.”\n\n“I wish I could trust myself,” said Lord Henry, laughing. “Come, Mr.\nGray, my hansom is outside, and I can drop you at your own place.\nGood-bye, Basil. It has been a most interesting afternoon.”",
    "meta": {
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    "id": "dorian_chunk_52",
    "text": "As the door closed behind them, the painter flung himself down on a\nsofa, and a look of pain came into his face.\n\nCHAPTER III.\n\nAt half-past twelve next day Lord Henry Wotton strolled from Curzon\nStreet over to the Albany to call on his uncle, Lord Fermor, a genial\nif somewhat rough-mannered old bachelor, whom the outside world called\nselfish because it derived no particular benefit from him, but who was\nconsidered generous by Society as he fed the people who amused him. His\nfather had been our ambassador at Madrid when Isabella was young and\nPrim unthought of, but had retired from the diplomatic service in a\ncapricious moment of annoyance on not being offered the Embassy at\nParis, a post to which he considered that he was fully entitled by\nreason of his birth, his indolence, the good English of his dispatches,\nand his inordinate passion for pleasure. The son, who had been his\nfather’s secretary, had resigned along with his chief, somewhat\nfoolishly as was thought at the time, and on succeeding some months\nlater to the title, had set himself to the serious study of the great\naristocratic art of doing absolutely nothing. He had two large town\nhouses, but preferred to live in chambers as it was less trouble, and\ntook most of his meals at his club. He paid some attention to the\nmanagement of his collieries in the Midland counties, excusing himself\nfor this taint of industry on the ground that the one advantage of\nhaving coal was that it enabled a gentleman to afford the decency of\nburning wood on his own hearth. In politics he was a Tory, except when\nthe Tories were in office, during which period he roundly abused them\nfor being a pack of Radicals. He was a hero to his valet, who bullied\nhim, and a terror to most of his relations, whom he bullied in turn.\nOnly England could have produced him, and he always said that the\ncountry was going to the dogs. His principles were out of date, but\nthere was a good deal to be said for his prejudices.",
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    "text": "When Lord Henry entered the room, he found his uncle sitting in a rough\nshooting-coat, smoking a cheroot and grumbling over _The Times_. “Well,\nHarry,” said the old gentleman, “what brings you out so early? I\nthought you dandies never got up till two, and were not visible till\nfive.”\n\n“Pure family affection, I assure you, Uncle George. I want to get\nsomething out of you.”\n\n“Money, I suppose,” said Lord Fermor, making a wry face. “Well, sit\ndown and tell me all about it. Young people, nowadays, imagine that\nmoney is everything.”\n\n“Yes,” murmured Lord Henry, settling his button-hole in his coat; “and\nwhen they grow older they know it. But I don’t want money. It is only\npeople who pay their bills who want that, Uncle George, and I never pay\nmine. Credit is the capital of a younger son, and one lives charmingly\nupon it. Besides, I always deal with Dartmoor’s tradesmen, and\nconsequently they never bother me. What I want is information: not\nuseful information, of course; useless information.”",
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    "id": "dorian_chunk_54",
    "text": "“Well, I can tell you anything that is in an English Blue Book, Harry,\nalthough those fellows nowadays write a lot of nonsense. When I was in\nthe Diplomatic, things were much better. But I hear they let them in\nnow by examination. What can you expect? Examinations, sir, are pure\nhumbug from beginning to end. If a man is a gentleman, he knows quite\nenough, and if he is not a gentleman, whatever he knows is bad for\nhim.”\n\n“Mr. Dorian Gray does not belong to Blue Books, Uncle George,” said\nLord Henry languidly.\n\n“Mr. Dorian Gray? Who is he?” asked Lord Fermor, knitting his bushy\nwhite eyebrows.\n\n“That is what I have come to learn, Uncle George. Or rather, I know who\nhe is. He is the last Lord Kelso’s grandson. His mother was a Devereux,\nLady Margaret Devereux. I want you to tell me about his mother. What\nwas she like? Whom did she marry? You have known nearly everybody in\nyour time, so you might have known her. I am very much interested in\nMr. Gray at present. I have only just met him.”",
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    "id": "dorian_chunk_55",
    "text": "“Kelso’s grandson!” echoed the old gentleman. “Kelso’s grandson! ... Of\ncourse.... I knew his mother intimately. I believe I was at her\nchristening. She was an extraordinarily beautiful girl, Margaret\nDevereux, and made all the men frantic by running away with a penniless\nyoung fellow—a mere nobody, sir, a subaltern in a foot regiment, or\nsomething of that kind. Certainly. I remember the whole thing as if it\nhappened yesterday. The poor chap was killed in a duel at Spa a few\nmonths after the marriage. There was an ugly story about it. They said\nKelso got some rascally adventurer, some Belgian brute, to insult his\nson-in-law in public—paid him, sir, to do it, paid him—and that the\nfellow spitted his man as if he had been a pigeon. The thing was hushed\nup, but, egad, Kelso ate his chop alone at the club for some time\nafterwards. He brought his daughter back with him, I was told, and she\nnever spoke to him again. Oh, yes; it was a bad business. The girl\ndied, too, died within a year. So she left a son, did she? I had\nforgotten that. What sort of boy is he? If he is like his mother, he\nmust be a good-looking chap.”",
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    "text": "“He is very good-looking,” assented Lord Henry.\n\n“I hope he will fall into proper hands,” continued the old man. “He\nshould have a pot of money waiting for him if Kelso did the right thing\nby him. His mother had money, too. All the Selby property came to her,\nthrough her grandfather. Her grandfather hated Kelso, thought him a\nmean dog. He was, too. Came to Madrid once when I was there. Egad, I\nwas ashamed of him. The Queen used to ask me about the English noble\nwho was always quarrelling with the cabmen about their fares. They made\nquite a story of it. I didn’t dare show my face at Court for a month. I\nhope he treated his grandson better than he did the jarvies.”\n\n“I don’t know,” answered Lord Henry. “I fancy that the boy will be well\noff. He is not of age yet. He has Selby, I know. He told me so. And ...\nhis mother was very beautiful?”",
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    "id": "dorian_chunk_57",
    "text": "“Margaret Devereux was one of the loveliest creatures I ever saw,\nHarry. What on earth induced her to behave as she did, I never could\nunderstand. She could have married anybody she chose. Carlington was\nmad after her. She was romantic, though. All the women of that family\nwere. The men were a poor lot, but, egad! the women were wonderful.\nCarlington went on his knees to her. Told me so himself. She laughed at\nhim, and there wasn’t a girl in London at the time who wasn’t after\nhim. And by the way, Harry, talking about silly marriages, what is this\nhumbug your father tells me about Dartmoor wanting to marry an\nAmerican? Ain’t English girls good enough for him?”\n\n“It is rather fashionable to marry Americans just now, Uncle George.”\n\n“I’ll back English women against the world, Harry,” said Lord Fermor,\nstriking the table with his fist.",
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    "id": "dorian_chunk_58",
    "text": "“It is rather fashionable to marry Americans just now, Uncle George.”\n\n“I’ll back English women against the world, Harry,” said Lord Fermor,\nstriking the table with his fist.\n\n“The betting is on the Americans.”\n\n“They don’t last, I am told,” muttered his uncle.\n\n“A long engagement exhausts them, but they are capital at a\nsteeplechase. They take things flying. I don’t think Dartmoor has a\nchance.”\n\n“Who are her people?” grumbled the old gentleman. “Has she got any?”\n\nLord Henry shook his head. “American girls are as clever at concealing\ntheir parents, as English women are at concealing their past,” he said,\nrising to go.\n\n“They are pork-packers, I suppose?”\n\n“I hope so, Uncle George, for Dartmoor’s sake. I am told that\npork-packing is the most lucrative profession in America, after\npolitics.”",
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    "id": "dorian_chunk_59",
    "text": "“Is she pretty?”\n\n“She behaves as if she was beautiful. Most American women do. It is the\nsecret of their charm.”\n\n“Why can’t these American women stay in their own country? They are\nalways telling us that it is the paradise for women.”\n\n“It is. That is the reason why, like Eve, they are so excessively\nanxious to get out of it,” said Lord Henry. “Good-bye, Uncle George. I\nshall be late for lunch, if I stop any longer. Thanks for giving me the\ninformation I wanted. I always like to know everything about my new\nfriends, and nothing about my old ones.”\n\n“Where are you lunching, Harry?”\n\n“At Aunt Agatha’s. I have asked myself and Mr. Gray. He is her latest\n_protégé_.”\n\n“Humph! tell your Aunt Agatha, Harry, not to bother me any more with\nher charity appeals. I am sick of them. Why, the good woman thinks that\nI have nothing to do but to write cheques for her silly fads.”",
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    "text": "“All right, Uncle George, I’ll tell her, but it won’t have any effect.\nPhilanthropic people lose all sense of humanity. It is their\ndistinguishing characteristic.”\n\nThe old gentleman growled approvingly and rang the bell for his\nservant. Lord Henry passed up the low arcade into Burlington Street and\nturned his steps in the direction of Berkeley Square.\n\nSo that was the story of Dorian Gray’s parentage. Crudely as it had\nbeen told to him, it had yet stirred him by its suggestion of a\nstrange, almost modern romance. A beautiful woman risking everything\nfor a mad passion. A few wild weeks of happiness cut short by a\nhideous, treacherous crime. Months of voiceless agony, and then a child\nborn in pain. The mother snatched away by death, the boy left to\nsolitude and the tyranny of an old and loveless man. Yes; it was an\ninteresting background. It posed the lad, made him more perfect, as it\nwere. Behind every exquisite thing that existed, there was something\ntragic. Worlds had to be in travail, that the meanest flower might\nblow.... And how charming he had been at dinner the night before, as\nwith startled eyes and lips parted in frightened pleasure he had sat\nopposite to him at the club, the red candleshades staining to a richer\nrose the wakening wonder of his face. Talking to him was like playing\nupon an exquisite violin. He answered to every touch and thrill of the\nbow.... There was something terribly enthralling in the exercise of\ninfluence. No other activity was like it. To project one’s soul into\nsome gracious form, and let it tarry there for a moment; to hear one’s\nown intellectual views echoed back to one with all the added music of\npassion and youth; to convey one’s temperament into another as though\nit were a subtle fluid or a strange perfume: there was a real joy in\nthat—perhaps the most satisfying joy left to us in an age so limited\nand vulgar as our own, an age grossly carnal in its pleasures, and\ngrossly common in its aims.... He was a marvellous type, too, this lad,\nwhom by so curious a chance he had met in Basil’s studio, or could be\nfashioned into a marvellous type, at any rate. Grace was his, and the\nwhite purity of boyhood, and beauty such as old Greek marbles kept for\nus. There was nothing that one could not do with him. He could be made\na Titan or a toy. What a pity it was that such beauty was destined to\nfade! ... And Basil? From a psychological point of view, how\ninteresting he was! The new manner in art, the fresh mode of looking at\nlife, suggested so strangely by the merely visible presence of one who\nwas unconscious of it all; the silent spirit that dwelt in dim\nwoodland, and walked unseen in open field, suddenly showing herself,\nDryadlike and not afraid, because in his soul who sought for her there\nhad been wakened that wonderful vision to which alone are wonderful\nthings revealed; the mere shapes and patterns of things becoming, as it\nwere, refined, and gaining a kind of symbolical value, as though they\nwere themselves patterns of some other and more perfect form whose\nshadow they made real: how strange it all was! He remembered something\nlike it in history. Was it not Plato, that artist in thought, who had\nfirst analyzed it? Was it not Buonarotti who had carved it in the\ncoloured marbles of a sonnet-sequence? But in our own century it was\nstrange.... Yes; he would try to be to Dorian Gray what, without\nknowing it, the lad was to the painter who had fashioned the wonderful\nportrait. He would seek to dominate him—had already, indeed, half done\nso. He would make that wonderful spirit his own. There was something\nfascinating in this son of love and death.",
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    "text": "Suddenly he stopped and glanced up at the houses. He found that he had\npassed his aunt’s some distance, and, smiling to himself, turned back.\nWhen he entered the somewhat sombre hall, the butler told him that they\nhad gone in to lunch. He gave one of the footmen his hat and stick and\npassed into the dining-room.\n\n“Late as usual, Harry,” cried his aunt, shaking her head at him.\n\nHe invented a facile excuse, and having taken the vacant seat next to\nher, looked round to see who was there. Dorian bowed to him shyly from\nthe end of the table, a flush of pleasure stealing into his cheek.\nOpposite was the Duchess of Harley, a lady of admirable good-nature and\ngood temper, much liked by every one who knew her, and of those ample\narchitectural proportions that in women who are not duchesses are\ndescribed by contemporary historians as stoutness. Next to her sat, on\nher right, Sir Thomas Burdon, a Radical member of Parliament, who\nfollowed his leader in public life and in private life followed the\nbest cooks, dining with the Tories and thinking with the Liberals, in\naccordance with a wise and well-known rule. The post on her left was\noccupied by Mr. Erskine of Treadley, an old gentleman of considerable\ncharm and culture, who had fallen, however, into bad habits of silence,\nhaving, as he explained once to Lady Agatha, said everything that he\nhad to say before he was thirty. His own neighbour was Mrs. Vandeleur,\none of his aunt’s oldest friends, a perfect saint amongst women, but so\ndreadfully dowdy that she reminded one of a badly bound hymn-book.\nFortunately for him she had on the other side Lord Faudel, a most\nintelligent middle-aged mediocrity, as bald as a ministerial statement\nin the House of Commons, with whom she was conversing in that intensely\nearnest manner which is the one unpardonable error, as he remarked once\nhimself, that all really good people fall into, and from which none of\nthem ever quite escape.",
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    "text": "“We are talking about poor Dartmoor, Lord Henry,” cried the duchess,\nnodding pleasantly to him across the table. “Do you think he will\nreally marry this fascinating young person?”\n\n“I believe she has made up her mind to propose to him, Duchess.”\n\n“How dreadful!” exclaimed Lady Agatha. “Really, some one should\ninterfere.”\n\n“I am told, on excellent authority, that her father keeps an American\ndry-goods store,” said Sir Thomas Burdon, looking supercilious.\n\n“My uncle has already suggested pork-packing, Sir Thomas.”\n\n“Dry-goods! What are American dry-goods?” asked the duchess, raising\nher large hands in wonder and accentuating the verb.\n\n“American novels,” answered Lord Henry, helping himself to some quail.\n\nThe duchess looked puzzled.\n\n“Don’t mind him, my dear,” whispered Lady Agatha. “He never means\nanything that he says.”",
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    "text": "“American novels,” answered Lord Henry, helping himself to some quail.\n\nThe duchess looked puzzled.\n\n“Don’t mind him, my dear,” whispered Lady Agatha. “He never means\nanything that he says.”\n\n“When America was discovered,” said the Radical member—and he began to\ngive some wearisome facts. Like all people who try to exhaust a\nsubject, he exhausted his listeners. The duchess sighed and exercised\nher privilege of interruption. “I wish to goodness it never had been\ndiscovered at all!” she exclaimed. “Really, our girls have no chance\nnowadays. It is most unfair.”\n\n“Perhaps, after all, America never has been discovered,” said Mr.\nErskine; “I myself would say that it had merely been detected.”\n\n“Oh! but I have seen specimens of the inhabitants,” answered the\nduchess vaguely. “I must confess that most of them are extremely\npretty. And they dress well, too. They get all their dresses in Paris.\nI wish I could afford to do the same.”",
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    "text": "“They say that when good Americans die they go to Paris,” chuckled Sir\nThomas, who had a large wardrobe of Humour’s cast-off clothes.\n\n“Really! And where do bad Americans go to when they die?” inquired the\nduchess.\n\n“They go to America,” murmured Lord Henry.\n\nSir Thomas frowned. “I am afraid that your nephew is prejudiced against\nthat great country,” he said to Lady Agatha. “I have travelled all over\nit in cars provided by the directors, who, in such matters, are\nextremely civil. I assure you that it is an education to visit it.”\n\n“But must we really see Chicago in order to be educated?” asked Mr.\nErskine plaintively. “I don’t feel up to the journey.”\n\nSir Thomas waved his hand. “Mr. Erskine of Treadley has the world on\nhis shelves. We practical men like to see things, not to read about\nthem. The Americans are an extremely interesting people. They are\nabsolutely reasonable. I think that is their distinguishing\ncharacteristic. Yes, Mr. Erskine, an absolutely reasonable people. I\nassure you there is no nonsense about the Americans.”",
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    "text": "“How dreadful!” cried Lord Henry. “I can stand brute force, but brute\nreason is quite unbearable. There is something unfair about its use. It\nis hitting below the intellect.”\n\n“I do not understand you,” said Sir Thomas, growing rather red.\n\n“I do, Lord Henry,” murmured Mr. Erskine, with a smile.\n\n“Paradoxes are all very well in their way....” rejoined the baronet.\n\n“Was that a paradox?” asked Mr. Erskine. “I did not think so. Perhaps\nit was. Well, the way of paradoxes is the way of truth. To test reality\nwe must see it on the tight rope. When the verities become acrobats, we\ncan judge them.”\n\n“Dear me!” said Lady Agatha, “how you men argue! I am sure I never can\nmake out what you are talking about. Oh! Harry, I am quite vexed with\nyou. Why do you try to persuade our nice Mr. Dorian Gray to give up the\nEast End? I assure you he would be quite invaluable. They would love\nhis playing.”",
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    "text": "“I want him to play to me,” cried Lord Henry, smiling, and he looked\ndown the table and caught a bright answering glance.\n\n“But they are so unhappy in Whitechapel,” continued Lady Agatha.\n\n“I can sympathize with everything except suffering,” said Lord Henry,\nshrugging his shoulders. “I cannot sympathize with that. It is too\nugly, too horrible, too distressing. There is something terribly morbid\nin the modern sympathy with pain. One should sympathize with the\ncolour, the beauty, the joy of life. The less said about life’s sores,\nthe better.”\n\n“Still, the East End is a very important problem,” remarked Sir Thomas\nwith a grave shake of the head.\n\n“Quite so,” answered the young lord. “It is the problem of slavery, and\nwe try to solve it by amusing the slaves.”\n\nThe politician looked at him keenly. “What change do you propose,\nthen?” he asked.",
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    "text": "“Quite so,” answered the young lord. “It is the problem of slavery, and\nwe try to solve it by amusing the slaves.”\n\nThe politician looked at him keenly. “What change do you propose,\nthen?” he asked.\n\nLord Henry laughed. “I don’t desire to change anything in England\nexcept the weather,” he answered. “I am quite content with philosophic\ncontemplation. But, as the nineteenth century has gone bankrupt through\nan over-expenditure of sympathy, I would suggest that we should appeal\nto science to put us straight. The advantage of the emotions is that\nthey lead us astray, and the advantage of science is that it is not\nemotional.”\n\n“But we have such grave responsibilities,” ventured Mrs. Vandeleur\ntimidly.\n\n“Terribly grave,” echoed Lady Agatha.\n\nLord Henry looked over at Mr. Erskine. “Humanity takes itself too\nseriously. It is the world’s original sin. If the caveman had known how\nto laugh, history would have been different.”",
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    "text": "“You are really very comforting,” warbled the duchess. “I have always\nfelt rather guilty when I came to see your dear aunt, for I take no\ninterest at all in the East End. For the future I shall be able to look\nher in the face without a blush.”\n\n“A blush is very becoming, Duchess,” remarked Lord Henry.\n\n“Only when one is young,” she answered. “When an old woman like myself\nblushes, it is a very bad sign. Ah! Lord Henry, I wish you would tell\nme how to become young again.”\n\nHe thought for a moment. “Can you remember any great error that you\ncommitted in your early days, Duchess?” he asked, looking at her across\nthe table.\n\n“A great many, I fear,” she cried.\n\n“Then commit them over again,” he said gravely. “To get back one’s\nyouth, one has merely to repeat one’s follies.”\n\n“A delightful theory!” she exclaimed. “I must put it into practice.”",
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    "id": "dorian_chunk_69",
    "text": "“Then commit them over again,” he said gravely. “To get back one’s\nyouth, one has merely to repeat one’s follies.”\n\n“A delightful theory!” she exclaimed. “I must put it into practice.”\n\n“A dangerous theory!” came from Sir Thomas’s tight lips. Lady Agatha\nshook her head, but could not help being amused. Mr. Erskine listened.\n\n“Yes,” he continued, “that is one of the great secrets of life.\nNowadays most people die of a sort of creeping common sense, and\ndiscover when it is too late that the only things one never regrets are\none’s mistakes.”\n\nA laugh ran round the table.\n\nHe played with the idea and grew wilful; tossed it into the air and\ntransformed it; let it escape and recaptured it; made it iridescent\nwith fancy and winged it with paradox. The praise of folly, as he went\non, soared into a philosophy, and philosophy herself became young, and\ncatching the mad music of pleasure, wearing, one might fancy, her\nwine-stained robe and wreath of ivy, danced like a Bacchante over the\nhills of life, and mocked the slow Silenus for being sober. Facts fled\nbefore her like frightened forest things. Her white feet trod the huge\npress at which wise Omar sits, till the seething grape-juice rose round\nher bare limbs in waves of purple bubbles, or crawled in red foam over\nthe vat’s black, dripping, sloping sides. It was an extraordinary\nimprovisation. He felt that the eyes of Dorian Gray were fixed on him,\nand the consciousness that amongst his audience there was one whose\ntemperament he wished to fascinate seemed to give his wit keenness and\nto lend colour to his imagination. He was brilliant, fantastic,\nirresponsible. He charmed his listeners out of themselves, and they\nfollowed his pipe, laughing. Dorian Gray never took his gaze off him,\nbut sat like one under a spell, smiles chasing each other over his lips\nand wonder growing grave in his darkening eyes.",
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    "text": "At last, liveried in the costume of the age, reality entered the room\nin the shape of a servant to tell the duchess that her carriage was\nwaiting. She wrung her hands in mock despair. “How annoying!” she\ncried. “I must go. I have to call for my husband at the club, to take\nhim to some absurd meeting at Willis’s Rooms, where he is going to be\nin the chair. If I am late he is sure to be furious, and I couldn’t\nhave a scene in this bonnet. It is far too fragile. A harsh word would\nruin it. No, I must go, dear Agatha. Good-bye, Lord Henry, you are\nquite delightful and dreadfully demoralizing. I am sure I don’t know\nwhat to say about your views. You must come and dine with us some\nnight. Tuesday? Are you disengaged Tuesday?”\n\n“For you I would throw over anybody, Duchess,” said Lord Henry with a\nbow.",
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    "text": "“Ah! that is very nice, and very wrong of you,” she cried; “so mind you\ncome”; and she swept out of the room, followed by Lady Agatha and the\nother ladies.\n\nWhen Lord Henry had sat down again, Mr. Erskine moved round, and taking\na chair close to him, placed his hand upon his arm.\n\n“You talk books away,” he said; “why don’t you write one?”\n\n“I am too fond of reading books to care to write them, Mr. Erskine. I\nshould like to write a novel certainly, a novel that would be as lovely\nas a Persian carpet and as unreal. But there is no literary public in\nEngland for anything except newspapers, primers, and encyclopaedias. Of\nall people in the world the English have the least sense of the beauty\nof literature.”\n\n“I fear you are right,” answered Mr. Erskine. “I myself used to have\nliterary ambitions, but I gave them up long ago. And now, my dear young\nfriend, if you will allow me to call you so, may I ask if you really\nmeant all that you said to us at lunch?”",
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    "text": "“I quite forget what I said,” smiled Lord Henry. “Was it all very bad?”\n\n“Very bad indeed. In fact I consider you extremely dangerous, and if\nanything happens to our good duchess, we shall all look on you as being\nprimarily responsible. But I should like to talk to you about life. The\ngeneration into which I was born was tedious. Some day, when you are\ntired of London, come down to Treadley and expound to me your\nphilosophy of pleasure over some admirable Burgundy I am fortunate\nenough to possess.”\n\n“I shall be charmed. A visit to Treadley would be a great privilege. It\nhas a perfect host, and a perfect library.”\n\n“You will complete it,” answered the old gentleman with a courteous\nbow. “And now I must bid good-bye to your excellent aunt. I am due at\nthe Athenaeum. It is the hour when we sleep there.”",
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    "text": "“All of you, Mr. Erskine?”\n\n“Forty of us, in forty arm-chairs. We are practising for an English\nAcademy of Letters.”\n\nLord Henry laughed and rose. “I am going to the park,” he cried.\n\nAs he was passing out of the door, Dorian Gray touched him on the arm.\n“Let me come with you,” he murmured.\n\n“But I thought you had promised Basil Hallward to go and see him,”\nanswered Lord Henry.\n\n“I would sooner come with you; yes, I feel I must come with you. Do let\nme. And you will promise to talk to me all the time? No one talks so\nwonderfully as you do.”\n\n“Ah! I have talked quite enough for to-day,” said Lord Henry, smiling.\n“All I want now is to look at life. You may come and look at it with\nme, if you care to.”\n\nCHAPTER IV.\n\nOne afternoon, a month later, Dorian Gray was reclining in a luxurious\narm-chair, in the little library of Lord Henry’s house in Mayfair. It\nwas, in its way, a very charming room, with its high panelled\nwainscoting of olive-stained oak, its cream-coloured frieze and ceiling\nof raised plasterwork, and its brickdust felt carpet strewn with silk,\nlong-fringed Persian rugs. On a tiny satinwood table stood a statuette\nby Clodion, and beside it lay a copy of Les Cent Nouvelles, bound for\nMargaret of Valois by Clovis Eve and powdered with the gilt daisies\nthat Queen had selected for her device. Some large blue china jars and\nparrot-tulips were ranged on the mantelshelf, and through the small\nleaded panes of the window streamed the apricot-coloured light of a\nsummer day in London.",
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    "text": "Lord Henry had not yet come in. He was always late on principle, his\nprinciple being that punctuality is the thief of time. So the lad was\nlooking rather sulky, as with listless fingers he turned over the pages\nof an elaborately illustrated edition of Manon Lescaut that he had\nfound in one of the book-cases. The formal monotonous ticking of the\nLouis Quatorze clock annoyed him. Once or twice he thought of going\naway.\n\nAt last he heard a step outside, and the door opened. “How late you\nare, Harry!” he murmured.\n\n“I am afraid it is not Harry, Mr. Gray,” answered a shrill voice.\n\nHe glanced quickly round and rose to his feet. “I beg your pardon. I\nthought—”\n\n“You thought it was my husband. It is only his wife. You must let me\nintroduce myself. I know you quite well by your photographs. I think my\nhusband has got seventeen of them.”",
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    "text": "“Not seventeen, Lady Henry?”\n\n“Well, eighteen, then. And I saw you with him the other night at the\nopera.” She laughed nervously as she spoke, and watched him with her\nvague forget-me-not eyes. She was a curious woman, whose dresses always\nlooked as if they had been designed in a rage and put on in a tempest.\nShe was usually in love with somebody, and, as her passion was never\nreturned, she had kept all her illusions. She tried to look\npicturesque, but only succeeded in being untidy. Her name was Victoria,\nand she had a perfect mania for going to church.\n\n“That was at Lohengrin, Lady Henry, I think?”\n\n“Yes; it was at dear Lohengrin. I like Wagner’s music better than\nanybody’s. It is so loud that one can talk the whole time without other\npeople hearing what one says. That is a great advantage, don’t you\nthink so, Mr. Gray?”",
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    "text": "The same nervous staccato laugh broke from her thin lips, and her\nfingers began to play with a long tortoise-shell paper-knife.\n\nDorian smiled and shook his head: “I am afraid I don’t think so, Lady\nHenry. I never talk during music—at least, during good music. If one\nhears bad music, it is one’s duty to drown it in conversation.”\n\n“Ah! that is one of Harry’s views, isn’t it, Mr. Gray? I always hear\nHarry’s views from his friends. It is the only way I get to know of\nthem. But you must not think I don’t like good music. I adore it, but I\nam afraid of it. It makes me too romantic. I have simply worshipped\npianists—two at a time, sometimes, Harry tells me. I don’t know what it\nis about them. Perhaps it is that they are foreigners. They all are,\nain’t they? Even those that are born in England become foreigners after\na time, don’t they? It is so clever of them, and such a compliment to\nart. Makes it quite cosmopolitan, doesn’t it? You have never been to\nany of my parties, have you, Mr. Gray? You must come. I can’t afford\norchids, but I spare no expense in foreigners. They make one’s rooms\nlook so picturesque. But here is Harry! Harry, I came in to look for\nyou, to ask you something—I forget what it was—and I found Mr. Gray\nhere. We have had such a pleasant chat about music. We have quite the\nsame ideas. No; I think our ideas are quite different. But he has been\nmost pleasant. I am so glad I’ve seen him.”",
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    "text": "“I am charmed, my love, quite charmed,” said Lord Henry, elevating his\ndark, crescent-shaped eyebrows and looking at them both with an amused\nsmile. “So sorry I am late, Dorian. I went to look after a piece of old\nbrocade in Wardour Street and had to bargain for hours for it. Nowadays\npeople know the price of everything and the value of nothing.”\n\n“I am afraid I must be going,” exclaimed Lady Henry, breaking an\nawkward silence with her silly sudden laugh. “I have promised to drive\nwith the duchess. Good-bye, Mr. Gray. Good-bye, Harry. You are dining\nout, I suppose? So am I. Perhaps I shall see you at Lady Thornbury’s.”\n\n“I dare say, my dear,” said Lord Henry, shutting the door behind her\nas, looking like a bird of paradise that had been out all night in the\nrain, she flitted out of the room, leaving a faint odour of\nfrangipanni. Then he lit a cigarette and flung himself down on the\nsofa.",
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    "text": "“Never marry a woman with straw-coloured hair, Dorian,” he said after a\nfew puffs.\n\n“Why, Harry?”\n\n“Because they are so sentimental.”\n\n“But I like sentimental people.”\n\n“Never marry at all, Dorian. Men marry because they are tired; women,\nbecause they are curious: both are disappointed.”\n\n“I don’t think I am likely to marry, Harry. I am too much in love. That\nis one of your aphorisms. I am putting it into practice, as I do\neverything that you say.”\n\n“Who are you in love with?” asked Lord Henry after a pause.\n\n“With an actress,” said Dorian Gray, blushing.\n\nLord Henry shrugged his shoulders. “That is a rather commonplace\n_début_.”\n\n“You would not say so if you saw her, Harry.”\n\n“Who is she?”\n\n“Her name is Sibyl Vane.”\n\n“Never heard of her.”\n\n“No one has. People will some day, however. She is a genius.”",
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    "text": "“Who is she?”\n\n“Her name is Sibyl Vane.”\n\n“Never heard of her.”\n\n“No one has. People will some day, however. She is a genius.”\n\n“My dear boy, no woman is a genius. Women are a decorative sex. They\nnever have anything to say, but they say it charmingly. Women represent\nthe triumph of matter over mind, just as men represent the triumph of\nmind over morals.”\n\n“Harry, how can you?”\n\n“My dear Dorian, it is quite true. I am analysing women at present, so\nI ought to know. The subject is not so abstruse as I thought it was. I\nfind that, ultimately, there are only two kinds of women, the plain and\nthe coloured. The plain women are very useful. If you want to gain a\nreputation for respectability, you have merely to take them down to\nsupper. The other women are very charming. They commit one mistake,\nhowever. They paint in order to try and look young. Our grandmothers\npainted in order to try and talk brilliantly. _Rouge_ and _esprit_ used\nto go together. That is all over now. As long as a woman can look ten\nyears younger than her own daughter, she is perfectly satisfied. As for\nconversation, there are only five women in London worth talking to, and\ntwo of these can’t be admitted into decent society. However, tell me\nabout your genius. How long have you known her?”",
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    "id": "dorian_chunk_80",
    "text": "“Ah! Harry, your views terrify me.”\n\n“Never mind that. How long have you known her?”\n\n“About three weeks.”\n\n“And where did you come across her?”\n\n“I will tell you, Harry, but you mustn’t be unsympathetic about it.\nAfter all, it never would have happened if I had not met you. You\nfilled me with a wild desire to know everything about life. For days\nafter I met you, something seemed to throb in my veins. As I lounged in\nthe park, or strolled down Piccadilly, I used to look at every one who\npassed me and wonder, with a mad curiosity, what sort of lives they\nled. Some of them fascinated me. Others filled me with terror. There\nwas an exquisite poison in the air. I had a passion for sensations....\nWell, one evening about seven o’clock, I determined to go out in search\nof some adventure. I felt that this grey monstrous London of ours, with\nits myriads of people, its sordid sinners, and its splendid sins, as\nyou once phrased it, must have something in store for me. I fancied a\nthousand things. The mere danger gave me a sense of delight. I\nremembered what you had said to me on that wonderful evening when we\nfirst dined together, about the search for beauty being the real secret\nof life. I don’t know what I expected, but I went out and wandered\neastward, soon losing my way in a labyrinth of grimy streets and black\ngrassless squares. About half-past eight I passed by an absurd little\ntheatre, with great flaring gas-jets and gaudy play-bills. A hideous\nJew, in the most amazing waistcoat I ever beheld in my life, was\nstanding at the entrance, smoking a vile cigar. He had greasy ringlets,\nand an enormous diamond blazed in the centre of a soiled shirt. ‘Have a\nbox, my Lord?’ he said, when he saw me, and he took off his hat with an\nair of gorgeous servility. There was something about him, Harry, that\namused me. He was such a monster. You will laugh at me, I know, but I\nreally went in and paid a whole guinea for the stage-box. To the\npresent day I can’t make out why I did so; and yet if I hadn’t—my dear\nHarry, if I hadn’t—I should have missed the greatest romance of my\nlife. I see you are laughing. It is horrid of you!”",
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    "id": "dorian_chunk_81",
    "text": "“I am not laughing, Dorian; at least I am not laughing at you. But you\nshould not say the greatest romance of your life. You should say the\nfirst romance of your life. You will always be loved, and you will\nalways be in love with love. A _grande passion_ is the privilege of\npeople who have nothing to do. That is the one use of the idle classes\nof a country. Don’t be afraid. There are exquisite things in store for\nyou. This is merely the beginning.”\n\n“Do you think my nature so shallow?” cried Dorian Gray angrily.\n\n“No; I think your nature so deep.”\n\n“How do you mean?”\n\n“My dear boy, the people who love only once in their lives are really\nthe shallow people. What they call their loyalty, and their fidelity, I\ncall either the lethargy of custom or their lack of imagination.\nFaithfulness is to the emotional life what consistency is to the life\nof the intellect—simply a confession of failure. Faithfulness! I must\nanalyse it some day. The passion for property is in it. There are many\nthings that we would throw away if we were not afraid that others might\npick them up. But I don’t want to interrupt you. Go on with your\nstory.”",
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    "id": "dorian_chunk_82",
    "text": "“Well, I found myself seated in a horrid little private box, with a\nvulgar drop-scene staring me in the face. I looked out from behind the\ncurtain and surveyed the house. It was a tawdry affair, all Cupids and\ncornucopias, like a third-rate wedding-cake. The gallery and pit were\nfairly full, but the two rows of dingy stalls were quite empty, and\nthere was hardly a person in what I suppose they called the\ndress-circle. Women went about with oranges and ginger-beer, and there\nwas a terrible consumption of nuts going on.”\n\n“It must have been just like the palmy days of the British drama.”\n\n“Just like, I should fancy, and very depressing. I began to wonder what\non earth I should do when I caught sight of the play-bill. What do you\nthink the play was, Harry?”\n\n“I should think ‘The Idiot Boy’, or ‘Dumb but Innocent’. Our fathers\nused to like that sort of piece, I believe. The longer I live, Dorian,\nthe more keenly I feel that whatever was good enough for our fathers is\nnot good enough for us. In art, as in politics, _les grandpères ont\ntoujours tort_.”",
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    "id": "dorian_chunk_83",
    "text": "“This play was good enough for us, Harry. It was Romeo and Juliet. I\nmust admit that I was rather annoyed at the idea of seeing Shakespeare\ndone in such a wretched hole of a place. Still, I felt interested, in a\nsort of way. At any rate, I determined to wait for the first act. There\nwas a dreadful orchestra, presided over by a young Hebrew who sat at a\ncracked piano, that nearly drove me away, but at last the drop-scene\nwas drawn up and the play began. Romeo was a stout elderly gentleman,\nwith corked eyebrows, a husky tragedy voice, and a figure like a\nbeer-barrel. Mercutio was almost as bad. He was played by the\nlow-comedian, who had introduced gags of his own and was on most\nfriendly terms with the pit. They were both as grotesque as the\nscenery, and that looked as if it had come out of a country-booth. But\nJuliet! Harry, imagine a girl, hardly seventeen years of age, with a\nlittle, flowerlike face, a small Greek head with plaited coils of\ndark-brown hair, eyes that were violet wells of passion, lips that were\nlike the petals of a rose. She was the loveliest thing I had ever seen\nin my life. You said to me once that pathos left you unmoved, but that\nbeauty, mere beauty, could fill your eyes with tears. I tell you,\nHarry, I could hardly see this girl for the mist of tears that came\nacross me. And her voice—I never heard such a voice. It was very low at\nfirst, with deep mellow notes that seemed to fall singly upon one’s\near. Then it became a little louder, and sounded like a flute or a\ndistant hautboy. In the garden-scene it had all the tremulous ecstasy\nthat one hears just before dawn when nightingales are singing. There\nwere moments, later on, when it had the wild passion of violins. You\nknow how a voice can stir one. Your voice and the voice of Sibyl Vane\nare two things that I shall never forget. When I close my eyes, I hear\nthem, and each of them says something different. I don’t know which to\nfollow. Why should I not love her? Harry, I do love her. She is\neverything to me in life. Night after night I go to see her play. One\nevening she is Rosalind, and the next evening she is Imogen. I have\nseen her die in the gloom of an Italian tomb, sucking the poison from\nher lover’s lips. I have watched her wandering through the forest of\nArden, disguised as a pretty boy in hose and doublet and dainty cap.\nShe has been mad, and has come into the presence of a guilty king, and\ngiven him rue to wear and bitter herbs to taste of. She has been\ninnocent, and the black hands of jealousy have crushed her reedlike\nthroat. I have seen her in every age and in every costume. Ordinary\nwomen never appeal to one’s imagination. They are limited to their\ncentury. No glamour ever transfigures them. One knows their minds as\neasily as one knows their bonnets. One can always find them. There is\nno mystery in any of them. They ride in the park in the morning and\nchatter at tea-parties in the afternoon. They have their stereotyped\nsmile and their fashionable manner. They are quite obvious. But an\nactress! How different an actress is! Harry! why didn’t you tell me\nthat the only thing worth loving is an actress?”",
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    "id": "dorian_chunk_84",
    "text": "“Because I have loved so many of them, Dorian.”\n\n“Oh, yes, horrid people with dyed hair and painted faces.”\n\n“Don’t run down dyed hair and painted faces. There is an extraordinary\ncharm in them, sometimes,” said Lord Henry.\n\n“I wish now I had not told you about Sibyl Vane.”\n\n“You could not have helped telling me, Dorian. All through your life\nyou will tell me everything you do.”\n\n“Yes, Harry, I believe that is true. I cannot help telling you things.\nYou have a curious influence over me. If I ever did a crime, I would\ncome and confess it to you. You would understand me.”\n\n“People like you—the wilful sunbeams of life—don’t commit crimes,\nDorian. But I am much obliged for the compliment, all the same. And now\ntell me—reach me the matches, like a good boy—thanks—what are your\nactual relations with Sibyl Vane?”",
    "meta": {
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    "id": "dorian_chunk_85",
    "text": "Dorian Gray leaped to his feet, with flushed cheeks and burning eyes.\n“Harry! Sibyl Vane is sacred!”\n\n“It is only the sacred things that are worth touching, Dorian,” said\nLord Henry, with a strange touch of pathos in his voice. “But why\nshould you be annoyed? I suppose she will belong to you some day. When\none is in love, one always begins by deceiving one’s self, and one\nalways ends by deceiving others. That is what the world calls a\nromance. You know her, at any rate, I suppose?”\n\n“Of course I know her. On the first night I was at the theatre, the\nhorrid old Jew came round to the box after the performance was over and\noffered to take me behind the scenes and introduce me to her. I was\nfurious with him, and told him that Juliet had been dead for hundreds\nof years and that her body was lying in a marble tomb in Verona. I\nthink, from his blank look of amazement, that he was under the\nimpression that I had taken too much champagne, or something.”",
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    "text": "“I am not surprised.”\n\n“Then he asked me if I wrote for any of the newspapers. I told him I\nnever even read them. He seemed terribly disappointed at that, and\nconfided to me that all the dramatic critics were in a conspiracy\nagainst him, and that they were every one of them to be bought.”\n\n“I should not wonder if he was quite right there. But, on the other\nhand, judging from their appearance, most of them cannot be at all\nexpensive.”\n\n“Well, he seemed to think they were beyond his means,” laughed Dorian.\n“By this time, however, the lights were being put out in the theatre,\nand I had to go. He wanted me to try some cigars that he strongly\nrecommended. I declined. The next night, of course, I arrived at the\nplace again. When he saw me, he made me a low bow and assured me that I\nwas a munificent patron of art. He was a most offensive brute, though\nhe had an extraordinary passion for Shakespeare. He told me once, with\nan air of pride, that his five bankruptcies were entirely due to ‘The\nBard,’ as he insisted on calling him. He seemed to think it a\ndistinction.”",
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    "text": "“It was a distinction, my dear Dorian—a great distinction. Most people\nbecome bankrupt through having invested too heavily in the prose of\nlife. To have ruined one’s self over poetry is an honour. But when did\nyou first speak to Miss Sibyl Vane?”\n\n“The third night. She had been playing Rosalind. I could not help going\nround. I had thrown her some flowers, and she had looked at me—at least\nI fancied that she had. The old Jew was persistent. He seemed\ndetermined to take me behind, so I consented. It was curious my not\nwanting to know her, wasn’t it?”\n\n“No; I don’t think so.”\n\n“My dear Harry, why?”\n\n“I will tell you some other time. Now I want to know about the girl.”\n\n“Sibyl? Oh, she was so shy and so gentle. There is something of a child\nabout her. Her eyes opened wide in exquisite wonder when I told her\nwhat I thought of her performance, and she seemed quite unconscious of\nher power. I think we were both rather nervous. The old Jew stood\ngrinning at the doorway of the dusty greenroom, making elaborate\nspeeches about us both, while we stood looking at each other like\nchildren. He would insist on calling me ‘My Lord,’ so I had to assure\nSibyl that I was not anything of the kind. She said quite simply to me,\n‘You look more like a prince. I must call you Prince Charming.’”",
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    "id": "dorian_chunk_88",
    "text": "“Upon my word, Dorian, Miss Sibyl knows how to pay compliments.”\n\n“You don’t understand her, Harry. She regarded me merely as a person in\na play. She knows nothing of life. She lives with her mother, a faded\ntired woman who played Lady Capulet in a sort of magenta\ndressing-wrapper on the first night, and looks as if she had seen\nbetter days.”\n\n“I know that look. It depresses me,” murmured Lord Henry, examining his\nrings.\n\n“The Jew wanted to tell me her history, but I said it did not interest\nme.”\n\n“You were quite right. There is always something infinitely mean about\nother people’s tragedies.”\n\n“Sibyl is the only thing I care about. What is it to me where she came\nfrom? From her little head to her little feet, she is absolutely and\nentirely divine. Every night of my life I go to see her act, and every\nnight she is more marvellous.”",
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    "id": "dorian_chunk_89",
    "text": "“That is the reason, I suppose, that you never dine with me now. I\nthought you must have some curious romance on hand. You have; but it is\nnot quite what I expected.”\n\n“My dear Harry, we either lunch or sup together every day, and I have\nbeen to the opera with you several times,” said Dorian, opening his\nblue eyes in wonder.\n\n“You always come dreadfully late.”\n\n“Well, I can’t help going to see Sibyl play,” he cried, “even if it is\nonly for a single act. I get hungry for her presence; and when I think\nof the wonderful soul that is hidden away in that little ivory body, I\nam filled with awe.”\n\n“You can dine with me to-night, Dorian, can’t you?”\n\nHe shook his head. “To-night she is Imogen,” he answered, “and\nto-morrow night she will be Juliet.”\n\n“When is she Sibyl Vane?”\n\n“Never.”\n\n“I congratulate you.”",
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    "id": "dorian_chunk_90",
    "text": "He shook his head. “To-night she is Imogen,” he answered, “and\nto-morrow night she will be Juliet.”\n\n“When is she Sibyl Vane?”\n\n“Never.”\n\n“I congratulate you.”\n\n“How horrid you are! She is all the great heroines of the world in one.\nShe is more than an individual. You laugh, but I tell you she has\ngenius. I love her, and I must make her love me. You, who know all the\nsecrets of life, tell me how to charm Sibyl Vane to love me! I want to\nmake Romeo jealous. I want the dead lovers of the world to hear our\nlaughter and grow sad. I want a breath of our passion to stir their\ndust into consciousness, to wake their ashes into pain. My God, Harry,\nhow I worship her!” He was walking up and down the room as he spoke.\nHectic spots of red burned on his cheeks. He was terribly excited.\n\nLord Henry watched him with a subtle sense of pleasure. How different\nhe was now from the shy frightened boy he had met in Basil Hallward’s\nstudio! His nature had developed like a flower, had borne blossoms of\nscarlet flame. Out of its secret hiding-place had crept his soul, and\ndesire had come to meet it on the way.",
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    "id": "dorian_chunk_91",
    "text": "“And what do you propose to do?” said Lord Henry at last.\n\n“I want you and Basil to come with me some night and see her act. I\nhave not the slightest fear of the result. You are certain to\nacknowledge her genius. Then we must get her out of the Jew’s hands.\nShe is bound to him for three years—at least for two years and eight\nmonths—from the present time. I shall have to pay him something, of\ncourse. When all that is settled, I shall take a West End theatre and\nbring her out properly. She will make the world as mad as she has made\nme.”\n\n“That would be impossible, my dear boy.”\n\n“Yes, she will. She has not merely art, consummate art-instinct, in\nher, but she has personality also; and you have often told me that it\nis personalities, not principles, that move the age.”\n\n“Well, what night shall we go?”",
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    "id": "dorian_chunk_92",
    "text": "“Yes, she will. She has not merely art, consummate art-instinct, in\nher, but she has personality also; and you have often told me that it\nis personalities, not principles, that move the age.”\n\n“Well, what night shall we go?”\n\n“Let me see. To-day is Tuesday. Let us fix to-morrow. She plays Juliet\nto-morrow.”\n\n“All right. The Bristol at eight o’clock; and I will get Basil.”\n\n“Not eight, Harry, please. Half-past six. We must be there before the\ncurtain rises. You must see her in the first act, where she meets\nRomeo.”\n\n“Half-past six! What an hour! It will be like having a meat-tea, or\nreading an English novel. It must be seven. No gentleman dines before\nseven. Shall you see Basil between this and then? Or shall I write to\nhim?”\n\n“Dear Basil! I have not laid eyes on him for a week. It is rather\nhorrid of me, as he has sent me my portrait in the most wonderful\nframe, specially designed by himself, and, though I am a little jealous\nof the picture for being a whole month younger than I am, I must admit\nthat I delight in it. Perhaps you had better write to him. I don’t want\nto see him alone. He says things that annoy me. He gives me good\nadvice.”",
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    "id": "dorian_chunk_93",
    "text": "Lord Henry smiled. “People are very fond of giving away what they need\nmost themselves. It is what I call the depth of generosity.”\n\n“Oh, Basil is the best of fellows, but he seems to me to be just a bit\nof a Philistine. Since I have known you, Harry, I have discovered\nthat.”\n\n“Basil, my dear boy, puts everything that is charming in him into his\nwork. The consequence is that he has nothing left for life but his\nprejudices, his principles, and his common sense. The only artists I\nhave ever known who are personally delightful are bad artists. Good\nartists exist simply in what they make, and consequently are perfectly\nuninteresting in what they are. A great poet, a really great poet, is\nthe most unpoetical of all creatures. But inferior poets are absolutely\nfascinating. The worse their rhymes are, the more picturesque they\nlook. The mere fact of having published a book of second-rate sonnets\nmakes a man quite irresistible. He lives the poetry that he cannot\nwrite. The others write the poetry that they dare not realize.”",
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    "id": "dorian_chunk_94",
    "text": "“I wonder is that really so, Harry?” said Dorian Gray, putting some\nperfume on his handkerchief out of a large, gold-topped bottle that\nstood on the table. “It must be, if you say it. And now I am off.\nImogen is waiting for me. Don’t forget about to-morrow. Good-bye.”\n\nAs he left the room, Lord Henry’s heavy eyelids drooped, and he began\nto think. Certainly few people had ever interested him so much as\nDorian Gray, and yet the lad’s mad adoration of some one else caused\nhim not the slightest pang of annoyance or jealousy. He was pleased by\nit. It made him a more interesting study. He had been always enthralled\nby the methods of natural science, but the ordinary subject-matter of\nthat science had seemed to him trivial and of no import. And so he had\nbegun by vivisecting himself, as he had ended by vivisecting others.\nHuman life—that appeared to him the one thing worth investigating.\nCompared to it there was nothing else of any value. It was true that as\none watched life in its curious crucible of pain and pleasure, one\ncould not wear over one’s face a mask of glass, nor keep the sulphurous\nfumes from troubling the brain and making the imagination turbid with\nmonstrous fancies and misshapen dreams. There were poisons so subtle\nthat to know their properties one had to sicken of them. There were\nmaladies so strange that one had to pass through them if one sought to\nunderstand their nature. And, yet, what a great reward one received!\nHow wonderful the whole world became to one! To note the curious hard\nlogic of passion, and the emotional coloured life of the intellect—to\nobserve where they met, and where they separated, at what point they\nwere in unison, and at what point they were at discord—there was a\ndelight in that! What matter what the cost was? One could never pay too\nhigh a price for any sensation.",
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    "text": "He was conscious—and the thought brought a gleam of pleasure into his\nbrown agate eyes—that it was through certain words of his, musical\nwords said with musical utterance, that Dorian Gray’s soul had turned\nto this white girl and bowed in worship before her. To a large extent\nthe lad was his own creation. He had made him premature. That was\nsomething. Ordinary people waited till life disclosed to them its\nsecrets, but to the few, to the elect, the mysteries of life were\nrevealed before the veil was drawn away. Sometimes this was the effect\nof art, and chiefly of the art of literature, which dealt immediately\nwith the passions and the intellect. But now and then a complex\npersonality took the place and assumed the office of art, was indeed,\nin its way, a real work of art, life having its elaborate masterpieces,\njust as poetry has, or sculpture, or painting.",
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    "id": "dorian_chunk_96",
    "text": "Yes, the lad was premature. He was gathering his harvest while it was\nyet spring. The pulse and passion of youth were in him, but he was\nbecoming self-conscious. It was delightful to watch him. With his\nbeautiful face, and his beautiful soul, he was a thing to wonder at. It\nwas no matter how it all ended, or was destined to end. He was like one\nof those gracious figures in a pageant or a play, whose joys seem to be\nremote from one, but whose sorrows stir one’s sense of beauty, and\nwhose wounds are like red roses.\n\nSoul and body, body and soul—how mysterious they were! There was\nanimalism in the soul, and the body had its moments of spirituality.\nThe senses could refine, and the intellect could degrade. Who could say\nwhere the fleshly impulse ceased, or the psychical impulse began? How\nshallow were the arbitrary definitions of ordinary psychologists! And\nyet how difficult to decide between the claims of the various schools!\nWas the soul a shadow seated in the house of sin? Or was the body\nreally in the soul, as Giordano Bruno thought? The separation of spirit\nfrom matter was a mystery, and the union of spirit with matter was a\nmystery also.",
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    "text": "He began to wonder whether we could ever make psychology so absolute a\nscience that each little spring of life would be revealed to us. As it\nwas, we always misunderstood ourselves and rarely understood others.\nExperience was of no ethical value. It was merely the name men gave to\ntheir mistakes. Moralists had, as a rule, regarded it as a mode of\nwarning, had claimed for it a certain ethical efficacy in the formation\nof character, had praised it as something that taught us what to follow\nand showed us what to avoid. But there was no motive power in\nexperience. It was as little of an active cause as conscience itself.\nAll that it really demonstrated was that our future would be the same\nas our past, and that the sin we had done once, and with loathing, we\nwould do many times, and with joy.\n\nIt was clear to him that the experimental method was the only method by\nwhich one could arrive at any scientific analysis of the passions; and\ncertainly Dorian Gray was a subject made to his hand, and seemed to\npromise rich and fruitful results. His sudden mad love for Sibyl Vane\nwas a psychological phenomenon of no small interest. There was no doubt\nthat curiosity had much to do with it, curiosity and the desire for new\nexperiences, yet it was not a simple, but rather a very complex\npassion. What there was in it of the purely sensuous instinct of\nboyhood had been transformed by the workings of the imagination,\nchanged into something that seemed to the lad himself to be remote from\nsense, and was for that very reason all the more dangerous. It was the\npassions about whose origin we deceived ourselves that tyrannized most\nstrongly over us. Our weakest motives were those of whose nature we\nwere conscious. It often happened that when we thought we were\nexperimenting on others we were really experimenting on ourselves.",
    "meta": {
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    "id": "dorian_chunk_98",
    "text": "While Lord Henry sat dreaming on these things, a knock came to the\ndoor, and his valet entered and reminded him it was time to dress for\ndinner. He got up and looked out into the street. The sunset had\nsmitten into scarlet gold the upper windows of the houses opposite. The\npanes glowed like plates of heated metal. The sky above was like a\nfaded rose. He thought of his friend’s young fiery-coloured life and\nwondered how it was all going to end.\n\nWhen he arrived home, about half-past twelve o’clock, he saw a telegram\nlying on the hall table. He opened it and found it was from Dorian\nGray. It was to tell him that he was engaged to be married to Sibyl\nVane.\n\nCHAPTER V.\n\n“Mother, Mother, I am so happy!” whispered the girl, burying her face\nin the lap of the faded, tired-looking woman who, with back turned to\nthe shrill intrusive light, was sitting in the one arm-chair that their\ndingy sitting-room contained. “I am so happy!” she repeated, “and you\nmust be happy, too!”",
    "meta": {
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    "id": "dorian_chunk_99",
    "text": "Mrs. Vane winced and put her thin, bismuth-whitened hands on her\ndaughter’s head. “Happy!” she echoed, “I am only happy, Sibyl, when I\nsee you act. You must not think of anything but your acting. Mr. Isaacs\nhas been very good to us, and we owe him money.”\n\nThe girl looked up and pouted. “Money, Mother?” she cried, “what does\nmoney matter? Love is more than money.”\n\n“Mr. Isaacs has advanced us fifty pounds to pay off our debts and to\nget a proper outfit for James. You must not forget that, Sibyl. Fifty\npounds is a very large sum. Mr. Isaacs has been most considerate.”\n\n“He is not a gentleman, Mother, and I hate the way he talks to me,”\nsaid the girl, rising to her feet and going over to the window.\n\n“I don’t know how we could manage without him,” answered the elder\nwoman querulously.\n\nSibyl Vane tossed her head and laughed. “We don’t want him any more,\nMother. Prince Charming rules life for us now.” Then she paused. A rose\nshook in her blood and shadowed her cheeks. Quick breath parted the\npetals of her lips. They trembled. Some southern wind of passion swept\nover her and stirred the dainty folds of her dress. “I love him,” she\nsaid simply.",
    "meta": {
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    "id": "dorian_chunk_100",
    "text": "“Foolish child! foolish child!” was the parrot-phrase flung in answer.\nThe waving of crooked, false-jewelled fingers gave grotesqueness to the\nwords.\n\nThe girl laughed again. The joy of a caged bird was in her voice. Her\neyes caught the melody and echoed it in radiance, then closed for a\nmoment, as though to hide their secret. When they opened, the mist of a\ndream had passed across them.\n\nThin-lipped wisdom spoke at her from the worn chair, hinted at\nprudence, quoted from that book of cowardice whose author apes the name\nof common sense. She did not listen. She was free in her prison of\npassion. Her prince, Prince Charming, was with her. She had called on\nmemory to remake him. She had sent her soul to search for him, and it\nhad brought him back. His kiss burned again upon her mouth. Her eyelids\nwere warm with his breath.",
    "meta": {
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      "para_idx_start": 448,
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    "id": "dorian_chunk_101",
    "text": "Then wisdom altered its method and spoke of espial and discovery. This\nyoung man might be rich. If so, marriage should be thought of. Against\nthe shell of her ear broke the waves of worldly cunning. The arrows of\ncraft shot by her. She saw the thin lips moving, and smiled.\n\nSuddenly she felt the need to speak. The wordy silence troubled her.\n“Mother, Mother,” she cried, “why does he love me so much? I know why I\nlove him. I love him because he is like what love himself should be.\nBut what does he see in me? I am not worthy of him. And yet—why, I\ncannot tell—though I feel so much beneath him, I don’t feel humble. I\nfeel proud, terribly proud. Mother, did you love my father as I love\nPrince Charming?”\n\nThe elder woman grew pale beneath the coarse powder that daubed her\ncheeks, and her dry lips twitched with a spasm of pain. Sybil rushed to\nher, flung her arms round her neck, and kissed her. “Forgive me,\nMother. I know it pains you to talk about our father. But it only pains\nyou because you loved him so much. Don’t look so sad. I am as happy\nto-day as you were twenty years ago. Ah! let me be happy for ever!”",
    "meta": {
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    "id": "dorian_chunk_102",
    "text": "“My child, you are far too young to think of falling in love. Besides,\nwhat do you know of this young man? You don’t even know his name. The\nwhole thing is most inconvenient, and really, when James is going away\nto Australia, and I have so much to think of, I must say that you\nshould have shown more consideration. However, as I said before, if he\nis rich ...”\n\n“Ah! Mother, Mother, let me be happy!”\n\nMrs. Vane glanced at her, and with one of those false theatrical\ngestures that so often become a mode of second nature to a\nstage-player, clasped her in her arms. At this moment, the door opened\nand a young lad with rough brown hair came into the room. He was\nthick-set of figure, and his hands and feet were large and somewhat\nclumsy in movement. He was not so finely bred as his sister. One would\nhardly have guessed the close relationship that existed between them.\nMrs. Vane fixed her eyes on him and intensified her smile. She mentally\nelevated her son to the dignity of an audience. She felt sure that the\n_tableau_ was interesting.",
    "meta": {
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    "id": "dorian_chunk_103",
    "text": "“You might keep some of your kisses for me, Sibyl, I think,” said the\nlad with a good-natured grumble.\n\n“Ah! but you don’t like being kissed, Jim,” she cried. “You are a\ndreadful old bear.” And she ran across the room and hugged him.\n\nJames Vane looked into his sister’s face with tenderness. “I want you\nto come out with me for a walk, Sibyl. I don’t suppose I shall ever see\nthis horrid London again. I am sure I don’t want to.”\n\n“My son, don’t say such dreadful things,” murmured Mrs. Vane, taking up\na tawdry theatrical dress, with a sigh, and beginning to patch it. She\nfelt a little disappointed that he had not joined the group. It would\nhave increased the theatrical picturesqueness of the situation.\n\n“Why not, Mother? I mean it.”\n\n“You pain me, my son. I trust you will return from Australia in a\nposition of affluence. I believe there is no society of any kind in the\nColonies—nothing that I would call society—so when you have made your\nfortune, you must come back and assert yourself in London.”",
    "meta": {
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  {
    "id": "dorian_chunk_104",
    "text": "“Society!” muttered the lad. “I don’t want to know anything about that.\nI should like to make some money to take you and Sibyl off the stage. I\nhate it.”\n\n“Oh, Jim!” said Sibyl, laughing, “how unkind of you! But are you really\ngoing for a walk with me? That will be nice! I was afraid you were\ngoing to say good-bye to some of your friends—to Tom Hardy, who gave\nyou that hideous pipe, or Ned Langton, who makes fun of you for smoking\nit. It is very sweet of you to let me have your last afternoon. Where\nshall we go? Let us go to the park.”\n\n“I am too shabby,” he answered, frowning. “Only swell people go to the\npark.”\n\n“Nonsense, Jim,” she whispered, stroking the sleeve of his coat.\n\nHe hesitated for a moment. “Very well,” he said at last, “but don’t be\ntoo long dressing.” She danced out of the door. One could hear her\nsinging as she ran upstairs. Her little feet pattered overhead.",
    "meta": {
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  {
    "id": "dorian_chunk_105",
    "text": "He walked up and down the room two or three times. Then he turned to\nthe still figure in the chair. “Mother, are my things ready?” he asked.\n\n“Quite ready, James,” she answered, keeping her eyes on her work. For\nsome months past she had felt ill at ease when she was alone with this\nrough stern son of hers. Her shallow secret nature was troubled when\ntheir eyes met. She used to wonder if he suspected anything. The\nsilence, for he made no other observation, became intolerable to her.\nShe began to complain. Women defend themselves by attacking, just as\nthey attack by sudden and strange surrenders. “I hope you will be\ncontented, James, with your sea-faring life,” she said. “You must\nremember that it is your own choice. You might have entered a\nsolicitor’s office. Solicitors are a very respectable class, and in the\ncountry often dine with the best families.”",
    "meta": {
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      "para_idx_start": 468,
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  {
    "id": "dorian_chunk_106",
    "text": "“I hate offices, and I hate clerks,” he replied. “But you are quite\nright. I have chosen my own life. All I say is, watch over Sibyl. Don’t\nlet her come to any harm. Mother, you must watch over her.”\n\n“James, you really talk very strangely. Of course I watch over Sibyl.”\n\n“I hear a gentleman comes every night to the theatre and goes behind to\ntalk to her. Is that right? What about that?”\n\n“You are speaking about things you don’t understand, James. In the\nprofession we are accustomed to receive a great deal of most gratifying\nattention. I myself used to receive many bouquets at one time. That was\nwhen acting was really understood. As for Sibyl, I do not know at\npresent whether her attachment is serious or not. But there is no doubt\nthat the young man in question is a perfect gentleman. He is always\nmost polite to me. Besides, he has the appearance of being rich, and\nthe flowers he sends are lovely.”",
    "meta": {
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    "id": "dorian_chunk_107",
    "text": "“You don’t know his name, though,” said the lad harshly.\n\n“No,” answered his mother with a placid expression in her face. “He has\nnot yet revealed his real name. I think it is quite romantic of him. He\nis probably a member of the aristocracy.”\n\nJames Vane bit his lip. “Watch over Sibyl, Mother,” he cried, “watch\nover her.”\n\n“My son, you distress me very much. Sibyl is always under my special\ncare. Of course, if this gentleman is wealthy, there is no reason why\nshe should not contract an alliance with him. I trust he is one of the\naristocracy. He has all the appearance of it, I must say. It might be a\nmost brilliant marriage for Sibyl. They would make a charming couple.\nHis good looks are really quite remarkable; everybody notices them.”\n\nThe lad muttered something to himself and drummed on the window-pane\nwith his coarse fingers. He had just turned round to say something when\nthe door opened and Sibyl ran in.",
    "meta": {
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    "id": "dorian_chunk_108",
    "text": "“How serious you both are!” she cried. “What is the matter?”\n\n“Nothing,” he answered. “I suppose one must be serious sometimes.\nGood-bye, Mother; I will have my dinner at five o’clock. Everything is\npacked, except my shirts, so you need not trouble.”\n\n“Good-bye, my son,” she answered with a bow of strained stateliness.\n\nShe was extremely annoyed at the tone he had adopted with her, and\nthere was something in his look that had made her feel afraid.\n\n“Kiss me, Mother,” said the girl. Her flowerlike lips touched the\nwithered cheek and warmed its frost.\n\n“My child! my child!” cried Mrs. Vane, looking up to the ceiling in\nsearch of an imaginary gallery.\n\n“Come, Sibyl,” said her brother impatiently. He hated his mother’s\naffectations.\n\nThey went out into the flickering, wind-blown sunlight and strolled\ndown the dreary Euston Road. The passersby glanced in wonder at the\nsullen heavy youth who, in coarse, ill-fitting clothes, was in the\ncompany of such a graceful, refined-looking girl. He was like a common\ngardener walking with a rose.",
    "meta": {
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    "id": "dorian_chunk_109",
    "text": "Jim frowned from time to time when he caught the inquisitive glance of\nsome stranger. He had that dislike of being stared at, which comes on\ngeniuses late in life and never leaves the commonplace. Sibyl, however,\nwas quite unconscious of the effect she was producing. Her love was\ntrembling in laughter on her lips. She was thinking of Prince Charming,\nand, that she might think of him all the more, she did not talk of him,\nbut prattled on about the ship in which Jim was going to sail, about\nthe gold he was certain to find, about the wonderful heiress whose life\nhe was to save from the wicked, red-shirted bushrangers. For he was not\nto remain a sailor, or a supercargo, or whatever he was going to be.\nOh, no! A sailor’s existence was dreadful. Fancy being cooped up in a\nhorrid ship, with the hoarse, hump-backed waves trying to get in, and a\nblack wind blowing the masts down and tearing the sails into long\nscreaming ribands! He was to leave the vessel at Melbourne, bid a\npolite good-bye to the captain, and go off at once to the gold-fields.\nBefore a week was over he was to come across a large nugget of pure\ngold, the largest nugget that had ever been discovered, and bring it\ndown to the coast in a waggon guarded by six mounted policemen. The\nbushrangers were to attack them three times, and be defeated with\nimmense slaughter. Or, no. He was not to go to the gold-fields at all.\nThey were horrid places, where men got intoxicated, and shot each other\nin bar-rooms, and used bad language. He was to be a nice sheep-farmer,\nand one evening, as he was riding home, he was to see the beautiful\nheiress being carried off by a robber on a black horse, and give chase,\nand rescue her. Of course, she would fall in love with him, and he with\nher, and they would get married, and come home, and live in an immense\nhouse in London. Yes, there were delightful things in store for him.\nBut he must be very good, and not lose his temper, or spend his money\nfoolishly. She was only a year older than he was, but she knew so much\nmore of life. He must be sure, also, to write to her by every mail, and\nto say his prayers each night before he went to sleep. God was very\ngood, and would watch over him. She would pray for him, too, and in a\nfew years he would come back quite rich and happy.",
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    "id": "dorian_chunk_110",
    "text": "The lad listened sulkily to her and made no answer. He was heart-sick\nat leaving home.\n\nYet it was not this alone that made him gloomy and morose.\nInexperienced though he was, he had still a strong sense of the danger\nof Sibyl’s position. This young dandy who was making love to her could\nmean her no good. He was a gentleman, and he hated him for that, hated\nhim through some curious race-instinct for which he could not account,\nand which for that reason was all the more dominant within him. He was\nconscious also of the shallowness and vanity of his mother’s nature,\nand in that saw infinite peril for Sibyl and Sibyl’s happiness.\nChildren begin by loving their parents; as they grow older they judge\nthem; sometimes they forgive them.\n\nHis mother! He had something on his mind to ask of her, something that\nhe had brooded on for many months of silence. A chance phrase that he\nhad heard at the theatre, a whispered sneer that had reached his ears\none night as he waited at the stage-door, had set loose a train of\nhorrible thoughts. He remembered it as if it had been the lash of a\nhunting-crop across his face. His brows knit together into a wedge-like\nfurrow, and with a twitch of pain he bit his underlip.",
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    "id": "dorian_chunk_111",
    "text": "“You are not listening to a word I am saying, Jim,” cried Sibyl, “and I\nam making the most delightful plans for your future. Do say something.”\n\n“What do you want me to say?”\n\n“Oh! that you will be a good boy and not forget us,” she answered,\nsmiling at him.\n\nHe shrugged his shoulders. “You are more likely to forget me than I am\nto forget you, Sibyl.”\n\nShe flushed. “What do you mean, Jim?” she asked.\n\n“You have a new friend, I hear. Who is he? Why have you not told me\nabout him? He means you no good.”\n\n“Stop, Jim!” she exclaimed. “You must not say anything against him. I\nlove him.”\n\n“Why, you don’t even know his name,” answered the lad. “Who is he? I\nhave a right to know.”\n\n“He is called Prince Charming. Don’t you like the name? Oh! you silly\nboy! you should never forget it. If you only saw him, you would think\nhim the most wonderful person in the world. Some day you will meet\nhim—when you come back from Australia. You will like him so much.\nEverybody likes him, and I ... love him. I wish you could come to the\ntheatre to-night. He is going to be there, and I am to play Juliet. Oh!\nhow I shall play it! Fancy, Jim, to be in love and play Juliet! To have\nhim sitting there! To play for his delight! I am afraid I may frighten\nthe company, frighten or enthrall them. To be in love is to surpass\none’s self. Poor dreadful Mr. Isaacs will be shouting ‘genius’ to his\nloafers at the bar. He has preached me as a dogma; to-night he will\nannounce me as a revelation. I feel it. And it is all his, his only,\nPrince Charming, my wonderful lover, my god of graces. But I am poor\nbeside him. Poor? What does that matter? When poverty creeps in at the\ndoor, love flies in through the window. Our proverbs want rewriting.\nThey were made in winter, and it is summer now; spring-time for me, I\nthink, a very dance of blossoms in blue skies.”",
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    "id": "dorian_chunk_112",
    "text": "“He is a gentleman,” said the lad sullenly.\n\n“A prince!” she cried musically. “What more do you want?”\n\n“He wants to enslave you.”\n\n“I shudder at the thought of being free.”\n\n“I want you to beware of him.”\n\n“To see him is to worship him; to know him is to trust him.”\n\n“Sibyl, you are mad about him.”\n\nShe laughed and took his arm. “You dear old Jim, you talk as if you\nwere a hundred. Some day you will be in love yourself. Then you will\nknow what it is. Don’t look so sulky. Surely you should be glad to\nthink that, though you are going away, you leave me happier than I have\never been before. Life has been hard for us both, terribly hard and\ndifficult. But it will be different now. You are going to a new world,\nand I have found one. Here are two chairs; let us sit down and see the\nsmart people go by.”",
    "meta": {
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    "id": "dorian_chunk_113",
    "text": "They took their seats amidst a crowd of watchers. The tulip-beds across\nthe road flamed like throbbing rings of fire. A white dust—tremulous\ncloud of orris-root it seemed—hung in the panting air. The brightly\ncoloured parasols danced and dipped like monstrous butterflies.\n\nShe made her brother talk of himself, his hopes, his prospects. He\nspoke slowly and with effort. They passed words to each other as\nplayers at a game pass counters. Sibyl felt oppressed. She could not\ncommunicate her joy. A faint smile curving that sullen mouth was all\nthe echo she could win. After some time she became silent. Suddenly she\ncaught a glimpse of golden hair and laughing lips, and in an open\ncarriage with two ladies Dorian Gray drove past.\n\nShe started to her feet. “There he is!” she cried.\n\n“Who?” said Jim Vane.",
    "meta": {
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    "id": "dorian_chunk_114",
    "text": "She made her brother talk of himself, his hopes, his prospects. He\nspoke slowly and with effort. They passed words to each other as\nplayers at a game pass counters. Sibyl felt oppressed. She could not\ncommunicate her joy. A faint smile curving that sullen mouth was all\nthe echo she could win. After some time she became silent. Suddenly she\ncaught a glimpse of golden hair and laughing lips, and in an open\ncarriage with two ladies Dorian Gray drove past.\n\nShe started to her feet. “There he is!” she cried.\n\n“Who?” said Jim Vane.\n\n“Prince Charming,” she answered, looking after the victoria.\n\nHe jumped up and seized her roughly by the arm. “Show him to me. Which\nis he? Point him out. I must see him!” he exclaimed; but at that moment\nthe Duke of Berwick’s four-in-hand came between, and when it had left\nthe space clear, the carriage had swept out of the park.",
    "meta": {
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    "id": "dorian_chunk_115",
    "text": "“He is gone,” murmured Sibyl sadly. “I wish you had seen him.”\n\n“I wish I had, for as sure as there is a God in heaven, if he ever does\nyou any wrong, I shall kill him.”\n\nShe looked at him in horror. He repeated his words. They cut the air\nlike a dagger. The people round began to gape. A lady standing close to\nher tittered.\n\n“Come away, Jim; come away,” she whispered. He followed her doggedly as\nshe passed through the crowd. He felt glad at what he had said.\n\nWhen they reached the Achilles Statue, she turned round. There was pity\nin her eyes that became laughter on her lips. She shook her head at\nhim. “You are foolish, Jim, utterly foolish; a bad-tempered boy, that\nis all. How can you say such horrible things? You don’t know what you\nare talking about. You are simply jealous and unkind. Ah! I wish you\nwould fall in love. Love makes people good, and what you said was\nwicked.”",
    "meta": {
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    "id": "dorian_chunk_116",
    "text": "“I am sixteen,” he answered, “and I know what I am about. Mother is no\nhelp to you. She doesn’t understand how to look after you. I wish now\nthat I was not going to Australia at all. I have a great mind to chuck\nthe whole thing up. I would, if my articles hadn’t been signed.”\n\n“Oh, don’t be so serious, Jim. You are like one of the heroes of those\nsilly melodramas Mother used to be so fond of acting in. I am not going\nto quarrel with you. I have seen him, and oh! to see him is perfect\nhappiness. We won’t quarrel. I know you would never harm any one I\nlove, would you?”\n\n“Not as long as you love him, I suppose,” was the sullen answer.\n\n“I shall love him for ever!” she cried.\n\n“And he?”\n\n“For ever, too!”\n\n“He had better.”\n\nShe shrank from him. Then she laughed and put her hand on his arm. He\nwas merely a boy.",
    "meta": {
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    "id": "dorian_chunk_117",
    "text": "“For ever, too!”\n\n“He had better.”\n\nShe shrank from him. Then she laughed and put her hand on his arm. He\nwas merely a boy.\n\nAt the Marble Arch they hailed an omnibus, which left them close to\ntheir shabby home in the Euston Road. It was after five o’clock, and\nSibyl had to lie down for a couple of hours before acting. Jim insisted\nthat she should do so. He said that he would sooner part with her when\ntheir mother was not present. She would be sure to make a scene, and he\ndetested scenes of every kind.\n\nIn Sybil’s own room they parted. There was jealousy in the lad’s heart,\nand a fierce murderous hatred of the stranger who, as it seemed to him,\nhad come between them. Yet, when her arms were flung round his neck,\nand her fingers strayed through his hair, he softened and kissed her\nwith real affection. There were tears in his eyes as he went\ndownstairs.",
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    "id": "dorian_chunk_118",
    "text": "His mother was waiting for him below. She grumbled at his\nunpunctuality, as he entered. He made no answer, but sat down to his\nmeagre meal. The flies buzzed round the table and crawled over the\nstained cloth. Through the rumble of omnibuses, and the clatter of\nstreet-cabs, he could hear the droning voice devouring each minute that\nwas left to him.\n\nAfter some time, he thrust away his plate and put his head in his\nhands. He felt that he had a right to know. It should have been told to\nhim before, if it was as he suspected. Leaden with fear, his mother\nwatched him. Words dropped mechanically from her lips. A tattered lace\nhandkerchief twitched in her fingers. When the clock struck six, he got\nup and went to the door. Then he turned back and looked at her. Their\neyes met. In hers he saw a wild appeal for mercy. It enraged him.",
    "meta": {
      "book": "dorian",
      "para_idx_start": 529,
      "para_idx_end": 530,
      "char_count": 835
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  {
    "id": "dorian_chunk_119",
    "text": "“Mother, I have something to ask you,” he said. Her eyes wandered\nvaguely about the room. She made no answer. “Tell me the truth. I have\na right to know. Were you married to my father?”\n\nShe heaved a deep sigh. It was a sigh of relief. The terrible moment,\nthe moment that night and day, for weeks and months, she had dreaded,\nhad come at last, and yet she felt no terror. Indeed, in some measure\nit was a disappointment to her. The vulgar directness of the question\ncalled for a direct answer. The situation had not been gradually led up\nto. It was crude. It reminded her of a bad rehearsal.\n\n“No,” she answered, wondering at the harsh simplicity of life.\n\n“My father was a scoundrel then!” cried the lad, clenching his fists.\n\nShe shook her head. “I knew he was not free. We loved each other very\nmuch. If he had lived, he would have made provision for us. Don’t speak\nagainst him, my son. He was your father, and a gentleman. Indeed, he\nwas highly connected.”",
    "meta": {
      "book": "dorian",
      "para_idx_start": 531,
      "para_idx_end": 535,
      "char_count": 962
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  {
    "id": "dorian_chunk_120",
    "text": "An oath broke from his lips. “I don’t care for myself,” he exclaimed,\n“but don’t let Sibyl.... It is a gentleman, isn’t it, who is in love\nwith her, or says he is? Highly connected, too, I suppose.”\n\nFor a moment a hideous sense of humiliation came over the woman. Her\nhead drooped. She wiped her eyes with shaking hands. “Sibyl has a\nmother,” she murmured; “I had none.”\n\nThe lad was touched. He went towards her, and stooping down, he kissed\nher. “I am sorry if I have pained you by asking about my father,” he\nsaid, “but I could not help it. I must go now. Good-bye. Don’t forget\nthat you will have only one child now to look after, and believe me\nthat if this man wrongs my sister, I will find out who he is, track him\ndown, and kill him like a dog. I swear it.”\n\nThe exaggerated folly of the threat, the passionate gesture that\naccompanied it, the mad melodramatic words, made life seem more vivid\nto her. She was familiar with the atmosphere. She breathed more freely,\nand for the first time for many months she really admired her son. She\nwould have liked to have continued the scene on the same emotional\nscale, but he cut her short. Trunks had to be carried down and mufflers\nlooked for. The lodging-house drudge bustled in and out. There was the\nbargaining with the cabman. The moment was lost in vulgar details. It\nwas with a renewed feeling of disappointment that she waved the\ntattered lace handkerchief from the window, as her son drove away. She\nwas conscious that a great opportunity had been wasted. She consoled\nherself by telling Sibyl how desolate she felt her life would be, now\nthat she had only one child to look after. She remembered the phrase.\nIt had pleased her. Of the threat she said nothing. It was vividly and\ndramatically expressed. She felt that they would all laugh at it some\nday.",
    "meta": {
      "book": "dorian",
      "para_idx_start": 536,
      "para_idx_end": 539,
      "char_count": 1815
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    "id": "dorian_chunk_121",
    "text": "CHAPTER VI.\n\n“I suppose you have heard the news, Basil?” said Lord Henry that\nevening as Hallward was shown into a little private room at the Bristol\nwhere dinner had been laid for three.\n\n“No, Harry,” answered the artist, giving his hat and coat to the bowing\nwaiter. “What is it? Nothing about politics, I hope! They don’t\ninterest me. There is hardly a single person in the House of Commons\nworth painting, though many of them would be the better for a little\nwhitewashing.”\n\n“Dorian Gray is engaged to be married,” said Lord Henry, watching him\nas he spoke.\n\nHallward started and then frowned. “Dorian engaged to be married!” he\ncried. “Impossible!”\n\n“It is perfectly true.”\n\n“To whom?”\n\n“To some little actress or other.”\n\n“I can’t believe it. Dorian is far too sensible.”\n\n“Dorian is far too wise not to do foolish things now and then, my dear\nBasil.”",
    "meta": {
      "book": "dorian",
      "para_idx_start": 540,
      "para_idx_end": 549,
      "char_count": 857
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  {
    "id": "dorian_chunk_122",
    "text": "“I can’t believe it. Dorian is far too sensible.”\n\n“Dorian is far too wise not to do foolish things now and then, my dear\nBasil.”\n\n“Marriage is hardly a thing that one can do now and then, Harry.”\n\n“Except in America,” rejoined Lord Henry languidly. “But I didn’t say\nhe was married. I said he was engaged to be married. There is a great\ndifference. I have a distinct remembrance of being married, but I have\nno recollection at all of being engaged. I am inclined to think that I\nnever was engaged.”\n\n“But think of Dorian’s birth, and position, and wealth. It would be\nabsurd for him to marry so much beneath him.”\n\n“If you want to make him marry this girl, tell him that, Basil. He is\nsure to do it, then. Whenever a man does a thoroughly stupid thing, it\nis always from the noblest motives.”\n\n“I hope the girl is good, Harry. I don’t want to see Dorian tied to\nsome vile creature, who might degrade his nature and ruin his\nintellect.”",
    "meta": {
      "book": "dorian",
      "para_idx_start": 548,
      "para_idx_end": 554,
      "char_count": 936
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  {
    "id": "dorian_chunk_123",
    "text": "“Oh, she is better than good—she is beautiful,” murmured Lord Henry,\nsipping a glass of vermouth and orange-bitters. “Dorian says she is\nbeautiful, and he is not often wrong about things of that kind. Your\nportrait of him has quickened his appreciation of the personal\nappearance of other people. It has had that excellent effect, amongst\nothers. We are to see her to-night, if that boy doesn’t forget his\nappointment.”\n\n“Are you serious?”\n\n“Quite serious, Basil. I should be miserable if I thought I should ever\nbe more serious than I am at the present moment.”\n\n“But do you approve of it, Harry?” asked the painter, walking up and\ndown the room and biting his lip. “You can’t approve of it, possibly.\nIt is some silly infatuation.”\n\n“I never approve, or disapprove, of anything now. It is an absurd\nattitude to take towards life. We are not sent into the world to air\nour moral prejudices. I never take any notice of what common people\nsay, and I never interfere with what charming people do. If a\npersonality fascinates me, whatever mode of expression that personality\nselects is absolutely delightful to me. Dorian Gray falls in love with\na beautiful girl who acts Juliet, and proposes to marry her. Why not?\nIf he wedded Messalina, he would be none the less interesting. You know\nI am not a champion of marriage. The real drawback to marriage is that\nit makes one unselfish. And unselfish people are colourless. They lack\nindividuality. Still, there are certain temperaments that marriage\nmakes more complex. They retain their egotism, and add to it many other\negos. They are forced to have more than one life. They become more\nhighly organized, and to be highly organized is, I should fancy, the\nobject of man’s existence. Besides, every experience is of value, and\nwhatever one may say against marriage, it is certainly an experience. I\nhope that Dorian Gray will make this girl his wife, passionately adore\nher for six months, and then suddenly become fascinated by some one\nelse. He would be a wonderful study.”",
    "meta": {
      "book": "dorian",
      "para_idx_start": 555,
      "para_idx_end": 559,
      "char_count": 2020
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    "id": "dorian_chunk_124",
    "text": "“You don’t mean a single word of all that, Harry; you know you don’t.\nIf Dorian Gray’s life were spoiled, no one would be sorrier than\nyourself. You are much better than you pretend to be.”\n\nLord Henry laughed. “The reason we all like to think so well of others\nis that we are all afraid for ourselves. The basis of optimism is sheer\nterror. We think that we are generous because we credit our neighbour\nwith the possession of those virtues that are likely to be a benefit to\nus. We praise the banker that we may overdraw our account, and find\ngood qualities in the highwayman in the hope that he may spare our\npockets. I mean everything that I have said. I have the greatest\ncontempt for optimism. As for a spoiled life, no life is spoiled but\none whose growth is arrested. If you want to mar a nature, you have\nmerely to reform it. As for marriage, of course that would be silly,\nbut there are other and more interesting bonds between men and women. I\nwill certainly encourage them. They have the charm of being\nfashionable. But here is Dorian himself. He will tell you more than I\ncan.”",
    "meta": {
      "book": "dorian",
      "para_idx_start": 560,
      "para_idx_end": 561,
      "char_count": 1089
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  },
  {
    "id": "dorian_chunk_125",
    "text": "“My dear Harry, my dear Basil, you must both congratulate me!” said the\nlad, throwing off his evening cape with its satin-lined wings and\nshaking each of his friends by the hand in turn. “I have never been so\nhappy. Of course, it is sudden—all really delightful things are. And\nyet it seems to me to be the one thing I have been looking for all my\nlife.” He was flushed with excitement and pleasure, and looked\nextraordinarily handsome.\n\n“I hope you will always be very happy, Dorian,” said Hallward, “but I\ndon’t quite forgive you for not having let me know of your engagement.\nYou let Harry know.”\n\n“And I don’t forgive you for being late for dinner,” broke in Lord\nHenry, putting his hand on the lad’s shoulder and smiling as he spoke.\n“Come, let us sit down and try what the new _chef_ here is like, and\nthen you will tell us how it all came about.”",
    "meta": {
      "book": "dorian",
      "para_idx_start": 562,
      "para_idx_end": 564,
      "char_count": 853
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    "id": "dorian_chunk_126",
    "text": "“There is really not much to tell,” cried Dorian as they took their\nseats at the small round table. “What happened was simply this. After I\nleft you yesterday evening, Harry, I dressed, had some dinner at that\nlittle Italian restaurant in Rupert Street you introduced me to, and\nwent down at eight o’clock to the theatre. Sibyl was playing Rosalind.\nOf course, the scenery was dreadful and the Orlando absurd. But Sibyl!\nYou should have seen her! When she came on in her boy’s clothes, she\nwas perfectly wonderful. She wore a moss-coloured velvet jerkin with\ncinnamon sleeves, slim, brown, cross-gartered hose, a dainty little\ngreen cap with a hawk’s feather caught in a jewel, and a hooded cloak\nlined with dull red. She had never seemed to me more exquisite. She had\nall the delicate grace of that Tanagra figurine that you have in your\nstudio, Basil. Her hair clustered round her face like dark leaves round\na pale rose. As for her acting—well, you shall see her to-night. She is\nsimply a born artist. I sat in the dingy box absolutely enthralled. I\nforgot that I was in London and in the nineteenth century. I was away\nwith my love in a forest that no man had ever seen. After the\nperformance was over, I went behind and spoke to her. As we were\nsitting together, suddenly there came into her eyes a look that I had\nnever seen there before. My lips moved towards hers. We kissed each\nother. I can’t describe to you what I felt at that moment. It seemed to\nme that all my life had been narrowed to one perfect point of\nrose-coloured joy. She trembled all over and shook like a white\nnarcissus. Then she flung herself on her knees and kissed my hands. I\nfeel that I should not tell you all this, but I can’t help it. Of\ncourse, our engagement is a dead secret. She has not even told her own\nmother. I don’t know what my guardians will say. Lord Radley is sure to\nbe furious. I don’t care. I shall be of age in less than a year, and\nthen I can do what I like. I have been right, Basil, haven’t I, to take\nmy love out of poetry and to find my wife in Shakespeare’s plays? Lips\nthat Shakespeare taught to speak have whispered their secret in my ear.\nI have had the arms of Rosalind around me, and kissed Juliet on the\nmouth.”",
    "meta": {
      "book": "dorian",
      "para_idx_start": 565,
      "para_idx_end": 565,
      "char_count": 2224
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  {
    "id": "dorian_chunk_127",
    "text": "“Yes, Dorian, I suppose you were right,” said Hallward slowly.\n\n“Have you seen her to-day?” asked Lord Henry.\n\nDorian Gray shook his head. “I left her in the forest of Arden; I shall\nfind her in an orchard in Verona.”\n\nLord Henry sipped his champagne in a meditative manner. “At what\nparticular point did you mention the word marriage, Dorian? And what\ndid she say in answer? Perhaps you forgot all about it.”\n\n“My dear Harry, I did not treat it as a business transaction, and I did\nnot make any formal proposal. I told her that I loved her, and she said\nshe was not worthy to be my wife. Not worthy! Why, the whole world is\nnothing to me compared with her.”\n\n“Women are wonderfully practical,” murmured Lord Henry, “much more\npractical than we are. In situations of that kind we often forget to\nsay anything about marriage, and they always remind us.”",
    "meta": {
      "book": "dorian",
      "para_idx_start": 566,
      "para_idx_end": 571,
      "char_count": 852
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  },
  {
    "id": "dorian_chunk_128",
    "text": "Hallward laid his hand upon his arm. “Don’t, Harry. You have annoyed\nDorian. He is not like other men. He would never bring misery upon any\none. His nature is too fine for that.”\n\nLord Henry looked across the table. “Dorian is never annoyed with me,”\nhe answered. “I asked the question for the best reason possible, for\nthe only reason, indeed, that excuses one for asking any\nquestion—simple curiosity. I have a theory that it is always the women\nwho propose to us, and not we who propose to the women. Except, of\ncourse, in middle-class life. But then the middle classes are not\nmodern.”\n\nDorian Gray laughed, and tossed his head. “You are quite incorrigible,\nHarry; but I don’t mind. It is impossible to be angry with you. When\nyou see Sibyl Vane, you will feel that the man who could wrong her\nwould be a beast, a beast without a heart. I cannot understand how any\none can wish to shame the thing he loves. I love Sibyl Vane. I want to\nplace her on a pedestal of gold and to see the world worship the woman\nwho is mine. What is marriage? An irrevocable vow. You mock at it for\nthat. Ah! don’t mock. It is an irrevocable vow that I want to take. Her\ntrust makes me faithful, her belief makes me good. When I am with her,\nI regret all that you have taught me. I become different from what you\nhave known me to be. I am changed, and the mere touch of Sibyl Vane’s\nhand makes me forget you and all your wrong, fascinating, poisonous,\ndelightful theories.”",
    "meta": {
      "book": "dorian",
      "para_idx_start": 572,
      "para_idx_end": 574,
      "char_count": 1455
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  },
  {
    "id": "dorian_chunk_129",
    "text": "“And those are ...?” asked Lord Henry, helping himself to some salad.\n\n“Oh, your theories about life, your theories about love, your theories\nabout pleasure. All your theories, in fact, Harry.”\n\n“Pleasure is the only thing worth having a theory about,” he answered\nin his slow melodious voice. “But I am afraid I cannot claim my theory\nas my own. It belongs to Nature, not to me. Pleasure is Nature’s test,\nher sign of approval. When we are happy, we are always good, but when\nwe are good, we are not always happy.”\n\n“Ah! but what do you mean by good?” cried Basil Hallward.\n\n“Yes,” echoed Dorian, leaning back in his chair and looking at Lord\nHenry over the heavy clusters of purple-lipped irises that stood in the\ncentre of the table, “what do you mean by good, Harry?”\n\n“To be good is to be in harmony with one’s self,” he replied, touching\nthe thin stem of his glass with his pale, fine-pointed fingers.\n“Discord is to be forced to be in harmony with others. One’s own\nlife—that is the important thing. As for the lives of one’s neighbours,\nif one wishes to be a prig or a Puritan, one can flaunt one’s moral\nviews about them, but they are not one’s concern. Besides,\nindividualism has really the higher aim. Modern morality consists in\naccepting the standard of one’s age. I consider that for any man of\nculture to accept the standard of his age is a form of the grossest\nimmorality.”",
    "meta": {
      "book": "dorian",
      "para_idx_start": 575,
      "para_idx_end": 580,
      "char_count": 1389
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  {
    "id": "dorian_chunk_130",
    "text": "“But, surely, if one lives merely for one’s self, Harry, one pays a\nterrible price for doing so?” suggested the painter.\n\n“Yes, we are overcharged for everything nowadays. I should fancy that\nthe real tragedy of the poor is that they can afford nothing but\nself-denial. Beautiful sins, like beautiful things, are the privilege\nof the rich.”\n\n“One has to pay in other ways but money.”\n\n“What sort of ways, Basil?”\n\n“Oh! I should fancy in remorse, in suffering, in ... well, in the\nconsciousness of degradation.”\n\nLord Henry shrugged his shoulders. “My dear fellow, mediæval art is\ncharming, but mediæval emotions are out of date. One can use them in\nfiction, of course. But then the only things that one can use in\nfiction are the things that one has ceased to use in fact. Believe me,\nno civilized man ever regrets a pleasure, and no uncivilized man ever\nknows what a pleasure is.”",
    "meta": {
      "book": "dorian",
      "para_idx_start": 581,
      "para_idx_end": 586,
      "char_count": 881
    }
  },
  {
    "id": "dorian_chunk_131",
    "text": "“I know what pleasure is,” cried Dorian Gray. “It is to adore some\none.”\n\n“That is certainly better than being adored,” he answered, toying with\nsome fruits. “Being adored is a nuisance. Women treat us just as\nhumanity treats its gods. They worship us, and are always bothering us\nto do something for them.”\n\n“I should have said that whatever they ask for they had first given to\nus,” murmured the lad gravely. “They create love in our natures. They\nhave a right to demand it back.”\n\n“That is quite true, Dorian,” cried Hallward.\n\n“Nothing is ever quite true,” said Lord Henry.\n\n“This is,” interrupted Dorian. “You must admit, Harry, that women give\nto men the very gold of their lives.”\n\n“Possibly,” he sighed, “but they invariably want it back in such very\nsmall change. That is the worry. Women, as some witty Frenchman once\nput it, inspire us with the desire to do masterpieces and always\nprevent us from carrying them out.”",
    "meta": {
      "book": "dorian",
      "para_idx_start": 587,
      "para_idx_end": 593,
      "char_count": 928
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  {
    "id": "dorian_chunk_132",
    "text": "“Harry, you are dreadful! I don’t know why I like you so much.”\n\n“You will always like me, Dorian,” he replied. “Will you have some\ncoffee, you fellows? Waiter, bring coffee, and _fine-champagne_, and\nsome cigarettes. No, don’t mind the cigarettes—I have some. Basil, I\ncan’t allow you to smoke cigars. You must have a cigarette. A cigarette\nis the perfect type of a perfect pleasure. It is exquisite, and it\nleaves one unsatisfied. What more can one want? Yes, Dorian, you will\nalways be fond of me. I represent to you all the sins you have never\nhad the courage to commit.”\n\n“What nonsense you talk, Harry!” cried the lad, taking a light from a\nfire-breathing silver dragon that the waiter had placed on the table.\n“Let us go down to the theatre. When Sibyl comes on the stage you will\nhave a new ideal of life. She will represent something to you that you\nhave never known.”",
    "meta": {
      "book": "dorian",
      "para_idx_start": 594,
      "para_idx_end": 596,
      "char_count": 877
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  {
    "id": "dorian_chunk_133",
    "text": "“I have known everything,” said Lord Henry, with a tired look in his\neyes, “but I am always ready for a new emotion. I am afraid, however,\nthat, for me at any rate, there is no such thing. Still, your wonderful\ngirl may thrill me. I love acting. It is so much more real than life.\nLet us go. Dorian, you will come with me. I am so sorry, Basil, but\nthere is only room for two in the brougham. You must follow us in a\nhansom.”\n\nThey got up and put on their coats, sipping their coffee standing. The\npainter was silent and preoccupied. There was a gloom over him. He\ncould not bear this marriage, and yet it seemed to him to be better\nthan many other things that might have happened. After a few minutes,\nthey all passed downstairs. He drove off by himself, as had been\narranged, and watched the flashing lights of the little brougham in\nfront of him. A strange sense of loss came over him. He felt that\nDorian Gray would never again be to him all that he had been in the\npast. Life had come between them.... His eyes darkened, and the crowded\nflaring streets became blurred to his eyes. When the cab drew up at the\ntheatre, it seemed to him that he had grown years older.",
    "meta": {
      "book": "dorian",
      "para_idx_start": 597,
      "para_idx_end": 598,
      "char_count": 1170
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  },
  {
    "id": "dorian_chunk_134",
    "text": "CHAPTER VII.\n\nFor some reason or other, the house was crowded that night, and the fat\nJew manager who met them at the door was beaming from ear to ear with\nan oily tremulous smile. He escorted them to their box with a sort of\npompous humility, waving his fat jewelled hands and talking at the top\nof his voice. Dorian Gray loathed him more than ever. He felt as if he\nhad come to look for Miranda and had been met by Caliban. Lord Henry,\nupon the other hand, rather liked him. At least he declared he did, and\ninsisted on shaking him by the hand and assuring him that he was proud\nto meet a man who had discovered a real genius and gone bankrupt over a\npoet. Hallward amused himself with watching the faces in the pit. The\nheat was terribly oppressive, and the huge sunlight flamed like a\nmonstrous dahlia with petals of yellow fire. The youths in the gallery\nhad taken off their coats and waistcoats and hung them over the side.\nThey talked to each other across the theatre and shared their oranges\nwith the tawdry girls who sat beside them. Some women were laughing in\nthe pit. Their voices were horribly shrill and discordant. The sound of\nthe popping of corks came from the bar.",
    "meta": {
      "book": "dorian",
      "para_idx_start": 599,
      "para_idx_end": 600,
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    "id": "dorian_chunk_135",
    "text": "“What a place to find one’s divinity in!” said Lord Henry.\n\n“Yes!” answered Dorian Gray. “It was here I found her, and she is\ndivine beyond all living things. When she acts, you will forget\neverything. These common rough people, with their coarse faces and\nbrutal gestures, become quite different when she is on the stage. They\nsit silently and watch her. They weep and laugh as she wills them to\ndo. She makes them as responsive as a violin. She spiritualizes them,\nand one feels that they are of the same flesh and blood as one’s self.”\n\n“The same flesh and blood as one’s self! Oh, I hope not!” exclaimed\nLord Henry, who was scanning the occupants of the gallery through his\nopera-glass.\n\n“Don’t pay any attention to him, Dorian,” said the painter. “I\nunderstand what you mean, and I believe in this girl. Any one you love\nmust be marvellous, and any girl who has the effect you describe must\nbe fine and noble. To spiritualize one’s age—that is something worth\ndoing. If this girl can give a soul to those who have lived without\none, if she can create the sense of beauty in people whose lives have\nbeen sordid and ugly, if she can strip them of their selfishness and\nlend them tears for sorrows that are not their own, she is worthy of\nall your adoration, worthy of the adoration of the world. This marriage\nis quite right. I did not think so at first, but I admit it now. The\ngods made Sibyl Vane for you. Without her you would have been\nincomplete.”",
    "meta": {
      "book": "dorian",
      "para_idx_start": 601,
      "para_idx_end": 604,
      "char_count": 1456
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  },
  {
    "id": "dorian_chunk_136",
    "text": "“Thanks, Basil,” answered Dorian Gray, pressing his hand. “I knew that\nyou would understand me. Harry is so cynical, he terrifies me. But here\nis the orchestra. It is quite dreadful, but it only lasts for about\nfive minutes. Then the curtain rises, and you will see the girl to whom\nI am going to give all my life, to whom I have given everything that is\ngood in me.”\n\nA quarter of an hour afterwards, amidst an extraordinary turmoil of\napplause, Sibyl Vane stepped on to the stage. Yes, she was certainly\nlovely to look at—one of the loveliest creatures, Lord Henry thought,\nthat he had ever seen. There was something of the fawn in her shy grace\nand startled eyes. A faint blush, like the shadow of a rose in a mirror\nof silver, came to her cheeks as she glanced at the crowded\nenthusiastic house. She stepped back a few paces and her lips seemed to\ntremble. Basil Hallward leaped to his feet and began to applaud.\nMotionless, and as one in a dream, sat Dorian Gray, gazing at her. Lord\nHenry peered through his glasses, murmuring, “Charming! charming!”",
    "meta": {
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      "para_idx_start": 605,
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  {
    "id": "dorian_chunk_137",
    "text": "The scene was the hall of Capulet’s house, and Romeo in his pilgrim’s\ndress had entered with Mercutio and his other friends. The band, such\nas it was, struck up a few bars of music, and the dance began. Through\nthe crowd of ungainly, shabbily dressed actors, Sibyl Vane moved like a\ncreature from a finer world. Her body swayed, while she danced, as a\nplant sways in the water. The curves of her throat were the curves of a\nwhite lily. Her hands seemed to be made of cool ivory.\n\nYet she was curiously listless. She showed no sign of joy when her eyes\nrested on Romeo. The few words she had to speak—\n\nGood pilgrim, you do wrong your hand too much,\nWhich mannerly devotion shows in this;\nFor saints have hands that pilgrims’ hands do touch,\nAnd palm to palm is holy palmers’ kiss—\n\nwith the brief dialogue that follows, were spoken in a thoroughly\nartificial manner. The voice was exquisite, but from the point of view\nof tone it was absolutely false. It was wrong in colour. It took away\nall the life from the verse. It made the passion unreal.",
    "meta": {
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      "para_idx_start": 607,
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    "id": "dorian_chunk_138",
    "text": "Dorian Gray grew pale as he watched her. He was puzzled and anxious.\nNeither of his friends dared to say anything to him. She seemed to them\nto be absolutely incompetent. They were horribly disappointed.\n\nYet they felt that the true test of any Juliet is the balcony scene of\nthe second act. They waited for that. If she failed there, there was\nnothing in her.\n\nShe looked charming as she came out in the moonlight. That could not be\ndenied. But the staginess of her acting was unbearable, and grew worse\nas she went on. Her gestures became absurdly artificial. She\noveremphasized everything that she had to say. The beautiful passage—\n\nThou knowest the mask of night is on my face,\nElse would a maiden blush bepaint my cheek\nFor that which thou hast heard me speak to-night—\n\nwas declaimed with the painful precision of a schoolgirl who has been\ntaught to recite by some second-rate professor of elocution. When she\nleaned over the balcony and came to those wonderful lines—",
    "meta": {
      "book": "dorian",
      "para_idx_start": 611,
      "para_idx_end": 615,
      "char_count": 975
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  {
    "id": "dorian_chunk_139",
    "text": "Although I joy in thee,\nI have no joy of this contract to-night:\nIt is too rash, too unadvised, too sudden;\nToo like the lightning, which doth cease to be\nEre one can say, “It lightens.” Sweet, good-night!\nThis bud of love by summer’s ripening breath\nMay prove a beauteous flower when next we meet—\n\nshe spoke the words as though they conveyed no meaning to her. It was\nnot nervousness. Indeed, so far from being nervous, she was absolutely\nself-contained. It was simply bad art. She was a complete failure.\n\nEven the common uneducated audience of the pit and gallery lost their\ninterest in the play. They got restless, and began to talk loudly and\nto whistle. The Jew manager, who was standing at the back of the\ndress-circle, stamped and swore with rage. The only person unmoved was\nthe girl herself.",
    "meta": {
      "book": "dorian",
      "para_idx_start": 616,
      "para_idx_end": 618,
      "char_count": 802
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    "id": "dorian_chunk_140",
    "text": "When the second act was over, there came a storm of hisses, and Lord\nHenry got up from his chair and put on his coat. “She is quite\nbeautiful, Dorian,” he said, “but she can’t act. Let us go.”\n\n“I am going to see the play through,” answered the lad, in a hard\nbitter voice. “I am awfully sorry that I have made you waste an\nevening, Harry. I apologize to you both.”\n\n“My dear Dorian, I should think Miss Vane was ill,” interrupted\nHallward. “We will come some other night.”\n\n“I wish she were ill,” he rejoined. “But she seems to me to be simply\ncallous and cold. She has entirely altered. Last night she was a great\nartist. This evening she is merely a commonplace mediocre actress.”\n\n“Don’t talk like that about any one you love, Dorian. Love is a more\nwonderful thing than art.”\n\n“They are both simply forms of imitation,” remarked Lord Henry. “But do\nlet us go. Dorian, you must not stay here any longer. It is not good\nfor one’s morals to see bad acting. Besides, I don’t suppose you will\nwant your wife to act, so what does it matter if she plays Juliet like\na wooden doll? She is very lovely, and if she knows as little about\nlife as she does about acting, she will be a delightful experience.\nThere are only two kinds of people who are really fascinating—people\nwho know absolutely everything, and people who know absolutely nothing.\nGood heavens, my dear boy, don’t look so tragic! The secret of\nremaining young is never to have an emotion that is unbecoming. Come to\nthe club with Basil and myself. We will smoke cigarettes and drink to\nthe beauty of Sibyl Vane. She is beautiful. What more can you want?”",
    "meta": {
      "book": "dorian",
      "para_idx_start": 619,
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    "id": "dorian_chunk_141",
    "text": "“Go away, Harry,” cried the lad. “I want to be alone. Basil, you must\ngo. Ah! can’t you see that my heart is breaking?” The hot tears came to\nhis eyes. His lips trembled, and rushing to the back of the box, he\nleaned up against the wall, hiding his face in his hands.\n\n“Let us go, Basil,” said Lord Henry with a strange tenderness in his\nvoice, and the two young men passed out together.\n\nA few moments afterwards the footlights flared up and the curtain rose\non the third act. Dorian Gray went back to his seat. He looked pale,\nand proud, and indifferent. The play dragged on, and seemed\ninterminable. Half of the audience went out, tramping in heavy boots\nand laughing. The whole thing was a _fiasco_. The last act was played\nto almost empty benches. The curtain went down on a titter and some\ngroans.",
    "meta": {
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      "para_idx_start": 625,
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    "id": "dorian_chunk_142",
    "text": "As soon as it was over, Dorian Gray rushed behind the scenes into the\ngreenroom. The girl was standing there alone, with a look of triumph on\nher face. Her eyes were lit with an exquisite fire. There was a\nradiance about her. Her parted lips were smiling over some secret of\ntheir own.\n\nWhen he entered, she looked at him, and an expression of infinite joy\ncame over her. “How badly I acted to-night, Dorian!” she cried.\n\n“Horribly!” he answered, gazing at her in amazement. “Horribly! It was\ndreadful. Are you ill? You have no idea what it was. You have no idea\nwhat I suffered.”\n\nThe girl smiled. “Dorian,” she answered, lingering over his name with\nlong-drawn music in her voice, as though it were sweeter than honey to\nthe red petals of her mouth. “Dorian, you should have understood. But\nyou understand now, don’t you?”",
    "meta": {
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    "id": "dorian_chunk_143",
    "text": "“Understand what?” he asked, angrily.\n\n“Why I was so bad to-night. Why I shall always be bad. Why I shall\nnever act well again.”\n\nHe shrugged his shoulders. “You are ill, I suppose. When you are ill\nyou shouldn’t act. You make yourself ridiculous. My friends were bored.\nI was bored.”\n\nShe seemed not to listen to him. She was transfigured with joy. An\necstasy of happiness dominated her.\n\n“Dorian, Dorian,” she cried, “before I knew you, acting was the one\nreality of my life. It was only in the theatre that I lived. I thought\nthat it was all true. I was Rosalind one night and Portia the other.\nThe joy of Beatrice was my joy, and the sorrows of Cordelia were mine\nalso. I believed in everything. The common people who acted with me\nseemed to me to be godlike. The painted scenes were my world. I knew\nnothing but shadows, and I thought them real. You came—oh, my beautiful\nlove!—and you freed my soul from prison. You taught me what reality\nreally is. To-night, for the first time in my life, I saw through the\nhollowness, the sham, the silliness of the empty pageant in which I had\nalways played. To-night, for the first time, I became conscious that\nthe Romeo was hideous, and old, and painted, that the moonlight in the\norchard was false, that the scenery was vulgar, and that the words I\nhad to speak were unreal, were not my words, were not what I wanted to\nsay. You had brought me something higher, something of which all art is\nbut a reflection. You had made me understand what love really is. My\nlove! My love! Prince Charming! Prince of life! I have grown sick of\nshadows. You are more to me than all art can ever be. What have I to do\nwith the puppets of a play? When I came on to-night, I could not\nunderstand how it was that everything had gone from me. I thought that\nI was going to be wonderful. I found that I could do nothing. Suddenly\nit dawned on my soul what it all meant. The knowledge was exquisite to\nme. I heard them hissing, and I smiled. What could they know of love\nsuch as ours? Take me away, Dorian—take me away with you, where we can\nbe quite alone. I hate the stage. I might mimic a passion that I do not\nfeel, but I cannot mimic one that burns me like fire. Oh, Dorian,\nDorian, you understand now what it signifies? Even if I could do it, it\nwould be profanation for me to play at being in love. You have made me\nsee that.”",
    "meta": {
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    "id": "dorian_chunk_144",
    "text": "He flung himself down on the sofa and turned away his face. “You have\nkilled my love,” he muttered.\n\nShe looked at him in wonder and laughed. He made no answer. She came\nacross to him, and with her little fingers stroked his hair. She knelt\ndown and pressed his hands to her lips. He drew them away, and a\nshudder ran through him.\n\nThen he leaped up and went to the door. “Yes,” he cried, “you have\nkilled my love. You used to stir my imagination. Now you don’t even\nstir my curiosity. You simply produce no effect. I loved you because\nyou were marvellous, because you had genius and intellect, because you\nrealized the dreams of great poets and gave shape and substance to the\nshadows of art. You have thrown it all away. You are shallow and\nstupid. My God! how mad I was to love you! What a fool I have been! You\nare nothing to me now. I will never see you again. I will never think\nof you. I will never mention your name. You don’t know what you were to\nme, once. Why, once ... Oh, I can’t bear to think of it! I wish I had\nnever laid eyes upon you! You have spoiled the romance of my life. How\nlittle you can know of love, if you say it mars your art! Without your\nart, you are nothing. I would have made you famous, splendid,\nmagnificent. The world would have worshipped you, and you would have\nborne my name. What are you now? A third-rate actress with a pretty\nface.”",
    "meta": {
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    "id": "dorian_chunk_145",
    "text": "The girl grew white, and trembled. She clenched her hands together, and\nher voice seemed to catch in her throat. “You are not serious, Dorian?”\nshe murmured. “You are acting.”\n\n“Acting! I leave that to you. You do it so well,” he answered bitterly.\n\nShe rose from her knees and, with a piteous expression of pain in her\nface, came across the room to him. She put her hand upon his arm and\nlooked into his eyes. He thrust her back. “Don’t touch me!” he cried.\n\nA low moan broke from her, and she flung herself at his feet and lay\nthere like a trampled flower. “Dorian, Dorian, don’t leave me!” she\nwhispered. “I am so sorry I didn’t act well. I was thinking of you all\nthe time. But I will try—indeed, I will try. It came so suddenly across\nme, my love for you. I think I should never have known it if you had\nnot kissed me—if we had not kissed each other. Kiss me again, my love.\nDon’t go away from me. I couldn’t bear it. Oh! don’t go away from me.\nMy brother ... No; never mind. He didn’t mean it. He was in jest....\nBut you, oh! can’t you forgive me for to-night? I will work so hard and\ntry to improve. Don’t be cruel to me, because I love you better than\nanything in the world. After all, it is only once that I have not\npleased you. But you are quite right, Dorian. I should have shown\nmyself more of an artist. It was foolish of me, and yet I couldn’t help\nit. Oh, don’t leave me, don’t leave me.” A fit of passionate sobbing\nchoked her. She crouched on the floor like a wounded thing, and Dorian\nGray, with his beautiful eyes, looked down at her, and his chiselled\nlips curled in exquisite disdain. There is always something ridiculous\nabout the emotions of people whom one has ceased to love. Sibyl Vane\nseemed to him to be absurdly melodramatic. Her tears and sobs annoyed\nhim.",
    "meta": {
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    "id": "dorian_chunk_146",
    "text": "“I am going,” he said at last in his calm clear voice. “I don’t wish to\nbe unkind, but I can’t see you again. You have disappointed me.”\n\nShe wept silently, and made no answer, but crept nearer. Her little\nhands stretched blindly out, and appeared to be seeking for him. He\nturned on his heel and left the room. In a few moments he was out of\nthe theatre.\n\nWhere he went to he hardly knew. He remembered wandering through dimly\nlit streets, past gaunt, black-shadowed archways and evil-looking\nhouses. Women with hoarse voices and harsh laughter had called after\nhim. Drunkards had reeled by, cursing and chattering to themselves like\nmonstrous apes. He had seen grotesque children huddled upon door-steps,\nand heard shrieks and oaths from gloomy courts.\n\nAs the dawn was just breaking, he found himself close to Covent Garden.\nThe darkness lifted, and, flushed with faint fires, the sky hollowed\nitself into a perfect pearl. Huge carts filled with nodding lilies\nrumbled slowly down the polished empty street. The air was heavy with\nthe perfume of the flowers, and their beauty seemed to bring him an\nanodyne for his pain. He followed into the market and watched the men\nunloading their waggons. A white-smocked carter offered him some\ncherries. He thanked him, wondered why he refused to accept any money\nfor them, and began to eat them listlessly. They had been plucked at\nmidnight, and the coldness of the moon had entered into them. A long\nline of boys carrying crates of striped tulips, and of yellow and red\nroses, defiled in front of him, threading their way through the huge,\njade-green piles of vegetables. Under the portico, with its grey,\nsun-bleached pillars, loitered a troop of draggled bareheaded girls,\nwaiting for the auction to be over. Others crowded round the swinging\ndoors of the coffee-house in the piazza. The heavy cart-horses slipped\nand stamped upon the rough stones, shaking their bells and trappings.\nSome of the drivers were lying asleep on a pile of sacks. Iris-necked\nand pink-footed, the pigeons ran about picking up seeds.",
    "meta": {
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    "id": "dorian_chunk_147",
    "text": "After a little while, he hailed a hansom and drove home. For a few\nmoments he loitered upon the doorstep, looking round at the silent\nsquare, with its blank, close-shuttered windows and its staring blinds.\nThe sky was pure opal now, and the roofs of the houses glistened like\nsilver against it. From some chimney opposite a thin wreath of smoke\nwas rising. It curled, a violet riband, through the nacre-coloured air.\n\nIn the huge gilt Venetian lantern, spoil of some Doge’s barge, that\nhung from the ceiling of the great, oak-panelled hall of entrance,\nlights were still burning from three flickering jets: thin blue petals\nof flame they seemed, rimmed with white fire. He turned them out and,\nhaving thrown his hat and cape on the table, passed through the library\ntowards the door of his bedroom, a large octagonal chamber on the\nground floor that, in his new-born feeling for luxury, he had just had\ndecorated for himself and hung with some curious Renaissance tapestries\nthat had been discovered stored in a disused attic at Selby Royal. As\nhe was turning the handle of the door, his eye fell upon the portrait\nBasil Hallward had painted of him. He started back as if in surprise.\nThen he went on into his own room, looking somewhat puzzled. After he\nhad taken the button-hole out of his coat, he seemed to hesitate.\nFinally, he came back, went over to the picture, and examined it. In\nthe dim arrested light that struggled through the cream-coloured silk\nblinds, the face appeared to him to be a little changed. The expression\nlooked different. One would have said that there was a touch of cruelty\nin the mouth. It was certainly strange.",
    "meta": {
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    "id": "dorian_chunk_148",
    "text": "He turned round and, walking to the window, drew up the blind. The\nbright dawn flooded the room and swept the fantastic shadows into dusky\ncorners, where they lay shuddering. But the strange expression that he\nhad noticed in the face of the portrait seemed to linger there, to be\nmore intensified even. The quivering ardent sunlight showed him the\nlines of cruelty round the mouth as clearly as if he had been looking\ninto a mirror after he had done some dreadful thing.\n\nHe winced and, taking up from the table an oval glass framed in ivory\nCupids, one of Lord Henry’s many presents to him, glanced hurriedly\ninto its polished depths. No line like that warped his red lips. What\ndid it mean?\n\nHe rubbed his eyes, and came close to the picture, and examined it\nagain. There were no signs of any change when he looked into the actual\npainting, and yet there was no doubt that the whole expression had\naltered. It was not a mere fancy of his own. The thing was horribly\napparent.",
    "meta": {
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    "id": "dorian_chunk_149",
    "text": "He threw himself into a chair and began to think. Suddenly there\nflashed across his mind what he had said in Basil Hallward’s studio the\nday the picture had been finished. Yes, he remembered it perfectly. He\nhad uttered a mad wish that he himself might remain young, and the\nportrait grow old; that his own beauty might be untarnished, and the\nface on the canvas bear the burden of his passions and his sins; that\nthe painted image might be seared with the lines of suffering and\nthought, and that he might keep all the delicate bloom and loveliness\nof his then just conscious boyhood. Surely his wish had not been\nfulfilled? Such things were impossible. It seemed monstrous even to\nthink of them. And, yet, there was the picture before him, with the\ntouch of cruelty in the mouth.\n\nCruelty! Had he been cruel? It was the girl’s fault, not his. He had\ndreamed of her as a great artist, had given his love to her because he\nhad thought her great. Then she had disappointed him. She had been\nshallow and unworthy. And, yet, a feeling of infinite regret came over\nhim, as he thought of her lying at his feet sobbing like a little\nchild. He remembered with what callousness he had watched her. Why had\nhe been made like that? Why had such a soul been given to him? But he\nhad suffered also. During the three terrible hours that the play had\nlasted, he had lived centuries of pain, aeon upon aeon of torture. His\nlife was well worth hers. She had marred him for a moment, if he had\nwounded her for an age. Besides, women were better suited to bear\nsorrow than men. They lived on their emotions. They only thought of\ntheir emotions. When they took lovers, it was merely to have some one\nwith whom they could have scenes. Lord Henry had told him that, and\nLord Henry knew what women were. Why should he trouble about Sibyl\nVane? She was nothing to him now.",
    "meta": {
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    "id": "dorian_chunk_150",
    "text": "But the picture? What was he to say of that? It held the secret of his\nlife, and told his story. It had taught him to love his own beauty.\nWould it teach him to loathe his own soul? Would he ever look at it\nagain?\n\nNo; it was merely an illusion wrought on the troubled senses. The\nhorrible night that he had passed had left phantoms behind it. Suddenly\nthere had fallen upon his brain that tiny scarlet speck that makes men\nmad. The picture had not changed. It was folly to think so.\n\nYet it was watching him, with its beautiful marred face and its cruel\nsmile. Its bright hair gleamed in the early sunlight. Its blue eyes met\nhis own. A sense of infinite pity, not for himself, but for the painted\nimage of himself, came over him. It had altered already, and would\nalter more. Its gold would wither into grey. Its red and white roses\nwould die. For every sin that he committed, a stain would fleck and\nwreck its fairness. But he would not sin. The picture, changed or\nunchanged, would be to him the visible emblem of conscience. He would\nresist temptation. He would not see Lord Henry any more—would not, at\nany rate, listen to those subtle poisonous theories that in Basil\nHallward’s garden had first stirred within him the passion for\nimpossible things. He would go back to Sibyl Vane, make her amends,\nmarry her, try to love her again. Yes, it was his duty to do so. She\nmust have suffered more than he had. Poor child! He had been selfish\nand cruel to her. The fascination that she had exercised over him would\nreturn. They would be happy together. His life with her would be\nbeautiful and pure.",
    "meta": {
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    "id": "dorian_chunk_151",
    "text": "He got up from his chair and drew a large screen right in front of the\nportrait, shuddering as he glanced at it. “How horrible!” he murmured\nto himself, and he walked across to the window and opened it. When he\nstepped out on to the grass, he drew a deep breath. The fresh morning\nair seemed to drive away all his sombre passions. He thought only of\nSibyl. A faint echo of his love came back to him. He repeated her name\nover and over again. The birds that were singing in the dew-drenched\ngarden seemed to be telling the flowers about her.\n\nCHAPTER VIII.\n\nIt was long past noon when he awoke. His valet had crept several times\non tiptoe into the room to see if he was stirring, and had wondered\nwhat made his young master sleep so late. Finally his bell sounded, and\nVictor came in softly with a cup of tea, and a pile of letters, on a\nsmall tray of old Sevres china, and drew back the olive-satin curtains,\nwith their shimmering blue lining, that hung in front of the three tall\nwindows.",
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    "id": "dorian_chunk_152",
    "text": "“Monsieur has well slept this morning,” he said, smiling.\n\n“What o’clock is it, Victor?” asked Dorian Gray drowsily.\n\n“One hour and a quarter, Monsieur.”\n\nHow late it was! He sat up, and having sipped some tea, turned over his\nletters. One of them was from Lord Henry, and had been brought by hand\nthat morning. He hesitated for a moment, and then put it aside. The\nothers he opened listlessly. They contained the usual collection of\ncards, invitations to dinner, tickets for private views, programmes of\ncharity concerts, and the like that are showered on fashionable young\nmen every morning during the season. There was a rather heavy bill for\na chased silver Louis-Quinze toilet-set that he had not yet had the\ncourage to send on to his guardians, who were extremely old-fashioned\npeople and did not realize that we live in an age when unnecessary\nthings are our only necessities; and there were several very\ncourteously worded communications from Jermyn Street money-lenders\noffering to advance any sum of money at a moment’s notice and at the\nmost reasonable rates of interest.",
    "meta": {
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    "id": "dorian_chunk_153",
    "text": "After about ten minutes he got up, and throwing on an elaborate\ndressing-gown of silk-embroidered cashmere wool, passed into the\nonyx-paved bathroom. The cool water refreshed him after his long sleep.\nHe seemed to have forgotten all that he had gone through. A dim sense\nof having taken part in some strange tragedy came to him once or twice,\nbut there was the unreality of a dream about it.\n\nAs soon as he was dressed, he went into the library and sat down to a\nlight French breakfast that had been laid out for him on a small round\ntable close to the open window. It was an exquisite day. The warm air\nseemed laden with spices. A bee flew in and buzzed round the\nblue-dragon bowl that, filled with sulphur-yellow roses, stood before\nhim. He felt perfectly happy.\n\nSuddenly his eye fell on the screen that he had placed in front of the\nportrait, and he started.",
    "meta": {
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    "id": "dorian_chunk_154",
    "text": "As soon as he was dressed, he went into the library and sat down to a\nlight French breakfast that had been laid out for him on a small round\ntable close to the open window. It was an exquisite day. The warm air\nseemed laden with spices. A bee flew in and buzzed round the\nblue-dragon bowl that, filled with sulphur-yellow roses, stood before\nhim. He felt perfectly happy.\n\nSuddenly his eye fell on the screen that he had placed in front of the\nportrait, and he started.\n\n“Too cold for Monsieur?” asked his valet, putting an omelette on the\ntable. “I shut the window?”\n\nDorian shook his head. “I am not cold,” he murmured.\n\nWas it all true? Had the portrait really changed? Or had it been simply\nhis own imagination that had made him see a look of evil where there\nhad been a look of joy? Surely a painted canvas could not alter? The\nthing was absurd. It would serve as a tale to tell Basil some day. It\nwould make him smile.",
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    "text": "And, yet, how vivid was his recollection of the whole thing! First in\nthe dim twilight, and then in the bright dawn, he had seen the touch of\ncruelty round the warped lips. He almost dreaded his valet leaving the\nroom. He knew that when he was alone he would have to examine the\nportrait. He was afraid of certainty. When the coffee and cigarettes\nhad been brought and the man turned to go, he felt a wild desire to\ntell him to remain. As the door was closing behind him, he called him\nback. The man stood waiting for his orders. Dorian looked at him for a\nmoment. “I am not at home to any one, Victor,” he said with a sigh. The\nman bowed and retired.\n\nThen he rose from the table, lit a cigarette, and flung himself down on\na luxuriously cushioned couch that stood facing the screen. The screen\nwas an old one, of gilt Spanish leather, stamped and wrought with a\nrather florid Louis-Quatorze pattern. He scanned it curiously,\nwondering if ever before it had concealed the secret of a man’s life.",
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    "text": "Should he move it aside, after all? Why not let it stay there? What was\nthe use of knowing? If the thing was true, it was terrible. If it was\nnot true, why trouble about it? But what if, by some fate or deadlier\nchance, eyes other than his spied behind and saw the horrible change?\nWhat should he do if Basil Hallward came and asked to look at his own\npicture? Basil would be sure to do that. No; the thing had to be\nexamined, and at once. Anything would be better than this dreadful\nstate of doubt.\n\nHe got up and locked both doors. At least he would be alone when he\nlooked upon the mask of his shame. Then he drew the screen aside and\nsaw himself face to face. It was perfectly true. The portrait had\naltered.\n\nAs he often remembered afterwards, and always with no small wonder, he\nfound himself at first gazing at the portrait with a feeling of almost\nscientific interest. That such a change should have taken place was\nincredible to him. And yet it was a fact. Was there some subtle\naffinity between the chemical atoms that shaped themselves into form\nand colour on the canvas and the soul that was within him? Could it be\nthat what that soul thought, they realized?—that what it dreamed, they\nmade true? Or was there some other, more terrible reason? He shuddered,\nand felt afraid, and, going back to the couch, lay there, gazing at the\npicture in sickened horror.",
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    "text": "One thing, however, he felt that it had done for him. It had made him\nconscious how unjust, how cruel, he had been to Sibyl Vane. It was not\ntoo late to make reparation for that. She could still be his wife. His\nunreal and selfish love would yield to some higher influence, would be\ntransformed into some nobler passion, and the portrait that Basil\nHallward had painted of him would be a guide to him through life, would\nbe to him what holiness is to some, and conscience to others, and the\nfear of God to us all. There were opiates for remorse, drugs that could\nlull the moral sense to sleep. But here was a visible symbol of the\ndegradation of sin. Here was an ever-present sign of the ruin men\nbrought upon their souls.\n\nThree o’clock struck, and four, and the half-hour rang its double\nchime, but Dorian Gray did not stir. He was trying to gather up the\nscarlet threads of life and to weave them into a pattern; to find his\nway through the sanguine labyrinth of passion through which he was\nwandering. He did not know what to do, or what to think. Finally, he\nwent over to the table and wrote a passionate letter to the girl he had\nloved, imploring her forgiveness and accusing himself of madness. He\ncovered page after page with wild words of sorrow and wilder words of\npain. There is a luxury in self-reproach. When we blame ourselves, we\nfeel that no one else has a right to blame us. It is the confession,\nnot the priest, that gives us absolution. When Dorian had finished the\nletter, he felt that he had been forgiven.",
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    "text": "Suddenly there came a knock to the door, and he heard Lord Henry’s\nvoice outside. “My dear boy, I must see you. Let me in at once. I can’t\nbear your shutting yourself up like this.”\n\nHe made no answer at first, but remained quite still. The knocking\nstill continued and grew louder. Yes, it was better to let Lord Henry\nin, and to explain to him the new life he was going to lead, to quarrel\nwith him if it became necessary to quarrel, to part if parting was\ninevitable. He jumped up, drew the screen hastily across the picture,\nand unlocked the door.\n\n“I am so sorry for it all, Dorian,” said Lord Henry as he entered. “But\nyou must not think too much about it.”\n\n“Do you mean about Sibyl Vane?” asked the lad.\n\n“Yes, of course,” answered Lord Henry, sinking into a chair and slowly\npulling off his yellow gloves. “It is dreadful, from one point of view,\nbut it was not your fault. Tell me, did you go behind and see her,\nafter the play was over?”",
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    "id": "dorian_chunk_159",
    "text": "“Yes.”\n\n“I felt sure you had. Did you make a scene with her?”\n\n“I was brutal, Harry—perfectly brutal. But it is all right now. I am\nnot sorry for anything that has happened. It has taught me to know\nmyself better.”\n\n“Ah, Dorian, I am so glad you take it in that way! I was afraid I would\nfind you plunged in remorse and tearing that nice curly hair of yours.”\n\n“I have got through all that,” said Dorian, shaking his head and\nsmiling. “I am perfectly happy now. I know what conscience is, to begin\nwith. It is not what you told me it was. It is the divinest thing in\nus. Don’t sneer at it, Harry, any more—at least not before me. I want\nto be good. I can’t bear the idea of my soul being hideous.”\n\n“A very charming artistic basis for ethics, Dorian! I congratulate you\non it. But how are you going to begin?”",
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    "text": "“I have got through all that,” said Dorian, shaking his head and\nsmiling. “I am perfectly happy now. I know what conscience is, to begin\nwith. It is not what you told me it was. It is the divinest thing in\nus. Don’t sneer at it, Harry, any more—at least not before me. I want\nto be good. I can’t bear the idea of my soul being hideous.”\n\n“A very charming artistic basis for ethics, Dorian! I congratulate you\non it. But how are you going to begin?”\n\n“By marrying Sibyl Vane.”\n\n“Marrying Sibyl Vane!” cried Lord Henry, standing up and looking at him\nin perplexed amazement. “But, my dear Dorian—”\n\n“Yes, Harry, I know what you are going to say. Something dreadful about\nmarriage. Don’t say it. Don’t ever say things of that kind to me again.\nTwo days ago I asked Sibyl to marry me. I am not going to break my word\nto her. She is to be my wife.”",
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    "id": "dorian_chunk_161",
    "text": "“Your wife! Dorian! ... Didn’t you get my letter? I wrote to you this\nmorning, and sent the note down by my own man.”\n\n“Your letter? Oh, yes, I remember. I have not read it yet, Harry. I was\nafraid there might be something in it that I wouldn’t like. You cut\nlife to pieces with your epigrams.”\n\n“You know nothing then?”\n\n“What do you mean?”\n\nLord Henry walked across the room, and sitting down by Dorian Gray,\ntook both his hands in his own and held them tightly. “Dorian,” he\nsaid, “my letter—don’t be frightened—was to tell you that Sibyl Vane is\ndead.”\n\nA cry of pain broke from the lad’s lips, and he leaped to his feet,\ntearing his hands away from Lord Henry’s grasp. “Dead! Sibyl dead! It\nis not true! It is a horrible lie! How dare you say it?”\n\n“It is quite true, Dorian,” said Lord Henry, gravely. “It is in all the\nmorning papers. I wrote down to you to ask you not to see any one till\nI came. There will have to be an inquest, of course, and you must not\nbe mixed up in it. Things like that make a man fashionable in Paris.\nBut in London people are so prejudiced. Here, one should never make\none’s _début_ with a scandal. One should reserve that to give an\ninterest to one’s old age. I suppose they don’t know your name at the\ntheatre? If they don’t, it is all right. Did any one see you going\nround to her room? That is an important point.”",
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    "text": "Dorian did not answer for a few moments. He was dazed with horror.\nFinally he stammered, in a stifled voice, “Harry, did you say an\ninquest? What did you mean by that? Did Sibyl—? Oh, Harry, I can’t bear\nit! But be quick. Tell me everything at once.”\n\n“I have no doubt it was not an accident, Dorian, though it must be put\nin that way to the public. It seems that as she was leaving the theatre\nwith her mother, about half-past twelve or so, she said she had\nforgotten something upstairs. They waited some time for her, but she\ndid not come down again. They ultimately found her lying dead on the\nfloor of her dressing-room. She had swallowed something by mistake,\nsome dreadful thing they use at theatres. I don’t know what it was, but\nit had either prussic acid or white lead in it. I should fancy it was\nprussic acid, as she seems to have died instantaneously.”",
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    "text": "“Harry, Harry, it is terrible!” cried the lad.\n\n“Yes; it is very tragic, of course, but you must not get yourself mixed\nup in it. I see by _The Standard_ that she was seventeen. I should have\nthought she was almost younger than that. She looked such a child, and\nseemed to know so little about acting. Dorian, you mustn’t let this\nthing get on your nerves. You must come and dine with me, and\nafterwards we will look in at the opera. It is a Patti night, and\neverybody will be there. You can come to my sister’s box. She has got\nsome smart women with her.”\n\n“So I have murdered Sibyl Vane,” said Dorian Gray, half to himself,\n“murdered her as surely as if I had cut her little throat with a knife.\nYet the roses are not less lovely for all that. The birds sing just as\nhappily in my garden. And to-night I am to dine with you, and then go\non to the opera, and sup somewhere, I suppose, afterwards. How\nextraordinarily dramatic life is! If I had read all this in a book,\nHarry, I think I would have wept over it. Somehow, now that it has\nhappened actually, and to me, it seems far too wonderful for tears.\nHere is the first passionate love-letter I have ever written in my\nlife. Strange, that my first passionate love-letter should have been\naddressed to a dead girl. Can they feel, I wonder, those white silent\npeople we call the dead? Sibyl! Can she feel, or know, or listen? Oh,\nHarry, how I loved her once! It seems years ago to me now. She was\neverything to me. Then came that dreadful night—was it really only last\nnight?—when she played so badly, and my heart almost broke. She\nexplained it all to me. It was terribly pathetic. But I was not moved a\nbit. I thought her shallow. Suddenly something happened that made me\nafraid. I can’t tell you what it was, but it was terrible. I said I\nwould go back to her. I felt I had done wrong. And now she is dead. My\nGod! My God! Harry, what shall I do? You don’t know the danger I am in,\nand there is nothing to keep me straight. She would have done that for\nme. She had no right to kill herself. It was selfish of her.”",
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    "text": "“My dear Dorian,” answered Lord Henry, taking a cigarette from his case\nand producing a gold-latten matchbox, “the only way a woman can ever\nreform a man is by boring him so completely that he loses all possible\ninterest in life. If you had married this girl, you would have been\nwretched. Of course, you would have treated her kindly. One can always\nbe kind to people about whom one cares nothing. But she would have soon\nfound out that you were absolutely indifferent to her. And when a woman\nfinds that out about her husband, she either becomes dreadfully dowdy,\nor wears very smart bonnets that some other woman’s husband has to pay\nfor. I say nothing about the social mistake, which would have been\nabject—which, of course, I would not have allowed—but I assure you that\nin any case the whole thing would have been an absolute failure.”",
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    "text": "“I suppose it would,” muttered the lad, walking up and down the room\nand looking horribly pale. “But I thought it was my duty. It is not my\nfault that this terrible tragedy has prevented my doing what was right.\nI remember your saying once that there is a fatality about good\nresolutions—that they are always made too late. Mine certainly were.”\n\n“Good resolutions are useless attempts to interfere with scientific\nlaws. Their origin is pure vanity. Their result is absolutely _nil_.\nThey give us, now and then, some of those luxurious sterile emotions\nthat have a certain charm for the weak. That is all that can be said\nfor them. They are simply cheques that men draw on a bank where they\nhave no account.”\n\n“Harry,” cried Dorian Gray, coming over and sitting down beside him,\n“why is it that I cannot feel this tragedy as much as I want to? I\ndon’t think I am heartless. Do you?”",
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    "id": "dorian_chunk_166",
    "text": "“You have done too many foolish things during the last fortnight to be\nentitled to give yourself that name, Dorian,” answered Lord Henry with\nhis sweet melancholy smile.\n\nThe lad frowned. “I don’t like that explanation, Harry,” he rejoined,\n“but I am glad you don’t think I am heartless. I am nothing of the\nkind. I know I am not. And yet I must admit that this thing that has\nhappened does not affect me as it should. It seems to me to be simply\nlike a wonderful ending to a wonderful play. It has all the terrible\nbeauty of a Greek tragedy, a tragedy in which I took a great part, but\nby which I have not been wounded.”\n\n“It is an interesting question,” said Lord Henry, who found an\nexquisite pleasure in playing on the lad’s unconscious egotism, “an\nextremely interesting question. I fancy that the true explanation is\nthis: It often happens that the real tragedies of life occur in such an\ninartistic manner that they hurt us by their crude violence, their\nabsolute incoherence, their absurd want of meaning, their entire lack\nof style. They affect us just as vulgarity affects us. They give us an\nimpression of sheer brute force, and we revolt against that. Sometimes,\nhowever, a tragedy that possesses artistic elements of beauty crosses\nour lives. If these elements of beauty are real, the whole thing simply\nappeals to our sense of dramatic effect. Suddenly we find that we are\nno longer the actors, but the spectators of the play. Or rather we are\nboth. We watch ourselves, and the mere wonder of the spectacle\nenthralls us. In the present case, what is it that has really happened?\nSome one has killed herself for love of you. I wish that I had ever had\nsuch an experience. It would have made me in love with love for the\nrest of my life. The people who have adored me—there have not been very\nmany, but there have been some—have always insisted on living on, long\nafter I had ceased to care for them, or they to care for me. They have\nbecome stout and tedious, and when I meet them, they go in at once for\nreminiscences. That awful memory of woman! What a fearful thing it is!\nAnd what an utter intellectual stagnation it reveals! One should absorb\nthe colour of life, but one should never remember its details. Details\nare always vulgar.”",
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    "text": "“I must sow poppies in my garden,” sighed Dorian.\n\n“There is no necessity,” rejoined his companion. “Life has always\npoppies in her hands. Of course, now and then things linger. I once\nwore nothing but violets all through one season, as a form of artistic\nmourning for a romance that would not die. Ultimately, however, it did\ndie. I forget what killed it. I think it was her proposing to sacrifice\nthe whole world for me. That is always a dreadful moment. It fills one\nwith the terror of eternity. Well—would you believe it?—a week ago, at\nLady Hampshire’s, I found myself seated at dinner next the lady in\nquestion, and she insisted on going over the whole thing again, and\ndigging up the past, and raking up the future. I had buried my romance\nin a bed of asphodel. She dragged it out again and assured me that I\nhad spoiled her life. I am bound to state that she ate an enormous\ndinner, so I did not feel any anxiety. But what a lack of taste she\nshowed! The one charm of the past is that it is the past. But women\nnever know when the curtain has fallen. They always want a sixth act,\nand as soon as the interest of the play is entirely over, they propose\nto continue it. If they were allowed their own way, every comedy would\nhave a tragic ending, and every tragedy would culminate in a farce.\nThey are charmingly artificial, but they have no sense of art. You are\nmore fortunate than I am. I assure you, Dorian, that not one of the\nwomen I have known would have done for me what Sibyl Vane did for you.\nOrdinary women always console themselves. Some of them do it by going\nin for sentimental colours. Never trust a woman who wears mauve,\nwhatever her age may be, or a woman over thirty-five who is fond of\npink ribbons. It always means that they have a history. Others find a\ngreat consolation in suddenly discovering the good qualities of their\nhusbands. They flaunt their conjugal felicity in one’s face, as if it\nwere the most fascinating of sins. Religion consoles some. Its\nmysteries have all the charm of a flirtation, a woman once told me, and\nI can quite understand it. Besides, nothing makes one so vain as being\ntold that one is a sinner. Conscience makes egotists of us all. Yes;\nthere is really no end to the consolations that women find in modern\nlife. Indeed, I have not mentioned the most important one.”",
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    "text": "“What is that, Harry?” said the lad listlessly.\n\n“Oh, the obvious consolation. Taking some one else’s admirer when one\nloses one’s own. In good society that always whitewashes a woman. But\nreally, Dorian, how different Sibyl Vane must have been from all the\nwomen one meets! There is something to me quite beautiful about her\ndeath. I am glad I am living in a century when such wonders happen.\nThey make one believe in the reality of the things we all play with,\nsuch as romance, passion, and love.”\n\n“I was terribly cruel to her. You forget that.”\n\n“I am afraid that women appreciate cruelty, downright cruelty, more\nthan anything else. They have wonderfully primitive instincts. We have\nemancipated them, but they remain slaves looking for their masters, all\nthe same. They love being dominated. I am sure you were splendid. I\nhave never seen you really and absolutely angry, but I can fancy how\ndelightful you looked. And, after all, you said something to me the day\nbefore yesterday that seemed to me at the time to be merely fanciful,\nbut that I see now was absolutely true, and it holds the key to\neverything.”",
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    "text": "“What was that, Harry?”\n\n“You said to me that Sibyl Vane represented to you all the heroines of\nromance—that she was Desdemona one night, and Ophelia the other; that\nif she died as Juliet, she came to life as Imogen.”\n\n“She will never come to life again now,” muttered the lad, burying his\nface in his hands.\n\n“No, she will never come to life. She has played her last part. But you\nmust think of that lonely death in the tawdry dressing-room simply as a\nstrange lurid fragment from some Jacobean tragedy, as a wonderful scene\nfrom Webster, or Ford, or Cyril Tourneur. The girl never really lived,\nand so she has never really died. To you at least she was always a\ndream, a phantom that flitted through Shakespeare’s plays and left them\nlovelier for its presence, a reed through which Shakespeare’s music\nsounded richer and more full of joy. The moment she touched actual\nlife, she marred it, and it marred her, and so she passed away. Mourn\nfor Ophelia, if you like. Put ashes on your head because Cordelia was\nstrangled. Cry out against Heaven because the daughter of Brabantio\ndied. But don’t waste your tears over Sibyl Vane. She was less real\nthan they are.”",
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    "text": "There was a silence. The evening darkened in the room. Noiselessly, and\nwith silver feet, the shadows crept in from the garden. The colours\nfaded wearily out of things.\n\nAfter some time Dorian Gray looked up. “You have explained me to\nmyself, Harry,” he murmured with something of a sigh of relief. “I felt\nall that you have said, but somehow I was afraid of it, and I could not\nexpress it to myself. How well you know me! But we will not talk again\nof what has happened. It has been a marvellous experience. That is all.\nI wonder if life has still in store for me anything as marvellous.”\n\n“Life has everything in store for you, Dorian. There is nothing that\nyou, with your extraordinary good looks, will not be able to do.”\n\n“But suppose, Harry, I became haggard, and old, and wrinkled? What\nthen?”",
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    "id": "dorian_chunk_171",
    "text": "“Life has everything in store for you, Dorian. There is nothing that\nyou, with your extraordinary good looks, will not be able to do.”\n\n“But suppose, Harry, I became haggard, and old, and wrinkled? What\nthen?”\n\n“Ah, then,” said Lord Henry, rising to go, “then, my dear Dorian, you\nwould have to fight for your victories. As it is, they are brought to\nyou. No, you must keep your good looks. We live in an age that reads\ntoo much to be wise, and that thinks too much to be beautiful. We\ncannot spare you. And now you had better dress and drive down to the\nclub. We are rather late, as it is.”\n\n“I think I shall join you at the opera, Harry. I feel too tired to eat\nanything. What is the number of your sister’s box?”\n\n“Twenty-seven, I believe. It is on the grand tier. You will see her\nname on the door. But I am sorry you won’t come and dine.”",
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    "text": "“I don’t feel up to it,” said Dorian listlessly. “But I am awfully\nobliged to you for all that you have said to me. You are certainly my\nbest friend. No one has ever understood me as you have.”\n\n“We are only at the beginning of our friendship, Dorian,” answered Lord\nHenry, shaking him by the hand. “Good-bye. I shall see you before\nnine-thirty, I hope. Remember, Patti is singing.”\n\nAs he closed the door behind him, Dorian Gray touched the bell, and in\na few minutes Victor appeared with the lamps and drew the blinds down.\nHe waited impatiently for him to go. The man seemed to take an\ninterminable time over everything.\n\nAs soon as he had left, he rushed to the screen and drew it back. No;\nthere was no further change in the picture. It had received the news of\nSibyl Vane’s death before he had known of it himself. It was conscious\nof the events of life as they occurred. The vicious cruelty that marred\nthe fine lines of the mouth had, no doubt, appeared at the very moment\nthat the girl had drunk the poison, whatever it was. Or was it\nindifferent to results? Did it merely take cognizance of what passed\nwithin the soul? He wondered, and hoped that some day he would see the\nchange taking place before his very eyes, shuddering as he hoped it.",
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    "text": "Poor Sibyl! What a romance it had all been! She had often mimicked\ndeath on the stage. Then Death himself had touched her and taken her\nwith him. How had she played that dreadful last scene? Had she cursed\nhim, as she died? No; she had died for love of him, and love would\nalways be a sacrament to him now. She had atoned for everything by the\nsacrifice she had made of her life. He would not think any more of what\nshe had made him go through, on that horrible night at the theatre.\nWhen he thought of her, it would be as a wonderful tragic figure sent\non to the world’s stage to show the supreme reality of love. A\nwonderful tragic figure? Tears came to his eyes as he remembered her\nchildlike look, and winsome fanciful ways, and shy tremulous grace. He\nbrushed them away hastily and looked again at the picture.",
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    "text": "He felt that the time had really come for making his choice. Or had his\nchoice already been made? Yes, life had decided that for him—life, and\nhis own infinite curiosity about life. Eternal youth, infinite passion,\npleasures subtle and secret, wild joys and wilder sins—he was to have\nall these things. The portrait was to bear the burden of his shame:\nthat was all.\n\nA feeling of pain crept over him as he thought of the desecration that\nwas in store for the fair face on the canvas. Once, in boyish mockery\nof Narcissus, he had kissed, or feigned to kiss, those painted lips\nthat now smiled so cruelly at him. Morning after morning he had sat\nbefore the portrait wondering at its beauty, almost enamoured of it, as\nit seemed to him at times. Was it to alter now with every mood to which\nhe yielded? Was it to become a monstrous and loathsome thing, to be\nhidden away in a locked room, to be shut out from the sunlight that had\nso often touched to brighter gold the waving wonder of its hair? The\npity of it! the pity of it!",
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    "text": "For a moment, he thought of praying that the horrible sympathy that\nexisted between him and the picture might cease. It had changed in\nanswer to a prayer; perhaps in answer to a prayer it might remain\nunchanged. And yet, who, that knew anything about life, would surrender\nthe chance of remaining always young, however fantastic that chance\nmight be, or with what fateful consequences it might be fraught?\nBesides, was it really under his control? Had it indeed been prayer\nthat had produced the substitution? Might there not be some curious\nscientific reason for it all? If thought could exercise its influence\nupon a living organism, might not thought exercise an influence upon\ndead and inorganic things? Nay, without thought or conscious desire,\nmight not things external to ourselves vibrate in unison with our moods\nand passions, atom calling to atom in secret love or strange affinity?\nBut the reason was of no importance. He would never again tempt by a\nprayer any terrible power. If the picture was to alter, it was to\nalter. That was all. Why inquire too closely into it?",
    "meta": {
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    "id": "dorian_chunk_176",
    "text": "For there would be a real pleasure in watching it. He would be able to\nfollow his mind into its secret places. This portrait would be to him\nthe most magical of mirrors. As it had revealed to him his own body, so\nit would reveal to him his own soul. And when winter came upon it, he\nwould still be standing where spring trembles on the verge of summer.\nWhen the blood crept from its face, and left behind a pallid mask of\nchalk with leaden eyes, he would keep the glamour of boyhood. Not one\nblossom of his loveliness would ever fade. Not one pulse of his life\nwould ever weaken. Like the gods of the Greeks, he would be strong, and\nfleet, and joyous. What did it matter what happened to the coloured\nimage on the canvas? He would be safe. That was everything.\n\nHe drew the screen back into its former place in front of the picture,\nsmiling as he did so, and passed into his bedroom, where his valet was\nalready waiting for him. An hour later he was at the opera, and Lord\nHenry was leaning over his chair.",
    "meta": {
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    "id": "dorian_chunk_177",
    "text": "CHAPTER IX.\n\nAs he was sitting at breakfast next morning, Basil Hallward was shown\ninto the room.\n\n“I am so glad I have found you, Dorian,” he said gravely. “I called\nlast night, and they told me you were at the opera. Of course, I knew\nthat was impossible. But I wish you had left word where you had really\ngone to. I passed a dreadful evening, half afraid that one tragedy\nmight be followed by another. I think you might have telegraphed for me\nwhen you heard of it first. I read of it quite by chance in a late\nedition of _The Globe_ that I picked up at the club. I came here at\nonce and was miserable at not finding you. I can’t tell you how\nheart-broken I am about the whole thing. I know what you must suffer.\nBut where were you? Did you go down and see the girl’s mother? For a\nmoment I thought of following you there. They gave the address in the\npaper. Somewhere in the Euston Road, isn’t it? But I was afraid of\nintruding upon a sorrow that I could not lighten. Poor woman! What a\nstate she must be in! And her only child, too! What did she say about\nit all?”",
    "meta": {
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    "id": "dorian_chunk_178",
    "text": "“My dear Basil, how do I know?” murmured Dorian Gray, sipping some\npale-yellow wine from a delicate, gold-beaded bubble of Venetian glass\nand looking dreadfully bored. “I was at the opera. You should have come\non there. I met Lady Gwendolen, Harry’s sister, for the first time. We\nwere in her box. She is perfectly charming; and Patti sang divinely.\nDon’t talk about horrid subjects. If one doesn’t talk about a thing, it\nhas never happened. It is simply expression, as Harry says, that gives\nreality to things. I may mention that she was not the woman’s only\nchild. There is a son, a charming fellow, I believe. But he is not on\nthe stage. He is a sailor, or something. And now, tell me about\nyourself and what you are painting.”\n\n“You went to the opera?” said Hallward, speaking very slowly and with a\nstrained touch of pain in his voice. “You went to the opera while Sibyl\nVane was lying dead in some sordid lodging? You can talk to me of other\nwomen being charming, and of Patti singing divinely, before the girl\nyou loved has even the quiet of a grave to sleep in? Why, man, there\nare horrors in store for that little white body of hers!”",
    "meta": {
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    "id": "dorian_chunk_179",
    "text": "“Stop, Basil! I won’t hear it!” cried Dorian, leaping to his feet. “You\nmust not tell me about things. What is done is done. What is past is\npast.”\n\n“You call yesterday the past?”\n\n“What has the actual lapse of time got to do with it? It is only\nshallow people who require years to get rid of an emotion. A man who is\nmaster of himself can end a sorrow as easily as he can invent a\npleasure. I don’t want to be at the mercy of my emotions. I want to use\nthem, to enjoy them, and to dominate them.”\n\n“Dorian, this is horrible! Something has changed you completely. You\nlook exactly the same wonderful boy who, day after day, used to come\ndown to my studio to sit for his picture. But you were simple, natural,\nand affectionate then. You were the most unspoiled creature in the\nwhole world. Now, I don’t know what has come over you. You talk as if\nyou had no heart, no pity in you. It is all Harry’s influence. I see\nthat.”",
    "meta": {
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    "id": "dorian_chunk_180",
    "text": "The lad flushed up and, going to the window, looked out for a few\nmoments on the green, flickering, sun-lashed garden. “I owe a great\ndeal to Harry, Basil,” he said at last, “more than I owe to you. You\nonly taught me to be vain.”\n\n“Well, I am punished for that, Dorian—or shall be some day.”\n\n“I don’t know what you mean, Basil,” he exclaimed, turning round. “I\ndon’t know what you want. What do you want?”\n\n“I want the Dorian Gray I used to paint,” said the artist sadly.\n\n“Basil,” said the lad, going over to him and putting his hand on his\nshoulder, “you have come too late. Yesterday, when I heard that Sibyl\nVane had killed herself—”\n\n“Killed herself! Good heavens! is there no doubt about that?” cried\nHallward, looking up at him with an expression of horror.\n\n“My dear Basil! Surely you don’t think it was a vulgar accident? Of\ncourse she killed herself.”",
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    "id": "dorian_chunk_181",
    "text": "“Killed herself! Good heavens! is there no doubt about that?” cried\nHallward, looking up at him with an expression of horror.\n\n“My dear Basil! Surely you don’t think it was a vulgar accident? Of\ncourse she killed herself.”\n\nThe elder man buried his face in his hands. “How fearful,” he muttered,\nand a shudder ran through him.\n\n“No,” said Dorian Gray, “there is nothing fearful about it. It is one\nof the great romantic tragedies of the age. As a rule, people who act\nlead the most commonplace lives. They are good husbands, or faithful\nwives, or something tedious. You know what I mean—middle-class virtue\nand all that kind of thing. How different Sibyl was! She lived her\nfinest tragedy. She was always a heroine. The last night she played—the\nnight you saw her—she acted badly because she had known the reality of\nlove. When she knew its unreality, she died, as Juliet might have died.\nShe passed again into the sphere of art. There is something of the\nmartyr about her. Her death has all the pathetic uselessness of\nmartyrdom, all its wasted beauty. But, as I was saying, you must not\nthink I have not suffered. If you had come in yesterday at a particular\nmoment—about half-past five, perhaps, or a quarter to six—you would\nhave found me in tears. Even Harry, who was here, who brought me the\nnews, in fact, had no idea what I was going through. I suffered\nimmensely. Then it passed away. I cannot repeat an emotion. No one can,\nexcept sentimentalists. And you are awfully unjust, Basil. You come\ndown here to console me. That is charming of you. You find me consoled,\nand you are furious. How like a sympathetic person! You remind me of a\nstory Harry told me about a certain philanthropist who spent twenty\nyears of his life in trying to get some grievance redressed, or some\nunjust law altered—I forget exactly what it was. Finally he succeeded,\nand nothing could exceed his disappointment. He had absolutely nothing\nto do, almost died of _ennui_, and became a confirmed misanthrope. And\nbesides, my dear old Basil, if you really want to console me, teach me\nrather to forget what has happened, or to see it from a proper artistic\npoint of view. Was it not Gautier who used to write about _la\nconsolation des arts_? I remember picking up a little vellum-covered\nbook in your studio one day and chancing on that delightful phrase.\nWell, I am not like that young man you told me of when we were down at\nMarlow together, the young man who used to say that yellow satin could\nconsole one for all the miseries of life. I love beautiful things that\none can touch and handle. Old brocades, green bronzes, lacquer-work,\ncarved ivories, exquisite surroundings, luxury, pomp—there is much to\nbe got from all these. But the artistic temperament that they create,\nor at any rate reveal, is still more to me. To become the spectator of\none’s own life, as Harry says, is to escape the suffering of life. I\nknow you are surprised at my talking to you like this. You have not\nrealized how I have developed. I was a schoolboy when you knew me. I am\na man now. I have new passions, new thoughts, new ideas. I am\ndifferent, but you must not like me less. I am changed, but you must\nalways be my friend. Of course, I am very fond of Harry. But I know\nthat you are better than he is. You are not stronger—you are too much\nafraid of life—but you are better. And how happy we used to be\ntogether! Don’t leave me, Basil, and don’t quarrel with me. I am what I\nam. There is nothing more to be said.”",
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    "text": "The painter felt strangely moved. The lad was infinitely dear to him,\nand his personality had been the great turning point in his art. He\ncould not bear the idea of reproaching him any more. After all, his\nindifference was probably merely a mood that would pass away. There was\nso much in him that was good, so much in him that was noble.\n\n“Well, Dorian,” he said at length, with a sad smile, “I won’t speak to\nyou again about this horrible thing, after to-day. I only trust your\nname won’t be mentioned in connection with it. The inquest is to take\nplace this afternoon. Have they summoned you?”\n\nDorian shook his head, and a look of annoyance passed over his face at\nthe mention of the word “inquest.” There was something so crude and\nvulgar about everything of the kind. “They don’t know my name,” he\nanswered.",
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    "text": "“But surely she did?”\n\n“Only my Christian name, and that I am quite sure she never mentioned\nto any one. She told me once that they were all rather curious to learn\nwho I was, and that she invariably told them my name was Prince\nCharming. It was pretty of her. You must do me a drawing of Sibyl,\nBasil. I should like to have something more of her than the memory of a\nfew kisses and some broken pathetic words.”\n\n“I will try and do something, Dorian, if it would please you. But you\nmust come and sit to me yourself again. I can’t get on without you.”\n\n“I can never sit to you again, Basil. It is impossible!” he exclaimed,\nstarting back.\n\nThe painter stared at him. “My dear boy, what nonsense!” he cried. “Do\nyou mean to say you don’t like what I did of you? Where is it? Why have\nyou pulled the screen in front of it? Let me look at it. It is the best\nthing I have ever done. Do take the screen away, Dorian. It is simply\ndisgraceful of your servant hiding my work like that. I felt the room\nlooked different as I came in.”",
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    "text": "“My servant has nothing to do with it, Basil. You don’t imagine I let\nhim arrange my room for me? He settles my flowers for me sometimes—that\nis all. No; I did it myself. The light was too strong on the portrait.”\n\n“Too strong! Surely not, my dear fellow? It is an admirable place for\nit. Let me see it.” And Hallward walked towards the corner of the room.\n\nA cry of terror broke from Dorian Gray’s lips, and he rushed between\nthe painter and the screen. “Basil,” he said, looking very pale, “you\nmust not look at it. I don’t wish you to.”\n\n“Not look at my own work! You are not serious. Why shouldn’t I look at\nit?” exclaimed Hallward, laughing.\n\n“If you try to look at it, Basil, on my word of honour I will never\nspeak to you again as long as I live. I am quite serious. I don’t offer\nany explanation, and you are not to ask for any. But, remember, if you\ntouch this screen, everything is over between us.”",
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    "text": "Hallward was thunderstruck. He looked at Dorian Gray in absolute\namazement. He had never seen him like this before. The lad was actually\npallid with rage. His hands were clenched, and the pupils of his eyes\nwere like disks of blue fire. He was trembling all over.\n\n“Dorian!”\n\n“Don’t speak!”\n\n“But what is the matter? Of course I won’t look at it if you don’t want\nme to,” he said, rather coldly, turning on his heel and going over\ntowards the window. “But, really, it seems rather absurd that I\nshouldn’t see my own work, especially as I am going to exhibit it in\nParis in the autumn. I shall probably have to give it another coat of\nvarnish before that, so I must see it some day, and why not to-day?”\n\n“To exhibit it! You want to exhibit it?” exclaimed Dorian Gray, a\nstrange sense of terror creeping over him. Was the world going to be\nshown his secret? Were people to gape at the mystery of his life? That\nwas impossible. Something—he did not know what—had to be done at once.",
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    "text": "“Yes; I don’t suppose you will object to that. Georges Petit is going\nto collect all my best pictures for a special exhibition in the Rue de\nSèze, which will open the first week in October. The portrait will only\nbe away a month. I should think you could easily spare it for that\ntime. In fact, you are sure to be out of town. And if you keep it\nalways behind a screen, you can’t care much about it.”\n\nDorian Gray passed his hand over his forehead. There were beads of\nperspiration there. He felt that he was on the brink of a horrible\ndanger. “You told me a month ago that you would never exhibit it,” he\ncried. “Why have you changed your mind? You people who go in for being\nconsistent have just as many moods as others have. The only difference\nis that your moods are rather meaningless. You can’t have forgotten\nthat you assured me most solemnly that nothing in the world would\ninduce you to send it to any exhibition. You told Harry exactly the\nsame thing.” He stopped suddenly, and a gleam of light came into his\neyes. He remembered that Lord Henry had said to him once, half\nseriously and half in jest, “If you want to have a strange quarter of\nan hour, get Basil to tell you why he won’t exhibit your picture. He\ntold me why he wouldn’t, and it was a revelation to me.” Yes, perhaps\nBasil, too, had his secret. He would ask him and try.",
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    "text": "“Basil,” he said, coming over quite close and looking him straight in\nthe face, “we have each of us a secret. Let me know yours, and I shall\ntell you mine. What was your reason for refusing to exhibit my\npicture?”\n\nThe painter shuddered in spite of himself. “Dorian, if I told you, you\nmight like me less than you do, and you would certainly laugh at me. I\ncould not bear your doing either of those two things. If you wish me\nnever to look at your picture again, I am content. I have always you to\nlook at. If you wish the best work I have ever done to be hidden from\nthe world, I am satisfied. Your friendship is dearer to me than any\nfame or reputation.”\n\n“No, Basil, you must tell me,” insisted Dorian Gray. “I think I have a\nright to know.” His feeling of terror had passed away, and curiosity\nhad taken its place. He was determined to find out Basil Hallward’s\nmystery.",
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    "text": "“Let us sit down, Dorian,” said the painter, looking troubled. “Let us\nsit down. And just answer me one question. Have you noticed in the\npicture something curious?—something that probably at first did not\nstrike you, but that revealed itself to you suddenly?”\n\n“Basil!” cried the lad, clutching the arms of his chair with trembling\nhands and gazing at him with wild startled eyes.\n\n“I see you did. Don’t speak. Wait till you hear what I have to say.\nDorian, from the moment I met you, your personality had the most\nextraordinary influence over me. I was dominated, soul, brain, and\npower, by you. You became to me the visible incarnation of that unseen\nideal whose memory haunts us artists like an exquisite dream. I\nworshipped you. I grew jealous of every one to whom you spoke. I wanted\nto have you all to myself. I was only happy when I was with you. When\nyou were away from me, you were still present in my art.... Of course,\nI never let you know anything about this. It would have been\nimpossible. You would not have understood it. I hardly understood it\nmyself. I only knew that I had seen perfection face to face, and that\nthe world had become wonderful to my eyes—too wonderful, perhaps, for\nin such mad worships there is peril, the peril of losing them, no less\nthan the peril of keeping them.... Weeks and weeks went on, and I grew\nmore and more absorbed in you. Then came a new development. I had drawn\nyou as Paris in dainty armour, and as Adonis with huntsman’s cloak and\npolished boar-spear. Crowned with heavy lotus-blossoms you had sat on\nthe prow of Adrian’s barge, gazing across the green turbid Nile. You\nhad leaned over the still pool of some Greek woodland and seen in the\nwater’s silent silver the marvel of your own face. And it had all been\nwhat art should be—unconscious, ideal, and remote. One day, a fatal day\nI sometimes think, I determined to paint a wonderful portrait of you as\nyou actually are, not in the costume of dead ages, but in your own\ndress and in your own time. Whether it was the realism of the method,\nor the mere wonder of your own personality, thus directly presented to\nme without mist or veil, I cannot tell. But I know that as I worked at\nit, every flake and film of colour seemed to me to reveal my secret. I\ngrew afraid that others would know of my idolatry. I felt, Dorian, that\nI had told too much, that I had put too much of myself into it. Then it\nwas that I resolved never to allow the picture to be exhibited. You\nwere a little annoyed; but then you did not realize all that it meant\nto me. Harry, to whom I talked about it, laughed at me. But I did not\nmind that. When the picture was finished, and I sat alone with it, I\nfelt that I was right.... Well, after a few days the thing left my\nstudio, and as soon as I had got rid of the intolerable fascination of\nits presence, it seemed to me that I had been foolish in imagining that\nI had seen anything in it, more than that you were extremely\ngood-looking and that I could paint. Even now I cannot help feeling\nthat it is a mistake to think that the passion one feels in creation is\never really shown in the work one creates. Art is always more abstract\nthan we fancy. Form and colour tell us of form and colour—that is all.\nIt often seems to me that art conceals the artist far more completely\nthan it ever reveals him. And so when I got this offer from Paris, I\ndetermined to make your portrait the principal thing in my exhibition.\nIt never occurred to me that you would refuse. I see now that you were\nright. The picture cannot be shown. You must not be angry with me,\nDorian, for what I have told you. As I said to Harry, once, you are\nmade to be worshipped.”",
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    "text": "Dorian Gray drew a long breath. The colour came back to his cheeks, and\na smile played about his lips. The peril was over. He was safe for the\ntime. Yet he could not help feeling infinite pity for the painter who\nhad just made this strange confession to him, and wondered if he\nhimself would ever be so dominated by the personality of a friend. Lord\nHenry had the charm of being very dangerous. But that was all. He was\ntoo clever and too cynical to be really fond of. Would there ever be\nsome one who would fill him with a strange idolatry? Was that one of\nthe things that life had in store?\n\n“It is extraordinary to me, Dorian,” said Hallward, “that you should\nhave seen this in the portrait. Did you really see it?”\n\n“I saw something in it,” he answered, “something that seemed to me very\ncurious.”",
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    "text": "“It is extraordinary to me, Dorian,” said Hallward, “that you should\nhave seen this in the portrait. Did you really see it?”\n\n“I saw something in it,” he answered, “something that seemed to me very\ncurious.”\n\n“Well, you don’t mind my looking at the thing now?”\n\nDorian shook his head. “You must not ask me that, Basil. I could not\npossibly let you stand in front of that picture.”\n\n“You will some day, surely?”\n\n“Never.”\n\n“Well, perhaps you are right. And now good-bye, Dorian. You have been\nthe one person in my life who has really influenced my art. Whatever I\nhave done that is good, I owe to you. Ah! you don’t know what it cost\nme to tell you all that I have told you.”\n\n“My dear Basil,” said Dorian, “what have you told me? Simply that you\nfelt that you admired me too much. That is not even a compliment.”",
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    "id": "dorian_chunk_191",
    "text": "“It was not intended as a compliment. It was a confession. Now that I\nhave made it, something seems to have gone out of me. Perhaps one\nshould never put one’s worship into words.”\n\n“It was a very disappointing confession.”\n\n“Why, what did you expect, Dorian? You didn’t see anything else in the\npicture, did you? There was nothing else to see?”\n\n“No; there was nothing else to see. Why do you ask? But you mustn’t\ntalk about worship. It is foolish. You and I are friends, Basil, and we\nmust always remain so.”\n\n“You have got Harry,” said the painter sadly.\n\n“Oh, Harry!” cried the lad, with a ripple of laughter. “Harry spends\nhis days in saying what is incredible and his evenings in doing what is\nimprobable. Just the sort of life I would like to lead. But still I\ndon’t think I would go to Harry if I were in trouble. I would sooner go\nto you, Basil.”",
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    "id": "dorian_chunk_192",
    "text": "“You will sit to me again?”\n\n“Impossible!”\n\n“You spoil my life as an artist by refusing, Dorian. No man comes\nacross two ideal things. Few come across one.”\n\n“I can’t explain it to you, Basil, but I must never sit to you again.\nThere is something fatal about a portrait. It has a life of its own. I\nwill come and have tea with you. That will be just as pleasant.”\n\n“Pleasanter for you, I am afraid,” murmured Hallward regretfully. “And\nnow good-bye. I am sorry you won’t let me look at the picture once\nagain. But that can’t be helped. I quite understand what you feel about\nit.”\n\nAs he left the room, Dorian Gray smiled to himself. Poor Basil! How\nlittle he knew of the true reason! And how strange it was that, instead\nof having been forced to reveal his own secret, he had succeeded,\nalmost by chance, in wresting a secret from his friend! How much that\nstrange confession explained to him! The painter’s absurd fits of\njealousy, his wild devotion, his extravagant panegyrics, his curious\nreticences—he understood them all now, and he felt sorry. There seemed\nto him to be something tragic in a friendship so coloured by romance.",
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    "text": "He sighed and touched the bell. The portrait must be hidden away at all\ncosts. He could not run such a risk of discovery again. It had been mad\nof him to have allowed the thing to remain, even for an hour, in a room\nto which any of his friends had access.\n\nCHAPTER X.\n\nWhen his servant entered, he looked at him steadfastly and wondered if\nhe had thought of peering behind the screen. The man was quite\nimpassive and waited for his orders. Dorian lit a cigarette and walked\nover to the glass and glanced into it. He could see the reflection of\nVictor’s face perfectly. It was like a placid mask of servility. There\nwas nothing to be afraid of, there. Yet he thought it best to be on his\nguard.\n\nSpeaking very slowly, he told him to tell the house-keeper that he\nwanted to see her, and then to go to the frame-maker and ask him to\nsend two of his men round at once. It seemed to him that as the man\nleft the room his eyes wandered in the direction of the screen. Or was\nthat merely his own fancy?",
    "meta": {
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      "para_idx_end": 806,
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    "id": "dorian_chunk_194",
    "text": "After a few moments, in her black silk dress, with old-fashioned thread\nmittens on her wrinkled hands, Mrs. Leaf bustled into the library. He\nasked her for the key of the schoolroom.\n\n“The old schoolroom, Mr. Dorian?” she exclaimed. “Why, it is full of\ndust. I must get it arranged and put straight before you go into it. It\nis not fit for you to see, sir. It is not, indeed.”\n\n“I don’t want it put straight, Leaf. I only want the key.”\n\n“Well, sir, you’ll be covered with cobwebs if you go into it. Why, it\nhasn’t been opened for nearly five years—not since his lordship died.”\n\nHe winced at the mention of his grandfather. He had hateful memories of\nhim. “That does not matter,” he answered. “I simply want to see the\nplace—that is all. Give me the key.”\n\n“And here is the key, sir,” said the old lady, going over the contents\nof her bunch with tremulously uncertain hands. “Here is the key. I’ll\nhave it off the bunch in a moment. But you don’t think of living up\nthere, sir, and you so comfortable here?”",
    "meta": {
      "book": "dorian",
      "para_idx_start": 807,
      "para_idx_end": 812,
      "char_count": 1008
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  {
    "id": "dorian_chunk_195",
    "text": "“No, no,” he cried petulantly. “Thank you, Leaf. That will do.”\n\nShe lingered for a few moments, and was garrulous over some detail of\nthe household. He sighed and told her to manage things as she thought\nbest. She left the room, wreathed in smiles.\n\nAs the door closed, Dorian put the key in his pocket and looked round\nthe room. His eye fell on a large, purple satin coverlet heavily\nembroidered with gold, a splendid piece of late seventeenth-century\nVenetian work that his grandfather had found in a convent near Bologna.\nYes, that would serve to wrap the dreadful thing in. It had perhaps\nserved often as a pall for the dead. Now it was to hide something that\nhad a corruption of its own, worse than the corruption of death\nitself—something that would breed horrors and yet would never die. What\nthe worm was to the corpse, his sins would be to the painted image on\nthe canvas. They would mar its beauty and eat away its grace. They\nwould defile it and make it shameful. And yet the thing would still\nlive on. It would be always alive.",
    "meta": {
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    "id": "dorian_chunk_196",
    "text": "He shuddered, and for a moment he regretted that he had not told Basil\nthe true reason why he had wished to hide the picture away. Basil would\nhave helped him to resist Lord Henry’s influence, and the still more\npoisonous influences that came from his own temperament. The love that\nhe bore him—for it was really love—had nothing in it that was not noble\nand intellectual. It was not that mere physical admiration of beauty\nthat is born of the senses and that dies when the senses tire. It was\nsuch love as Michelangelo had known, and Montaigne, and Winckelmann,\nand Shakespeare himself. Yes, Basil could have saved him. But it was\ntoo late now. The past could always be annihilated. Regret, denial, or\nforgetfulness could do that. But the future was inevitable. There were\npassions in him that would find their terrible outlet, dreams that\nwould make the shadow of their evil real.",
    "meta": {
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    "id": "dorian_chunk_197",
    "text": "He took up from the couch the great purple-and-gold texture that\ncovered it, and, holding it in his hands, passed behind the screen. Was\nthe face on the canvas viler than before? It seemed to him that it was\nunchanged, and yet his loathing of it was intensified. Gold hair, blue\neyes, and rose-red lips—they all were there. It was simply the\nexpression that had altered. That was horrible in its cruelty. Compared\nto what he saw in it of censure or rebuke, how shallow Basil’s\nreproaches about Sibyl Vane had been!—how shallow, and of what little\naccount! His own soul was looking out at him from the canvas and\ncalling him to judgement. A look of pain came across him, and he flung\nthe rich pall over the picture. As he did so, a knock came to the door.\nHe passed out as his servant entered.\n\n“The persons are here, Monsieur.”",
    "meta": {
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      "para_idx_end": 818,
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    "id": "dorian_chunk_198",
    "text": "He felt that the man must be got rid of at once. He must not be allowed\nto know where the picture was being taken to. There was something sly\nabout him, and he had thoughtful, treacherous eyes. Sitting down at the\nwriting-table he scribbled a note to Lord Henry, asking him to send him\nround something to read and reminding him that they were to meet at\neight-fifteen that evening.\n\n“Wait for an answer,” he said, handing it to him, “and show the men in\nhere.”\n\nIn two or three minutes there was another knock, and Mr. Hubbard\nhimself, the celebrated frame-maker of South Audley Street, came in\nwith a somewhat rough-looking young assistant. Mr. Hubbard was a\nflorid, red-whiskered little man, whose admiration for art was\nconsiderably tempered by the inveterate impecuniosity of most of the\nartists who dealt with him. As a rule, he never left his shop. He\nwaited for people to come to him. But he always made an exception in\nfavour of Dorian Gray. There was something about Dorian that charmed\neverybody. It was a pleasure even to see him.",
    "meta": {
      "book": "dorian",
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      "para_idx_end": 821,
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  {
    "id": "dorian_chunk_199",
    "text": "“What can I do for you, Mr. Gray?” he said, rubbing his fat freckled\nhands. “I thought I would do myself the honour of coming round in\nperson. I have just got a beauty of a frame, sir. Picked it up at a\nsale. Old Florentine. Came from Fonthill, I believe. Admirably suited\nfor a religious subject, Mr. Gray.”\n\n“I am so sorry you have given yourself the trouble of coming round, Mr.\nHubbard. I shall certainly drop in and look at the frame—though I don’t\ngo in much at present for religious art—but to-day I only want a\npicture carried to the top of the house for me. It is rather heavy, so\nI thought I would ask you to lend me a couple of your men.”\n\n“No trouble at all, Mr. Gray. I am delighted to be of any service to\nyou. Which is the work of art, sir?”\n\n“This,” replied Dorian, moving the screen back. “Can you move it,\ncovering and all, just as it is? I don’t want it to get scratched going\nupstairs.”",
    "meta": {
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    "id": "dorian_chunk_200",
    "text": "“There will be no difficulty, sir,” said the genial frame-maker,\nbeginning, with the aid of his assistant, to unhook the picture from\nthe long brass chains by which it was suspended. “And, now, where shall\nwe carry it to, Mr. Gray?”\n\n“I will show you the way, Mr. Hubbard, if you will kindly follow me. Or\nperhaps you had better go in front. I am afraid it is right at the top\nof the house. We will go up by the front staircase, as it is wider.”\n\nHe held the door open for them, and they passed out into the hall and\nbegan the ascent. The elaborate character of the frame had made the\npicture extremely bulky, and now and then, in spite of the obsequious\nprotests of Mr. Hubbard, who had the true tradesman’s spirited dislike\nof seeing a gentleman doing anything useful, Dorian put his hand to it\nso as to help them.",
    "meta": {
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    "id": "dorian_chunk_201",
    "text": "“Something of a load to carry, sir,” gasped the little man when they\nreached the top landing. And he wiped his shiny forehead.\n\n“I am afraid it is rather heavy,” murmured Dorian as he unlocked the\ndoor that opened into the room that was to keep for him the curious\nsecret of his life and hide his soul from the eyes of men.\n\nHe had not entered the place for more than four years—not, indeed,\nsince he had used it first as a play-room when he was a child, and then\nas a study when he grew somewhat older. It was a large,\nwell-proportioned room, which had been specially built by the last Lord\nKelso for the use of the little grandson whom, for his strange likeness\nto his mother, and also for other reasons, he had always hated and\ndesired to keep at a distance. It appeared to Dorian to have but little\nchanged. There was the huge Italian _cassone_, with its fantastically\npainted panels and its tarnished gilt mouldings, in which he had so\noften hidden himself as a boy. There the satinwood book-case filled\nwith his dog-eared schoolbooks. On the wall behind it was hanging the\nsame ragged Flemish tapestry where a faded king and queen were playing\nchess in a garden, while a company of hawkers rode by, carrying hooded\nbirds on their gauntleted wrists. How well he remembered it all! Every\nmoment of his lonely childhood came back to him as he looked round. He\nrecalled the stainless purity of his boyish life, and it seemed\nhorrible to him that it was here the fatal portrait was to be hidden\naway. How little he had thought, in those dead days, of all that was in\nstore for him!",
    "meta": {
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    "id": "dorian_chunk_202",
    "text": "But there was no other place in the house so secure from prying eyes as\nthis. He had the key, and no one else could enter it. Beneath its\npurple pall, the face painted on the canvas could grow bestial, sodden,\nand unclean. What did it matter? No one could see it. He himself would\nnot see it. Why should he watch the hideous corruption of his soul? He\nkept his youth—that was enough. And, besides, might not his nature grow\nfiner, after all? There was no reason that the future should be so full\nof shame. Some love might come across his life, and purify him, and\nshield him from those sins that seemed to be already stirring in spirit\nand in flesh—those curious unpictured sins whose very mystery lent them\ntheir subtlety and their charm. Perhaps, some day, the cruel look would\nhave passed away from the scarlet sensitive mouth, and he might show to\nthe world Basil Hallward’s masterpiece.",
    "meta": {
      "book": "dorian",
      "para_idx_start": 832,
      "para_idx_end": 832,
      "char_count": 891
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    "id": "dorian_chunk_203",
    "text": "No; that was impossible. Hour by hour, and week by week, the thing upon\nthe canvas was growing old. It might escape the hideousness of sin, but\nthe hideousness of age was in store for it. The cheeks would become\nhollow or flaccid. Yellow crow’s feet would creep round the fading eyes\nand make them horrible. The hair would lose its brightness, the mouth\nwould gape or droop, would be foolish or gross, as the mouths of old\nmen are. There would be the wrinkled throat, the cold, blue-veined\nhands, the twisted body, that he remembered in the grandfather who had\nbeen so stern to him in his boyhood. The picture had to be concealed.\nThere was no help for it.\n\n“Bring it in, Mr. Hubbard, please,” he said, wearily, turning round. “I\nam sorry I kept you so long. I was thinking of something else.”\n\n“Always glad to have a rest, Mr. Gray,” answered the frame-maker, who\nwas still gasping for breath. “Where shall we put it, sir?”",
    "meta": {
      "book": "dorian",
      "para_idx_start": 833,
      "para_idx_end": 835,
      "char_count": 924
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    "id": "dorian_chunk_204",
    "text": "“Oh, anywhere. Here: this will do. I don’t want to have it hung up.\nJust lean it against the wall. Thanks.”\n\n“Might one look at the work of art, sir?”\n\nDorian started. “It would not interest you, Mr. Hubbard,” he said,\nkeeping his eye on the man. He felt ready to leap upon him and fling\nhim to the ground if he dared to lift the gorgeous hanging that\nconcealed the secret of his life. “I shan’t trouble you any more now. I\nam much obliged for your kindness in coming round.”\n\n“Not at all, not at all, Mr. Gray. Ever ready to do anything for you,\nsir.” And Mr. Hubbard tramped downstairs, followed by the assistant,\nwho glanced back at Dorian with a look of shy wonder in his rough\nuncomely face. He had never seen any one so marvellous.\n\nWhen the sound of their footsteps had died away, Dorian locked the door\nand put the key in his pocket. He felt safe now. No one would ever look\nupon the horrible thing. No eye but his would ever see his shame.",
    "meta": {
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    "id": "dorian_chunk_205",
    "text": "On reaching the library, he found that it was just after five o’clock\nand that the tea had been already brought up. On a little table of dark\nperfumed wood thickly incrusted with nacre, a present from Lady Radley,\nhis guardian’s wife, a pretty professional invalid, who had spent the\npreceding winter in Cairo, was lying a note from Lord Henry, and beside\nit was a book bound in yellow paper, the cover slightly torn and the\nedges soiled. A copy of the third edition of _The St. James’s Gazette_\nhad been placed on the tea-tray. It was evident that Victor had\nreturned. He wondered if he had met the men in the hall as they were\nleaving the house and had wormed out of them what they had been doing.\nHe would be sure to miss the picture—had no doubt missed it already,\nwhile he had been laying the tea-things. The screen had not been set\nback, and a blank space was visible on the wall. Perhaps some night he\nmight find him creeping upstairs and trying to force the door of the\nroom. It was a horrible thing to have a spy in one’s house. He had\nheard of rich men who had been blackmailed all their lives by some\nservant who had read a letter, or overheard a conversation, or picked\nup a card with an address, or found beneath a pillow a withered flower\nor a shred of crumpled lace.",
    "meta": {
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    "id": "dorian_chunk_206",
    "text": "He sighed, and having poured himself out some tea, opened Lord Henry’s\nnote. It was simply to say that he sent him round the evening paper,\nand a book that might interest him, and that he would be at the club at\neight-fifteen. He opened _The St. James’s_ languidly, and looked\nthrough it. A red pencil-mark on the fifth page caught his eye. It drew\nattention to the following paragraph:\n\nINQUEST ON AN ACTRESS.—An inquest was held this morning at the Bell\nTavern, Hoxton Road, by Mr. Danby, the District Coroner, on the body of\nSibyl Vane, a young actress recently engaged at the Royal Theatre,\nHolborn. A verdict of death by misadventure was returned. Considerable\nsympathy was expressed for the mother of the deceased, who was greatly\naffected during the giving of her own evidence, and that of Dr.\nBirrell, who had made the post-mortem examination of the deceased.",
    "meta": {
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    "id": "dorian_chunk_207",
    "text": "He frowned, and tearing the paper in two, went across the room and\nflung the pieces away. How ugly it all was! And how horribly real\nugliness made things! He felt a little annoyed with Lord Henry for\nhaving sent him the report. And it was certainly stupid of him to have\nmarked it with red pencil. Victor might have read it. The man knew more\nthan enough English for that.\n\nPerhaps he had read it and had begun to suspect something. And, yet,\nwhat did it matter? What had Dorian Gray to do with Sibyl Vane’s death?\nThere was nothing to fear. Dorian Gray had not killed her.\n\nHis eye fell on the yellow book that Lord Henry had sent him. What was\nit, he wondered. He went towards the little, pearl-coloured octagonal\nstand that had always looked to him like the work of some strange\nEgyptian bees that wrought in silver, and taking up the volume, flung\nhimself into an arm-chair and began to turn over the leaves. After a\nfew minutes he became absorbed. It was the strangest book that he had\never read. It seemed to him that in exquisite raiment, and to the\ndelicate sound of flutes, the sins of the world were passing in dumb\nshow before him. Things that he had dimly dreamed of were suddenly made\nreal to him. Things of which he had never dreamed were gradually\nrevealed.",
    "meta": {
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    "id": "dorian_chunk_208",
    "text": "It was a novel without a plot and with only one character, being,\nindeed, simply a psychological study of a certain young Parisian who\nspent his life trying to realize in the nineteenth century all the\npassions and modes of thought that belonged to every century except his\nown, and to sum up, as it were, in himself the various moods through\nwhich the world-spirit had ever passed, loving for their mere\nartificiality those renunciations that men have unwisely called virtue,\nas much as those natural rebellions that wise men still call sin. The\nstyle in which it was written was that curious jewelled style, vivid\nand obscure at once, full of _argot_ and of archaisms, of technical\nexpressions and of elaborate paraphrases, that characterizes the work\nof some of the finest artists of the French school of _Symbolistes_.\nThere were in it metaphors as monstrous as orchids and as subtle in\ncolour. The life of the senses was described in the terms of mystical\nphilosophy. One hardly knew at times whether one was reading the\nspiritual ecstasies of some mediæval saint or the morbid confessions of\na modern sinner. It was a poisonous book. The heavy odour of incense\nseemed to cling about its pages and to trouble the brain. The mere\ncadence of the sentences, the subtle monotony of their music, so full\nas it was of complex refrains and movements elaborately repeated,\nproduced in the mind of the lad, as he passed from chapter to chapter,\na form of reverie, a malady of dreaming, that made him unconscious of\nthe falling day and creeping shadows.",
    "meta": {
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    "id": "dorian_chunk_209",
    "text": "Cloudless, and pierced by one solitary star, a copper-green sky gleamed\nthrough the windows. He read on by its wan light till he could read no\nmore. Then, after his valet had reminded him several times of the\nlateness of the hour, he got up, and going into the next room, placed\nthe book on the little Florentine table that always stood at his\nbedside and began to dress for dinner.\n\nIt was almost nine o’clock before he reached the club, where he found\nLord Henry sitting alone, in the morning-room, looking very much bored.\n\n“I am so sorry, Harry,” he cried, “but really it is entirely your\nfault. That book you sent me so fascinated me that I forgot how the\ntime was going.”\n\n“Yes, I thought you would like it,” replied his host, rising from his\nchair.\n\n“I didn’t say I liked it, Harry. I said it fascinated me. There is a\ngreat difference.”",
    "meta": {
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      "para_idx_end": 852,
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  {
    "id": "dorian_chunk_210",
    "text": "“Yes, I thought you would like it,” replied his host, rising from his\nchair.\n\n“I didn’t say I liked it, Harry. I said it fascinated me. There is a\ngreat difference.”\n\n“Ah, you have discovered that?” murmured Lord Henry. And they passed\ninto the dining-room.\n\nCHAPTER XI.\n\nFor years, Dorian Gray could not free himself from the influence of\nthis book. Or perhaps it would be more accurate to say that he never\nsought to free himself from it. He procured from Paris no less than\nnine large-paper copies of the first edition, and had them bound in\ndifferent colours, so that they might suit his various moods and the\nchanging fancies of a nature over which he seemed, at times, to have\nalmost entirely lost control. The hero, the wonderful young Parisian in\nwhom the romantic and the scientific temperaments were so strangely\nblended, became to him a kind of prefiguring type of himself. And,\nindeed, the whole book seemed to him to contain the story of his own\nlife, written before he had lived it.",
    "meta": {
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      "para_idx_end": 855,
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    "id": "dorian_chunk_211",
    "text": "In one point he was more fortunate than the novel’s fantastic hero. He\nnever knew—never, indeed, had any cause to know—that somewhat grotesque\ndread of mirrors, and polished metal surfaces, and still water which\ncame upon the young Parisian so early in his life, and was occasioned\nby the sudden decay of a beau that had once, apparently, been so\nremarkable. It was with an almost cruel joy—and perhaps in nearly every\njoy, as certainly in every pleasure, cruelty has its place—that he used\nto read the latter part of the book, with its really tragic, if\nsomewhat overemphasized, account of the sorrow and despair of one who\nhad himself lost what in others, and the world, he had most dearly\nvalued.\n\nFor the wonderful beauty that had so fascinated Basil Hallward, and\nmany others besides him, seemed never to leave him. Even those who had\nheard the most evil things against him—and from time to time strange\nrumours about his mode of life crept through London and became the\nchatter of the clubs—could not believe anything to his dishonour when\nthey saw him. He had always the look of one who had kept himself\nunspotted from the world. Men who talked grossly became silent when\nDorian Gray entered the room. There was something in the purity of his\nface that rebuked them. His mere presence seemed to recall to them the\nmemory of the innocence that they had tarnished. They wondered how one\nso charming and graceful as he was could have escaped the stain of an\nage that was at once sordid and sensual.",
    "meta": {
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    "id": "dorian_chunk_212",
    "text": "Often, on returning home from one of those mysterious and prolonged\nabsences that gave rise to such strange conjecture among those who were\nhis friends, or thought that they were so, he himself would creep\nupstairs to the locked room, open the door with the key that never left\nhim now, and stand, with a mirror, in front of the portrait that Basil\nHallward had painted of him, looking now at the evil and aging face on\nthe canvas, and now at the fair young face that laughed back at him\nfrom the polished glass. The very sharpness of the contrast used to\nquicken his sense of pleasure. He grew more and more enamoured of his\nown beauty, more and more interested in the corruption of his own soul.\nHe would examine with minute care, and sometimes with a monstrous and\nterrible delight, the hideous lines that seared the wrinkling forehead\nor crawled around the heavy sensual mouth, wondering sometimes which\nwere the more horrible, the signs of sin or the signs of age. He would\nplace his white hands beside the coarse bloated hands of the picture,\nand smile. He mocked the misshapen body and the failing limbs.",
    "meta": {
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  {
    "id": "dorian_chunk_213",
    "text": "There were moments, indeed, at night, when, lying sleepless in his own\ndelicately scented chamber, or in the sordid room of the little\nill-famed tavern near the docks which, under an assumed name and in\ndisguise, it was his habit to frequent, he would think of the ruin he\nhad brought upon his soul with a pity that was all the more poignant\nbecause it was purely selfish. But moments such as these were rare.\nThat curiosity about life which Lord Henry had first stirred in him, as\nthey sat together in the garden of their friend, seemed to increase\nwith gratification. The more he knew, the more he desired to know. He\nhad mad hungers that grew more ravenous as he fed them.\n\nYet he was not really reckless, at any rate in his relations to\nsociety. Once or twice every month during the winter, and on each\nWednesday evening while the season lasted, he would throw open to the\nworld his beautiful house and have the most celebrated musicians of the\nday to charm his guests with the wonders of their art. His little\ndinners, in the settling of which Lord Henry always assisted him, were\nnoted as much for the careful selection and placing of those invited,\nas for the exquisite taste shown in the decoration of the table, with\nits subtle symphonic arrangements of exotic flowers, and embroidered\ncloths, and antique plate of gold and silver. Indeed, there were many,\nespecially among the very young men, who saw, or fancied that they saw,\nin Dorian Gray the true realization of a type of which they had often\ndreamed in Eton or Oxford days, a type that was to combine something of\nthe real culture of the scholar with all the grace and distinction and\nperfect manner of a citizen of the world. To them he seemed to be of\nthe company of those whom Dante describes as having sought to “make\nthemselves perfect by the worship of beauty.” Like Gautier, he was one\nfor whom “the visible world existed.”",
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    "id": "dorian_chunk_214",
    "text": "And, certainly, to him life itself was the first, the greatest, of the\narts, and for it all the other arts seemed to be but a preparation.\nFashion, by which what is really fantastic becomes for a moment\nuniversal, and dandyism, which, in its own way, is an attempt to assert\nthe absolute modernity of beauty, had, of course, their fascination for\nhim. His mode of dressing, and the particular styles that from time to\ntime he affected, had their marked influence on the young exquisites of\nthe Mayfair balls and Pall Mall club windows, who copied him in\neverything that he did, and tried to reproduce the accidental charm of\nhis graceful, though to him only half-serious, fopperies.\n\nFor, while he was but too ready to accept the position that was almost\nimmediately offered to him on his coming of age, and found, indeed, a\nsubtle pleasure in the thought that he might really become to the\nLondon of his own day what to imperial Neronian Rome the author of the\nSatyricon once had been, yet in his inmost heart he desired to be\nsomething more than a mere _arbiter elegantiarum_, to be consulted on\nthe wearing of a jewel, or the knotting of a necktie, or the conduct of\na cane. He sought to elaborate some new scheme of life that would have\nits reasoned philosophy and its ordered principles, and find in the\nspiritualizing of the senses its highest realization.",
    "meta": {
      "book": "dorian",
      "para_idx_start": 861,
      "para_idx_end": 862,
      "char_count": 1362
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    "id": "dorian_chunk_215",
    "text": "The worship of the senses has often, and with much justice, been\ndecried, men feeling a natural instinct of terror about passions and\nsensations that seem stronger than themselves, and that they are\nconscious of sharing with the less highly organized forms of existence.\nBut it appeared to Dorian Gray that the true nature of the senses had\nnever been understood, and that they had remained savage and animal\nmerely because the world had sought to starve them into submission or\nto kill them by pain, instead of aiming at making them elements of a\nnew spirituality, of which a fine instinct for beauty was to be the\ndominant characteristic. As he looked back upon man moving through\nhistory, he was haunted by a feeling of loss. So much had been\nsurrendered! and to such little purpose! There had been mad wilful\nrejections, monstrous forms of self-torture and self-denial, whose\norigin was fear and whose result was a degradation infinitely more\nterrible than that fancied degradation from which, in their ignorance,\nthey had sought to escape; Nature, in her wonderful irony, driving out\nthe anchorite to feed with the wild animals of the desert and giving to\nthe hermit the beasts of the field as his companions.",
    "meta": {
      "book": "dorian",
      "para_idx_start": 863,
      "para_idx_end": 863,
      "char_count": 1214
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  },
  {
    "id": "dorian_chunk_216",
    "text": "Yes: there was to be, as Lord Henry had prophesied, a new Hedonism that\nwas to recreate life and to save it from that harsh uncomely puritanism\nthat is having, in our own day, its curious revival. It was to have its\nservice of the intellect, certainly, yet it was never to accept any\ntheory or system that would involve the sacrifice of any mode of\npassionate experience. Its aim, indeed, was to be experience itself,\nand not the fruits of experience, sweet or bitter as they might be. Of\nthe asceticism that deadens the senses, as of the vulgar profligacy\nthat dulls them, it was to know nothing. But it was to teach man to\nconcentrate himself upon the moments of a life that is itself but a\nmoment.\n\nThere are few of us who have not sometimes wakened before dawn, either\nafter one of those dreamless nights that make us almost enamoured of\ndeath, or one of those nights of horror and misshapen joy, when through\nthe chambers of the brain sweep phantoms more terrible than reality\nitself, and instinct with that vivid life that lurks in all grotesques,\nand that lends to Gothic art its enduring vitality, this art being, one\nmight fancy, especially the art of those whose minds have been troubled\nwith the malady of reverie. Gradually white fingers creep through the\ncurtains, and they appear to tremble. In black fantastic shapes, dumb\nshadows crawl into the corners of the room and crouch there. Outside,\nthere is the stirring of birds among the leaves, or the sound of men\ngoing forth to their work, or the sigh and sob of the wind coming down\nfrom the hills and wandering round the silent house, as though it\nfeared to wake the sleepers and yet must needs call forth sleep from\nher purple cave. Veil after veil of thin dusky gauze is lifted, and by\ndegrees the forms and colours of things are restored to them, and we\nwatch the dawn remaking the world in its antique pattern. The wan\nmirrors get back their mimic life. The flameless tapers stand where we\nhad left them, and beside them lies the half-cut book that we had been\nstudying, or the wired flower that we had worn at the ball, or the\nletter that we had been afraid to read, or that we had read too often.\nNothing seems to us changed. Out of the unreal shadows of the night\ncomes back the real life that we had known. We have to resume it where\nwe had left off, and there steals over us a terrible sense of the\nnecessity for the continuance of energy in the same wearisome round of\nstereotyped habits, or a wild longing, it may be, that our eyelids\nmight open some morning upon a world that had been refashioned anew in\nthe darkness for our pleasure, a world in which things would have fresh\nshapes and colours, and be changed, or have other secrets, a world in\nwhich the past would have little or no place, or survive, at any rate,\nin no conscious form of obligation or regret, the remembrance even of\njoy having its bitterness and the memories of pleasure their pain.",
    "meta": {
      "book": "dorian",
      "para_idx_start": 864,
      "para_idx_end": 865,
      "char_count": 2932
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  },
  {
    "id": "dorian_chunk_217",
    "text": "It was the creation of such worlds as these that seemed to Dorian Gray\nto be the true object, or amongst the true objects, of life; and in his\nsearch for sensations that would be at once new and delightful, and\npossess that element of strangeness that is so essential to romance, he\nwould often adopt certain modes of thought that he knew to be really\nalien to his nature, abandon himself to their subtle influences, and\nthen, having, as it were, caught their colour and satisfied his\nintellectual curiosity, leave them with that curious indifference that\nis not incompatible with a real ardour of temperament, and that,\nindeed, according to certain modern psychologists, is often a condition\nof it.\n\nIt was rumoured of him once that he was about to join the Roman\nCatholic communion, and certainly the Roman ritual had always a great\nattraction for him. The daily sacrifice, more awful really than all the\nsacrifices of the antique world, stirred him as much by its superb\nrejection of the evidence of the senses as by the primitive simplicity\nof its elements and the eternal pathos of the human tragedy that it\nsought to symbolize. He loved to kneel down on the cold marble pavement\nand watch the priest, in his stiff flowered dalmatic, slowly and with\nwhite hands moving aside the veil of the tabernacle, or raising aloft\nthe jewelled, lantern-shaped monstrance with that pallid wafer that at\ntimes, one would fain think, is indeed the “_panis cælestis_,” the\nbread of angels, or, robed in the garments of the Passion of Christ,\nbreaking the Host into the chalice and smiting his breast for his sins.\nThe fuming censers that the grave boys, in their lace and scarlet,\ntossed into the air like great gilt flowers had their subtle\nfascination for him. As he passed out, he used to look with wonder at\nthe black confessionals and long to sit in the dim shadow of one of\nthem and listen to men and women whispering through the worn grating\nthe true story of their lives.",
    "meta": {
      "book": "dorian",
      "para_idx_start": 866,
      "para_idx_end": 867,
      "char_count": 1969
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  },
  {
    "id": "dorian_chunk_218",
    "text": "But he never fell into the error of arresting his intellectual\ndevelopment by any formal acceptance of creed or system, or of\nmistaking, for a house in which to live, an inn that is but suitable\nfor the sojourn of a night, or for a few hours of a night in which\nthere are no stars and the moon is in travail. Mysticism, with its\nmarvellous power of making common things strange to us, and the subtle\nantinomianism that always seems to accompany it, moved him for a\nseason; and for a season he inclined to the materialistic doctrines of\nthe _Darwinismus_ movement in Germany, and found a curious pleasure in\ntracing the thoughts and passions of men to some pearly cell in the\nbrain, or some white nerve in the body, delighting in the conception of\nthe absolute dependence of the spirit on certain physical conditions,\nmorbid or healthy, normal or diseased. Yet, as has been said of him\nbefore, no theory of life seemed to him to be of any importance\ncompared with life itself. He felt keenly conscious of how barren all\nintellectual speculation is when separated from action and experiment.\nHe knew that the senses, no less than the soul, have their spiritual\nmysteries to reveal.",
    "meta": {
      "book": "dorian",
      "para_idx_start": 868,
      "para_idx_end": 868,
      "char_count": 1179
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  },
  {
    "id": "dorian_chunk_219",
    "text": "And so he would now study perfumes and the secrets of their\nmanufacture, distilling heavily scented oils and burning odorous gums\nfrom the East. He saw that there was no mood of the mind that had not\nits counterpart in the sensuous life, and set himself to discover their\ntrue relations, wondering what there was in frankincense that made one\nmystical, and in ambergris that stirred one’s passions, and in violets\nthat woke the memory of dead romances, and in musk that troubled the\nbrain, and in champak that stained the imagination; and seeking often\nto elaborate a real psychology of perfumes, and to estimate the several\ninfluences of sweet-smelling roots and scented, pollen-laden flowers;\nof aromatic balms and of dark and fragrant woods; of spikenard, that\nsickens; of hovenia, that makes men mad; and of aloes, that are said to\nbe able to expel melancholy from the soul.",
    "meta": {
      "book": "dorian",
      "para_idx_start": 869,
      "para_idx_end": 869,
      "char_count": 878
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  },
  {
    "id": "dorian_chunk_220",
    "text": "At another time he devoted himself entirely to music, and in a long\nlatticed room, with a vermilion-and-gold ceiling and walls of\nolive-green lacquer, he used to give curious concerts in which mad\ngipsies tore wild music from little zithers, or grave, yellow-shawled\nTunisians plucked at the strained strings of monstrous lutes, while\ngrinning Negroes beat monotonously upon copper drums and, crouching\nupon scarlet mats, slim turbaned Indians blew through long pipes of\nreed or brass and charmed—or feigned to charm—great hooded snakes and\nhorrible horned adders. The harsh intervals and shrill discords of\nbarbaric music stirred him at times when Schubert’s grace, and Chopin’s\nbeautiful sorrows, and the mighty harmonies of Beethoven himself, fell\nunheeded on his ear. He collected together from all parts of the world\nthe strangest instruments that could be found, either in the tombs of\ndead nations or among the few savage tribes that have survived contact\nwith Western civilizations, and loved to touch and try them. He had the\nmysterious _juruparis_ of the Rio Negro Indians, that women are not\nallowed to look at and that even youths may not see till they have been\nsubjected to fasting and scourging, and the earthen jars of the\nPeruvians that have the shrill cries of birds, and flutes of human\nbones such as Alfonso de Ovalle heard in Chile, and the sonorous green\njaspers that are found near Cuzco and give forth a note of singular\nsweetness. He had painted gourds filled with pebbles that rattled when\nthey were shaken; the long _clarin_ of the Mexicans, into which the\nperformer does not blow, but through which he inhales the air; the\nharsh _ture_ of the Amazon tribes, that is sounded by the sentinels who\nsit all day long in high trees, and can be heard, it is said, at a\ndistance of three leagues; the _teponaztli_, that has two vibrating\ntongues of wood and is beaten with sticks that are smeared with an\nelastic gum obtained from the milky juice of plants; the _yotl_-bells\nof the Aztecs, that are hung in clusters like grapes; and a huge\ncylindrical drum, covered with the skins of great serpents, like the\none that Bernal Diaz saw when he went with Cortes into the Mexican\ntemple, and of whose doleful sound he has left us so vivid a\ndescription. The fantastic character of these instruments fascinated\nhim, and he felt a curious delight in the thought that art, like\nNature, has her monsters, things of bestial shape and with hideous\nvoices. Yet, after some time, he wearied of them, and would sit in his\nbox at the opera, either alone or with Lord Henry, listening in rapt\npleasure to “Tannhauser” and seeing in the prelude to that great work\nof art a presentation of the tragedy of his own soul.",
    "meta": {
      "book": "dorian",
      "para_idx_start": 870,
      "para_idx_end": 870,
      "char_count": 2721
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  },
  {
    "id": "dorian_chunk_221",
    "text": "On one occasion he took up the study of jewels, and appeared at a\ncostume ball as Anne de Joyeuse, Admiral of France, in a dress covered\nwith five hundred and sixty pearls. This taste enthralled him for\nyears, and, indeed, may be said never to have left him. He would often\nspend a whole day settling and resettling in their cases the various\nstones that he had collected, such as the olive-green chrysoberyl that\nturns red by lamplight, the cymophane with its wirelike line of silver,\nthe pistachio-coloured peridot, rose-pink and wine-yellow topazes,\ncarbuncles of fiery scarlet with tremulous, four-rayed stars, flame-red\ncinnamon-stones, orange and violet spinels, and amethysts with their\nalternate layers of ruby and sapphire. He loved the red gold of the\nsunstone, and the moonstone’s pearly whiteness, and the broken rainbow\nof the milky opal. He procured from Amsterdam three emeralds of\nextraordinary size and richness of colour, and had a turquoise _de la\nvieille roche_ that was the envy of all the connoisseurs.",
    "meta": {
      "book": "dorian",
      "para_idx_start": 871,
      "para_idx_end": 871,
      "char_count": 1024
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  },
  {
    "id": "dorian_chunk_222",
    "text": "He discovered wonderful stories, also, about jewels. In Alphonso’s\nClericalis Disciplina a serpent was mentioned with eyes of real\njacinth, and in the romantic history of Alexander, the Conqueror of\nEmathia was said to have found in the vale of Jordan snakes “with\ncollars of real emeralds growing on their backs.” There was a gem in\nthe brain of the dragon, Philostratus told us, and “by the exhibition\nof golden letters and a scarlet robe” the monster could be thrown into\na magical sleep and slain. According to the great alchemist, Pierre de\nBoniface, the diamond rendered a man invisible, and the agate of India\nmade him eloquent. The cornelian appeased anger, and the hyacinth\nprovoked sleep, and the amethyst drove away the fumes of wine. The\ngarnet cast out demons, and the hydropicus deprived the moon of her\ncolour. The selenite waxed and waned with the moon, and the meloceus,\nthat discovers thieves, could be affected only by the blood of kids.\nLeonardus Camillus had seen a white stone taken from the brain of a\nnewly killed toad, that was a certain antidote against poison. The\nbezoar, that was found in the heart of the Arabian deer, was a charm\nthat could cure the plague. In the nests of Arabian birds was the\naspilates, that, according to Democritus, kept the wearer from any\ndanger by fire.",
    "meta": {
      "book": "dorian",
      "para_idx_start": 872,
      "para_idx_end": 872,
      "char_count": 1309
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  },
  {
    "id": "dorian_chunk_223",
    "text": "The King of Ceilan rode through his city with a large ruby in his hand,\nas the ceremony of his coronation. The gates of the palace of John the\nPriest were “made of sardius, with the horn of the horned snake\ninwrought, so that no man might bring poison within.” Over the gable\nwere “two golden apples, in which were two carbuncles,” so that the\ngold might shine by day and the carbuncles by night. In Lodge’s strange\nromance ‘A Margarite of America’, it was stated that in the chamber of\nthe queen one could behold “all the chaste ladies of the world,\ninchased out of silver, looking through fair mirrours of chrysolites,\ncarbuncles, sapphires, and greene emeraults.” Marco Polo had seen the\ninhabitants of Zipangu place rose-coloured pearls in the mouths of the\ndead. A sea-monster had been enamoured of the pearl that the diver\nbrought to King Perozes, and had slain the thief, and mourned for seven\nmoons over its loss. When the Huns lured the king into the great pit,\nhe flung it away—Procopius tells the story—nor was it ever found again,\nthough the Emperor Anastasius offered five hundred-weight of gold\npieces for it. The King of Malabar had shown to a certain Venetian a\nrosary of three hundred and four pearls, one for every god that he\nworshipped.",
    "meta": {
      "book": "dorian",
      "para_idx_start": 873,
      "para_idx_end": 873,
      "char_count": 1256
    }
  },
  {
    "id": "dorian_chunk_224",
    "text": "When the Duke de Valentinois, son of Alexander VI., visited Louis XII.\nof France, his horse was loaded with gold leaves, according to\nBrantome, and his cap had double rows of rubies that threw out a great\nlight. Charles of England had ridden in stirrups hung with four hundred\nand twenty-one diamonds. Richard II had a coat, valued at thirty\nthousand marks, which was covered with balas rubies. Hall described\nHenry VIII., on his way to the Tower previous to his coronation, as\nwearing “a jacket of raised gold, the placard embroidered with diamonds\nand other rich stones, and a great bauderike about his neck of large\nbalasses.” The favourites of James I wore ear-rings of emeralds set in\ngold filigrane. Edward II gave to Piers Gaveston a suit of red-gold\narmour studded with jacinths, a collar of gold roses set with\nturquoise-stones, and a skull-cap _parsemé_ with pearls. Henry II. wore\njewelled gloves reaching to the elbow, and had a hawk-glove sewn with\ntwelve rubies and fifty-two great orients. The ducal hat of Charles the\nRash, the last Duke of Burgundy of his race, was hung with pear-shaped\npearls and studded with sapphires.",
    "meta": {
      "book": "dorian",
      "para_idx_start": 874,
      "para_idx_end": 874,
      "char_count": 1139
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  },
  {
    "id": "dorian_chunk_225",
    "text": "How exquisite life had once been! How gorgeous in its pomp and\ndecoration! Even to read of the luxury of the dead was wonderful.\n\nThen he turned his attention to embroideries and to the tapestries that\nperformed the office of frescoes in the chill rooms of the northern\nnations of Europe. As he investigated the subject—and he always had an\nextraordinary faculty of becoming absolutely absorbed for the moment in\nwhatever he took up—he was almost saddened by the reflection of the\nruin that time brought on beautiful and wonderful things. He, at any\nrate, had escaped that. Summer followed summer, and the yellow jonquils\nbloomed and died many times, and nights of horror repeated the story of\ntheir shame, but he was unchanged. No winter marred his face or stained\nhis flowerlike bloom. How different it was with material things! Where\nhad they passed to? Where was the great crocus-coloured robe, on which\nthe gods fought against the giants, that had been worked by brown girls\nfor the pleasure of Athena? Where the huge velarium that Nero had\nstretched across the Colosseum at Rome, that Titan sail of purple on\nwhich was represented the starry sky, and Apollo driving a chariot\ndrawn by white, gilt-reined steeds? He longed to see the curious\ntable-napkins wrought for the Priest of the Sun, on which were\ndisplayed all the dainties and viands that could be wanted for a feast;\nthe mortuary cloth of King Chilperic, with its three hundred golden\nbees; the fantastic robes that excited the indignation of the Bishop of\nPontus and were figured with “lions, panthers, bears, dogs, forests,\nrocks, hunters—all, in fact, that a painter can copy from nature”; and\nthe coat that Charles of Orleans once wore, on the sleeves of which\nwere embroidered the verses of a song beginning “_Madame, je suis tout\njoyeux_,” the musical accompaniment of the words being wrought in gold\nthread, and each note, of square shape in those days, formed with four\npearls. He read of the room that was prepared at the palace at Rheims\nfor the use of Queen Joan of Burgundy and was decorated with “thirteen\nhundred and twenty-one parrots, made in broidery, and blazoned with the\nking’s arms, and five hundred and sixty-one butterflies, whose wings\nwere similarly ornamented with the arms of the queen, the whole worked\nin gold.” Catherine de Medicis had a mourning-bed made for her of black\nvelvet powdered with crescents and suns. Its curtains were of damask,\nwith leafy wreaths and garlands, figured upon a gold and silver ground,\nand fringed along the edges with broideries of pearls, and it stood in\na room hung with rows of the queen’s devices in cut black velvet upon\ncloth of silver. Louis XIV. had gold embroidered caryatides fifteen\nfeet high in his apartment. The state bed of Sobieski, King of Poland,\nwas made of Smyrna gold brocade embroidered in turquoises with verses\nfrom the Koran. Its supports were of silver gilt, beautifully chased,\nand profusely set with enamelled and jewelled medallions. It had been\ntaken from the Turkish camp before Vienna, and the standard of Mohammed\nhad stood beneath the tremulous gilt of its canopy.",
    "meta": {
      "book": "dorian",
      "para_idx_start": 875,
      "para_idx_end": 876,
      "char_count": 3123
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  },
  {
    "id": "dorian_chunk_226",
    "text": "And so, for a whole year, he sought to accumulate the most exquisite\nspecimens that he could find of textile and embroidered work, getting\nthe dainty Delhi muslins, finely wrought with gold-thread palmates and\nstitched over with iridescent beetles’ wings; the Dacca gauzes, that\nfrom their transparency are known in the East as “woven air,” and\n“running water,” and “evening dew”; strange figured cloths from Java;\nelaborate yellow Chinese hangings; books bound in tawny satins or fair\nblue silks and wrought with _fleurs-de-lis_, birds and images; veils of\n_lacis_ worked in Hungary point; Sicilian brocades and stiff Spanish\nvelvets; Georgian work, with its gilt coins, and Japanese _Foukousas_,\nwith their green-toned golds and their marvellously plumaged birds.\n\nHe had a special passion, also, for ecclesiastical vestments, as indeed\nhe had for everything connected with the service of the Church. In the\nlong cedar chests that lined the west gallery of his house, he had\nstored away many rare and beautiful specimens of what is really the\nraiment of the Bride of Christ, who must wear purple and jewels and\nfine linen that she may hide the pallid macerated body that is worn by\nthe suffering that she seeks for and wounded by self-inflicted pain. He\npossessed a gorgeous cope of crimson silk and gold-thread damask,\nfigured with a repeating pattern of golden pomegranates set in\nsix-petalled formal blossoms, beyond which on either side was the\npine-apple device wrought in seed-pearls. The orphreys were divided\ninto panels representing scenes from the life of the Virgin, and the\ncoronation of the Virgin was figured in coloured silks upon the hood.\nThis was Italian work of the fifteenth century. Another cope was of\ngreen velvet, embroidered with heart-shaped groups of acanthus-leaves,\nfrom which spread long-stemmed white blossoms, the details of which\nwere picked out with silver thread and coloured crystals. The morse\nbore a seraph’s head in gold-thread raised work. The orphreys were\nwoven in a diaper of red and gold silk, and were starred with\nmedallions of many saints and martyrs, among whom was St. Sebastian. He\nhad chasubles, also, of amber-coloured silk, and blue silk and gold\nbrocade, and yellow silk damask and cloth of gold, figured with\nrepresentations of the Passion and Crucifixion of Christ, and\nembroidered with lions and peacocks and other emblems; dalmatics of\nwhite satin and pink silk damask, decorated with tulips and dolphins\nand _fleurs-de-lis_; altar frontals of crimson velvet and blue linen;\nand many corporals, chalice-veils, and sudaria. In the mystic offices\nto which such things were put, there was something that quickened his\nimagination.",
    "meta": {
      "book": "dorian",
      "para_idx_start": 877,
      "para_idx_end": 878,
      "char_count": 2687
    }
  },
  {
    "id": "dorian_chunk_227",
    "text": "For these treasures, and everything that he collected in his lovely\nhouse, were to be to him means of forgetfulness, modes by which he\ncould escape, for a season, from the fear that seemed to him at times\nto be almost too great to be borne. Upon the walls of the lonely locked\nroom where he had spent so much of his boyhood, he had hung with his\nown hands the terrible portrait whose changing features showed him the\nreal degradation of his life, and in front of it had draped the\npurple-and-gold pall as a curtain. For weeks he would not go there,\nwould forget the hideous painted thing, and get back his light heart,\nhis wonderful joyousness, his passionate absorption in mere existence.\nThen, suddenly, some night he would creep out of the house, go down to\ndreadful places near Blue Gate Fields, and stay there, day after day,\nuntil he was driven away. On his return he would sit in front of the\npicture, sometimes loathing it and himself, but filled, at other times,\nwith that pride of individualism that is half the fascination of sin,\nand smiling with secret pleasure at the misshapen shadow that had to\nbear the burden that should have been his own.",
    "meta": {
      "book": "dorian",
      "para_idx_start": 879,
      "para_idx_end": 879,
      "char_count": 1157
    }
  },
  {
    "id": "dorian_chunk_228",
    "text": "After a few years he could not endure to be long out of England, and\ngave up the villa that he had shared at Trouville with Lord Henry, as\nwell as the little white walled-in house at Algiers where they had more\nthan once spent the winter. He hated to be separated from the picture\nthat was such a part of his life, and was also afraid that during his\nabsence some one might gain access to the room, in spite of the\nelaborate bars that he had caused to be placed upon the door.\n\nHe was quite conscious that this would tell them nothing. It was true\nthat the portrait still preserved, under all the foulness and ugliness\nof the face, its marked likeness to himself; but what could they learn\nfrom that? He would laugh at any one who tried to taunt him. He had not\npainted it. What was it to him how vile and full of shame it looked?\nEven if he told them, would they believe it?",
    "meta": {
      "book": "dorian",
      "para_idx_start": 880,
      "para_idx_end": 881,
      "char_count": 875
    }
  },
  {
    "id": "dorian_chunk_229",
    "text": "Yet he was afraid. Sometimes when he was down at his great house in\nNottinghamshire, entertaining the fashionable young men of his own rank\nwho were his chief companions, and astounding the county by the wanton\nluxury and gorgeous splendour of his mode of life, he would suddenly\nleave his guests and rush back to town to see that the door had not\nbeen tampered with and that the picture was still there. What if it\nshould be stolen? The mere thought made him cold with horror. Surely\nthe world would know his secret then. Perhaps the world already\nsuspected it.\n\nFor, while he fascinated many, there were not a few who distrusted him.\nHe was very nearly blackballed at a West End club of which his birth\nand social position fully entitled him to become a member, and it was\nsaid that on one occasion, when he was brought by a friend into the\nsmoking-room of the Churchill, the Duke of Berwick and another\ngentleman got up in a marked manner and went out. Curious stories\nbecame current about him after he had passed his twenty-fifth year. It\nwas rumoured that he had been seen brawling with foreign sailors in a\nlow den in the distant parts of Whitechapel, and that he consorted with\nthieves and coiners and knew the mysteries of their trade. His\nextraordinary absences became notorious, and, when he used to reappear\nagain in society, men would whisper to each other in corners, or pass\nhim with a sneer, or look at him with cold searching eyes, as though\nthey were determined to discover his secret.",
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    "text": "Of such insolences and attempted slights he, of course, took no notice,\nand in the opinion of most people his frank debonair manner, his\ncharming boyish smile, and the infinite grace of that wonderful youth\nthat seemed never to leave him, were in themselves a sufficient answer\nto the calumnies, for so they termed them, that were circulated about\nhim. It was remarked, however, that some of those who had been most\nintimate with him appeared, after a time, to shun him. Women who had\nwildly adored him, and for his sake had braved all social censure and\nset convention at defiance, were seen to grow pallid with shame or\nhorror if Dorian Gray entered the room.\n\nYet these whispered scandals only increased in the eyes of many his\nstrange and dangerous charm. His great wealth was a certain element of\nsecurity. Society—civilized society, at least—is never very ready to\nbelieve anything to the detriment of those who are both rich and\nfascinating. It feels instinctively that manners are of more importance\nthan morals, and, in its opinion, the highest respectability is of much\nless value than the possession of a good _chef_. And, after all, it is\na very poor consolation to be told that the man who has given one a bad\ndinner, or poor wine, is irreproachable in his private life. Even the\ncardinal virtues cannot atone for half-cold _entrées_, as Lord Henry\nremarked once, in a discussion on the subject, and there is possibly a\ngood deal to be said for his view. For the canons of good society are,\nor should be, the same as the canons of art. Form is absolutely\nessential to it. It should have the dignity of a ceremony, as well as\nits unreality, and should combine the insincere character of a romantic\nplay with the wit and beauty that make such plays delightful to us. Is\ninsincerity such a terrible thing? I think not. It is merely a method\nby which we can multiply our personalities.",
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    "text": "Such, at any rate, was Dorian Gray’s opinion. He used to wonder at the\nshallow psychology of those who conceive the ego in man as a thing\nsimple, permanent, reliable, and of one essence. To him, man was a\nbeing with myriad lives and myriad sensations, a complex multiform\ncreature that bore within itself strange legacies of thought and\npassion, and whose very flesh was tainted with the monstrous maladies\nof the dead. He loved to stroll through the gaunt cold picture-gallery\nof his country house and look at the various portraits of those whose\nblood flowed in his veins. Here was Philip Herbert, described by\nFrancis Osborne, in his Memoires on the Reigns of Queen Elizabeth and\nKing James, as one who was “caressed by the Court for his handsome\nface, which kept him not long company.” Was it young Herbert’s life\nthat he sometimes led? Had some strange poisonous germ crept from body\nto body till it had reached his own? Was it some dim sense of that\nruined grace that had made him so suddenly, and almost without cause,\ngive utterance, in Basil Hallward’s studio, to the mad prayer that had\nso changed his life? Here, in gold-embroidered red doublet, jewelled\nsurcoat, and gilt-edged ruff and wristbands, stood Sir Anthony Sherard,\nwith his silver-and-black armour piled at his feet. What had this man’s\nlegacy been? Had the lover of Giovanna of Naples bequeathed him some\ninheritance of sin and shame? Were his own actions merely the dreams\nthat the dead man had not dared to realize? Here, from the fading\ncanvas, smiled Lady Elizabeth Devereux, in her gauze hood, pearl\nstomacher, and pink slashed sleeves. A flower was in her right hand,\nand her left clasped an enamelled collar of white and damask roses. On\na table by her side lay a mandolin and an apple. There were large green\nrosettes upon her little pointed shoes. He knew her life, and the\nstrange stories that were told about her lovers. Had he something of\nher temperament in him? These oval, heavy-lidded eyes seemed to look\ncuriously at him. What of George Willoughby, with his powdered hair and\nfantastic patches? How evil he looked! The face was saturnine and\nswarthy, and the sensual lips seemed to be twisted with disdain.\nDelicate lace ruffles fell over the lean yellow hands that were so\noverladen with rings. He had been a macaroni of the eighteenth century,\nand the friend, in his youth, of Lord Ferrars. What of the second Lord\nBeckenham, the companion of the Prince Regent in his wildest days, and\none of the witnesses at the secret marriage with Mrs. Fitzherbert? How\nproud and handsome he was, with his chestnut curls and insolent pose!\nWhat passions had he bequeathed? The world had looked upon him as\ninfamous. He had led the orgies at Carlton House. The star of the\nGarter glittered upon his breast. Beside him hung the portrait of his\nwife, a pallid, thin-lipped woman in black. Her blood, also, stirred\nwithin him. How curious it all seemed! And his mother with her Lady\nHamilton face and her moist, wine-dashed lips—he knew what he had got\nfrom her. He had got from her his beauty, and his passion for the\nbeauty of others. She laughed at him in her loose Bacchante dress.\nThere were vine leaves in her hair. The purple spilled from the cup she\nwas holding. The carnations of the painting had withered, but the eyes\nwere still wonderful in their depth and brilliancy of colour. They\nseemed to follow him wherever he went.",
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    "text": "Yet one had ancestors in literature as well as in one’s own race,\nnearer perhaps in type and temperament, many of them, and certainly\nwith an influence of which one was more absolutely conscious. There\nwere times when it appeared to Dorian Gray that the whole of history\nwas merely the record of his own life, not as he had lived it in act\nand circumstance, but as his imagination had created it for him, as it\nhad been in his brain and in his passions. He felt that he had known\nthem all, those strange terrible figures that had passed across the\nstage of the world and made sin so marvellous and evil so full of\nsubtlety. It seemed to him that in some mysterious way their lives had\nbeen his own.\n\nThe hero of the wonderful novel that had so influenced his life had\nhimself known this curious fancy. In the seventh chapter he tells how,\ncrowned with laurel, lest lightning might strike him, he had sat, as\nTiberius, in a garden at Capri, reading the shameful books of\nElephantis, while dwarfs and peacocks strutted round him and the\nflute-player mocked the swinger of the censer; and, as Caligula, had\ncaroused with the green-shirted jockeys in their stables and supped in\nan ivory manger with a jewel-frontleted horse; and, as Domitian, had\nwandered through a corridor lined with marble mirrors, looking round\nwith haggard eyes for the reflection of the dagger that was to end his\ndays, and sick with that ennui, that terrible _tædium vitæ_, that comes\non those to whom life denies nothing; and had peered through a clear\nemerald at the red shambles of the circus and then, in a litter of\npearl and purple drawn by silver-shod mules, been carried through the\nStreet of Pomegranates to a House of Gold and heard men cry on Nero\nCaesar as he passed by; and, as Elagabalus, had painted his face with\ncolours, and plied the distaff among the women, and brought the Moon\nfrom Carthage and given her in mystic marriage to the Sun.",
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    "text": "Over and over again Dorian used to read this fantastic chapter, and the\ntwo chapters immediately following, in which, as in some curious\ntapestries or cunningly wrought enamels, were pictured the awful and\nbeautiful forms of those whom vice and blood and weariness had made\nmonstrous or mad: Filippo, Duke of Milan, who slew his wife and painted\nher lips with a scarlet poison that her lover might suck death from the\ndead thing he fondled; Pietro Barbi, the Venetian, known as Paul the\nSecond, who sought in his vanity to assume the title of Formosus, and\nwhose tiara, valued at two hundred thousand florins, was bought at the\nprice of a terrible sin; Gian Maria Visconti, who used hounds to chase\nliving men and whose murdered body was covered with roses by a harlot\nwho had loved him; the Borgia on his white horse, with Fratricide\nriding beside him and his mantle stained with the blood of Perotto;\nPietro Riario, the young Cardinal Archbishop of Florence, child and\nminion of Sixtus IV., whose beauty was equalled only by his debauchery,\nand who received Leonora of Aragon in a pavilion of white and crimson\nsilk, filled with nymphs and centaurs, and gilded a boy that he might\nserve at the feast as Ganymede or Hylas; Ezzelin, whose melancholy\ncould be cured only by the spectacle of death, and who had a passion\nfor red blood, as other men have for red wine—the son of the Fiend, as\nwas reported, and one who had cheated his father at dice when gambling\nwith him for his own soul; Giambattista Cibo, who in mockery took the\nname of Innocent and into whose torpid veins the blood of three lads\nwas infused by a Jewish doctor; Sigismondo Malatesta, the lover of\nIsotta and the lord of Rimini, whose effigy was burned at Rome as the\nenemy of God and man, who strangled Polyssena with a napkin, and gave\npoison to Ginevra d’Este in a cup of emerald, and in honour of a\nshameful passion built a pagan church for Christian worship; Charles\nVI., who had so wildly adored his brother’s wife that a leper had\nwarned him of the insanity that was coming on him, and who, when his\nbrain had sickened and grown strange, could only be soothed by Saracen\ncards painted with the images of love and death and madness; and, in\nhis trimmed jerkin and jewelled cap and acanthuslike curls, Grifonetto\nBaglioni, who slew Astorre with his bride, and Simonetto with his page,\nand whose comeliness was such that, as he lay dying in the yellow\npiazza of Perugia, those who had hated him could not choose but weep,\nand Atalanta, who had cursed him, blessed him.",
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    "text": "There was a horrible fascination in them all. He saw them at night, and\nthey troubled his imagination in the day. The Renaissance knew of\nstrange manners of poisoning—poisoning by a helmet and a lighted torch,\nby an embroidered glove and a jewelled fan, by a gilded pomander and by\nan amber chain. Dorian Gray had been poisoned by a book. There were\nmoments when he looked on evil simply as a mode through which he could\nrealize his conception of the beautiful.\n\nCHAPTER XII.\n\nIt was on the ninth of November, the eve of his own thirty-eighth\nbirthday, as he often remembered afterwards.\n\nHe was walking home about eleven o’clock from Lord Henry’s, where he\nhad been dining, and was wrapped in heavy furs, as the night was cold\nand foggy. At the corner of Grosvenor Square and South Audley Street, a\nman passed him in the mist, walking very fast and with the collar of\nhis grey ulster turned up. He had a bag in his hand. Dorian recognized\nhim. It was Basil Hallward. A strange sense of fear, for which he could\nnot account, came over him. He made no sign of recognition and went on\nquickly in the direction of his own house.",
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    "text": "But Hallward had seen him. Dorian heard him first stopping on the\npavement and then hurrying after him. In a few moments, his hand was on\nhis arm.\n\n“Dorian! What an extraordinary piece of luck! I have been waiting for\nyou in your library ever since nine o’clock. Finally I took pity on\nyour tired servant and told him to go to bed, as he let me out. I am\noff to Paris by the midnight train, and I particularly wanted to see\nyou before I left. I thought it was you, or rather your fur coat, as\nyou passed me. But I wasn’t quite sure. Didn’t you recognize me?”\n\n“In this fog, my dear Basil? Why, I can’t even recognize Grosvenor\nSquare. I believe my house is somewhere about here, but I don’t feel at\nall certain about it. I am sorry you are going away, as I have not seen\nyou for ages. But I suppose you will be back soon?”",
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    "text": "“No: I am going to be out of England for six months. I intend to take a\nstudio in Paris and shut myself up till I have finished a great picture\nI have in my head. However, it wasn’t about myself I wanted to talk.\nHere we are at your door. Let me come in for a moment. I have something\nto say to you.”\n\n“I shall be charmed. But won’t you miss your train?” said Dorian Gray\nlanguidly as he passed up the steps and opened the door with his\nlatch-key.\n\nThe lamplight struggled out through the fog, and Hallward looked at his\nwatch. “I have heaps of time,” he answered. “The train doesn’t go till\ntwelve-fifteen, and it is only just eleven. In fact, I was on my way to\nthe club to look for you, when I met you. You see, I shan’t have any\ndelay about luggage, as I have sent on my heavy things. All I have with\nme is in this bag, and I can easily get to Victoria in twenty minutes.”",
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    "text": "Dorian looked at him and smiled. “What a way for a fashionable painter\nto travel! A Gladstone bag and an ulster! Come in, or the fog will get\ninto the house. And mind you don’t talk about anything serious. Nothing\nis serious nowadays. At least nothing should be.”\n\nHallward shook his head, as he entered, and followed Dorian into the\nlibrary. There was a bright wood fire blazing in the large open hearth.\nThe lamps were lit, and an open Dutch silver spirit-case stood, with\nsome siphons of soda-water and large cut-glass tumblers, on a little\nmarqueterie table.\n\n“You see your servant made me quite at home, Dorian. He gave me\neverything I wanted, including your best gold-tipped cigarettes. He is\na most hospitable creature. I like him much better than the Frenchman\nyou used to have. What has become of the Frenchman, by the bye?”",
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    "text": "Dorian shrugged his shoulders. “I believe he married Lady Radley’s\nmaid, and has established her in Paris as an English dressmaker.\n_Anglomanie_ is very fashionable over there now, I hear. It seems silly\nof the French, doesn’t it? But—do you know?—he was not at all a bad\nservant. I never liked him, but I had nothing to complain about. One\noften imagines things that are quite absurd. He was really very devoted\nto me and seemed quite sorry when he went away. Have another\nbrandy-and-soda? Or would you like hock-and-seltzer? I always take\nhock-and-seltzer myself. There is sure to be some in the next room.”\n\n“Thanks, I won’t have anything more,” said the painter, taking his cap\nand coat off and throwing them on the bag that he had placed in the\ncorner. “And now, my dear fellow, I want to speak to you seriously.\nDon’t frown like that. You make it so much more difficult for me.”",
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    "text": "“What is it all about?” cried Dorian in his petulant way, flinging\nhimself down on the sofa. “I hope it is not about myself. I am tired of\nmyself to-night. I should like to be somebody else.”\n\n“It is about yourself,” answered Hallward in his grave deep voice, “and\nI must say it to you. I shall only keep you half an hour.”\n\nDorian sighed and lit a cigarette. “Half an hour!” he murmured.\n\n“It is not much to ask of you, Dorian, and it is entirely for your own\nsake that I am speaking. I think it right that you should know that the\nmost dreadful things are being said against you in London.”\n\n“I don’t wish to know anything about them. I love scandals about other\npeople, but scandals about myself don’t interest me. They have not got\nthe charm of novelty.”\n\n“They must interest you, Dorian. Every gentleman is interested in his\ngood name. You don’t want people to talk of you as something vile and\ndegraded. Of course, you have your position, and your wealth, and all\nthat kind of thing. But position and wealth are not everything. Mind\nyou, I don’t believe these rumours at all. At least, I can’t believe\nthem when I see you. Sin is a thing that writes itself across a man’s\nface. It cannot be concealed. People talk sometimes of secret vices.\nThere are no such things. If a wretched man has a vice, it shows itself\nin the lines of his mouth, the droop of his eyelids, the moulding of\nhis hands even. Somebody—I won’t mention his name, but you know\nhim—came to me last year to have his portrait done. I had never seen\nhim before, and had never heard anything about him at the time, though\nI have heard a good deal since. He offered an extravagant price. I\nrefused him. There was something in the shape of his fingers that I\nhated. I know now that I was quite right in what I fancied about him.\nHis life is dreadful. But you, Dorian, with your pure, bright, innocent\nface, and your marvellous untroubled youth—I can’t believe anything\nagainst you. And yet I see you very seldom, and you never come down to\nthe studio now, and when I am away from you, and I hear all these\nhideous things that people are whispering about you, I don’t know what\nto say. Why is it, Dorian, that a man like the Duke of Berwick leaves\nthe room of a club when you enter it? Why is it that so many gentlemen\nin London will neither go to your house or invite you to theirs? You\nused to be a friend of Lord Staveley. I met him at dinner last week.\nYour name happened to come up in conversation, in connection with the\nminiatures you have lent to the exhibition at the Dudley. Staveley\ncurled his lip and said that you might have the most artistic tastes,\nbut that you were a man whom no pure-minded girl should be allowed to\nknow, and whom no chaste woman should sit in the same room with. I\nreminded him that I was a friend of yours, and asked him what he meant.\nHe told me. He told me right out before everybody. It was horrible! Why\nis your friendship so fatal to young men? There was that wretched boy\nin the Guards who committed suicide. You were his great friend. There\nwas Sir Henry Ashton, who had to leave England with a tarnished name.\nYou and he were inseparable. What about Adrian Singleton and his\ndreadful end? What about Lord Kent’s only son and his career? I met his\nfather yesterday in St. James’s Street. He seemed broken with shame and\nsorrow. What about the young Duke of Perth? What sort of life has he\ngot now? What gentleman would associate with him?”",
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    "text": "“Stop, Basil. You are talking about things of which you know nothing,”\nsaid Dorian Gray, biting his lip, and with a note of infinite contempt\nin his voice. “You ask me why Berwick leaves a room when I enter it. It\nis because I know everything about his life, not because he knows\nanything about mine. With such blood as he has in his veins, how could\nhis record be clean? You ask me about Henry Ashton and young Perth. Did\nI teach the one his vices, and the other his debauchery? If Kent’s\nsilly son takes his wife from the streets, what is that to me? If\nAdrian Singleton writes his friend’s name across a bill, am I his\nkeeper? I know how people chatter in England. The middle classes air\ntheir moral prejudices over their gross dinner-tables, and whisper\nabout what they call the profligacies of their betters in order to try\nand pretend that they are in smart society and on intimate terms with\nthe people they slander. In this country, it is enough for a man to\nhave distinction and brains for every common tongue to wag against him.\nAnd what sort of lives do these people, who pose as being moral, lead\nthemselves? My dear fellow, you forget that we are in the native land\nof the hypocrite.”",
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    "text": "“Dorian,” cried Hallward, “that is not the question. England is bad\nenough I know, and English society is all wrong. That is the reason why\nI want you to be fine. You have not been fine. One has a right to judge\nof a man by the effect he has over his friends. Yours seem to lose all\nsense of honour, of goodness, of purity. You have filled them with a\nmadness for pleasure. They have gone down into the depths. You led them\nthere. Yes: you led them there, and yet you can smile, as you are\nsmiling now. And there is worse behind. I know you and Harry are\ninseparable. Surely for that reason, if for none other, you should not\nhave made his sister’s name a by-word.”\n\n“Take care, Basil. You go too far.”\n\n“I must speak, and you must listen. You shall listen. When you met Lady\nGwendolen, not a breath of scandal had ever touched her. Is there a\nsingle decent woman in London now who would drive with her in the park?\nWhy, even her children are not allowed to live with her. Then there are\nother stories—stories that you have been seen creeping at dawn out of\ndreadful houses and slinking in disguise into the foulest dens in\nLondon. Are they true? Can they be true? When I first heard them, I\nlaughed. I hear them now, and they make me shudder. What about your\ncountry-house and the life that is led there? Dorian, you don’t know\nwhat is said about you. I won’t tell you that I don’t want to preach to\nyou. I remember Harry saying once that every man who turned himself\ninto an amateur curate for the moment always began by saying that, and\nthen proceeded to break his word. I do want to preach to you. I want\nyou to lead such a life as will make the world respect you. I want you\nto have a clean name and a fair record. I want you to get rid of the\ndreadful people you associate with. Don’t shrug your shoulders like\nthat. Don’t be so indifferent. You have a wonderful influence. Let it\nbe for good, not for evil. They say that you corrupt every one with\nwhom you become intimate, and that it is quite sufficient for you to\nenter a house for shame of some kind to follow after. I don’t know\nwhether it is so or not. How should I know? But it is said of you. I am\ntold things that it seems impossible to doubt. Lord Gloucester was one\nof my greatest friends at Oxford. He showed me a letter that his wife\nhad written to him when she was dying alone in her villa at Mentone.\nYour name was implicated in the most terrible confession I ever read. I\ntold him that it was absurd—that I knew you thoroughly, and that you\nwere incapable of anything of the kind. Know you? I wonder do I know\nyou? Before I could answer that, I should have to see your soul.”",
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    "text": "“To see my soul!” muttered Dorian Gray, starting up from the sofa and\nturning almost white from fear.\n\n“Yes,” answered Hallward gravely, and with deep-toned sorrow in his\nvoice, “to see your soul. But only God can do that.”\n\nA bitter laugh of mockery broke from the lips of the younger man. “You\nshall see it yourself, to-night!” he cried, seizing a lamp from the\ntable. “Come: it is your own handiwork. Why shouldn’t you look at it?\nYou can tell the world all about it afterwards, if you choose. Nobody\nwould believe you. If they did believe you, they would like me all the\nbetter for it. I know the age better than you do, though you will prate\nabout it so tediously. Come, I tell you. You have chattered enough\nabout corruption. Now you shall look on it face to face.”\n\nThere was the madness of pride in every word he uttered. He stamped his\nfoot upon the ground in his boyish insolent manner. He felt a terrible\njoy at the thought that some one else was to share his secret, and that\nthe man who had painted the portrait that was the origin of all his\nshame was to be burdened for the rest of his life with the hideous\nmemory of what he had done.",
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    "text": "“Yes,” he continued, coming closer to him and looking steadfastly into\nhis stern eyes, “I shall show you my soul. You shall see the thing that\nyou fancy only God can see.”\n\nHallward started back. “This is blasphemy, Dorian!” he cried. “You must\nnot say things like that. They are horrible, and they don’t mean\nanything.”\n\n“You think so?” He laughed again.\n\n“I know so. As for what I said to you to-night, I said it for your\ngood. You know I have been always a stanch friend to you.”\n\n“Don’t touch me. Finish what you have to say.”\n\nA twisted flash of pain shot across the painter’s face. He paused for a\nmoment, and a wild feeling of pity came over him. After all, what right\nhad he to pry into the life of Dorian Gray? If he had done a tithe of\nwhat was rumoured about him, how much he must have suffered! Then he\nstraightened himself up, and walked over to the fire-place, and stood\nthere, looking at the burning logs with their frostlike ashes and their\nthrobbing cores of flame.",
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    "text": "“I am waiting, Basil,” said the young man in a hard clear voice.\n\nHe turned round. “What I have to say is this,” he cried. “You must give\nme some answer to these horrible charges that are made against you. If\nyou tell me that they are absolutely untrue from beginning to end, I\nshall believe you. Deny them, Dorian, deny them! Can’t you see what I\nam going through? My God! don’t tell me that you are bad, and corrupt,\nand shameful.”\n\nDorian Gray smiled. There was a curl of contempt in his lips. “Come\nupstairs, Basil,” he said quietly. “I keep a diary of my life from day\nto day, and it never leaves the room in which it is written. I shall\nshow it to you if you come with me.”\n\n“I shall come with you, Dorian, if you wish it. I see I have missed my\ntrain. That makes no matter. I can go to-morrow. But don’t ask me to\nread anything to-night. All I want is a plain answer to my question.”",
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    "text": "“That shall be given to you upstairs. I could not give it here. You\nwill not have to read long.”\n\nCHAPTER XIII.\n\nHe passed out of the room and began the ascent, Basil Hallward\nfollowing close behind. They walked softly, as men do instinctively at\nnight. The lamp cast fantastic shadows on the wall and staircase. A\nrising wind made some of the windows rattle.\n\nWhen they reached the top landing, Dorian set the lamp down on the\nfloor, and taking out the key, turned it in the lock. “You insist on\nknowing, Basil?” he asked in a low voice.\n\n“Yes.”\n\n“I am delighted,” he answered, smiling. Then he added, somewhat\nharshly, “You are the one man in the world who is entitled to know\neverything about me. You have had more to do with my life than you\nthink”; and, taking up the lamp, he opened the door and went in. A cold\ncurrent of air passed them, and the light shot up for a moment in a\nflame of murky orange. He shuddered. “Shut the door behind you,” he\nwhispered, as he placed the lamp on the table.",
    "meta": {
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      "para_idx_end": 934,
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    "id": "dorian_chunk_246",
    "text": "Hallward glanced round him with a puzzled expression. The room looked\nas if it had not been lived in for years. A faded Flemish tapestry, a\ncurtained picture, an old Italian _cassone_, and an almost empty\nbook-case—that was all that it seemed to contain, besides a chair and a\ntable. As Dorian Gray was lighting a half-burned candle that was\nstanding on the mantelshelf, he saw that the whole place was covered\nwith dust and that the carpet was in holes. A mouse ran scuffling\nbehind the wainscoting. There was a damp odour of mildew.\n\n“So you think that it is only God who sees the soul, Basil? Draw that\ncurtain back, and you will see mine.”\n\nThe voice that spoke was cold and cruel. “You are mad, Dorian, or\nplaying a part,” muttered Hallward, frowning.\n\n“You won’t? Then I must do it myself,” said the young man, and he tore\nthe curtain from its rod and flung it on the ground.",
    "meta": {
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    "id": "dorian_chunk_247",
    "text": "An exclamation of horror broke from the painter’s lips as he saw in the\ndim light the hideous face on the canvas grinning at him. There was\nsomething in its expression that filled him with disgust and loathing.\nGood heavens! it was Dorian Gray’s own face that he was looking at! The\nhorror, whatever it was, had not yet entirely spoiled that marvellous\nbeauty. There was still some gold in the thinning hair and some scarlet\non the sensual mouth. The sodden eyes had kept something of the\nloveliness of their blue, the noble curves had not yet completely\npassed away from chiselled nostrils and from plastic throat. Yes, it\nwas Dorian himself. But who had done it? He seemed to recognize his own\nbrushwork, and the frame was his own design. The idea was monstrous,\nyet he felt afraid. He seized the lighted candle, and held it to the\npicture. In the left-hand corner was his own name, traced in long\nletters of bright vermilion.",
    "meta": {
      "book": "dorian",
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    "id": "dorian_chunk_248",
    "text": "It was some foul parody, some infamous ignoble satire. He had never\ndone that. Still, it was his own picture. He knew it, and he felt as if\nhis blood had changed in a moment from fire to sluggish ice. His own\npicture! What did it mean? Why had it altered? He turned and looked at\nDorian Gray with the eyes of a sick man. His mouth twitched, and his\nparched tongue seemed unable to articulate. He passed his hand across\nhis forehead. It was dank with clammy sweat.\n\nThe young man was leaning against the mantelshelf, watching him with\nthat strange expression that one sees on the faces of those who are\nabsorbed in a play when some great artist is acting. There was neither\nreal sorrow in it nor real joy. There was simply the passion of the\nspectator, with perhaps a flicker of triumph in his eyes. He had taken\nthe flower out of his coat, and was smelling it, or pretending to do\nso.",
    "meta": {
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    "id": "dorian_chunk_249",
    "text": "“What does this mean?” cried Hallward, at last. His own voice sounded\nshrill and curious in his ears.\n\n“Years ago, when I was a boy,” said Dorian Gray, crushing the flower in\nhis hand, “you met me, flattered me, and taught me to be vain of my\ngood looks. One day you introduced me to a friend of yours, who\nexplained to me the wonder of youth, and you finished a portrait of me\nthat revealed to me the wonder of beauty. In a mad moment that, even\nnow, I don’t know whether I regret or not, I made a wish, perhaps you\nwould call it a prayer....”\n\n“I remember it! Oh, how well I remember it! No! the thing is\nimpossible. The room is damp. Mildew has got into the canvas. The\npaints I used had some wretched mineral poison in them. I tell you the\nthing is impossible.”\n\n“Ah, what is impossible?” murmured the young man, going over to the\nwindow and leaning his forehead against the cold, mist-stained glass.",
    "meta": {
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      "char_count": 904
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    "id": "dorian_chunk_250",
    "text": "“You told me you had destroyed it.”\n\n“I was wrong. It has destroyed me.”\n\n“I don’t believe it is my picture.”\n\n“Can’t you see your ideal in it?” said Dorian bitterly.\n\n“My ideal, as you call it...”\n\n“As you called it.”\n\n“There was nothing evil in it, nothing shameful. You were to me such an\nideal as I shall never meet again. This is the face of a satyr.”\n\n“It is the face of my soul.”\n\n“Christ! what a thing I must have worshipped! It has the eyes of a\ndevil.”\n\n“Each of us has heaven and hell in him, Basil,” cried Dorian with a\nwild gesture of despair.\n\nHallward turned again to the portrait and gazed at it. “My God! If it\nis true,” he exclaimed, “and this is what you have done with your life,\nwhy, you must be worse even than those who talk against you fancy you\nto be!” He held the light up again to the canvas and examined it. The\nsurface seemed to be quite undisturbed and as he had left it. It was\nfrom within, apparently, that the foulness and horror had come. Through\nsome strange quickening of inner life the leprosies of sin were slowly\neating the thing away. The rotting of a corpse in a watery grave was\nnot so fearful.",
    "meta": {
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    "id": "dorian_chunk_251",
    "text": "His hand shook, and the candle fell from its socket on the floor and\nlay there sputtering. He placed his foot on it and put it out. Then he\nflung himself into the rickety chair that was standing by the table and\nburied his face in his hands.\n\n“Good God, Dorian, what a lesson! What an awful lesson!” There was no\nanswer, but he could hear the young man sobbing at the window. “Pray,\nDorian, pray,” he murmured. “What is it that one was taught to say in\none’s boyhood? ‘Lead us not into temptation. Forgive us our sins. Wash\naway our iniquities.’ Let us say that together. The prayer of your\npride has been answered. The prayer of your repentance will be answered\nalso. I worshipped you too much. I am punished for it. You worshipped\nyourself too much. We are both punished.”\n\nDorian Gray turned slowly around and looked at him with tear-dimmed\neyes. “It is too late, Basil,” he faltered.",
    "meta": {
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      "para_idx_end": 959,
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    "id": "dorian_chunk_252",
    "text": "“Good God, Dorian, what a lesson! What an awful lesson!” There was no\nanswer, but he could hear the young man sobbing at the window. “Pray,\nDorian, pray,” he murmured. “What is it that one was taught to say in\none’s boyhood? ‘Lead us not into temptation. Forgive us our sins. Wash\naway our iniquities.’ Let us say that together. The prayer of your\npride has been answered. The prayer of your repentance will be answered\nalso. I worshipped you too much. I am punished for it. You worshipped\nyourself too much. We are both punished.”\n\nDorian Gray turned slowly around and looked at him with tear-dimmed\neyes. “It is too late, Basil,” he faltered.\n\n“It is never too late, Dorian. Let us kneel down and try if we cannot\nremember a prayer. Isn’t there a verse somewhere, ‘Though your sins be\nas scarlet, yet I will make them as white as snow’?”",
    "meta": {
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      "para_idx_end": 960,
      "char_count": 839
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  {
    "id": "dorian_chunk_253",
    "text": "“Those words mean nothing to me now.”\n\n“Hush! Don’t say that. You have done enough evil in your life. My God!\nDon’t you see that accursed thing leering at us?”\n\nDorian Gray glanced at the picture, and suddenly an uncontrollable\nfeeling of hatred for Basil Hallward came over him, as though it had\nbeen suggested to him by the image on the canvas, whispered into his\near by those grinning lips. The mad passions of a hunted animal stirred\nwithin him, and he loathed the man who was seated at the table, more\nthan in his whole life he had ever loathed anything. He glanced wildly\naround. Something glimmered on the top of the painted chest that faced\nhim. His eye fell on it. He knew what it was. It was a knife that he\nhad brought up, some days before, to cut a piece of cord, and had\nforgotten to take away with him. He moved slowly towards it, passing\nHallward as he did so. As soon as he got behind him, he seized it and\nturned round. Hallward stirred in his chair as if he was going to rise.\nHe rushed at him and dug the knife into the great vein that is behind\nthe ear, crushing the man’s head down on the table and stabbing again\nand again.",
    "meta": {
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      "para_idx_end": 963,
      "char_count": 1145
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    "id": "dorian_chunk_254",
    "text": "There was a stifled groan and the horrible sound of some one choking\nwith blood. Three times the outstretched arms shot up convulsively,\nwaving grotesque, stiff-fingered hands in the air. He stabbed him twice\nmore, but the man did not move. Something began to trickle on the\nfloor. He waited for a moment, still pressing the head down. Then he\nthrew the knife on the table, and listened.\n\nHe could hear nothing, but the drip, drip on the threadbare carpet. He\nopened the door and went out on the landing. The house was absolutely\nquiet. No one was about. For a few seconds he stood bending over the\nbalustrade and peering down into the black seething well of darkness.\nThen he took out the key and returned to the room, locking himself in\nas he did so.\n\nThe thing was still seated in the chair, straining over the table with\nbowed head, and humped back, and long fantastic arms. Had it not been\nfor the red jagged tear in the neck and the clotted black pool that was\nslowly widening on the table, one would have said that the man was\nsimply asleep.",
    "meta": {
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      "para_idx_end": 966,
      "char_count": 1048
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    "id": "dorian_chunk_255",
    "text": "How quickly it had all been done! He felt strangely calm, and walking\nover to the window, opened it and stepped out on the balcony. The wind\nhad blown the fog away, and the sky was like a monstrous peacock’s\ntail, starred with myriads of golden eyes. He looked down and saw the\npoliceman going his rounds and flashing the long beam of his lantern on\nthe doors of the silent houses. The crimson spot of a prowling hansom\ngleamed at the corner and then vanished. A woman in a fluttering shawl\nwas creeping slowly by the railings, staggering as she went. Now and\nthen she stopped and peered back. Once, she began to sing in a hoarse\nvoice. The policeman strolled over and said something to her. She\nstumbled away, laughing. A bitter blast swept across the square. The\ngas-lamps flickered and became blue, and the leafless trees shook their\nblack iron branches to and fro. He shivered and went back, closing the\nwindow behind him.",
    "meta": {
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      "char_count": 926
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    "id": "dorian_chunk_256",
    "text": "Having reached the door, he turned the key and opened it. He did not\neven glance at the murdered man. He felt that the secret of the whole\nthing was not to realize the situation. The friend who had painted the\nfatal portrait to which all his misery had been due had gone out of his\nlife. That was enough.\n\nThen he remembered the lamp. It was a rather curious one of Moorish\nworkmanship, made of dull silver inlaid with arabesques of burnished\nsteel, and studded with coarse turquoises. Perhaps it might be missed\nby his servant, and questions would be asked. He hesitated for a\nmoment, then he turned back and took it from the table. He could not\nhelp seeing the dead thing. How still it was! How horribly white the\nlong hands looked! It was like a dreadful wax image.\n\nHaving locked the door behind him, he crept quietly downstairs. The\nwoodwork creaked and seemed to cry out as if in pain. He stopped\nseveral times and waited. No: everything was still. It was merely the\nsound of his own footsteps.",
    "meta": {
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    "id": "dorian_chunk_257",
    "text": "When he reached the library, he saw the bag and coat in the corner.\nThey must be hidden away somewhere. He unlocked a secret press that was\nin the wainscoting, a press in which he kept his own curious disguises,\nand put them into it. He could easily burn them afterwards. Then he\npulled out his watch. It was twenty minutes to two.\n\nHe sat down and began to think. Every year—every month, almost—men were\nstrangled in England for what he had done. There had been a madness of\nmurder in the air. Some red star had come too close to the earth....\nAnd yet, what evidence was there against him? Basil Hallward had left\nthe house at eleven. No one had seen him come in again. Most of the\nservants were at Selby Royal. His valet had gone to bed.... Paris! Yes.\nIt was to Paris that Basil had gone, and by the midnight train, as he\nhad intended. With his curious reserved habits, it would be months\nbefore any suspicions would be roused. Months! Everything could be\ndestroyed long before then.",
    "meta": {
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    "id": "dorian_chunk_258",
    "text": "A sudden thought struck him. He put on his fur coat and hat and went\nout into the hall. There he paused, hearing the slow heavy tread of the\npoliceman on the pavement outside and seeing the flash of the\nbull’s-eye reflected in the window. He waited and held his breath.\n\nAfter a few moments he drew back the latch and slipped out, shutting\nthe door very gently behind him. Then he began ringing the bell. In\nabout five minutes his valet appeared, half-dressed and looking very\ndrowsy.\n\n“I am sorry to have had to wake you up, Francis,” he said, stepping in;\n“but I had forgotten my latch-key. What time is it?”\n\n“Ten minutes past two, sir,” answered the man, looking at the clock and\nblinking.\n\n“Ten minutes past two? How horribly late! You must wake me at nine\nto-morrow. I have some work to do.”\n\n“All right, sir.”",
    "meta": {
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    "id": "dorian_chunk_259",
    "text": "“Ten minutes past two? How horribly late! You must wake me at nine\nto-morrow. I have some work to do.”\n\n“All right, sir.”\n\n“Did any one call this evening?”\n\n“Mr. Hallward, sir. He stayed here till eleven, and then he went away\nto catch his train.”\n\n“Oh! I am sorry I didn’t see him. Did he leave any message?”\n\n“No, sir, except that he would write to you from Paris, if he did not\nfind you at the club.”\n\n“That will do, Francis. Don’t forget to call me at nine to-morrow.”\n\n“No, sir.”\n\nThe man shambled down the passage in his slippers.\n\nDorian Gray threw his hat and coat upon the table and passed into the\nlibrary. For a quarter of an hour he walked up and down the room,\nbiting his lip and thinking. Then he took down the Blue Book from one\nof the shelves and began to turn over the leaves. “Alan Campbell, 152,\nHertford Street, Mayfair.” Yes; that was the man he wanted.",
    "meta": {
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    "id": "dorian_chunk_260",
    "text": "CHAPTER XIV.\n\nAt nine o’clock the next morning his servant came in with a cup of\nchocolate on a tray and opened the shutters. Dorian was sleeping quite\npeacefully, lying on his right side, with one hand underneath his\ncheek. He looked like a boy who had been tired out with play, or study.\n\nThe man had to touch him twice on the shoulder before he woke, and as\nhe opened his eyes a faint smile passed across his lips, as though he\nhad been lost in some delightful dream. Yet he had not dreamed at all.\nHis night had been untroubled by any images of pleasure or of pain. But\nyouth smiles without any reason. It is one of its chiefest charms.\n\nHe turned round, and leaning upon his elbow, began to sip his\nchocolate. The mellow November sun came streaming into the room. The\nsky was bright, and there was a genial warmth in the air. It was almost\nlike a morning in May.",
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    "id": "dorian_chunk_261",
    "text": "Gradually the events of the preceding night crept with silent,\nblood-stained feet into his brain and reconstructed themselves there\nwith terrible distinctness. He winced at the memory of all that he had\nsuffered, and for a moment the same curious feeling of loathing for\nBasil Hallward that had made him kill him as he sat in the chair came\nback to him, and he grew cold with passion. The dead man was still\nsitting there, too, and in the sunlight now. How horrible that was!\nSuch hideous things were for the darkness, not for the day.\n\nHe felt that if he brooded on what he had gone through he would sicken\nor grow mad. There were sins whose fascination was more in the memory\nthan in the doing of them, strange triumphs that gratified the pride\nmore than the passions, and gave to the intellect a quickened sense of\njoy, greater than any joy they brought, or could ever bring, to the\nsenses. But this was not one of them. It was a thing to be driven out\nof the mind, to be drugged with poppies, to be strangled lest it might\nstrangle one itself.",
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    "id": "dorian_chunk_262",
    "text": "When the half-hour struck, he passed his hand across his forehead, and\nthen got up hastily and dressed himself with even more than his usual\ncare, giving a good deal of attention to the choice of his necktie and\nscarf-pin and changing his rings more than once. He spent a long time\nalso over breakfast, tasting the various dishes, talking to his valet\nabout some new liveries that he was thinking of getting made for the\nservants at Selby, and going through his correspondence. At some of the\nletters, he smiled. Three of them bored him. One he read several times\nover and then tore up with a slight look of annoyance in his face.\n“That awful thing, a woman’s memory!” as Lord Henry had once said.\n\nAfter he had drunk his cup of black coffee, he wiped his lips slowly\nwith a napkin, motioned to his servant to wait, and going over to the\ntable, sat down and wrote two letters. One he put in his pocket, the\nother he handed to the valet.",
    "meta": {
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    "id": "dorian_chunk_263",
    "text": "“Take this round to 152, Hertford Street, Francis, and if Mr. Campbell\nis out of town, get his address.”\n\nAs soon as he was alone, he lit a cigarette and began sketching upon a\npiece of paper, drawing first flowers and bits of architecture, and\nthen human faces. Suddenly he remarked that every face that he drew\nseemed to have a fantastic likeness to Basil Hallward. He frowned, and\ngetting up, went over to the book-case and took out a volume at hazard.\nHe was determined that he would not think about what had happened until\nit became absolutely necessary that he should do so.\n\nWhen he had stretched himself on the sofa, he looked at the title-page\nof the book. It was Gautier’s “Émaux et Camées”, Charpentier’s\nJapanese-paper edition, with the Jacquemart etching. The binding was of\ncitron-green leather, with a design of gilt trellis-work and dotted\npomegranates. It had been given to him by Adrian Singleton. As he\nturned over the pages, his eye fell on the poem about the hand of\nLacenaire, the cold yellow hand “_du supplice encore mal lavée_,” with\nits downy red hairs and its “_doigts de faune_.” He glanced at his own\nwhite taper fingers, shuddering slightly in spite of himself, and\npassed on, till he came to those lovely stanzas upon Venice:",
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    "id": "dorian_chunk_264",
    "text": "Sur une gamme chromatique,\nLe sein de perles ruisselant,\nLa Vénus de l’Adriatique\nSort de l’eau son corps rose et blanc.\n\nLes dômes, sur l’azur des ondes\nSuivant la phrase au pur contour,\nS’enflent comme des gorges rondes\nQue soulève un soupir d’amour.\n\nL’esquif aborde et me dépose,\nJetant son amarre au pilier,\nDevant une façade rose,\nSur le marbre d’un escalier.\n\nHow exquisite they were! As one read them, one seemed to be floating\ndown the green water-ways of the pink and pearl city, seated in a black\ngondola with silver prow and trailing curtains. The mere lines looked\nto him like those straight lines of turquoise-blue that follow one as\none pushes out to the Lido. The sudden flashes of colour reminded him\nof the gleam of the opal-and-iris-throated birds that flutter round the\ntall honeycombed Campanile, or stalk, with such stately grace, through\nthe dim, dust-stained arcades. Leaning back with half-closed eyes, he\nkept saying over and over to himself:",
    "meta": {
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    "id": "dorian_chunk_265",
    "text": "“Devant une façade rose,\nSur le marbre d’un escalier.”\n\nThe whole of Venice was in those two lines. He remembered the autumn\nthat he had passed there, and a wonderful love that had stirred him to\nmad delightful follies. There was romance in every place. But Venice,\nlike Oxford, had kept the background for romance, and, to the true\nromantic, background was everything, or almost everything. Basil had\nbeen with him part of the time, and had gone wild over Tintoret. Poor\nBasil! What a horrible way for a man to die!\n\nHe sighed, and took up the volume again, and tried to forget. He read\nof the swallows that fly in and out of the little _café_ at Smyrna\nwhere the Hadjis sit counting their amber beads and the turbaned\nmerchants smoke their long tasselled pipes and talk gravely to each\nother; he read of the Obelisk in the Place de la Concorde that weeps\ntears of granite in its lonely sunless exile and longs to be back by\nthe hot, lotus-covered Nile, where there are Sphinxes, and rose-red\nibises, and white vultures with gilded claws, and crocodiles with small\nberyl eyes that crawl over the green steaming mud; he began to brood\nover those verses which, drawing music from kiss-stained marble, tell\nof that curious statue that Gautier compares to a contralto voice, the\n“_monstre charmant_” that couches in the porphyry-room of the Louvre.\nBut after a time the book fell from his hand. He grew nervous, and a\nhorrible fit of terror came over him. What if Alan Campbell should be\nout of England? Days would elapse before he could come back. Perhaps he\nmight refuse to come. What could he do then? Every moment was of vital\nimportance.",
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    "id": "dorian_chunk_266",
    "text": "They had been great friends once, five years before—almost inseparable,\nindeed. Then the intimacy had come suddenly to an end. When they met in\nsociety now, it was only Dorian Gray who smiled: Alan Campbell never\ndid.\n\nHe was an extremely clever young man, though he had no real\nappreciation of the visible arts, and whatever little sense of the\nbeauty of poetry he possessed he had gained entirely from Dorian. His\ndominant intellectual passion was for science. At Cambridge he had\nspent a great deal of his time working in the laboratory, and had taken\na good class in the Natural Science Tripos of his year. Indeed, he was\nstill devoted to the study of chemistry, and had a laboratory of his\nown in which he used to shut himself up all day long, greatly to the\nannoyance of his mother, who had set her heart on his standing for\nParliament and had a vague idea that a chemist was a person who made up\nprescriptions. He was an excellent musician, however, as well, and\nplayed both the violin and the piano better than most amateurs. In\nfact, it was music that had first brought him and Dorian Gray\ntogether—music and that indefinable attraction that Dorian seemed to be\nable to exercise whenever he wished—and, indeed, exercised often\nwithout being conscious of it. They had met at Lady Berkshire’s the\nnight that Rubinstein played there, and after that used to be always\nseen together at the opera and wherever good music was going on. For\neighteen months their intimacy lasted. Campbell was always either at\nSelby Royal or in Grosvenor Square. To him, as to many others, Dorian\nGray was the type of everything that is wonderful and fascinating in\nlife. Whether or not a quarrel had taken place between them no one ever\nknew. But suddenly people remarked that they scarcely spoke when they\nmet and that Campbell seemed always to go away early from any party at\nwhich Dorian Gray was present. He had changed, too—was strangely\nmelancholy at times, appeared almost to dislike hearing music, and\nwould never himself play, giving as his excuse, when he was called\nupon, that he was so absorbed in science that he had no time left in\nwhich to practise. And this was certainly true. Every day he seemed to\nbecome more interested in biology, and his name appeared once or twice\nin some of the scientific reviews in connection with certain curious\nexperiments.",
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    "text": "This was the man Dorian Gray was waiting for. Every second he kept\nglancing at the clock. As the minutes went by he became horribly\nagitated. At last he got up and began to pace up and down the room,\nlooking like a beautiful caged thing. He took long stealthy strides.\nHis hands were curiously cold.\n\nThe suspense became unbearable. Time seemed to him to be crawling with\nfeet of lead, while he by monstrous winds was being swept towards the\njagged edge of some black cleft of precipice. He knew what was waiting\nfor him there; saw it, indeed, and, shuddering, crushed with dank hands\nhis burning lids as though he would have robbed the very brain of sight\nand driven the eyeballs back into their cave. It was useless. The brain\nhad its own food on which it battened, and the imagination, made\ngrotesque by terror, twisted and distorted as a living thing by pain,\ndanced like some foul puppet on a stand and grinned through moving\nmasks. Then, suddenly, time stopped for him. Yes: that blind,\nslow-breathing thing crawled no more, and horrible thoughts, time being\ndead, raced nimbly on in front, and dragged a hideous future from its\ngrave, and showed it to him. He stared at it. Its very horror made him\nstone.",
    "meta": {
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    "id": "dorian_chunk_268",
    "text": "At last the door opened and his servant entered. He turned glazed eyes\nupon him.\n\n“Mr. Campbell, sir,” said the man.\n\nA sigh of relief broke from his parched lips, and the colour came back\nto his cheeks.\n\n“Ask him to come in at once, Francis.” He felt that he was himself\nagain. His mood of cowardice had passed away.\n\nThe man bowed and retired. In a few moments, Alan Campbell walked in,\nlooking very stern and rather pale, his pallor being intensified by his\ncoal-black hair and dark eyebrows.\n\n“Alan! This is kind of you. I thank you for coming.”\n\n“I had intended never to enter your house again, Gray. But you said it\nwas a matter of life and death.” His voice was hard and cold. He spoke\nwith slow deliberation. There was a look of contempt in the steady\nsearching gaze that he turned on Dorian. He kept his hands in the\npockets of his Astrakhan coat, and seemed not to have noticed the\ngesture with which he had been greeted.",
    "meta": {
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    "id": "dorian_chunk_269",
    "text": "“Yes: it is a matter of life and death, Alan, and to more than one\nperson. Sit down.”\n\nCampbell took a chair by the table, and Dorian sat opposite to him. The\ntwo men’s eyes met. In Dorian’s there was infinite pity. He knew that\nwhat he was going to do was dreadful.\n\nAfter a strained moment of silence, he leaned across and said, very\nquietly, but watching the effect of each word upon the face of him he\nhad sent for, “Alan, in a locked room at the top of this house, a room\nto which nobody but myself has access, a dead man is seated at a table.\nHe has been dead ten hours now. Don’t stir, and don’t look at me like\nthat. Who the man is, why he died, how he died, are matters that do not\nconcern you. What you have to do is this—”\n\n“Stop, Gray. I don’t want to know anything further. Whether what you\nhave told me is true or not true doesn’t concern me. I entirely decline\nto be mixed up in your life. Keep your horrible secrets to yourself.\nThey don’t interest me any more.”",
    "meta": {
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    "id": "dorian_chunk_270",
    "text": "“Alan, they will have to interest you. This one will have to interest\nyou. I am awfully sorry for you, Alan. But I can’t help myself. You are\nthe one man who is able to save me. I am forced to bring you into the\nmatter. I have no option. Alan, you are scientific. You know about\nchemistry and things of that kind. You have made experiments. What you\nhave got to do is to destroy the thing that is upstairs—to destroy it\nso that not a vestige of it will be left. Nobody saw this person come\ninto the house. Indeed, at the present moment he is supposed to be in\nParis. He will not be missed for months. When he is missed, there must\nbe no trace of him found here. You, Alan, you must change him, and\neverything that belongs to him, into a handful of ashes that I may\nscatter in the air.”\n\n“You are mad, Dorian.”",
    "meta": {
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    "id": "dorian_chunk_271",
    "text": "“Ah! I was waiting for you to call me Dorian.”\n\n“You are mad, I tell you—mad to imagine that I would raise a finger to\nhelp you, mad to make this monstrous confession. I will have nothing to\ndo with this matter, whatever it is. Do you think I am going to peril\nmy reputation for you? What is it to me what devil’s work you are up\nto?”\n\n“It was suicide, Alan.”\n\n“I am glad of that. But who drove him to it? You, I should fancy.”\n\n“Do you still refuse to do this for me?”\n\n“Of course I refuse. I will have absolutely nothing to do with it. I\ndon’t care what shame comes on you. You deserve it all. I should not be\nsorry to see you disgraced, publicly disgraced. How dare you ask me, of\nall men in the world, to mix myself up in this horror? I should have\nthought you knew more about people’s characters. Your friend Lord Henry\nWotton can’t have taught you much about psychology, whatever else he\nhas taught you. Nothing will induce me to stir a step to help you. You\nhave come to the wrong man. Go to some of your friends. Don’t come to\nme.”",
    "meta": {
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    "id": "dorian_chunk_272",
    "text": "“Alan, it was murder. I killed him. You don’t know what he had made me\nsuffer. Whatever my life is, he had more to do with the making or the\nmarring of it than poor Harry has had. He may not have intended it, the\nresult was the same.”\n\n“Murder! Good God, Dorian, is that what you have come to? I shall not\ninform upon you. It is not my business. Besides, without my stirring in\nthe matter, you are certain to be arrested. Nobody ever commits a crime\nwithout doing something stupid. But I will have nothing to do with it.”\n\n“You must have something to do with it. Wait, wait a moment; listen to\nme. Only listen, Alan. All I ask of you is to perform a certain\nscientific experiment. You go to hospitals and dead-houses, and the\nhorrors that you do there don’t affect you. If in some hideous\ndissecting-room or fetid laboratory you found this man lying on a\nleaden table with red gutters scooped out in it for the blood to flow\nthrough, you would simply look upon him as an admirable subject. You\nwould not turn a hair. You would not believe that you were doing\nanything wrong. On the contrary, you would probably feel that you were\nbenefiting the human race, or increasing the sum of knowledge in the\nworld, or gratifying intellectual curiosity, or something of that kind.\nWhat I want you to do is merely what you have often done before.\nIndeed, to destroy a body must be far less horrible than what you are\naccustomed to work at. And, remember, it is the only piece of evidence\nagainst me. If it is discovered, I am lost; and it is sure to be\ndiscovered unless you help me.”",
    "meta": {
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    "id": "dorian_chunk_273",
    "text": "“I have no desire to help you. You forget that. I am simply indifferent\nto the whole thing. It has nothing to do with me.”\n\n“Alan, I entreat you. Think of the position I am in. Just before you\ncame I almost fainted with terror. You may know terror yourself some\nday. No! don’t think of that. Look at the matter purely from the\nscientific point of view. You don’t inquire where the dead things on\nwhich you experiment come from. Don’t inquire now. I have told you too\nmuch as it is. But I beg of you to do this. We were friends once,\nAlan.”\n\n“Don’t speak about those days, Dorian—they are dead.”\n\n“The dead linger sometimes. The man upstairs will not go away. He is\nsitting at the table with bowed head and outstretched arms. Alan! Alan!\nIf you don’t come to my assistance, I am ruined. Why, they will hang\nme, Alan! Don’t you understand? They will hang me for what I have\ndone.”",
    "meta": {
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    "id": "dorian_chunk_274",
    "text": "“There is no good in prolonging this scene. I absolutely refuse to do\nanything in the matter. It is insane of you to ask me.”\n\n“You refuse?”\n\n“Yes.”\n\n“I entreat you, Alan.”\n\n“It is useless.”\n\nThe same look of pity came into Dorian Gray’s eyes. Then he stretched\nout his hand, took a piece of paper, and wrote something on it. He read\nit over twice, folded it carefully, and pushed it across the table.\nHaving done this, he got up and went over to the window.\n\nCampbell looked at him in surprise, and then took up the paper, and\nopened it. As he read it, his face became ghastly pale and he fell back\nin his chair. A horrible sense of sickness came over him. He felt as if\nhis heart was beating itself to death in some empty hollow.\n\nAfter two or three minutes of terrible silence, Dorian turned round and\ncame and stood behind him, putting his hand upon his shoulder.",
    "meta": {
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    "id": "dorian_chunk_275",
    "text": "“I am so sorry for you, Alan,” he murmured, “but you leave me no\nalternative. I have a letter written already. Here it is. You see the\naddress. If you don’t help me, I must send it. If you don’t help me, I\nwill send it. You know what the result will be. But you are going to\nhelp me. It is impossible for you to refuse now. I tried to spare you.\nYou will do me the justice to admit that. You were stern, harsh,\noffensive. You treated me as no man has ever dared to treat me—no\nliving man, at any rate. I bore it all. Now it is for me to dictate\nterms.”\n\nCampbell buried his face in his hands, and a shudder passed through\nhim.\n\n“Yes, it is my turn to dictate terms, Alan. You know what they are. The\nthing is quite simple. Come, don’t work yourself into this fever. The\nthing has to be done. Face it, and do it.”",
    "meta": {
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    "id": "dorian_chunk_276",
    "text": "A groan broke from Campbell’s lips and he shivered all over. The\nticking of the clock on the mantelpiece seemed to him to be dividing\ntime into separate atoms of agony, each of which was too terrible to be\nborne. He felt as if an iron ring was being slowly tightened round his\nforehead, as if the disgrace with which he was threatened had already\ncome upon him. The hand upon his shoulder weighed like a hand of lead.\nIt was intolerable. It seemed to crush him.\n\n“Come, Alan, you must decide at once.”\n\n“I cannot do it,” he said, mechanically, as though words could alter\nthings.\n\n“You must. You have no choice. Don’t delay.”\n\nHe hesitated a moment. “Is there a fire in the room upstairs?”\n\n“Yes, there is a gas-fire with asbestos.”\n\n“I shall have to go home and get some things from the laboratory.”",
    "meta": {
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    "id": "dorian_chunk_277",
    "text": "He hesitated a moment. “Is there a fire in the room upstairs?”\n\n“Yes, there is a gas-fire with asbestos.”\n\n“I shall have to go home and get some things from the laboratory.”\n\n“No, Alan, you must not leave the house. Write out on a sheet of\nnotepaper what you want and my servant will take a cab and bring the\nthings back to you.”\n\nCampbell scrawled a few lines, blotted them, and addressed an envelope\nto his assistant. Dorian took the note up and read it carefully. Then\nhe rang the bell and gave it to his valet, with orders to return as\nsoon as possible and to bring the things with him.\n\nAs the hall door shut, Campbell started nervously, and having got up\nfrom the chair, went over to the chimney-piece. He was shivering with a\nkind of ague. For nearly twenty minutes, neither of the men spoke. A\nfly buzzed noisily about the room, and the ticking of the clock was\nlike the beat of a hammer.",
    "meta": {
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    "id": "dorian_chunk_278",
    "text": "As the chime struck one, Campbell turned round, and looking at Dorian\nGray, saw that his eyes were filled with tears. There was something in\nthe purity and refinement of that sad face that seemed to enrage him.\n“You are infamous, absolutely infamous!” he muttered.\n\n“Hush, Alan. You have saved my life,” said Dorian.\n\n“Your life? Good heavens! what a life that is! You have gone from\ncorruption to corruption, and now you have culminated in crime. In\ndoing what I am going to do—what you force me to do—it is not of your\nlife that I am thinking.”\n\n“Ah, Alan,” murmured Dorian with a sigh, “I wish you had a thousandth\npart of the pity for me that I have for you.” He turned away as he\nspoke and stood looking out at the garden. Campbell made no answer.\n\nAfter about ten minutes a knock came to the door, and the servant\nentered, carrying a large mahogany chest of chemicals, with a long coil\nof steel and platinum wire and two rather curiously shaped iron clamps.",
    "meta": {
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    "id": "dorian_chunk_279",
    "text": "“Shall I leave the things here, sir?” he asked Campbell.\n\n“Yes,” said Dorian. “And I am afraid, Francis, that I have another\nerrand for you. What is the name of the man at Richmond who supplies\nSelby with orchids?”\n\n“Harden, sir.”\n\n“Yes—Harden. You must go down to Richmond at once, see Harden\npersonally, and tell him to send twice as many orchids as I ordered,\nand to have as few white ones as possible. In fact, I don’t want any\nwhite ones. It is a lovely day, Francis, and Richmond is a very pretty\nplace—otherwise I wouldn’t bother you about it.”\n\n“No trouble, sir. At what time shall I be back?”\n\nDorian looked at Campbell. “How long will your experiment take, Alan?”\nhe said in a calm indifferent voice. The presence of a third person in\nthe room seemed to give him extraordinary courage.\n\nCampbell frowned and bit his lip. “It will take about five hours,” he\nanswered.",
    "meta": {
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    "id": "dorian_chunk_280",
    "text": "Dorian looked at Campbell. “How long will your experiment take, Alan?”\nhe said in a calm indifferent voice. The presence of a third person in\nthe room seemed to give him extraordinary courage.\n\nCampbell frowned and bit his lip. “It will take about five hours,” he\nanswered.\n\n“It will be time enough, then, if you are back at half-past seven,\nFrancis. Or stay: just leave my things out for dressing. You can have\nthe evening to yourself. I am not dining at home, so I shall not want\nyou.”\n\n“Thank you, sir,” said the man, leaving the room.\n\n“Now, Alan, there is not a moment to be lost. How heavy this chest is!\nI’ll take it for you. You bring the other things.” He spoke rapidly and\nin an authoritative manner. Campbell felt dominated by him. They left\nthe room together.\n\nWhen they reached the top landing, Dorian took out the key and turned\nit in the lock. Then he stopped, and a troubled look came into his\neyes. He shuddered. “I don’t think I can go in, Alan,” he murmured.",
    "meta": {
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    "id": "dorian_chunk_281",
    "text": "“It is nothing to me. I don’t require you,” said Campbell coldly.\n\nDorian half opened the door. As he did so, he saw the face of his\nportrait leering in the sunlight. On the floor in front of it the torn\ncurtain was lying. He remembered that the night before he had\nforgotten, for the first time in his life, to hide the fatal canvas,\nand was about to rush forward, when he drew back with a shudder.\n\nWhat was that loathsome red dew that gleamed, wet and glistening, on\none of the hands, as though the canvas had sweated blood? How horrible\nit was!—more horrible, it seemed to him for the moment, than the silent\nthing that he knew was stretched across the table, the thing whose\ngrotesque misshapen shadow on the spotted carpet showed him that it had\nnot stirred, but was still there, as he had left it.",
    "meta": {
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    "id": "dorian_chunk_282",
    "text": "He heaved a deep breath, opened the door a little wider, and with\nhalf-closed eyes and averted head, walked quickly in, determined that\nhe would not look even once upon the dead man. Then, stooping down and\ntaking up the gold-and-purple hanging, he flung it right over the\npicture.\n\nThere he stopped, feeling afraid to turn round, and his eyes fixed\nthemselves on the intricacies of the pattern before him. He heard\nCampbell bringing in the heavy chest, and the irons, and the other\nthings that he had required for his dreadful work. He began to wonder\nif he and Basil Hallward had ever met, and, if so, what they had\nthought of each other.\n\n“Leave me now,” said a stern voice behind him.\n\nHe turned and hurried out, just conscious that the dead man had been\nthrust back into the chair and that Campbell was gazing into a\nglistening yellow face. As he was going downstairs, he heard the key\nbeing turned in the lock.",
    "meta": {
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    "id": "dorian_chunk_283",
    "text": "It was long after seven when Campbell came back into the library. He\nwas pale, but absolutely calm. “I have done what you asked me to do,”\nhe muttered. “And now, good-bye. Let us never see each other again.”\n\n“You have saved me from ruin, Alan. I cannot forget that,” said Dorian\nsimply.\n\nAs soon as Campbell had left, he went upstairs. There was a horrible\nsmell of nitric acid in the room. But the thing that had been sitting\nat the table was gone.\n\nCHAPTER XV.\n\nThat evening, at eight-thirty, exquisitely dressed and wearing a large\nbutton-hole of Parma violets, Dorian Gray was ushered into Lady\nNarborough’s drawing-room by bowing servants. His forehead was\nthrobbing with maddened nerves, and he felt wildly excited, but his\nmanner as he bent over his hostess’s hand was as easy and graceful as\never. Perhaps one never seems so much at one’s ease as when one has to\nplay a part. Certainly no one looking at Dorian Gray that night could\nhave believed that he had passed through a tragedy as horrible as any\ntragedy of our age. Those finely shaped fingers could never have\nclutched a knife for sin, nor those smiling lips have cried out on God\nand goodness. He himself could not help wondering at the calm of his\ndemeanour, and for a moment felt keenly the terrible pleasure of a\ndouble life.",
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    "text": "It was a small party, got up rather in a hurry by Lady Narborough, who\nwas a very clever woman with what Lord Henry used to describe as the\nremains of really remarkable ugliness. She had proved an excellent wife\nto one of our most tedious ambassadors, and having buried her husband\nproperly in a marble mausoleum, which she had herself designed, and\nmarried off her daughters to some rich, rather elderly men, she devoted\nherself now to the pleasures of French fiction, French cookery, and\nFrench _esprit_ when she could get it.\n\nDorian was one of her especial favourites, and she always told him that\nshe was extremely glad she had not met him in early life. “I know, my\ndear, I should have fallen madly in love with you,” she used to say,\n“and thrown my bonnet right over the mills for your sake. It is most\nfortunate that you were not thought of at the time. As it was, our\nbonnets were so unbecoming, and the mills were so occupied in trying to\nraise the wind, that I never had even a flirtation with anybody.\nHowever, that was all Narborough’s fault. He was dreadfully\nshort-sighted, and there is no pleasure in taking in a husband who\nnever sees anything.”",
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    "id": "dorian_chunk_285",
    "text": "Her guests this evening were rather tedious. The fact was, as she\nexplained to Dorian, behind a very shabby fan, one of her married\ndaughters had come up quite suddenly to stay with her, and, to make\nmatters worse, had actually brought her husband with her. “I think it\nis most unkind of her, my dear,” she whispered. “Of course I go and\nstay with them every summer after I come from Homburg, but then an old\nwoman like me must have fresh air sometimes, and besides, I really wake\nthem up. You don’t know what an existence they lead down there. It is\npure unadulterated country life. They get up early, because they have\nso much to do, and go to bed early, because they have so little to\nthink about. There has not been a scandal in the neighbourhood since\nthe time of Queen Elizabeth, and consequently they all fall asleep\nafter dinner. You shan’t sit next either of them. You shall sit by me\nand amuse me.”",
    "meta": {
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    "id": "dorian_chunk_286",
    "text": "Dorian murmured a graceful compliment and looked round the room. Yes:\nit was certainly a tedious party. Two of the people he had never seen\nbefore, and the others consisted of Ernest Harrowden, one of those\nmiddle-aged mediocrities so common in London clubs who have no enemies,\nbut are thoroughly disliked by their friends; Lady Ruxton, an\noverdressed woman of forty-seven, with a hooked nose, who was always\ntrying to get herself compromised, but was so peculiarly plain that to\nher great disappointment no one would ever believe anything against\nher; Mrs. Erlynne, a pushing nobody, with a delightful lisp and\nVenetian-red hair; Lady Alice Chapman, his hostess’s daughter, a dowdy\ndull girl, with one of those characteristic British faces that, once\nseen, are never remembered; and her husband, a red-cheeked,\nwhite-whiskered creature who, like so many of his class, was under the\nimpression that inordinate joviality can atone for an entire lack of\nideas.",
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    "id": "dorian_chunk_287",
    "text": "He was rather sorry he had come, till Lady Narborough, looking at the\ngreat ormolu gilt clock that sprawled in gaudy curves on the\nmauve-draped mantelshelf, exclaimed: “How horrid of Henry Wotton to be\nso late! I sent round to him this morning on chance and he promised\nfaithfully not to disappoint me.”\n\nIt was some consolation that Harry was to be there, and when the door\nopened and he heard his slow musical voice lending charm to some\ninsincere apology, he ceased to feel bored.\n\nBut at dinner he could not eat anything. Plate after plate went away\nuntasted. Lady Narborough kept scolding him for what she called “an\ninsult to poor Adolphe, who invented the _menu_ specially for you,” and\nnow and then Lord Henry looked across at him, wondering at his silence\nand abstracted manner. From time to time the butler filled his glass\nwith champagne. He drank eagerly, and his thirst seemed to increase.",
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    "text": "“Dorian,” said Lord Henry at last, as the _chaud-froid_ was being\nhanded round, “what is the matter with you to-night? You are quite out\nof sorts.”\n\n“I believe he is in love,” cried Lady Narborough, “and that he is\nafraid to tell me for fear I should be jealous. He is quite right. I\ncertainly should.”\n\n“Dear Lady Narborough,” murmured Dorian, smiling, “I have not been in\nlove for a whole week—not, in fact, since Madame de Ferrol left town.”\n\n“How you men can fall in love with that woman!” exclaimed the old lady.\n“I really cannot understand it.”\n\n“It is simply because she remembers you when you were a little girl,\nLady Narborough,” said Lord Henry. “She is the one link between us and\nyour short frocks.”\n\n“She does not remember my short frocks at all, Lord Henry. But I\nremember her very well at Vienna thirty years ago, and how _décolletée_\nshe was then.”",
    "meta": {
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    "id": "dorian_chunk_289",
    "text": "“She is still _décolletée_,” he answered, taking an olive in his long\nfingers; “and when she is in a very smart gown she looks like an\n_édition de luxe_ of a bad French novel. She is really wonderful, and\nfull of surprises. Her capacity for family affection is extraordinary.\nWhen her third husband died, her hair turned quite gold from grief.”\n\n“How can you, Harry!” cried Dorian.\n\n“It is a most romantic explanation,” laughed the hostess. “But her\nthird husband, Lord Henry! You don’t mean to say Ferrol is the fourth?”\n\n“Certainly, Lady Narborough.”\n\n“I don’t believe a word of it.”\n\n“Well, ask Mr. Gray. He is one of her most intimate friends.”\n\n“Is it true, Mr. Gray?”\n\n“She assures me so, Lady Narborough,” said Dorian. “I asked her\nwhether, like Marguerite de Navarre, she had their hearts embalmed and\nhung at her girdle. She told me she didn’t, because none of them had\nhad any hearts at all.”",
    "meta": {
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    "id": "dorian_chunk_290",
    "text": "“Four husbands! Upon my word that is _trop de zêle_.”\n\n“_Trop d’audace_, I tell her,” said Dorian.\n\n“Oh! she is audacious enough for anything, my dear. And what is Ferrol\nlike? I don’t know him.”\n\n“The husbands of very beautiful women belong to the criminal classes,”\nsaid Lord Henry, sipping his wine.\n\nLady Narborough hit him with her fan. “Lord Henry, I am not at all\nsurprised that the world says that you are extremely wicked.”\n\n“But what world says that?” asked Lord Henry, elevating his eyebrows.\n“It can only be the next world. This world and I are on excellent\nterms.”\n\n“Everybody I know says you are very wicked,” cried the old lady,\nshaking her head.\n\nLord Henry looked serious for some moments. “It is perfectly\nmonstrous,” he said, at last, “the way people go about nowadays saying\nthings against one behind one’s back that are absolutely and entirely\ntrue.”",
    "meta": {
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    "id": "dorian_chunk_291",
    "text": "“Isn’t he incorrigible?” cried Dorian, leaning forward in his chair.\n\n“I hope so,” said his hostess, laughing. “But really, if you all\nworship Madame de Ferrol in this ridiculous way, I shall have to marry\nagain so as to be in the fashion.”\n\n“You will never marry again, Lady Narborough,” broke in Lord Henry.\n“You were far too happy. When a woman marries again, it is because she\ndetested her first husband. When a man marries again, it is because he\nadored his first wife. Women try their luck; men risk theirs.”\n\n“Narborough wasn’t perfect,” cried the old lady.\n\n“If he had been, you would not have loved him, my dear lady,” was the\nrejoinder. “Women love us for our defects. If we have enough of them,\nthey will forgive us everything, even our intellects. You will never\nask me to dinner again after saying this, I am afraid, Lady Narborough,\nbut it is quite true.”",
    "meta": {
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    "id": "dorian_chunk_292",
    "text": "“Of course it is true, Lord Henry. If we women did not love you for\nyour defects, where would you all be? Not one of you would ever be\nmarried. You would be a set of unfortunate bachelors. Not, however,\nthat that would alter you much. Nowadays all the married men live like\nbachelors, and all the bachelors like married men.”\n\n“_Fin de siêcle_,” murmured Lord Henry.\n\n“_Fin du globe_,” answered his hostess.\n\n“I wish it were _fin du globe_,” said Dorian with a sigh. “Life is a\ngreat disappointment.”\n\n“Ah, my dear,” cried Lady Narborough, putting on her gloves, “don’t\ntell me that you have exhausted life. When a man says that one knows\nthat life has exhausted him. Lord Henry is very wicked, and I sometimes\nwish that I had been; but you are made to be good—you look so good. I\nmust find you a nice wife. Lord Henry, don’t you think that Mr. Gray\nshould get married?”",
    "meta": {
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    "id": "dorian_chunk_293",
    "text": "“I am always telling him so, Lady Narborough,” said Lord Henry with a\nbow.\n\n“Well, we must look out for a suitable match for him. I shall go\nthrough Debrett carefully to-night and draw out a list of all the\neligible young ladies.”\n\n“With their ages, Lady Narborough?” asked Dorian.\n\n“Of course, with their ages, slightly edited. But nothing must be done\nin a hurry. I want it to be what _The Morning Post_ calls a suitable\nalliance, and I want you both to be happy.”\n\n“What nonsense people talk about happy marriages!” exclaimed Lord\nHenry. “A man can be happy with any woman, as long as he does not love\nher.”\n\n“Ah! what a cynic you are!” cried the old lady, pushing back her chair\nand nodding to Lady Ruxton. “You must come and dine with me soon again.\nYou are really an admirable tonic, much better than what Sir Andrew\nprescribes for me. You must tell me what people you would like to meet,\nthough. I want it to be a delightful gathering.”",
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    "id": "dorian_chunk_294",
    "text": "“I like men who have a future and women who have a past,” he answered.\n“Or do you think that would make it a petticoat party?”\n\n“I fear so,” she said, laughing, as she stood up. “A thousand pardons,\nmy dear Lady Ruxton,” she added, “I didn’t see you hadn’t finished your\ncigarette.”\n\n“Never mind, Lady Narborough. I smoke a great deal too much. I am going\nto limit myself, for the future.”\n\n“Pray don’t, Lady Ruxton,” said Lord Henry. “Moderation is a fatal\nthing. Enough is as bad as a meal. More than enough is as good as a\nfeast.”\n\nLady Ruxton glanced at him curiously. “You must come and explain that\nto me some afternoon, Lord Henry. It sounds a fascinating theory,” she\nmurmured, as she swept out of the room.\n\n“Now, mind you don’t stay too long over your politics and scandal,”\ncried Lady Narborough from the door. “If you do, we are sure to\nsquabble upstairs.”",
    "meta": {
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    "id": "dorian_chunk_295",
    "text": "The men laughed, and Mr. Chapman got up solemnly from the foot of the\ntable and came up to the top. Dorian Gray changed his seat and went and\nsat by Lord Henry. Mr. Chapman began to talk in a loud voice about the\nsituation in the House of Commons. He guffawed at his adversaries. The\nword _doctrinaire_—word full of terror to the British mind—reappeared\nfrom time to time between his explosions. An alliterative prefix served\nas an ornament of oratory. He hoisted the Union Jack on the pinnacles\nof thought. The inherited stupidity of the race—sound English common\nsense he jovially termed it—was shown to be the proper bulwark for\nsociety.\n\nA smile curved Lord Henry’s lips, and he turned round and looked at\nDorian.\n\n“Are you better, my dear fellow?” he asked. “You seemed rather out of\nsorts at dinner.”",
    "meta": {
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    "id": "dorian_chunk_296",
    "text": "A smile curved Lord Henry’s lips, and he turned round and looked at\nDorian.\n\n“Are you better, my dear fellow?” he asked. “You seemed rather out of\nsorts at dinner.”\n\n“I am quite well, Harry. I am tired. That is all.”\n\n“You were charming last night. The little duchess is quite devoted to\nyou. She tells me she is going down to Selby.”\n\n“She has promised to come on the twentieth.”\n\n“Is Monmouth to be there, too?”\n\n“Oh, yes, Harry.”\n\n“He bores me dreadfully, almost as much as he bores her. She is very\nclever, too clever for a woman. She lacks the indefinable charm of\nweakness. It is the feet of clay that make the gold of the image\nprecious. Her feet are very pretty, but they are not feet of clay.\nWhite porcelain feet, if you like. They have been through the fire, and\nwhat fire does not destroy, it hardens. She has had experiences.”",
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    "id": "dorian_chunk_297",
    "text": "“How long has she been married?” asked Dorian.\n\n“An eternity, she tells me. I believe, according to the peerage, it is\nten years, but ten years with Monmouth must have been like eternity,\nwith time thrown in. Who else is coming?”\n\n“Oh, the Willoughbys, Lord Rugby and his wife, our hostess, Geoffrey\nClouston, the usual set. I have asked Lord Grotrian.”\n\n“I like him,” said Lord Henry. “A great many people don’t, but I find\nhim charming. He atones for being occasionally somewhat overdressed by\nbeing always absolutely over-educated. He is a very modern type.”\n\n“I don’t know if he will be able to come, Harry. He may have to go to\nMonte Carlo with his father.”\n\n“Ah! what a nuisance people’s people are! Try and make him come. By the\nway, Dorian, you ran off very early last night. You left before eleven.\nWhat did you do afterwards? Did you go straight home?”",
    "meta": {
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    "id": "dorian_chunk_298",
    "text": "Dorian glanced at him hurriedly and frowned.\n\n“No, Harry,” he said at last, “I did not get home till nearly three.”\n\n“Did you go to the club?”\n\n“Yes,” he answered. Then he bit his lip. “No, I don’t mean that. I\ndidn’t go to the club. I walked about. I forget what I did.... How\ninquisitive you are, Harry! You always want to know what one has been\ndoing. I always want to forget what I have been doing. I came in at\nhalf-past two, if you wish to know the exact time. I had left my\nlatch-key at home, and my servant had to let me in. If you want any\ncorroborative evidence on the subject, you can ask him.”\n\nLord Henry shrugged his shoulders. “My dear fellow, as if I cared! Let\nus go up to the drawing-room. No sherry, thank you, Mr. Chapman.\nSomething has happened to you, Dorian. Tell me what it is. You are not\nyourself to-night.”",
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    "id": "dorian_chunk_299",
    "text": "“Don’t mind me, Harry. I am irritable, and out of temper. I shall come\nround and see you to-morrow, or next day. Make my excuses to Lady\nNarborough. I shan’t go upstairs. I shall go home. I must go home.”\n\n“All right, Dorian. I dare say I shall see you to-morrow at tea-time.\nThe duchess is coming.”\n\n“I will try to be there, Harry,” he said, leaving the room. As he drove\nback to his own house, he was conscious that the sense of terror he\nthought he had strangled had come back to him. Lord Henry’s casual\nquestioning had made him lose his nerve for the moment, and he wanted\nhis nerve still. Things that were dangerous had to be destroyed. He\nwinced. He hated the idea of even touching them.\n\nYet it had to be done. He realized that, and when he had locked the\ndoor of his library, he opened the secret press into which he had\nthrust Basil Hallward’s coat and bag. A huge fire was blazing. He piled\nanother log on it. The smell of the singeing clothes and burning\nleather was horrible. It took him three-quarters of an hour to consume\neverything. At the end he felt faint and sick, and having lit some\nAlgerian pastilles in a pierced copper brazier, he bathed his hands and\nforehead with a cool musk-scented vinegar.",
    "meta": {
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    "id": "dorian_chunk_300",
    "text": "Suddenly he started. His eyes grew strangely bright, and he gnawed\nnervously at his underlip. Between two of the windows stood a large\nFlorentine cabinet, made out of ebony and inlaid with ivory and blue\nlapis. He watched it as though it were a thing that could fascinate and\nmake afraid, as though it held something that he longed for and yet\nalmost loathed. His breath quickened. A mad craving came over him. He\nlit a cigarette and then threw it away. His eyelids drooped till the\nlong fringed lashes almost touched his cheek. But he still watched the\ncabinet. At last he got up from the sofa on which he had been lying,\nwent over to it, and having unlocked it, touched some hidden spring. A\ntriangular drawer passed slowly out. His fingers moved instinctively\ntowards it, dipped in, and closed on something. It was a small Chinese\nbox of black and gold-dust lacquer, elaborately wrought, the sides\npatterned with curved waves, and the silken cords hung with round\ncrystals and tasselled in plaited metal threads. He opened it. Inside\nwas a green paste, waxy in lustre, the odour curiously heavy and\npersistent.",
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    "id": "dorian_chunk_301",
    "text": "He hesitated for some moments, with a strangely immobile smile upon his\nface. Then shivering, though the atmosphere of the room was terribly\nhot, he drew himself up and glanced at the clock. It was twenty minutes\nto twelve. He put the box back, shutting the cabinet doors as he did\nso, and went into his bedroom.\n\nAs midnight was striking bronze blows upon the dusky air, Dorian Gray,\ndressed commonly, and with a muffler wrapped round his throat, crept\nquietly out of his house. In Bond Street he found a hansom with a good\nhorse. He hailed it and in a low voice gave the driver an address.\n\nThe man shook his head. “It is too far for me,” he muttered.\n\n“Here is a sovereign for you,” said Dorian. “You shall have another if\nyou drive fast.”\n\n“All right, sir,” answered the man, “you will be there in an hour,” and\nafter his fare had got in he turned his horse round and drove rapidly\ntowards the river.",
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    "id": "dorian_chunk_302",
    "text": "CHAPTER XVI.\n\nA cold rain began to fall, and the blurred street-lamps looked ghastly\nin the dripping mist. The public-houses were just closing, and dim men\nand women were clustering in broken groups round their doors. From some\nof the bars came the sound of horrible laughter. In others, drunkards\nbrawled and screamed.\n\nLying back in the hansom, with his hat pulled over his forehead, Dorian\nGray watched with listless eyes the sordid shame of the great city, and\nnow and then he repeated to himself the words that Lord Henry had said\nto him on the first day they had met, “To cure the soul by means of the\nsenses, and the senses by means of the soul.” Yes, that was the secret.\nHe had often tried it, and would try it again now. There were opium\ndens where one could buy oblivion, dens of horror where the memory of\nold sins could be destroyed by the madness of sins that were new.",
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    "text": "The moon hung low in the sky like a yellow skull. From time to time a\nhuge misshapen cloud stretched a long arm across and hid it. The\ngas-lamps grew fewer, and the streets more narrow and gloomy. Once the\nman lost his way and had to drive back half a mile. A steam rose from\nthe horse as it splashed up the puddles. The sidewindows of the hansom\nwere clogged with a grey-flannel mist.\n\n“To cure the soul by means of the senses, and the senses by means of\nthe soul!” How the words rang in his ears! His soul, certainly, was\nsick to death. Was it true that the senses could cure it? Innocent\nblood had been spilled. What could atone for that? Ah! for that there\nwas no atonement; but though forgiveness was impossible, forgetfulness\nwas possible still, and he was determined to forget, to stamp the thing\nout, to crush it as one would crush the adder that had stung one.\nIndeed, what right had Basil to have spoken to him as he had done? Who\nhad made him a judge over others? He had said things that were\ndreadful, horrible, not to be endured.",
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    "text": "On and on plodded the hansom, going slower, it seemed to him, at each\nstep. He thrust up the trap and called to the man to drive faster. The\nhideous hunger for opium began to gnaw at him. His throat burned and\nhis delicate hands twitched nervously together. He struck at the horse\nmadly with his stick. The driver laughed and whipped up. He laughed in\nanswer, and the man was silent.\n\nThe way seemed interminable, and the streets like the black web of some\nsprawling spider. The monotony became unbearable, and as the mist\nthickened, he felt afraid.\n\nThen they passed by lonely brickfields. The fog was lighter here, and\nhe could see the strange, bottle-shaped kilns with their orange,\nfanlike tongues of fire. A dog barked as they went by, and far away in\nthe darkness some wandering sea-gull screamed. The horse stumbled in a\nrut, then swerved aside and broke into a gallop.",
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    "id": "dorian_chunk_305",
    "text": "After some time they left the clay road and rattled again over\nrough-paven streets. Most of the windows were dark, but now and then\nfantastic shadows were silhouetted against some lamplit blind. He\nwatched them curiously. They moved like monstrous marionettes and made\ngestures like live things. He hated them. A dull rage was in his heart.\nAs they turned a corner, a woman yelled something at them from an open\ndoor, and two men ran after the hansom for about a hundred yards. The\ndriver beat at them with his whip.\n\nIt is said that passion makes one think in a circle. Certainly with\nhideous iteration the bitten lips of Dorian Gray shaped and reshaped\nthose subtle words that dealt with soul and sense, till he had found in\nthem the full expression, as it were, of his mood, and justified, by\nintellectual approval, passions that without such justification would\nstill have dominated his temper. From cell to cell of his brain crept\nthe one thought; and the wild desire to live, most terrible of all\nman’s appetites, quickened into force each trembling nerve and fibre.\nUgliness that had once been hateful to him because it made things real,\nbecame dear to him now for that very reason. Ugliness was the one\nreality. The coarse brawl, the loathsome den, the crude violence of\ndisordered life, the very vileness of thief and outcast, were more\nvivid, in their intense actuality of impression, than all the gracious\nshapes of art, the dreamy shadows of song. They were what he needed for\nforgetfulness. In three days he would be free.",
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    "id": "dorian_chunk_306",
    "text": "Suddenly the man drew up with a jerk at the top of a dark lane. Over\nthe low roofs and jagged chimney-stacks of the houses rose the black\nmasts of ships. Wreaths of white mist clung like ghostly sails to the\nyards.\n\n“Somewhere about here, sir, ain’t it?” he asked huskily through the\ntrap.\n\nDorian started and peered round. “This will do,” he answered, and\nhaving got out hastily and given the driver the extra fare he had\npromised him, he walked quickly in the direction of the quay. Here and\nthere a lantern gleamed at the stern of some huge merchantman. The\nlight shook and splintered in the puddles. A red glare came from an\noutward-bound steamer that was coaling. The slimy pavement looked like\na wet mackintosh.\n\nHe hurried on towards the left, glancing back now and then to see if he\nwas being followed. In about seven or eight minutes he reached a small\nshabby house that was wedged in between two gaunt factories. In one of\nthe top-windows stood a lamp. He stopped and gave a peculiar knock.",
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    "text": "After a little time he heard steps in the passage and the chain being\nunhooked. The door opened quietly, and he went in without saying a word\nto the squat misshapen figure that flattened itself into the shadow as\nhe passed. At the end of the hall hung a tattered green curtain that\nswayed and shook in the gusty wind which had followed him in from the\nstreet. He dragged it aside and entered a long low room which looked as\nif it had once been a third-rate dancing-saloon. Shrill flaring\ngas-jets, dulled and distorted in the fly-blown mirrors that faced\nthem, were ranged round the walls. Greasy reflectors of ribbed tin\nbacked them, making quivering disks of light. The floor was covered\nwith ochre-coloured sawdust, trampled here and there into mud, and\nstained with dark rings of spilled liquor. Some Malays were crouching\nby a little charcoal stove, playing with bone counters and showing\ntheir white teeth as they chattered. In one corner, with his head\nburied in his arms, a sailor sprawled over a table, and by the tawdrily\npainted bar that ran across one complete side stood two haggard women,\nmocking an old man who was brushing the sleeves of his coat with an\nexpression of disgust. “He thinks he’s got red ants on him,” laughed\none of them, as Dorian passed by. The man looked at her in terror and\nbegan to whimper.",
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    "text": "At the end of the room there was a little staircase, leading to a\ndarkened chamber. As Dorian hurried up its three rickety steps, the\nheavy odour of opium met him. He heaved a deep breath, and his nostrils\nquivered with pleasure. When he entered, a young man with smooth yellow\nhair, who was bending over a lamp lighting a long thin pipe, looked up\nat him and nodded in a hesitating manner.\n\n“You here, Adrian?” muttered Dorian.\n\n“Where else should I be?” he answered, listlessly. “None of the chaps\nwill speak to me now.”\n\n“I thought you had left England.”\n\n“Darlington is not going to do anything. My brother paid the bill at\nlast. George doesn’t speak to me either.... I don’t care,” he added\nwith a sigh. “As long as one has this stuff, one doesn’t want friends.\nI think I have had too many friends.”",
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    "text": "Dorian winced and looked round at the grotesque things that lay in such\nfantastic postures on the ragged mattresses. The twisted limbs, the\ngaping mouths, the staring lustreless eyes, fascinated him. He knew in\nwhat strange heavens they were suffering, and what dull hells were\nteaching them the secret of some new joy. They were better off than he\nwas. He was prisoned in thought. Memory, like a horrible malady, was\neating his soul away. From time to time he seemed to see the eyes of\nBasil Hallward looking at him. Yet he felt he could not stay. The\npresence of Adrian Singleton troubled him. He wanted to be where no one\nwould know who he was. He wanted to escape from himself.\n\n“I am going on to the other place,” he said after a pause.\n\n“On the wharf?”\n\n“Yes.”\n\n“That mad-cat is sure to be there. They won’t have her in this place\nnow.”",
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    "id": "dorian_chunk_310",
    "text": "“I am going on to the other place,” he said after a pause.\n\n“On the wharf?”\n\n“Yes.”\n\n“That mad-cat is sure to be there. They won’t have her in this place\nnow.”\n\nDorian shrugged his shoulders. “I am sick of women who love one. Women\nwho hate one are much more interesting. Besides, the stuff is better.”\n\n“Much the same.”\n\n“I like it better. Come and have something to drink. I must have\nsomething.”\n\n“I don’t want anything,” murmured the young man.\n\n“Never mind.”\n\nAdrian Singleton rose up wearily and followed Dorian to the bar. A\nhalf-caste, in a ragged turban and a shabby ulster, grinned a hideous\ngreeting as he thrust a bottle of brandy and two tumblers in front of\nthem. The women sidled up and began to chatter. Dorian turned his back\non them and said something in a low voice to Adrian Singleton.",
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    "text": "A crooked smile, like a Malay crease, writhed across the face of one of\nthe women. “We are very proud to-night,” she sneered.\n\n“For God’s sake don’t talk to me,” cried Dorian, stamping his foot on\nthe ground. “What do you want? Money? Here it is. Don’t ever talk to me\nagain.”\n\nTwo red sparks flashed for a moment in the woman’s sodden eyes, then\nflickered out and left them dull and glazed. She tossed her head and\nraked the coins off the counter with greedy fingers. Her companion\nwatched her enviously.\n\n“It’s no use,” sighed Adrian Singleton. “I don’t care to go back. What\ndoes it matter? I am quite happy here.”\n\n“You will write to me if you want anything, won’t you?” said Dorian,\nafter a pause.\n\n“Perhaps.”\n\n“Good night, then.”\n\n“Good night,” answered the young man, passing up the steps and wiping\nhis parched mouth with a handkerchief.",
    "meta": {
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    "id": "dorian_chunk_312",
    "text": "“Good night, then.”\n\n“Good night,” answered the young man, passing up the steps and wiping\nhis parched mouth with a handkerchief.\n\nDorian walked to the door with a look of pain in his face. As he drew\nthe curtain aside, a hideous laugh broke from the painted lips of the\nwoman who had taken his money. “There goes the devil’s bargain!” she\nhiccoughed, in a hoarse voice.\n\n“Curse you!” he answered, “don’t call me that.”\n\nShe snapped her fingers. “Prince Charming is what you like to be\ncalled, ain’t it?” she yelled after him.\n\nThe drowsy sailor leaped to his feet as she spoke, and looked wildly\nround. The sound of the shutting of the hall door fell on his ear. He\nrushed out as if in pursuit.\n\nDorian Gray hurried along the quay through the drizzling rain. His\nmeeting with Adrian Singleton had strangely moved him, and he wondered\nif the ruin of that young life was really to be laid at his door, as\nBasil Hallward had said to him with such infamy of insult. He bit his\nlip, and for a few seconds his eyes grew sad. Yet, after all, what did\nit matter to him? One’s days were too brief to take the burden of\nanother’s errors on one’s shoulders. Each man lived his own life and\npaid his own price for living it. The only pity was one had to pay so\noften for a single fault. One had to pay over and over again, indeed.\nIn her dealings with man, destiny never closed her accounts.",
    "meta": {
      "book": "dorian",
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      "para_idx_end": 1208,
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    "id": "dorian_chunk_313",
    "text": "There are moments, psychologists tell us, when the passion for sin, or\nfor what the world calls sin, so dominates a nature that every fibre of\nthe body, as every cell of the brain, seems to be instinct with fearful\nimpulses. Men and women at such moments lose the freedom of their will.\nThey move to their terrible end as automatons move. Choice is taken\nfrom them, and conscience is either killed, or, if it lives at all,\nlives but to give rebellion its fascination and disobedience its charm.\nFor all sins, as theologians weary not of reminding us, are sins of\ndisobedience. When that high spirit, that morning star of evil, fell\nfrom heaven, it was as a rebel that he fell.\n\nCallous, concentrated on evil, with stained mind, and soul hungry for\nrebellion, Dorian Gray hastened on, quickening his step as he went, but\nas he darted aside into a dim archway, that had served him often as a\nshort cut to the ill-famed place where he was going, he felt himself\nsuddenly seized from behind, and before he had time to defend himself,\nhe was thrust back against the wall, with a brutal hand round his\nthroat.",
    "meta": {
      "book": "dorian",
      "para_idx_start": 1209,
      "para_idx_end": 1210,
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    "id": "dorian_chunk_314",
    "text": "He struggled madly for life, and by a terrible effort wrenched the\ntightening fingers away. In a second he heard the click of a revolver,\nand saw the gleam of a polished barrel, pointing straight at his head,\nand the dusky form of a short, thick-set man facing him.\n\n“What do you want?” he gasped.\n\n“Keep quiet,” said the man. “If you stir, I shoot you.”\n\n“You are mad. What have I done to you?”\n\n“You wrecked the life of Sibyl Vane,” was the answer, “and Sibyl Vane\nwas my sister. She killed herself. I know it. Her death is at your\ndoor. I swore I would kill you in return. For years I have sought you.\nI had no clue, no trace. The two people who could have described you\nwere dead. I knew nothing of you but the pet name she used to call you.\nI heard it to-night by chance. Make your peace with God, for to-night\nyou are going to die.”",
    "meta": {
      "book": "dorian",
      "para_idx_start": 1211,
      "para_idx_end": 1215,
      "char_count": 838
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    "id": "dorian_chunk_315",
    "text": "Dorian Gray grew sick with fear. “I never knew her,” he stammered. “I\nnever heard of her. You are mad.”\n\n“You had better confess your sin, for as sure as I am James Vane, you\nare going to die.” There was a horrible moment. Dorian did not know\nwhat to say or do. “Down on your knees!” growled the man. “I give you\none minute to make your peace—no more. I go on board to-night for\nIndia, and I must do my job first. One minute. That’s all.”\n\nDorian’s arms fell to his side. Paralysed with terror, he did not know\nwhat to do. Suddenly a wild hope flashed across his brain. “Stop,” he\ncried. “How long ago is it since your sister died? Quick, tell me!”\n\n“Eighteen years,” said the man. “Why do you ask me? What do years\nmatter?”\n\n“Eighteen years,” laughed Dorian Gray, with a touch of triumph in his\nvoice. “Eighteen years! Set me under the lamp and look at my face!”",
    "meta": {
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      "para_idx_end": 1220,
      "char_count": 863
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    "id": "dorian_chunk_316",
    "text": "James Vane hesitated for a moment, not understanding what was meant.\nThen he seized Dorian Gray and dragged him from the archway.\n\nDim and wavering as was the wind-blown light, yet it served to show him\nthe hideous error, as it seemed, into which he had fallen, for the face\nof the man he had sought to kill had all the bloom of boyhood, all the\nunstained purity of youth. He seemed little more than a lad of twenty\nsummers, hardly older, if older indeed at all, than his sister had been\nwhen they had parted so many years ago. It was obvious that this was\nnot the man who had destroyed her life.\n\nHe loosened his hold and reeled back. “My God! my God!” he cried, “and\nI would have murdered you!”\n\nDorian Gray drew a long breath. “You have been on the brink of\ncommitting a terrible crime, my man,” he said, looking at him sternly.\n“Let this be a warning to you not to take vengeance into your own\nhands.”",
    "meta": {
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    "id": "dorian_chunk_317",
    "text": "“Forgive me, sir,” muttered James Vane. “I was deceived. A chance word\nI heard in that damned den set me on the wrong track.”\n\n“You had better go home and put that pistol away, or you may get into\ntrouble,” said Dorian, turning on his heel and going slowly down the\nstreet.\n\nJames Vane stood on the pavement in horror. He was trembling from head\nto foot. After a little while, a black shadow that had been creeping\nalong the dripping wall moved out into the light and came close to him\nwith stealthy footsteps. He felt a hand laid on his arm and looked\nround with a start. It was one of the women who had been drinking at\nthe bar.\n\n“Why didn’t you kill him?” she hissed out, putting haggard face quite\nclose to his. “I knew you were following him when you rushed out from\nDaly’s. You fool! You should have killed him. He has lots of money, and\nhe’s as bad as bad.”",
    "meta": {
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    "id": "dorian_chunk_318",
    "text": "“He is not the man I am looking for,” he answered, “and I want no man’s\nmoney. I want a man’s life. The man whose life I want must be nearly\nforty now. This one is little more than a boy. Thank God, I have not\ngot his blood upon my hands.”\n\nThe woman gave a bitter laugh. “Little more than a boy!” she sneered.\n“Why, man, it’s nigh on eighteen years since Prince Charming made me\nwhat I am.”\n\n“You lie!” cried James Vane.\n\nShe raised her hand up to heaven. “Before God I am telling the truth,”\nshe cried.\n\n“Before God?”\n\n“Strike me dumb if it ain’t so. He is the worst one that comes here.\nThey say he has sold himself to the devil for a pretty face. It’s nigh\non eighteen years since I met him. He hasn’t changed much since then. I\nhave, though,” she added, with a sickly leer.\n\n“You swear this?”\n\n“I swear it,” came in hoarse echo from her flat mouth. “But don’t give\nme away to him,” she whined; “I am afraid of him. Let me have some\nmoney for my night’s lodging.”",
    "meta": {
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    "id": "dorian_chunk_319",
    "text": "He broke from her with an oath and rushed to the corner of the street,\nbut Dorian Gray had disappeared. When he looked back, the woman had\nvanished also.\n\nCHAPTER XVII.\n\nA week later Dorian Gray was sitting in the conservatory at Selby\nRoyal, talking to the pretty Duchess of Monmouth, who with her husband,\na jaded-looking man of sixty, was amongst his guests. It was tea-time,\nand the mellow light of the huge, lace-covered lamp that stood on the\ntable lit up the delicate china and hammered silver of the service at\nwhich the duchess was presiding. Her white hands were moving daintily\namong the cups, and her full red lips were smiling at something that\nDorian had whispered to her. Lord Henry was lying back in a silk-draped\nwicker chair, looking at them. On a peach-coloured divan sat Lady\nNarborough, pretending to listen to the duke’s description of the last\nBrazilian beetle that he had added to his collection. Three young men\nin elaborate smoking-suits were handing tea-cakes to some of the women.\nThe house-party consisted of twelve people, and there were more\nexpected to arrive on the next day.",
    "meta": {
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    "id": "dorian_chunk_320",
    "text": "“What are you two talking about?” said Lord Henry, strolling over to\nthe table and putting his cup down. “I hope Dorian has told you about\nmy plan for rechristening everything, Gladys. It is a delightful idea.”\n\n“But I don’t want to be rechristened, Harry,” rejoined the duchess,\nlooking up at him with her wonderful eyes. “I am quite satisfied with\nmy own name, and I am sure Mr. Gray should be satisfied with his.”\n\n“My dear Gladys, I would not alter either name for the world. They are\nboth perfect. I was thinking chiefly of flowers. Yesterday I cut an\norchid, for my button-hole. It was a marvellous spotted thing, as\neffective as the seven deadly sins. In a thoughtless moment I asked one\nof the gardeners what it was called. He told me it was a fine specimen\nof _Robinsoniana_, or something dreadful of that kind. It is a sad\ntruth, but we have lost the faculty of giving lovely names to things.\nNames are everything. I never quarrel with actions. My one quarrel is\nwith words. That is the reason I hate vulgar realism in literature. The\nman who could call a spade a spade should be compelled to use one. It\nis the only thing he is fit for.”",
    "meta": {
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    "id": "dorian_chunk_321",
    "text": "“Then what should we call you, Harry?” she asked.\n\n“His name is Prince Paradox,” said Dorian.\n\n“I recognize him in a flash,” exclaimed the duchess.\n\n“I won’t hear of it,” laughed Lord Henry, sinking into a chair. “From a\nlabel there is no escape! I refuse the title.”\n\n“Royalties may not abdicate,” fell as a warning from pretty lips.\n\n“You wish me to defend my throne, then?”\n\n“Yes.”\n\n“I give the truths of to-morrow.”\n\n“I prefer the mistakes of to-day,” she answered.\n\n“You disarm me, Gladys,” he cried, catching the wilfulness of her mood.\n\n“Of your shield, Harry, not of your spear.”\n\n“I never tilt against beauty,” he said, with a wave of his hand.\n\n“That is your error, Harry, believe me. You value beauty far too much.”\n\n“How can you say that? I admit that I think that it is better to be\nbeautiful than to be good. But on the other hand, no one is more ready\nthan I am to acknowledge that it is better to be good than to be ugly.”",
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    "id": "dorian_chunk_322",
    "text": "“Ugliness is one of the seven deadly sins, then?” cried the duchess.\n“What becomes of your simile about the orchid?”\n\n“Ugliness is one of the seven deadly virtues, Gladys. You, as a good\nTory, must not underrate them. Beer, the Bible, and the seven deadly\nvirtues have made our England what she is.”\n\n“You don’t like your country, then?” she asked.\n\n“I live in it.”\n\n“That you may censure it the better.”\n\n“Would you have me take the verdict of Europe on it?” he inquired.\n\n“What do they say of us?”\n\n“That Tartuffe has emigrated to England and opened a shop.”\n\n“Is that yours, Harry?”\n\n“I give it to you.”\n\n“I could not use it. It is too true.”\n\n“You need not be afraid. Our countrymen never recognize a description.”\n\n“They are practical.”\n\n“They are more cunning than practical. When they make up their ledger,\nthey balance stupidity by wealth, and vice by hypocrisy.”",
    "meta": {
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    "id": "dorian_chunk_323",
    "text": "“Still, we have done great things.”\n\n“Great things have been thrust on us, Gladys.”\n\n“We have carried their burden.”\n\n“Only as far as the Stock Exchange.”\n\nShe shook her head. “I believe in the race,” she cried.\n\n“It represents the survival of the pushing.”\n\n“It has development.”\n\n“Decay fascinates me more.”\n\n“What of art?” she asked.\n\n“It is a malady.”\n\n“Love?”\n\n“An illusion.”\n\n“Religion?”\n\n“The fashionable substitute for belief.”\n\n“You are a sceptic.”\n\n“Never! Scepticism is the beginning of faith.”\n\n“What are you?”\n\n“To define is to limit.”\n\n“Give me a clue.”\n\n“Threads snap. You would lose your way in the labyrinth.”\n\n“You bewilder me. Let us talk of some one else.”\n\n“Our host is a delightful topic. Years ago he was christened Prince\nCharming.”\n\n“Ah! don’t remind me of that,” cried Dorian Gray.",
    "meta": {
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    "id": "dorian_chunk_324",
    "text": "“Our host is a delightful topic. Years ago he was christened Prince\nCharming.”\n\n“Ah! don’t remind me of that,” cried Dorian Gray.\n\n“Our host is rather horrid this evening,” answered the duchess,\ncolouring. “I believe he thinks that Monmouth married me on purely\nscientific principles as the best specimen he could find of a modern\nbutterfly.”\n\n“Well, I hope he won’t stick pins into you, Duchess,” laughed Dorian.\n\n“Oh! my maid does that already, Mr. Gray, when she is annoyed with me.”\n\n“And what does she get annoyed with you about, Duchess?”\n\n“For the most trivial things, Mr. Gray, I assure you. Usually because I\ncome in at ten minutes to nine and tell her that I must be dressed by\nhalf-past eight.”\n\n“How unreasonable of her! You should give her warning.”\n\n“I daren’t, Mr. Gray. Why, she invents hats for me. You remember the\none I wore at Lady Hilstone’s garden-party? You don’t, but it is nice\nof you to pretend that you do. Well, she made it out of nothing. All\ngood hats are made out of nothing.”",
    "meta": {
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    "id": "dorian_chunk_325",
    "text": "“Like all good reputations, Gladys,” interrupted Lord Henry. “Every\neffect that one produces gives one an enemy. To be popular one must be\na mediocrity.”\n\n“Not with women,” said the duchess, shaking her head; “and women rule\nthe world. I assure you we can’t bear mediocrities. We women, as some\none says, love with our ears, just as you men love with your eyes, if\nyou ever love at all.”\n\n“It seems to me that we never do anything else,” murmured Dorian.\n\n“Ah! then, you never really love, Mr. Gray,” answered the duchess with\nmock sadness.\n\n“My dear Gladys!” cried Lord Henry. “How can you say that? Romance\nlives by repetition, and repetition converts an appetite into an art.\nBesides, each time that one loves is the only time one has ever loved.\nDifference of object does not alter singleness of passion. It merely\nintensifies it. We can have in life but one great experience at best,\nand the secret of life is to reproduce that experience as often as\npossible.”",
    "meta": {
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    "id": "dorian_chunk_326",
    "text": "“Even when one has been wounded by it, Harry?” asked the duchess after\na pause.\n\n“Especially when one has been wounded by it,” answered Lord Henry.\n\nThe duchess turned and looked at Dorian Gray with a curious expression\nin her eyes. “What do you say to that, Mr. Gray?” she inquired.\n\nDorian hesitated for a moment. Then he threw his head back and laughed.\n“I always agree with Harry, Duchess.”\n\n“Even when he is wrong?”\n\n“Harry is never wrong, Duchess.”\n\n“And does his philosophy make you happy?”\n\n“I have never searched for happiness. Who wants happiness? I have\nsearched for pleasure.”\n\n“And found it, Mr. Gray?”\n\n“Often. Too often.”\n\nThe duchess sighed. “I am searching for peace,” she said, “and if I\ndon’t go and dress, I shall have none this evening.”\n\n“Let me get you some orchids, Duchess,” cried Dorian, starting to his\nfeet and walking down the conservatory.",
    "meta": {
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    "id": "dorian_chunk_327",
    "text": "The duchess sighed. “I am searching for peace,” she said, “and if I\ndon’t go and dress, I shall have none this evening.”\n\n“Let me get you some orchids, Duchess,” cried Dorian, starting to his\nfeet and walking down the conservatory.\n\n“You are flirting disgracefully with him,” said Lord Henry to his\ncousin. “You had better take care. He is very fascinating.”\n\n“If he were not, there would be no battle.”\n\n“Greek meets Greek, then?”\n\n“I am on the side of the Trojans. They fought for a woman.”\n\n“They were defeated.”\n\n“There are worse things than capture,” she answered.\n\n“You gallop with a loose rein.”\n\n“Pace gives life,” was the _riposte_.\n\n“I shall write it in my diary to-night.”\n\n“What?”\n\n“That a burnt child loves the fire.”\n\n“I am not even singed. My wings are untouched.”\n\n“You use them for everything, except flight.”",
    "meta": {
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      "para_idx_end": 1330,
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    "id": "dorian_chunk_328",
    "text": "“That a burnt child loves the fire.”\n\n“I am not even singed. My wings are untouched.”\n\n“You use them for everything, except flight.”\n\n“Courage has passed from men to women. It is a new experience for us.”\n\n“You have a rival.”\n\n“Who?”\n\nHe laughed. “Lady Narborough,” he whispered. “She perfectly adores\nhim.”\n\n“You fill me with apprehension. The appeal to antiquity is fatal to us\nwho are romanticists.”\n\n“Romanticists! You have all the methods of science.”\n\n“Men have educated us.”\n\n“But not explained you.”\n\n“Describe us as a sex,” was her challenge.\n\n“Sphinxes without secrets.”\n\nShe looked at him, smiling. “How long Mr. Gray is!” she said. “Let us\ngo and help him. I have not yet told him the colour of my frock.”\n\n“Ah! you must suit your frock to his flowers, Gladys.”\n\n“That would be a premature surrender.”",
    "meta": {
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    "id": "dorian_chunk_329",
    "text": "She looked at him, smiling. “How long Mr. Gray is!” she said. “Let us\ngo and help him. I have not yet told him the colour of my frock.”\n\n“Ah! you must suit your frock to his flowers, Gladys.”\n\n“That would be a premature surrender.”\n\n“Romantic art begins with its climax.”\n\n“I must keep an opportunity for retreat.”\n\n“In the Parthian manner?”\n\n“They found safety in the desert. I could not do that.”\n\n“Women are not always allowed a choice,” he answered, but hardly had he\nfinished the sentence before from the far end of the conservatory came\na stifled groan, followed by the dull sound of a heavy fall. Everybody\nstarted up. The duchess stood motionless in horror. And with fear in\nhis eyes, Lord Henry rushed through the flapping palms to find Dorian\nGray lying face downwards on the tiled floor in a deathlike swoon.",
    "meta": {
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    "id": "dorian_chunk_330",
    "text": "He was carried at once into the blue drawing-room and laid upon one of\nthe sofas. After a short time, he came to himself and looked round with\na dazed expression.\n\n“What has happened?” he asked. “Oh! I remember. Am I safe here, Harry?”\nHe began to tremble.\n\n“My dear Dorian,” answered Lord Henry, “you merely fainted. That was\nall. You must have overtired yourself. You had better not come down to\ndinner. I will take your place.”\n\n“No, I will come down,” he said, struggling to his feet. “I would\nrather come down. I must not be alone.”\n\nHe went to his room and dressed. There was a wild recklessness of\ngaiety in his manner as he sat at table, but now and then a thrill of\nterror ran through him when he remembered that, pressed against the\nwindow of the conservatory, like a white handkerchief, he had seen the\nface of James Vane watching him.",
    "meta": {
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    "id": "dorian_chunk_331",
    "text": "CHAPTER XVIII.\n\nThe next day he did not leave the house, and, indeed, spent most of the\ntime in his own room, sick with a wild terror of dying, and yet\nindifferent to life itself. The consciousness of being hunted, snared,\ntracked down, had begun to dominate him. If the tapestry did but\ntremble in the wind, he shook. The dead leaves that were blown against\nthe leaded panes seemed to him like his own wasted resolutions and wild\nregrets. When he closed his eyes, he saw again the sailor’s face\npeering through the mist-stained glass, and horror seemed once more to\nlay its hand upon his heart.\n\nBut perhaps it had been only his fancy that had called vengeance out of\nthe night and set the hideous shapes of punishment before him. Actual\nlife was chaos, but there was something terribly logical in the\nimagination. It was the imagination that set remorse to dog the feet of\nsin. It was the imagination that made each crime bear its misshapen\nbrood. In the common world of fact the wicked were not punished, nor\nthe good rewarded. Success was given to the strong, failure thrust upon\nthe weak. That was all. Besides, had any stranger been prowling round\nthe house, he would have been seen by the servants or the keepers. Had\nany foot-marks been found on the flower-beds, the gardeners would have\nreported it. Yes, it had been merely fancy. Sibyl Vane’s brother had\nnot come back to kill him. He had sailed away in his ship to founder in\nsome winter sea. From him, at any rate, he was safe. Why, the man did\nnot know who he was, could not know who he was. The mask of youth had\nsaved him.",
    "meta": {
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    "id": "dorian_chunk_332",
    "text": "And yet if it had been merely an illusion, how terrible it was to think\nthat conscience could raise such fearful phantoms, and give them\nvisible form, and make them move before one! What sort of life would\nhis be if, day and night, shadows of his crime were to peer at him from\nsilent corners, to mock him from secret places, to whisper in his ear\nas he sat at the feast, to wake him with icy fingers as he lay asleep!\nAs the thought crept through his brain, he grew pale with terror, and\nthe air seemed to him to have become suddenly colder. Oh! in what a\nwild hour of madness he had killed his friend! How ghastly the mere\nmemory of the scene! He saw it all again. Each hideous detail came back\nto him with added horror. Out of the black cave of time, terrible and\nswathed in scarlet, rose the image of his sin. When Lord Henry came in\nat six o’clock, he found him crying as one whose heart will break.",
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    "text": "It was not till the third day that he ventured to go out. There was\nsomething in the clear, pine-scented air of that winter morning that\nseemed to bring him back his joyousness and his ardour for life. But it\nwas not merely the physical conditions of environment that had caused\nthe change. His own nature had revolted against the excess of anguish\nthat had sought to maim and mar the perfection of its calm. With subtle\nand finely wrought temperaments it is always so. Their strong passions\nmust either bruise or bend. They either slay the man, or themselves\ndie. Shallow sorrows and shallow loves live on. The loves and sorrows\nthat are great are destroyed by their own plenitude. Besides, he had\nconvinced himself that he had been the victim of a terror-stricken\nimagination, and looked back now on his fears with something of pity\nand not a little of contempt.",
    "meta": {
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    "id": "dorian_chunk_334",
    "text": "After breakfast, he walked with the duchess for an hour in the garden\nand then drove across the park to join the shooting-party. The crisp\nfrost lay like salt upon the grass. The sky was an inverted cup of blue\nmetal. A thin film of ice bordered the flat, reed-grown lake.\n\nAt the corner of the pine-wood he caught sight of Sir Geoffrey\nClouston, the duchess’s brother, jerking two spent cartridges out of\nhis gun. He jumped from the cart, and having told the groom to take the\nmare home, made his way towards his guest through the withered bracken\nand rough undergrowth.\n\n“Have you had good sport, Geoffrey?” he asked.\n\n“Not very good, Dorian. I think most of the birds have gone to the\nopen. I dare say it will be better after lunch, when we get to new\nground.”\n\nDorian strolled along by his side. The keen aromatic air, the brown and\nred lights that glimmered in the wood, the hoarse cries of the beaters\nringing out from time to time, and the sharp snaps of the guns that\nfollowed, fascinated him and filled him with a sense of delightful\nfreedom. He was dominated by the carelessness of happiness, by the high\nindifference of joy.",
    "meta": {
      "book": "dorian",
      "para_idx_start": 1359,
      "para_idx_end": 1363,
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    "id": "dorian_chunk_335",
    "text": "Suddenly from a lumpy tussock of old grass some twenty yards in front\nof them, with black-tipped ears erect and long hinder limbs throwing it\nforward, started a hare. It bolted for a thicket of alders. Sir\nGeoffrey put his gun to his shoulder, but there was something in the\nanimal’s grace of movement that strangely charmed Dorian Gray, and he\ncried out at once, “Don’t shoot it, Geoffrey. Let it live.”\n\n“What nonsense, Dorian!” laughed his companion, and as the hare bounded\ninto the thicket, he fired. There were two cries heard, the cry of a\nhare in pain, which is dreadful, the cry of a man in agony, which is\nworse.\n\n“Good heavens! I have hit a beater!” exclaimed Sir Geoffrey. “What an\nass the man was to get in front of the guns! Stop shooting there!” he\ncalled out at the top of his voice. “A man is hurt.”",
    "meta": {
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    "id": "dorian_chunk_336",
    "text": "The head-keeper came running up with a stick in his hand.\n\n“Where, sir? Where is he?” he shouted. At the same time, the firing\nceased along the line.\n\n“Here,” answered Sir Geoffrey angrily, hurrying towards the thicket.\n“Why on earth don’t you keep your men back? Spoiled my shooting for the\nday.”\n\nDorian watched them as they plunged into the alder-clump, brushing the\nlithe swinging branches aside. In a few moments they emerged, dragging\na body after them into the sunlight. He turned away in horror. It\nseemed to him that misfortune followed wherever he went. He heard Sir\nGeoffrey ask if the man was really dead, and the affirmative answer of\nthe keeper. The wood seemed to him to have become suddenly alive with\nfaces. There was the trampling of myriad feet and the low buzz of\nvoices. A great copper-breasted pheasant came beating through the\nboughs overhead.",
    "meta": {
      "book": "dorian",
      "para_idx_start": 1367,
      "para_idx_end": 1370,
      "char_count": 866
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    "id": "dorian_chunk_337",
    "text": "After a few moments—that were to him, in his perturbed state, like\nendless hours of pain—he felt a hand laid on his shoulder. He started\nand looked round.\n\n“Dorian,” said Lord Henry, “I had better tell them that the shooting is\nstopped for to-day. It would not look well to go on.”\n\n“I wish it were stopped for ever, Harry,” he answered bitterly. “The\nwhole thing is hideous and cruel. Is the man ...?”\n\nHe could not finish the sentence.\n\n“I am afraid so,” rejoined Lord Henry. “He got the whole charge of shot\nin his chest. He must have died almost instantaneously. Come; let us go\nhome.”\n\nThey walked side by side in the direction of the avenue for nearly\nfifty yards without speaking. Then Dorian looked at Lord Henry and\nsaid, with a heavy sigh, “It is a bad omen, Harry, a very bad omen.”\n\n“What is?” asked Lord Henry. “Oh! this accident, I suppose. My dear\nfellow, it can’t be helped. It was the man’s own fault. Why did he get\nin front of the guns? Besides, it is nothing to us. It is rather\nawkward for Geoffrey, of course. It does not do to pepper beaters. It\nmakes people think that one is a wild shot. And Geoffrey is not; he\nshoots very straight. But there is no use talking about the matter.”",
    "meta": {
      "book": "dorian",
      "para_idx_start": 1371,
      "para_idx_end": 1377,
      "char_count": 1205
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  },
  {
    "id": "dorian_chunk_338",
    "text": "Dorian shook his head. “It is a bad omen, Harry. I feel as if something\nhorrible were going to happen to some of us. To myself, perhaps,” he\nadded, passing his hand over his eyes, with a gesture of pain.\n\nThe elder man laughed. “The only horrible thing in the world is\n_ennui_, Dorian. That is the one sin for which there is no forgiveness.\nBut we are not likely to suffer from it unless these fellows keep\nchattering about this thing at dinner. I must tell them that the\nsubject is to be tabooed. As for omens, there is no such thing as an\nomen. Destiny does not send us heralds. She is too wise or too cruel\nfor that. Besides, what on earth could happen to you, Dorian? You have\neverything in the world that a man can want. There is no one who would\nnot be delighted to change places with you.”\n\n“There is no one with whom I would not change places, Harry. Don’t\nlaugh like that. I am telling you the truth. The wretched peasant who\nhas just died is better off than I am. I have no terror of death. It is\nthe coming of death that terrifies me. Its monstrous wings seem to\nwheel in the leaden air around me. Good heavens! don’t you see a man\nmoving behind the trees there, watching me, waiting for me?”",
    "meta": {
      "book": "dorian",
      "para_idx_start": 1378,
      "para_idx_end": 1380,
      "char_count": 1203
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  {
    "id": "dorian_chunk_339",
    "text": "Lord Henry looked in the direction in which the trembling gloved hand\nwas pointing. “Yes,” he said, smiling, “I see the gardener waiting for\nyou. I suppose he wants to ask you what flowers you wish to have on the\ntable to-night. How absurdly nervous you are, my dear fellow! You must\ncome and see my doctor, when we get back to town.”\n\nDorian heaved a sigh of relief as he saw the gardener approaching. The\nman touched his hat, glanced for a moment at Lord Henry in a hesitating\nmanner, and then produced a letter, which he handed to his master. “Her\nGrace told me to wait for an answer,” he murmured.\n\nDorian put the letter into his pocket. “Tell her Grace that I am coming\nin,” he said, coldly. The man turned round and went rapidly in the\ndirection of the house.\n\n“How fond women are of doing dangerous things!” laughed Lord Henry. “It\nis one of the qualities in them that I admire most. A woman will flirt\nwith anybody in the world as long as other people are looking on.”",
    "meta": {
      "book": "dorian",
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      "para_idx_end": 1384,
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  {
    "id": "dorian_chunk_340",
    "text": "“How fond you are of saying dangerous things, Harry! In the present\ninstance, you are quite astray. I like the duchess very much, but I\ndon’t love her.”\n\n“And the duchess loves you very much, but she likes you less, so you\nare excellently matched.”\n\n“You are talking scandal, Harry, and there is never any basis for\nscandal.”\n\n“The basis of every scandal is an immoral certainty,” said Lord Henry,\nlighting a cigarette.\n\n“You would sacrifice anybody, Harry, for the sake of an epigram.”\n\n“The world goes to the altar of its own accord,” was the answer.\n\n“I wish I could love,” cried Dorian Gray with a deep note of pathos in\nhis voice. “But I seem to have lost the passion and forgotten the\ndesire. I am too much concentrated on myself. My own personality has\nbecome a burden to me. I want to escape, to go away, to forget. It was\nsilly of me to come down here at all. I think I shall send a wire to\nHarvey to have the yacht got ready. On a yacht one is safe.”",
    "meta": {
      "book": "dorian",
      "para_idx_start": 1385,
      "para_idx_end": 1391,
      "char_count": 960
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  {
    "id": "dorian_chunk_341",
    "text": "“Safe from what, Dorian? You are in some trouble. Why not tell me what\nit is? You know I would help you.”\n\n“I can’t tell you, Harry,” he answered sadly. “And I dare say it is\nonly a fancy of mine. This unfortunate accident has upset me. I have a\nhorrible presentiment that something of the kind may happen to me.”\n\n“What nonsense!”\n\n“I hope it is, but I can’t help feeling it. Ah! here is the duchess,\nlooking like Artemis in a tailor-made gown. You see we have come back,\nDuchess.”\n\n“I have heard all about it, Mr. Gray,” she answered. “Poor Geoffrey is\nterribly upset. And it seems that you asked him not to shoot the hare.\nHow curious!”\n\n“Yes, it was very curious. I don’t know what made me say it. Some whim,\nI suppose. It looked the loveliest of little live things. But I am\nsorry they told you about the man. It is a hideous subject.”",
    "meta": {
      "book": "dorian",
      "para_idx_start": 1392,
      "para_idx_end": 1397,
      "char_count": 840
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    "id": "dorian_chunk_342",
    "text": "“It is an annoying subject,” broke in Lord Henry. “It has no\npsychological value at all. Now if Geoffrey had done the thing on\npurpose, how interesting he would be! I should like to know some one\nwho had committed a real murder.”\n\n“How horrid of you, Harry!” cried the duchess. “Isn’t it, Mr. Gray?\nHarry, Mr. Gray is ill again. He is going to faint.”\n\nDorian drew himself up with an effort and smiled. “It is nothing,\nDuchess,” he murmured; “my nerves are dreadfully out of order. That is\nall. I am afraid I walked too far this morning. I didn’t hear what\nHarry said. Was it very bad? You must tell me some other time. I think\nI must go and lie down. You will excuse me, won’t you?”\n\nThey had reached the great flight of steps that led from the\nconservatory on to the terrace. As the glass door closed behind Dorian,\nLord Henry turned and looked at the duchess with his slumberous eyes.\n“Are you very much in love with him?” he asked.",
    "meta": {
      "book": "dorian",
      "para_idx_start": 1398,
      "para_idx_end": 1401,
      "char_count": 935
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  {
    "id": "dorian_chunk_343",
    "text": "She did not answer for some time, but stood gazing at the landscape. “I\nwish I knew,” she said at last.\n\nHe shook his head. “Knowledge would be fatal. It is the uncertainty\nthat charms one. A mist makes things wonderful.”\n\n“One may lose one’s way.”\n\n“All ways end at the same point, my dear Gladys.”\n\n“What is that?”\n\n“Disillusion.”\n\n“It was my _début_ in life,” she sighed.\n\n“It came to you crowned.”\n\n“I am tired of strawberry leaves.”\n\n“They become you.”\n\n“Only in public.”\n\n“You would miss them,” said Lord Henry.\n\n“I will not part with a petal.”\n\n“Monmouth has ears.”\n\n“Old age is dull of hearing.”\n\n“Has he never been jealous?”\n\n“I wish he had been.”\n\nHe glanced about as if in search of something. “What are you looking\nfor?” she inquired.\n\n“The button from your foil,” he answered. “You have dropped it.”",
    "meta": {
      "book": "dorian",
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      "para_idx_end": 1420,
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  {
    "id": "dorian_chunk_344",
    "text": "He glanced about as if in search of something. “What are you looking\nfor?” she inquired.\n\n“The button from your foil,” he answered. “You have dropped it.”\n\nShe laughed. “I have still the mask.”\n\n“It makes your eyes lovelier,” was his reply.\n\nShe laughed again. Her teeth showed like white seeds in a scarlet\nfruit.\n\nUpstairs, in his own room, Dorian Gray was lying on a sofa, with terror\nin every tingling fibre of his body. Life had suddenly become too\nhideous a burden for him to bear. The dreadful death of the unlucky\nbeater, shot in the thicket like a wild animal, had seemed to him to\npre-figure death for himself also. He had nearly swooned at what Lord\nHenry had said in a chance mood of cynical jesting.\n\nAt five o’clock he rang his bell for his servant and gave him orders to\npack his things for the night-express to town, and to have the brougham\nat the door by eight-thirty. He was determined not to sleep another\nnight at Selby Royal. It was an ill-omened place. Death walked there in\nthe sunlight. The grass of the forest had been spotted with blood.",
    "meta": {
      "book": "dorian",
      "para_idx_start": 1419,
      "para_idx_end": 1425,
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    "id": "dorian_chunk_345",
    "text": "Then he wrote a note to Lord Henry, telling him that he was going up to\ntown to consult his doctor and asking him to entertain his guests in\nhis absence. As he was putting it into the envelope, a knock came to\nthe door, and his valet informed him that the head-keeper wished to see\nhim. He frowned and bit his lip. “Send him in,” he muttered, after some\nmoments’ hesitation.\n\nAs soon as the man entered, Dorian pulled his chequebook out of a\ndrawer and spread it out before him.\n\n“I suppose you have come about the unfortunate accident of this\nmorning, Thornton?” he said, taking up a pen.\n\n“Yes, sir,” answered the gamekeeper.\n\n“Was the poor fellow married? Had he any people dependent on him?”\nasked Dorian, looking bored. “If so, I should not like them to be left\nin want, and will send them any sum of money you may think necessary.”",
    "meta": {
      "book": "dorian",
      "para_idx_start": 1426,
      "para_idx_end": 1430,
      "char_count": 837
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  {
    "id": "dorian_chunk_346",
    "text": "“We don’t know who he is, sir. That is what I took the liberty of\ncoming to you about.”\n\n“Don’t know who he is?” said Dorian, listlessly. “What do you mean?\nWasn’t he one of your men?”\n\n“No, sir. Never saw him before. Seems like a sailor, sir.”\n\nThe pen dropped from Dorian Gray’s hand, and he felt as if his heart\nhad suddenly stopped beating. “A sailor?” he cried out. “Did you say a\nsailor?”\n\n“Yes, sir. He looks as if he had been a sort of sailor; tattooed on\nboth arms, and that kind of thing.”\n\n“Was there anything found on him?” said Dorian, leaning forward and\nlooking at the man with startled eyes. “Anything that would tell his\nname?”\n\n“Some money, sir—not much, and a six-shooter. There was no name of any\nkind. A decent-looking man, sir, but rough-like. A sort of sailor we\nthink.”\n\nDorian started to his feet. A terrible hope fluttered past him. He\nclutched at it madly. “Where is the body?” he exclaimed. “Quick! I must\nsee it at once.”",
    "meta": {
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      "para_idx_start": 1431,
      "para_idx_end": 1438,
      "char_count": 950
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  {
    "id": "dorian_chunk_347",
    "text": "“It is in an empty stable in the Home Farm, sir. The folk don’t like to\nhave that sort of thing in their houses. They say a corpse brings bad\nluck.”\n\n“The Home Farm! Go there at once and meet me. Tell one of the grooms to\nbring my horse round. No. Never mind. I’ll go to the stables myself. It\nwill save time.”\n\nIn less than a quarter of an hour, Dorian Gray was galloping down the\nlong avenue as hard as he could go. The trees seemed to sweep past him\nin spectral procession, and wild shadows to fling themselves across his\npath. Once the mare swerved at a white gate-post and nearly threw him.\nHe lashed her across the neck with his crop. She cleft the dusky air\nlike an arrow. The stones flew from her hoofs.\n\nAt last he reached the Home Farm. Two men were loitering in the yard.\nHe leaped from the saddle and threw the reins to one of them. In the\nfarthest stable a light was glimmering. Something seemed to tell him\nthat the body was there, and he hurried to the door and put his hand\nupon the latch.",
    "meta": {
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    "id": "dorian_chunk_348",
    "text": "There he paused for a moment, feeling that he was on the brink of a\ndiscovery that would either make or mar his life. Then he thrust the\ndoor open and entered.\n\nOn a heap of sacking in the far corner was lying the dead body of a man\ndressed in a coarse shirt and a pair of blue trousers. A spotted\nhandkerchief had been placed over the face. A coarse candle, stuck in a\nbottle, sputtered beside it.\n\nDorian Gray shuddered. He felt that his could not be the hand to take\nthe handkerchief away, and called out to one of the farm-servants to\ncome to him.\n\n“Take that thing off the face. I wish to see it,” he said, clutching at\nthe door-post for support.\n\nWhen the farm-servant had done so, he stepped forward. A cry of joy\nbroke from his lips. The man who had been shot in the thicket was James\nVane.\n\nHe stood there for some minutes looking at the dead body. As he rode\nhome, his eyes were full of tears, for he knew he was safe.",
    "meta": {
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    "id": "dorian_chunk_349",
    "text": "CHAPTER XIX.\n\n“There is no use your telling me that you are going to be good,” cried\nLord Henry, dipping his white fingers into a red copper bowl filled\nwith rose-water. “You are quite perfect. Pray, don’t change.”\n\nDorian Gray shook his head. “No, Harry, I have done too many dreadful\nthings in my life. I am not going to do any more. I began my good\nactions yesterday.”\n\n“Where were you yesterday?”\n\n“In the country, Harry. I was staying at a little inn by myself.”\n\n“My dear boy,” said Lord Henry, smiling, “anybody can be good in the\ncountry. There are no temptations there. That is the reason why people\nwho live out of town are so absolutely uncivilized. Civilization is not\nby any means an easy thing to attain to. There are only two ways by\nwhich man can reach it. One is by being cultured, the other by being\ncorrupt. Country people have no opportunity of being either, so they\nstagnate.”",
    "meta": {
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      "para_idx_start": 1449,
      "para_idx_end": 1454,
      "char_count": 897
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    "id": "dorian_chunk_350",
    "text": "“Culture and corruption,” echoed Dorian. “I have known something of\nboth. It seems terrible to me now that they should ever be found\ntogether. For I have a new ideal, Harry. I am going to alter. I think I\nhave altered.”\n\n“You have not yet told me what your good action was. Or did you say you\nhad done more than one?” asked his companion as he spilled into his\nplate a little crimson pyramid of seeded strawberries and, through a\nperforated, shell-shaped spoon, snowed white sugar upon them.\n\n“I can tell you, Harry. It is not a story I could tell to any one else.\nI spared somebody. It sounds vain, but you understand what I mean. She\nwas quite beautiful and wonderfully like Sibyl Vane. I think it was\nthat which first attracted me to her. You remember Sibyl, don’t you?\nHow long ago that seems! Well, Hetty was not one of our own class, of\ncourse. She was simply a girl in a village. But I really loved her. I\nam quite sure that I loved her. All during this wonderful May that we\nhave been having, I used to run down and see her two or three times a\nweek. Yesterday she met me in a little orchard. The apple-blossoms kept\ntumbling down on her hair, and she was laughing. We were to have gone\naway together this morning at dawn. Suddenly I determined to leave her\nas flowerlike as I had found her.”",
    "meta": {
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    "id": "dorian_chunk_351",
    "text": "“I should think the novelty of the emotion must have given you a thrill\nof real pleasure, Dorian,” interrupted Lord Henry. “But I can finish\nyour idyll for you. You gave her good advice and broke her heart. That\nwas the beginning of your reformation.”\n\n“Harry, you are horrible! You mustn’t say these dreadful things.\nHetty’s heart is not broken. Of course, she cried and all that. But\nthere is no disgrace upon her. She can live, like Perdita, in her\ngarden of mint and marigold.”\n\n“And weep over a faithless Florizel,” said Lord Henry, laughing, as he\nleaned back in his chair. “My dear Dorian, you have the most curiously\nboyish moods. Do you think this girl will ever be really content now\nwith any one of her own rank? I suppose she will be married some day to\na rough carter or a grinning ploughman. Well, the fact of having met\nyou, and loved you, will teach her to despise her husband, and she will\nbe wretched. From a moral point of view, I cannot say that I think much\nof your great renunciation. Even as a beginning, it is poor. Besides,\nhow do you know that Hetty isn’t floating at the present moment in some\nstarlit mill-pond, with lovely water-lilies round her, like Ophelia?”",
    "meta": {
      "book": "dorian",
      "para_idx_start": 1458,
      "para_idx_end": 1460,
      "char_count": 1190
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    "id": "dorian_chunk_352",
    "text": "“I can’t bear this, Harry! You mock at everything, and then suggest the\nmost serious tragedies. I am sorry I told you now. I don’t care what\nyou say to me. I know I was right in acting as I did. Poor Hetty! As I\nrode past the farm this morning, I saw her white face at the window,\nlike a spray of jasmine. Don’t let us talk about it any more, and don’t\ntry to persuade me that the first good action I have done for years,\nthe first little bit of self-sacrifice I have ever known, is really a\nsort of sin. I want to be better. I am going to be better. Tell me\nsomething about yourself. What is going on in town? I have not been to\nthe club for days.”\n\n“The people are still discussing poor Basil’s disappearance.”\n\n“I should have thought they had got tired of that by this time,” said\nDorian, pouring himself out some wine and frowning slightly.",
    "meta": {
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      "para_idx_start": 1461,
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      "char_count": 844
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    "id": "dorian_chunk_353",
    "text": "“My dear boy, they have only been talking about it for six weeks, and\nthe British public are really not equal to the mental strain of having\nmore than one topic every three months. They have been very fortunate\nlately, however. They have had my own divorce-case and Alan Campbell’s\nsuicide. Now they have got the mysterious disappearance of an artist.\nScotland Yard still insists that the man in the grey ulster who left\nfor Paris by the midnight train on the ninth of November was poor\nBasil, and the French police declare that Basil never arrived in Paris\nat all. I suppose in about a fortnight we shall be told that he has\nbeen seen in San Francisco. It is an odd thing, but every one who\ndisappears is said to be seen at San Francisco. It must be a delightful\ncity, and possess all the attractions of the next world.”",
    "meta": {
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      "char_count": 821
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    "id": "dorian_chunk_354",
    "text": "“What do you think has happened to Basil?” asked Dorian, holding up his\nBurgundy against the light and wondering how it was that he could\ndiscuss the matter so calmly.\n\n“I have not the slightest idea. If Basil chooses to hide himself, it is\nno business of mine. If he is dead, I don’t want to think about him.\nDeath is the only thing that ever terrifies me. I hate it.”\n\n“Why?” said the younger man wearily.\n\n“Because,” said Lord Henry, passing beneath his nostrils the gilt\ntrellis of an open vinaigrette box, “one can survive everything\nnowadays except that. Death and vulgarity are the only two facts in the\nnineteenth century that one cannot explain away. Let us have our coffee\nin the music-room, Dorian. You must play Chopin to me. The man with\nwhom my wife ran away played Chopin exquisitely. Poor Victoria! I was\nvery fond of her. The house is rather lonely without her. Of course,\nmarried life is merely a habit, a bad habit. But then one regrets the\nloss even of one’s worst habits. Perhaps one regrets them the most.\nThey are such an essential part of one’s personality.”",
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    "id": "dorian_chunk_355",
    "text": "Dorian said nothing, but rose from the table, and passing into the next\nroom, sat down to the piano and let his fingers stray across the white\nand black ivory of the keys. After the coffee had been brought in, he\nstopped, and looking over at Lord Henry, said, “Harry, did it ever\noccur to you that Basil was murdered?”\n\nLord Henry yawned. “Basil was very popular, and always wore a Waterbury\nwatch. Why should he have been murdered? He was not clever enough to\nhave enemies. Of course, he had a wonderful genius for painting. But a\nman can paint like Velasquez and yet be as dull as possible. Basil was\nreally rather dull. He only interested me once, and that was when he\ntold me, years ago, that he had a wild adoration for you and that you\nwere the dominant motive of his art.”\n\n“I was very fond of Basil,” said Dorian with a note of sadness in his\nvoice. “But don’t people say that he was murdered?”",
    "meta": {
      "book": "dorian",
      "para_idx_start": 1469,
      "para_idx_end": 1471,
      "char_count": 902
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  },
  {
    "id": "dorian_chunk_356",
    "text": "“Oh, some of the papers do. It does not seem to me to be at all\nprobable. I know there are dreadful places in Paris, but Basil was not\nthe sort of man to have gone to them. He had no curiosity. It was his\nchief defect.”\n\n“What would you say, Harry, if I told you that I had murdered Basil?”\nsaid the younger man. He watched him intently after he had spoken.\n\n“I would say, my dear fellow, that you were posing for a character that\ndoesn’t suit you. All crime is vulgar, just as all vulgarity is crime.\nIt is not in you, Dorian, to commit a murder. I am sorry if I hurt your\nvanity by saying so, but I assure you it is true. Crime belongs\nexclusively to the lower orders. I don’t blame them in the smallest\ndegree. I should fancy that crime was to them what art is to us, simply\na method of procuring extraordinary sensations.”",
    "meta": {
      "book": "dorian",
      "para_idx_start": 1472,
      "para_idx_end": 1474,
      "char_count": 826
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  },
  {
    "id": "dorian_chunk_357",
    "text": "“A method of procuring sensations? Do you think, then, that a man who\nhas once committed a murder could possibly do the same crime again?\nDon’t tell me that.”\n\n“Oh! anything becomes a pleasure if one does it too often,” cried Lord\nHenry, laughing. “That is one of the most important secrets of life. I\nshould fancy, however, that murder is always a mistake. One should\nnever do anything that one cannot talk about after dinner. But let us\npass from poor Basil. I wish I could believe that he had come to such a\nreally romantic end as you suggest, but I can’t. I dare say he fell\ninto the Seine off an omnibus and that the conductor hushed up the\nscandal. Yes: I should fancy that was his end. I see him lying now on\nhis back under those dull-green waters, with the heavy barges floating\nover him and long weeds catching in his hair. Do you know, I don’t\nthink he would have done much more good work. During the last ten years\nhis painting had gone off very much.”",
    "meta": {
      "book": "dorian",
      "para_idx_start": 1475,
      "para_idx_end": 1476,
      "char_count": 963
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  },
  {
    "id": "dorian_chunk_358",
    "text": "Dorian heaved a sigh, and Lord Henry strolled across the room and began\nto stroke the head of a curious Java parrot, a large, grey-plumaged\nbird with pink crest and tail, that was balancing itself upon a bamboo\nperch. As his pointed fingers touched it, it dropped the white scurf of\ncrinkled lids over black, glasslike eyes and began to sway backwards\nand forwards.\n\n“Yes,” he continued, turning round and taking his handkerchief out of\nhis pocket; “his painting had quite gone off. It seemed to me to have\nlost something. It had lost an ideal. When you and he ceased to be\ngreat friends, he ceased to be a great artist. What was it separated\nyou? I suppose he bored you. If so, he never forgave you. It’s a habit\nbores have. By the way, what has become of that wonderful portrait he\ndid of you? I don’t think I have ever seen it since he finished it. Oh!\nI remember your telling me years ago that you had sent it down to\nSelby, and that it had got mislaid or stolen on the way. You never got\nit back? What a pity! it was really a masterpiece. I remember I wanted\nto buy it. I wish I had now. It belonged to Basil’s best period. Since\nthen, his work was that curious mixture of bad painting and good\nintentions that always entitles a man to be called a representative\nBritish artist. Did you advertise for it? You should.”",
    "meta": {
      "book": "dorian",
      "para_idx_start": 1477,
      "para_idx_end": 1478,
      "char_count": 1322
    }
  },
  {
    "id": "dorian_chunk_359",
    "text": "“I forget,” said Dorian. “I suppose I did. But I never really liked it.\nI am sorry I sat for it. The memory of the thing is hateful to me. Why\ndo you talk of it? It used to remind me of those curious lines in some\nplay—Hamlet, I think—how do they run?—\n\n“Like the painting of a sorrow,\nA face without a heart.”\n\nYes: that is what it was like.”\n\nLord Henry laughed. “If a man treats life artistically, his brain is\nhis heart,” he answered, sinking into an arm-chair.\n\nDorian Gray shook his head and struck some soft chords on the piano.\n“‘Like the painting of a sorrow,’” he repeated, “‘a face without a\nheart.’”\n\nThe elder man lay back and looked at him with half-closed eyes. “By the\nway, Dorian,” he said after a pause, “‘what does it profit a man if he\ngain the whole world and lose—how does the quotation run?—his own\nsoul’?”",
    "meta": {
      "book": "dorian",
      "para_idx_start": 1479,
      "para_idx_end": 1484,
      "char_count": 829
    }
  },
  {
    "id": "dorian_chunk_360",
    "text": "The music jarred, and Dorian Gray started and stared at his friend.\n“Why do you ask me that, Harry?”\n\n“My dear fellow,” said Lord Henry, elevating his eyebrows in surprise,\n“I asked you because I thought you might be able to give me an answer.\nThat is all. I was going through the park last Sunday, and close by the\nMarble Arch there stood a little crowd of shabby-looking people\nlistening to some vulgar street-preacher. As I passed by, I heard the\nman yelling out that question to his audience. It struck me as being\nrather dramatic. London is very rich in curious effects of that kind. A\nwet Sunday, an uncouth Christian in a mackintosh, a ring of sickly\nwhite faces under a broken roof of dripping umbrellas, and a wonderful\nphrase flung into the air by shrill hysterical lips—it was really very\ngood in its way, quite a suggestion. I thought of telling the prophet\nthat art had a soul, but that man had not. I am afraid, however, he\nwould not have understood me.”",
    "meta": {
      "book": "dorian",
      "para_idx_start": 1485,
      "para_idx_end": 1486,
      "char_count": 968
    }
  },
  {
    "id": "dorian_chunk_361",
    "text": "“Don’t, Harry. The soul is a terrible reality. It can be bought, and\nsold, and bartered away. It can be poisoned, or made perfect. There is\na soul in each one of us. I know it.”\n\n“Do you feel quite sure of that, Dorian?”\n\n“Quite sure.”\n\n“Ah! then it must be an illusion. The things one feels absolutely\ncertain about are never true. That is the fatality of faith, and the\nlesson of romance. How grave you are! Don’t be so serious. What have\nyou or I to do with the superstitions of our age? No: we have given up\nour belief in the soul. Play me something. Play me a nocturne, Dorian,\nand, as you play, tell me, in a low voice, how you have kept your\nyouth. You must have some secret. I am only ten years older than you\nare, and I am wrinkled, and worn, and yellow. You are really wonderful,\nDorian. You have never looked more charming than you do to-night. You\nremind me of the day I saw you first. You were rather cheeky, very shy,\nand absolutely extraordinary. You have changed, of course, but not in\nappearance. I wish you would tell me your secret. To get back my youth\nI would do anything in the world, except take exercise, get up early,\nor be respectable. Youth! There is nothing like it. It’s absurd to talk\nof the ignorance of youth. The only people to whose opinions I listen\nnow with any respect are people much younger than myself. They seem in\nfront of me. Life has revealed to them her latest wonder. As for the\naged, I always contradict the aged. I do it on principle. If you ask\nthem their opinion on something that happened yesterday, they solemnly\ngive you the opinions current in 1820, when people wore high stocks,\nbelieved in everything, and knew absolutely nothing. How lovely that\nthing you are playing is! I wonder, did Chopin write it at Majorca,\nwith the sea weeping round the villa and the salt spray dashing against\nthe panes? It is marvellously romantic. What a blessing it is that\nthere is one art left to us that is not imitative! Don’t stop. I want\nmusic to-night. It seems to me that you are the young Apollo and that I\nam Marsyas listening to you. I have sorrows, Dorian, of my own, that\neven you know nothing of. The tragedy of old age is not that one is\nold, but that one is young. I am amazed sometimes at my own sincerity.\nAh, Dorian, how happy you are! What an exquisite life you have had! You\nhave drunk deeply of everything. You have crushed the grapes against\nyour palate. Nothing has been hidden from you. And it has all been to\nyou no more than the sound of music. It has not marred you. You are\nstill the same.”",
    "meta": {
      "book": "dorian",
      "para_idx_start": 1487,
      "para_idx_end": 1490,
      "char_count": 2555
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  },
  {
    "id": "dorian_chunk_362",
    "text": "“I am not the same, Harry.”\n\n“Yes, you are the same. I wonder what the rest of your life will be.\nDon’t spoil it by renunciations. At present you are a perfect type.\nDon’t make yourself incomplete. You are quite flawless now. You need\nnot shake your head: you know you are. Besides, Dorian, don’t deceive\nyourself. Life is not governed by will or intention. Life is a question\nof nerves, and fibres, and slowly built-up cells in which thought hides\nitself and passion has its dreams. You may fancy yourself safe and\nthink yourself strong. But a chance tone of colour in a room or a\nmorning sky, a particular perfume that you had once loved and that\nbrings subtle memories with it, a line from a forgotten poem that you\nhad come across again, a cadence from a piece of music that you had\nceased to play—I tell you, Dorian, that it is on things like these that\nour lives depend. Browning writes about that somewhere; but our own\nsenses will imagine them for us. There are moments when the odour of\n_lilas blanc_ passes suddenly across me, and I have to live the\nstrangest month of my life over again. I wish I could change places\nwith you, Dorian. The world has cried out against us both, but it has\nalways worshipped you. It always will worship you. You are the type of\nwhat the age is searching for, and what it is afraid it has found. I am\nso glad that you have never done anything, never carved a statue, or\npainted a picture, or produced anything outside of yourself! Life has\nbeen your art. You have set yourself to music. Your days are your\nsonnets.”",
    "meta": {
      "book": "dorian",
      "para_idx_start": 1491,
      "para_idx_end": 1492,
      "char_count": 1555
    }
  },
  {
    "id": "dorian_chunk_363",
    "text": "Dorian rose up from the piano and passed his hand through his hair.\n“Yes, life has been exquisite,” he murmured, “but I am not going to\nhave the same life, Harry. And you must not say these extravagant\nthings to me. You don’t know everything about me. I think that if you\ndid, even you would turn from me. You laugh. Don’t laugh.”\n\n“Why have you stopped playing, Dorian? Go back and give me the nocturne\nover again. Look at that great, honey-coloured moon that hangs in the\ndusky air. She is waiting for you to charm her, and if you play she\nwill come closer to the earth. You won’t? Let us go to the club, then.\nIt has been a charming evening, and we must end it charmingly. There is\nsome one at White’s who wants immensely to know you—young Lord Poole,\nBournemouth’s eldest son. He has already copied your neckties, and has\nbegged me to introduce him to you. He is quite delightful and rather\nreminds me of you.”",
    "meta": {
      "book": "dorian",
      "para_idx_start": 1493,
      "para_idx_end": 1494,
      "char_count": 914
    }
  },
  {
    "id": "dorian_chunk_364",
    "text": "“I hope not,” said Dorian with a sad look in his eyes. “But I am tired\nto-night, Harry. I shan’t go to the club. It is nearly eleven, and I\nwant to go to bed early.”\n\n“Do stay. You have never played so well as to-night. There was\nsomething in your touch that was wonderful. It had more expression than\nI had ever heard from it before.”\n\n“It is because I am going to be good,” he answered, smiling. “I am a\nlittle changed already.”\n\n“You cannot change to me, Dorian,” said Lord Henry. “You and I will\nalways be friends.”\n\n“Yet you poisoned me with a book once. I should not forgive that.\nHarry, promise me that you will never lend that book to any one. It\ndoes harm.”\n\n“My dear boy, you are really beginning to moralize. You will soon be\ngoing about like the converted, and the revivalist, warning people\nagainst all the sins of which you have grown tired. You are much too\ndelightful to do that. Besides, it is no use. You and I are what we\nare, and will be what we will be. As for being poisoned by a book,\nthere is no such thing as that. Art has no influence upon action. It\nannihilates the desire to act. It is superbly sterile. The books that\nthe world calls immoral are books that show the world its own shame.\nThat is all. But we won’t discuss literature. Come round to-morrow. I\nam going to ride at eleven. We might go together, and I will take you\nto lunch afterwards with Lady Branksome. She is a charming woman, and\nwants to consult you about some tapestries she is thinking of buying.\nMind you come. Or shall we lunch with our little duchess? She says she\nnever sees you now. Perhaps you are tired of Gladys? I thought you\nwould be. Her clever tongue gets on one’s nerves. Well, in any case, be\nhere at eleven.”",
    "meta": {
      "book": "dorian",
      "para_idx_start": 1495,
      "para_idx_end": 1500,
      "char_count": 1722
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  },
  {
    "id": "dorian_chunk_365",
    "text": "“Must I really come, Harry?”\n\n“Certainly. The park is quite lovely now. I don’t think there have been\nsuch lilacs since the year I met you.”\n\n“Very well. I shall be here at eleven,” said Dorian. “Good night,\nHarry.” As he reached the door, he hesitated for a moment, as if he had\nsomething more to say. Then he sighed and went out.\n\nCHAPTER XX.\n\nIt was a lovely night, so warm that he threw his coat over his arm and\ndid not even put his silk scarf round his throat. As he strolled home,\nsmoking his cigarette, two young men in evening dress passed him. He\nheard one of them whisper to the other, “That is Dorian Gray.” He\nremembered how pleased he used to be when he was pointed out, or stared\nat, or talked about. He was tired of hearing his own name now. Half the\ncharm of the little village where he had been so often lately was that\nno one knew who he was. He had often told the girl whom he had lured to\nlove him that he was poor, and she had believed him. He had told her\nonce that he was wicked, and she had laughed at him and answered that\nwicked people were always very old and very ugly. What a laugh she\nhad!—just like a thrush singing. And how pretty she had been in her\ncotton dresses and her large hats! She knew nothing, but she had\neverything that he had lost.",
    "meta": {
      "book": "dorian",
      "para_idx_start": 1501,
      "para_idx_end": 1505,
      "char_count": 1277
    }
  },
  {
    "id": "dorian_chunk_366",
    "text": "When he reached home, he found his servant waiting up for him. He sent\nhim to bed, and threw himself down on the sofa in the library, and\nbegan to think over some of the things that Lord Henry had said to him.\n\nWas it really true that one could never change? He felt a wild longing\nfor the unstained purity of his boyhood—his rose-white boyhood, as Lord\nHenry had once called it. He knew that he had tarnished himself, filled\nhis mind with corruption and given horror to his fancy; that he had\nbeen an evil influence to others, and had experienced a terrible joy in\nbeing so; and that of the lives that had crossed his own, it had been\nthe fairest and the most full of promise that he had brought to shame.\nBut was it all irretrievable? Was there no hope for him?\n\nAh! in what a monstrous moment of pride and passion he had prayed that\nthe portrait should bear the burden of his days, and he keep the\nunsullied splendour of eternal youth! All his failure had been due to\nthat. Better for him that each sin of his life had brought its sure\nswift penalty along with it. There was purification in punishment. Not\n“Forgive us our sins” but “Smite us for our iniquities” should be the\nprayer of man to a most just God.",
    "meta": {
      "book": "dorian",
      "para_idx_start": 1506,
      "para_idx_end": 1508,
      "char_count": 1213
    }
  },
  {
    "id": "dorian_chunk_367",
    "text": "The curiously carved mirror that Lord Henry had given to him, so many\nyears ago now, was standing on the table, and the white-limbed Cupids\nlaughed round it as of old. He took it up, as he had done on that night\nof horror when he had first noted the change in the fatal picture, and\nwith wild, tear-dimmed eyes looked into its polished shield. Once, some\none who had terribly loved him had written to him a mad letter, ending\nwith these idolatrous words: “The world is changed because you are made\nof ivory and gold. The curves of your lips rewrite history.” The\nphrases came back to his memory, and he repeated them over and over to\nhimself. Then he loathed his own beauty, and flinging the mirror on the\nfloor, crushed it into silver splinters beneath his heel. It was his\nbeauty that had ruined him, his beauty and the youth that he had prayed\nfor. But for those two things, his life might have been free from\nstain. His beauty had been to him but a mask, his youth but a mockery.\nWhat was youth at best? A green, an unripe time, a time of shallow\nmoods, and sickly thoughts. Why had he worn its livery? Youth had\nspoiled him.",
    "meta": {
      "book": "dorian",
      "para_idx_start": 1509,
      "para_idx_end": 1509,
      "char_count": 1129
    }
  },
  {
    "id": "dorian_chunk_368",
    "text": "It was better not to think of the past. Nothing could alter that. It\nwas of himself, and of his own future, that he had to think. James Vane\nwas hidden in a nameless grave in Selby churchyard. Alan Campbell had\nshot himself one night in his laboratory, but had not revealed the\nsecret that he had been forced to know. The excitement, such as it was,\nover Basil Hallward’s disappearance would soon pass away. It was\nalready waning. He was perfectly safe there. Nor, indeed, was it the\ndeath of Basil Hallward that weighed most upon his mind. It was the\nliving death of his own soul that troubled him. Basil had painted the\nportrait that had marred his life. He could not forgive him that. It\nwas the portrait that had done everything. Basil had said things to him\nthat were unbearable, and that he had yet borne with patience. The\nmurder had been simply the madness of a moment. As for Alan Campbell,\nhis suicide had been his own act. He had chosen to do it. It was\nnothing to him.",
    "meta": {
      "book": "dorian",
      "para_idx_start": 1510,
      "para_idx_end": 1510,
      "char_count": 980
    }
  },
  {
    "id": "dorian_chunk_369",
    "text": "A new life! That was what he wanted. That was what he was waiting for.\nSurely he had begun it already. He had spared one innocent thing, at\nany rate. He would never again tempt innocence. He would be good.\n\nAs he thought of Hetty Merton, he began to wonder if the portrait in\nthe locked room had changed. Surely it was not still so horrible as it\nhad been? Perhaps if his life became pure, he would be able to expel\nevery sign of evil passion from the face. Perhaps the signs of evil had\nalready gone away. He would go and look.\n\nHe took the lamp from the table and crept upstairs. As he unbarred the\ndoor, a smile of joy flitted across his strangely young-looking face\nand lingered for a moment about his lips. Yes, he would be good, and\nthe hideous thing that he had hidden away would no longer be a terror\nto him. He felt as if the load had been lifted from him already.",
    "meta": {
      "book": "dorian",
      "para_idx_start": 1511,
      "para_idx_end": 1513,
      "char_count": 873
    }
  },
  {
    "id": "dorian_chunk_370",
    "text": "He went in quietly, locking the door behind him, as was his custom, and\ndragged the purple hanging from the portrait. A cry of pain and\nindignation broke from him. He could see no change, save that in the\neyes there was a look of cunning and in the mouth the curved wrinkle of\nthe hypocrite. The thing was still loathsome—more loathsome, if\npossible, than before—and the scarlet dew that spotted the hand seemed\nbrighter, and more like blood newly spilled. Then he trembled. Had it\nbeen merely vanity that had made him do his one good deed? Or the\ndesire for a new sensation, as Lord Henry had hinted, with his mocking\nlaugh? Or that passion to act a part that sometimes makes us do things\nfiner than we are ourselves? Or, perhaps, all these? And why was the\nred stain larger than it had been? It seemed to have crept like a\nhorrible disease over the wrinkled fingers. There was blood on the\npainted feet, as though the thing had dripped—blood even on the hand\nthat had not held the knife. Confess? Did it mean that he was to\nconfess? To give himself up and be put to death? He laughed. He felt\nthat the idea was monstrous. Besides, even if he did confess, who would\nbelieve him? There was no trace of the murdered man anywhere.\nEverything belonging to him had been destroyed. He himself had burned\nwhat had been below-stairs. The world would simply say that he was mad.\nThey would shut him up if he persisted in his story.... Yet it was his\nduty to confess, to suffer public shame, and to make public atonement.\nThere was a God who called upon men to tell their sins to earth as well\nas to heaven. Nothing that he could do would cleanse him till he had\ntold his own sin. His sin? He shrugged his shoulders. The death of\nBasil Hallward seemed very little to him. He was thinking of Hetty\nMerton. For it was an unjust mirror, this mirror of his soul that he\nwas looking at. Vanity? Curiosity? Hypocrisy? Had there been nothing\nmore in his renunciation than that? There had been something more. At\nleast he thought so. But who could tell? ... No. There had been nothing\nmore. Through vanity he had spared her. In hypocrisy he had worn the\nmask of goodness. For curiosity’s sake he had tried the denial of self.\nHe recognized that now.",
    "meta": {
      "book": "dorian",
      "para_idx_start": 1514,
      "para_idx_end": 1514,
      "char_count": 2232
    }
  },
  {
    "id": "dorian_chunk_371",
    "text": "But this murder—was it to dog him all his life? Was he always to be\nburdened by his past? Was he really to confess? Never. There was only\none bit of evidence left against him. The picture itself—that was\nevidence. He would destroy it. Why had he kept it so long? Once it had\ngiven him pleasure to watch it changing and growing old. Of late he had\nfelt no such pleasure. It had kept him awake at night. When he had been\naway, he had been filled with terror lest other eyes should look upon\nit. It had brought melancholy across his passions. Its mere memory had\nmarred many moments of joy. It had been like conscience to him. Yes, it\nhad been conscience. He would destroy it.\n\nHe looked round and saw the knife that had stabbed Basil Hallward. He\nhad cleaned it many times, till there was no stain left upon it. It was\nbright, and glistened. As it had killed the painter, so it would kill\nthe painter’s work, and all that that meant. It would kill the past,\nand when that was dead, he would be free. It would kill this monstrous\nsoul-life, and without its hideous warnings, he would be at peace. He\nseized the thing, and stabbed the picture with it.",
    "meta": {
      "book": "dorian",
      "para_idx_start": 1515,
      "para_idx_end": 1516,
      "char_count": 1147
    }
  },
  {
    "id": "dorian_chunk_372",
    "text": "There was a cry heard, and a crash. The cry was so horrible in its\nagony that the frightened servants woke and crept out of their rooms.\nTwo gentlemen, who were passing in the square below, stopped and looked\nup at the great house. They walked on till they met a policeman and\nbrought him back. The man rang the bell several times, but there was no\nanswer. Except for a light in one of the top windows, the house was all\ndark. After a time, he went away and stood in an adjoining portico and\nwatched.\n\n“Whose house is that, Constable?” asked the elder of the two gentlemen.\n\n“Mr. Dorian Gray’s, sir,” answered the policeman.\n\nThey looked at each other, as they walked away, and sneered. One of\nthem was Sir Henry Ashton’s uncle.\n\nInside, in the servants’ part of the house, the half-clad domestics\nwere talking in low whispers to each other. Old Mrs. Leaf was crying\nand wringing her hands. Francis was as pale as death.",
    "meta": {
      "book": "dorian",
      "para_idx_start": 1517,
      "para_idx_end": 1521,
      "char_count": 920
    }
  },
  {
    "id": "dorian_chunk_373",
    "text": "After about a quarter of an hour, he got the coachman and one of the\nfootmen and crept upstairs. They knocked, but there was no reply. They\ncalled out. Everything was still. Finally, after vainly trying to force\nthe door, they got on the roof and dropped down on to the balcony. The\nwindows yielded easily—their bolts were old.\n\nWhen they entered, they found hanging upon the wall a splendid portrait\nof their master as they had last seen him, in all the wonder of his\nexquisite youth and beauty. Lying on the floor was a dead man, in\nevening dress, with a knife in his heart. He was withered, wrinkled,\nand loathsome of visage. It was not till they had examined the rings\nthat they recognized who it was.\n\nTHE END",
    "meta": {
      "book": "dorian",
      "para_idx_start": 1522,
      "para_idx_end": 1524,
      "char_count": 714
    }
  }
]