A cold rain began to fall, and the blurred street-lamps looked ghastly in the dripping mist. The public-houses were just closing, and dim men and women were clustering in broken groups round their doors. From some of the bars came the sound of horrible laughter. In others, drunkards brawled and screamed.<\/p>\n
Lying back in the hansom, with his hat pulled over his forehead, Dorian Gray watched with listless eyes the sordid shame of the great city, and now and then he repeated to himself the words that Lord Henry had said to him on the first day they had met, \u201cTo cure the soul by means of the senses, and the senses by means of the soul.\u201d Yes, that was the secret. He had often tried it, and would try it again now. There were opium dens where one could buy oblivion, dens of horror where the memory of old sins could be destroyed by the madness of sins that were new.<\/p>\n
The moon hung low in the sky like a yellow skull. From time to time a huge misshapen cloud stretched a long arm across and hid it. The gas-lamps grew fewer, and the streets more narrow and gloomy. Once the man lost his way and had to drive back half a mile. A steam rose from the horse as it splashed up the puddles. The sidewindows of the hansom were clogged with a grey-flannel mist.<\/p>\n
\u201cTo cure the soul by means of the senses, and the senses by means of the soul!\u201d How the words rang in his ears! His soul, certainly, was sick to death. Was it true that the senses could cure it? Innocent blood had been spilled. What could atone for that? Ah! for that there was no atonement; but though forgiveness was impossible, forgetfulness was possible still, and he was determined to forget, to stamp the thing out, to crush it as one would crush the adder that had stung one. Indeed, what right had Basil to have spoken to him as he had done? Who had made him a judge over others? He had said things that were dreadful, horrible, not to be endured.<\/p>\n
On and on plodded the hansom, going slower, it seemed to him, at each step. He thrust up the trap and called to the man to drive faster. The hideous hunger for opium began to gnaw at him. His throat burned and his delicate hands twitched nervously together. He struck at the horse madly with his stick. The driver laughed and whipped up. He laughed in answer, and the man was silent.<\/p>\n
The way seemed interminable, and the streets like the black web of some sprawling spider. The monotony became unbearable, and as the mist thickened, he felt afraid.<\/p>\n
Then they passed by lonely brickfields. The fog was lighter here, and he could see the strange, bottle-shaped kilns with their orange, fanlike tongues of fire. A dog barked as they went by, and far away in the darkness some wandering sea-gull screamed. The horse stumbled in a rut, then swerved aside and broke into a gallop.<\/p>\n
After some time they left the clay road and rattled again over rough-paven streets. Most of the windows were dark, but now and then fantastic shadows were silhouetted against some lamplit blind. He watched them curiously. They moved like monstrous marionettes and made gestures like live things. He hated them. A dull rage was in his heart. As they turned a corner, a woman yelled something at them from an open door, and two men ran after the hansom for about a hundred yards. The driver beat at them with his whip.<\/p>\n
It is said that passion makes one think in a circle. Certainly with hideous iteration the bitten lips of Dorian Gray shaped and reshaped those subtle words that dealt with soul and sense, till he had found in them the full expression, as it were, of his mood, and justified, by intellectual approval, passions that without such justification would still have dominated his temper. From cell to cell of his brain crept the one thought; and the wild desire to live, most terrible of all man\u2019s appetites, quickened into force each trembling nerve and fibre. Ugliness that had once been hateful to him because it made things real, became dear to him now for that very reason. Ugliness was the one reality. The coarse brawl, the loathsome den, the crude violence of disordered life, the very vileness of thief and outcast, were more vivid, in their intense actuality of impression, than all the gracious shapes of art, the dreamy shadows of song. They were what he needed for forgetfulness. In three days he would be free.<\/p>\n
Suddenly the man drew up with a jerk at the top of a dark lane. Over the low roofs and jagged chimney-stacks of the houses rose the black masts of ships. Wreaths of white mist clung like ghostly sails to the yards.<\/p>\n
\u201cSomewhere about here, sir, ain\u2019t it?\u201d he asked huskily through the trap.<\/p>\n
Dorian started and peered round. \u201cThis will do,\u201d he answered, and having got out hastily and given the driver the extra fare he had promised him, he walked quickly in the direction of the quay. Here and there a lantern gleamed at the stern of some huge merchantman. The light shook and splintered in the puddles. A red glare came from an outward-bound steamer that was coaling. The slimy pavement looked like a wet mackintosh.<\/p>\n
He hurried on towards the left, glancing back now and then to see if he was being followed. In about seven or eight minutes he reached a small shabby house that was wedged in between two gaunt factories. In one of the top-windows stood a lamp. He stopped and gave a peculiar knock.<\/p>\n
After a little time he heard steps in the passage and the chain being unhooked. The door opened quietly, and he went in without saying a word to the squat misshapen figure that flattened itself into the shadow as he passed. At the end of the hall hung a tattered green curtain that swayed and shook in the gusty wind which had followed him in from the street. He dragged it aside and entered a long low room which looked as if it had once been a third-rate dancing-saloon. Shrill flaring gas-jets, dulled and distorted in the fly-blown mirrors that faced them, were ranged round the walls. Greasy reflectors of ribbed tin backed them, making quivering disks of light. The floor was covered with ochre-coloured sawdust, trampled here and there into mud, and stained with dark rings of spilled liquor. Some Malays were crouching by a little charcoal stove, playing with bone counters and showing their white teeth as they chattered. In one corner, with his head buried in his arms, a sailor sprawled over a table, and by the tawdrily painted bar that ran across one complete side stood two haggard women, mocking an old man who was brushing the sleeves of his coat with an expression of disgust. \u201cHe thinks he\u2019s got red ants on him,\u201d laughed one of them, as Dorian passed by. The man looked at her in terror and began to whimper.<\/p>\n
At the end of the room there was a little staircase, leading to a darkened chamber. As Dorian hurried up its three rickety steps, the heavy odour of opium met him. He heaved a deep breath, and his nostrils quivered with pleasure. When he entered, a young man with smooth yellow hair, who was bending over a lamp lighting a long thin pipe, looked up at him and nodded in a hesitating manner.<\/p>\n
\u201cYou here, Adrian?\u201d muttered Dorian.<\/p>\n
\u201cWhere else should I be?\u201d he answered, listlessly. \u201cNone of the chaps will speak to me now.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cI thought you had left England.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cDarlington is not going to do anything. My brother paid the bill at last. George doesn\u2019t speak to me either…. I don\u2019t care,\u201d he added with a sigh. \u201cAs long as one has this stuff, one doesn\u2019t want friends. I think I have had too many friends.\u201d<\/p>\n
Dorian winced and looked round at the grotesque things that lay in such fantastic postures on the ragged mattresses. The twisted limbs, the gaping mouths, the staring lustreless eyes, fascinated him. He knew in what strange heavens they were suffering, and what dull hells were teaching them the secret of some new joy. They were better off than he was. He was prisoned in thought. Memory, like a horrible malady, was eating his soul away. From time to time he seemed to see the eyes of Basil Hallward looking at him. Yet he felt he could not stay. The presence of Adrian Singleton troubled him. He wanted to be where no one would know who he was. He wanted to escape from himself.<\/p>\n
\u201cI am going on to the other place,\u201d he said after a pause.<\/p>\n
\u201cOn the wharf?\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cYes.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cThat mad-cat is sure to be there. They won\u2019t have her in this place now.\u201d<\/p>\n
Dorian shrugged his shoulders. \u201cI am sick of women who love one. Women who hate one are much more interesting. Besides, the stuff is better.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cMuch the same.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cI like it better. Come and have something to drink. I must have something.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cI don\u2019t want anything,\u201d murmured the young man.<\/p>\n
\u201cNever mind.\u201d<\/p>\n
Adrian Singleton rose up wearily and followed Dorian to the bar. A half-caste, in a ragged turban and a shabby ulster, grinned a hideous greeting as he thrust a bottle of brandy and two tumblers in front of them. The women sidled up and began to chatter. Dorian turned his back on them and said something in a low voice to Adrian Singleton.<\/p>\n
A crooked smile, like a Malay crease, writhed across the face of one of the women. \u201cWe are very proud to-night,\u201d she sneered.<\/p>\n
\u201cFor God\u2019s sake don\u2019t talk to me,\u201d cried Dorian, stamping his foot on the ground. \u201cWhat do you want? Money? Here it is. Don\u2019t ever talk to me again.\u201d<\/p>\n
Two red sparks flashed for a moment in the woman\u2019s sodden eyes, then flickered out and left them dull and glazed. She tossed her head and raked the coins off the counter with greedy fingers. Her companion watched her enviously.<\/p>\n
\u201cIt\u2019s no use,\u201d sighed Adrian Singleton. \u201cI don\u2019t care to go back. What does it matter? I am quite happy here.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cYou will write to me if you want anything, won\u2019t you?\u201d said Dorian, after a pause.<\/p>\n
\u201cPerhaps.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cGood night, then.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cGood night,\u201d answered the young man, passing up the steps and wiping his parched mouth with a handkerchief.<\/p>\n
Dorian walked to the door with a look of pain in his face. As he drew the curtain aside, a hideous laugh broke from the painted lips of the woman who had taken his money. \u201cThere goes the devil\u2019s bargain!\u201d she hiccoughed, in a hoarse voice.<\/p>\n
\u201cCurse you!\u201d he answered, \u201cdon\u2019t call me that.\u201d<\/p>\n
She snapped her fingers. \u201cPrince Charming is what you like to be called, ain\u2019t it?\u201d she yelled after him.<\/p>\n
The drowsy sailor leaped to his feet as she spoke, and looked wildly round. The sound of the shutting of the hall door fell on his ear. He rushed out as if in pursuit.<\/p>\n
Dorian Gray hurried along the quay through the drizzling rain. His meeting with Adrian Singleton had strangely moved him, and he wondered if the ruin of that young life was really to be laid at his door, as Basil Hallward had said to him with such infamy of insult. He bit his lip, and for a few seconds his eyes grew sad. Yet, after all, what did it matter to him? One\u2019s days were too brief to take the burden of another\u2019s errors on one\u2019s shoulders. Each man lived his own life and paid his own price for living it. The only pity was one had to pay so often for a single fault. One had to pay over and over again, indeed. In her dealings with man, destiny never closed her accounts.<\/p>\n
There are moments, psychologists tell us, when the passion for sin, or for what the world calls sin, so dominates a nature that every fibre of the body, as every cell of the brain, seems to be instinct with fearful impulses. Men and women at such moments lose the freedom of their will. They move to their terrible end as automatons move. Choice is taken from them, and conscience is either killed, or, if it lives at all, lives but to give rebellion its fascination and disobedience its charm. For all sins, as theologians weary not of reminding us, are sins of disobedience. When that high spirit, that morning star of evil, fell from heaven, it was as a rebel that he fell.<\/p>\n
Callous, concentrated on evil, with stained mind, and soul hungry for rebellion, Dorian Gray hastened on, quickening his step as he went, but as he darted aside into a dim archway, that had served him often as a short cut to the ill-famed place where he was going, he felt himself suddenly seized from behind, and before he had time to defend himself, he was thrust back against the wall, with a brutal hand round his throat.<\/p>\n
He struggled madly for life, and by a terrible effort wrenched the tightening fingers away. In a second he heard the click of a revolver, and saw the gleam of a polished barrel, pointing straight at his head, and the dusky form of a short, thick-set man facing him.<\/p>\n
\u201cWhat do you want?\u201d he gasped.<\/p>\n
\u201cKeep quiet,\u201d said the man. \u201cIf you stir, I shoot you.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cYou are mad. What have I done to you?\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cYou wrecked the life of Sibyl Vane,\u201d was the answer, \u201cand Sibyl Vane was my sister. She killed herself. I know it. Her death is at your door. I swore I would kill you in return. For years I have sought you. I had no clue, no trace. The two people who could have described you were dead. I knew nothing of you but the pet name she used to call you. I heard it to-night by chance. Make your peace with God, for to-night you are going to die.\u201d<\/p>\n
Dorian Gray grew sick with fear. \u201cI never knew her,\u201d he stammered. \u201cI never heard of her. You are mad.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cYou had better confess your sin, for as sure as I am James Vane, you are going to die.\u201d There was a horrible moment. Dorian did not know what to say or do. \u201cDown on your knees!\u201d growled the man. \u201cI give you one minute to make your peace\u2014no more. I go on board to-night for India, and I must do my job first. One minute. That\u2019s all.\u201d<\/p>\n
Dorian\u2019s arms fell to his side. Paralysed with terror, he did not know what to do. Suddenly a wild hope flashed across his brain. \u201cStop,\u201d he cried. \u201cHow long ago is it since your sister died? Quick, tell me!\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cEighteen years,\u201d said the man. \u201cWhy do you ask me? What do years matter?\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cEighteen years,\u201d laughed Dorian Gray, with a touch of triumph in his voice. \u201cEighteen years! Set me under the lamp and look at my face!\u201d<\/p>\n
James Vane hesitated for a moment, not understanding what was meant. Then he seized Dorian Gray and dragged him from the archway.<\/p>\n
Dim and wavering as was the wind-blown light, yet it served to show him the hideous error, as it seemed, into which he had fallen, for the face of the man he had sought to kill had all the bloom of boyhood, all the unstained purity of youth. He seemed little more than a lad of twenty summers, hardly older, if older indeed at all, than his sister had been when they had parted so many years ago. It was obvious that this was not the man who had destroyed her life.<\/p>\n
He loosened his hold and reeled back. \u201cMy God! my God!\u201d he cried, \u201cand I would have murdered you!\u201d<\/p>\n
Dorian Gray drew a long breath. \u201cYou have been on the brink of committing a terrible crime, my man,\u201d he said, looking at him sternly. \u201cLet this be a warning to you not to take vengeance into your own hands.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cForgive me, sir,\u201d muttered James Vane. \u201cI was deceived. A chance word I heard in that damned den set me on the wrong track.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cYou had better go home and put that pistol away, or you may get into trouble,\u201d said Dorian, turning on his heel and going slowly down the street.<\/p>\n
James Vane stood on the pavement in horror. He was trembling from head to foot. After a little while, a black shadow that had been creeping along the dripping wall moved out into the light and came close to him with stealthy footsteps. He felt a hand laid on his arm and looked round with a start. It was one of the women who had been drinking at the bar.<\/p>\n
\u201cWhy didn\u2019t you kill him?\u201d she hissed out, putting haggard face quite close to his. \u201cI knew you were following him when you rushed out from Daly\u2019s. You fool! You should have killed him. He has lots of money, and he\u2019s as bad as bad.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cHe is not the man I am looking for,\u201d he answered, \u201cand I want no man\u2019s money. I want a man\u2019s life. The man whose life I want must be nearly forty now. This one is little more than a boy. Thank God, I have not got his blood upon my hands.\u201d<\/p>\n
The woman gave a bitter laugh. \u201cLittle more than a boy!\u201d she sneered. \u201cWhy, man, it\u2019s nigh on eighteen years since Prince Charming made me what I am.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cYou lie!\u201d cried James Vane.<\/p>\n
She raised her hand up to heaven. \u201cBefore God I am telling the truth,\u201d she cried.<\/p>\n
\u201cBefore God?\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cStrike me dumb if it ain\u2019t so. He is the worst one that comes here. They say he has sold himself to the devil for a pretty face. It\u2019s nigh on eighteen years since I met him. He hasn\u2019t changed much since then. I have, though,\u201d she added, with a sickly leer.<\/p>\n
\u201cYou swear this?\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cI swear it,\u201d came in hoarse echo from her flat mouth. \u201cBut don\u2019t give me away to him,\u201d she whined; \u201cI am afraid of him. Let me have some money for my night\u2019s lodging.\u201d<\/p>\n
He broke from her with an oath and rushed to the corner of the street, but Dorian Gray had disappeared. When he looked back, the woman had vanished also.<\/p>\n","protected":false},"author":299,"menu_order":17,"template":"","meta":{"pb_show_title":"on","pb_short_title":"","pb_subtitle":"","pb_authors":[],"pb_section_license":""},"chapter-type":[48],"contributor":[],"license":[],"class_list":["post-38","chapter","type-chapter","status-publish","hentry","chapter-type-numberless"],"part":3,"_links":{"self":[{"href":"https:\/\/pressbooks.library.torontomu.ca\/thepictureofdoriangray\/wp-json\/pressbooks\/v2\/chapters\/38","targetHints":{"allow":["GET"]}}],"collection":[{"href":"https:\/\/pressbooks.library.torontomu.ca\/thepictureofdoriangray\/wp-json\/pressbooks\/v2\/chapters"}],"about":[{"href":"https:\/\/pressbooks.library.torontomu.ca\/thepictureofdoriangray\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/types\/chapter"}],"author":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/pressbooks.library.torontomu.ca\/thepictureofdoriangray\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/users\/299"}],"version-history":[{"count":5,"href":"https:\/\/pressbooks.library.torontomu.ca\/thepictureofdoriangray\/wp-json\/pressbooks\/v2\/chapters\/38\/revisions"}],"predecessor-version":[{"id":181,"href":"https:\/\/pressbooks.library.torontomu.ca\/thepictureofdoriangray\/wp-json\/pressbooks\/v2\/chapters\/38\/revisions\/181"}],"part":[{"href":"https:\/\/pressbooks.library.torontomu.ca\/thepictureofdoriangray\/wp-json\/pressbooks\/v2\/parts\/3"}],"metadata":[{"href":"https:\/\/pressbooks.library.torontomu.ca\/thepictureofdoriangray\/wp-json\/pressbooks\/v2\/chapters\/38\/metadata\/"}],"wp:attachment":[{"href":"https:\/\/pressbooks.library.torontomu.ca\/thepictureofdoriangray\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/media?parent=38"}],"wp:term":[{"taxonomy":"chapter-type","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/pressbooks.library.torontomu.ca\/thepictureofdoriangray\/wp-json\/pressbooks\/v2\/chapter-type?post=38"},{"taxonomy":"contributor","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/pressbooks.library.torontomu.ca\/thepictureofdoriangray\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/contributor?post=38"},{"taxonomy":"license","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/pressbooks.library.torontomu.ca\/thepictureofdoriangray\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/license?post=38"}],"curies":[{"name":"wp","href":"https:\/\/api.w.org\/{rel}","templated":true}]}}