“One hour and a quarter, Monsieur.”
So late! Dorian sat up slowly and began sipping his tea while turning over his letters. How interesting. One had been hand delivered that morning from Lady Helena. He put that one aside for the moment and instead began opening the usual tedious dinner invitations, routine tickets to private shows, mundane charity programs, and other of the like that were constantly showered on fashionable young men of his caliber.
One letter in particular contained a heavy bill for a fanciful, chased silver Louis-Quinze toilet. The common people simply did not realize that unnecessary things are the only real necessities in life. The rest of the letters all contained very elegant and courteous communications from several Jermyn Street money-lenders, each offering to advance Dorian large sums of money—for the most reasonable of interest rates and at a moment’s notice.
After dressing in a new pair of silk trousers, he took the letter from Lady Helena to the library to continue his breakfast. As his valet slunk out of the room, his eye happened to track across the portrait that Sage had painted of him and the wolf cub. Dorian shook his head as if to clear his vision. Surely there was still some drowsiness in his eyes. He blinked rapidly and moved closer to the painting. Did the portrait look different? Was it his imagination, or was something terribly off about it?
The image of Dorian himself had not altered, of course. It was the same chiseled face of timeless beauty as always. But the image of the wolf cub had changed in a most impossible way. The wolf in the painting had become larger—much larger. Larger, and more terrifying! The eyes were filled will malice and rage. They shone with a bloodlust and intellect that was unnatural. It far surpassed the normal look of any deadly predator. The beast’s coat had become a much darker grey and no longer had a healthy sheen to it, but rather a mangy and sickly look. The wolf’s face too had changed substantially. The massive teeth had now become more pronounced and extended from the squared, yet somehow more human-looking jaw. In fact, the entire animal had changed in proportion and shape to take on a more elongated and bipedal appearance.
That was completely absurd. A painting could not alter! But what if it was true and reflected a real change of the wolf’s appearance? How long had it been since he had really seen how his wolf looked outside the cover of the shadows of the forest? Surely, it could not resemble this hideous creature before him. Yes, the painting had altered. That was a fact.
He gazed at the image with a growing sense of horror. The cruelty of the beast made him think of how cruel he had been to Sibyl Vane, how predatorily he had acted towards the other young ladies that he had hunted through the recent nights. A deep sense of guilt began to cloud his mind. Maybe it was not too late for him to change his ways. Maybe this strange picture was a warning sent through the magical brush of dear Sage. Perhaps it was meant to somehow guide him through life and transform him back into a more noble and unselfish version of himself. He recalled all of the illicit nights of sin. His mind was filled with memories of intoxication from the heavy drinking and the use of questionable stimulants. Like a flash, he relived all the instances of intense debauchery. His mind was flooded with a feeling of remorse, which he had strangely never felt before. It was as if this painting had become a visible symbol of the degradation of his soul, but visited instead upon an innocent and helpless animal.
The hour struck three and then four, but still Dorian did not stir. He was too deep in contemplation and the study of his own profound sorrows and copious passions. His mind languished through a labyrinth of conflicting shame, entangled needs, and shifting desires. Finally, not knowing what else to do, Dorian sat at his writing table and penned out a passionate letter to Sibyl.
She was the girl he had once loved with his entire mind and body and he desperately implored her forgiveness while decrying his own selfish madness. Yes, he would set things right once more and begin again fresh. He would correct his path and return to the point where his life had deviated from the righteous course of a Godly and holy man. He would immediately marry Sibyl and all would be set right.
There is a true luxury in self-reproach. We can blame ourselves more thoroughly and imaginatively than any other can. It is surely the confession and resolve to change that provides the absolution, as much as the simple priest behind the lacquered screen.
A demanding knock at the door interrupted his thoughts. He heard Lady Helena’s voice outside. “Mr. Gray, I must see you at once. It is most urgent.”
The knocking continued and quickened when Dorian made no immediate answer. Perhaps, it was better to let Lady Helena in and explain the important changes he would be making to his life, even if it meant the two would have to part ways. Better not to delay the change of direction in his life or the hurt it would cause to his dear friend. He quickly threw the screen across the picture and rose to unlock the door.
Lady Helena hurriedly entered the room with a worried look on her face. “I am so sorry for it all, Dorian. Try not to dwell on it too long.”
“Do you mean about Sibyl Vane?” he asked in an absent-minded way.
Lady Helena gracefully lowered herself into a chair and removed her white, kidskin gloves. Her reply was biting. “Yes, of course. The incident was really quite dreadful, but entirely none of your doing. Tell me, when you ended things with the ill-fated girl—did you make much of a scene?”
“I was a savage, my dear, really quite barbarous. But now I will set all to right. I do not, however, regret anything that has happened. It has taught me so much about myself.”
“Good for you. I am glad to hear that you are taking this mishap in stride! I was fearful you would be in a deep despair. That would ruin the complexion of that marvelous face of yours.”
A cautious smile reached his lips. “I have gone through that. I assure you, I am perfectly happy now. For the first time I truly understand what it means to have a conscience. The experience is not at all how you describe it, but something divine. I desperately want to be honorable and repair the damage that I have done. I can’t stand the idea of my soul becoming a lecherous and grotesque thing.”
“What a charming take on ethics you have. But how will you begin this miraculous transformation?”
“By marrying Sibyl Vane.”
“Marrying!” bellowed Lady Helena as she stood to gaze at him in astonishment. “But, my dear Mr. Gray…did you not receive my letter? I wrote you only this morning and sent the note by my own man.”
“Your letter? Oh, yes, I remember it now. No I haven’t read it yet. Why? Was there something urgent written inside it?”
“So you don’t know?”
“Know what Lady Helena?”
Lady Helena crossed the room and took Dorian’s hands in her own. As the two sat, her grip tightened ever so slightly.
She searched his eyes. “Dorian, don’t be frightened—my letter—was to tell you that Sibyl Vane is dead.”
A cry sprang unbidden from Dorian’s mouth as he jumped to his feet and flung Lady Helena’s hands down. “Dead! Sibyl dead? That is a terrible lie and not true! How could you say such a thing?”
Lady Helena’s voice was grave. “I’m afraid it is quite true. It is spread across all the morning papers. I wrote to you about it and to ask that you speak to no one until we had a chance to meet. There will be an inquest, of course, and you must not be mentioned when questions arise.”
She leaned in closer and placed her hand on Dorian’s knee. “Things like this can be fashionable in Paris, but in London the society here is really quite prejudiced. One should never have their debut clouded with scandal or dark rumors. Those things should come with old age. I suppose they do not know your name at the theatre? Tell me, did anyone see you visit her in her room?”
Dorian was unable to answer for several moments. When he was able to speak it was difficult to get the words out. “Did—did you say there was to be an inquest? What do you mean by that? Be quick, and tell me everything at once.”
“It really
is quite curious and most horrific. It seems that as the girl was leaving the theatre in the evening at about half-past twelve, she decided to walk by the park in her neighborhood. There she was set upon by Jack the Ripper. Either that fiend or the High Rip Gang assisted by some Bulldogs—the constables are still debating various theories. They found her body dragged to the middle of the park. It was absolutely ripped apart you see. She met quite a brutal end with slashes and cuts everywhere and her throat and intestines torn out. She was so badly mutilated, the coroner was only able to identify the body by the engraving on the necklace she wore which bore her name.”
“Stop, please stop! I can’t bear to hear anymore, how terrible!”
“Yes it is very tragic. Things are quite out of control in the poorer areas of the city. Something really must be done about it. There have been several vicious attacks and murders of the like in recent weeks. But you must not get yourself mixed up in it all. I see by The Standard that the poor girl was seventeen. She seemed even younger, looking like such a child as she did—and with so little acting ability. But, you mustn’t let this trouble you. Come and dine with me this evening, and afterwards we will go to the opera.”
Dorian spoke in a hushed tone. “So, I have murdered Sibyl Vane. Murdered her as surely as if I had cut her pretty little throat myself. This is a tragedy. It is too late now to go back and fix things to how we were before. Oh, if only I had not been so cruel to her! If only I had never walked into that theatre and never seen her upon the stage!”
He looked out the window just then and continued. “Yet somehow, the birds still sing merrily in the garden. The crimson roses are no less lovely or fragrant. Tonight we will dine together on some delicacy and see art performed at the opera. How extraordinarily dramatic life is! Lady Helena, if I had read this in a book I would weep for days. Somehow, with it actually happening to me it seems too full of wonder for tears. There on my desk is the first passionate love-letter which I have ever composed in my life—and it is addressed to a dead girl. Can the dead feel, I wonder? Can Sibyl know now, that I meant to come back to her? How I deeply loved her once. She was everything to me! I said I would go back to her and now she is dead. My God. What shall I do? I might be in danger! She had no right to get herself killed. It was quite selfish indeed.”
Lady Helena removed a cigarette from her gold-leafed case and struck a match. “My dear Mr. Gray, if you had married this girl you would have been wretchedly unhappy. I am sure that you would have been kind to the girl and she loved you wholly in return. But, eventually, you would have become indifferent towards her. And when a woman finds out her husband is indifferent towards her, she either becomes dreadful company or begins to seek the company of another woman’s husband. Trust me when I tell you the whole thing would have been an absolute failure.”
Dorian begrudged her the point. “I suppose you are right. I only thought it was my duty to do so. It isn’t my fault that this abhorrent mishap has prevented me from doing what was right. But why can I not feel as deeply about this loss as I want to? I can’t be that heartless. Do you think me heartless?”
Lady Helena gave him a melancholy smile as she looked over at the desk. “That foolish love letter is proof that you are not.”
His frown deepened. “I am glad you do not think me heartless, for I am nothing of the kind. My heart soars when I hear well-played music and it quickens when I see beauty or appreciate fine craftsmanship. I know am not heartless. And yet, I must admit, I am not as affected by this as I should be. It all seems like the climactic ending to a Greek play that I have taken part in, but have not been truly wounded by.”
“Ah, but most seem never to realize when the curtain has fallen. They always wish to continue with another act, rather than to acknowledge that the play has ended. They have no sense of art. Some chose to move on and are consoled by religion. Nothing makes one so vain, as being told they are a sinner. The Conscience makes egotists of us all. Now, there is one consolation which I enjoy more than anything—to take another’s admirer when you have lost one of your own. But really, Mr. Gray, Sibyl Vane was so different than most. There was even something quite beautiful about her death. She undoubtedly brought to life the essence of romance, passion, and love.”
Dorian’s voice dropped to a low murmur. “She will never bring anything to life again.”
“No, she will not. But do not forget that unless you have really lived, you have never really died. At least she was to you a tangible dream, filtered through Shakespeare’s plays and presented in its loveliest form. But do not mourn for her. Morn for Ophelia, or Cordelia, or the daughter of Brabantio. Do not waste your tears on Sibyl Vane, for she was less real than the characters she portrayed.”
A long silence followed. Dorian ran his hand along his face. “Let us not talk again of what has happened. It was simply an incredible experience and that is all. Let us focus on what other unimaginable wonders that life has yet in store for us. I shall join you for the opera this evening. Only let me dress first for the club as we are rather late. Thank you for all that you have said to me. You are undoubtedly my best friend in this world. No one can ever understand me the way that you do.”
As Lady Helena left, Dorian again uncovered the screen from the portrait on the wall. Now came the moment to make his choice. Would he choose a life of eternal youth, infinite passion, secret pleasures, wild joys, and elaborate sins? Or had the decision already been made for him? Yes, life had already decided on his behalf. He was to satisfy his unending curiosity of the mysteries that life had to offer. The wolf would, in turn, bear the full burden of his shame. For who would willingly surrender the chance to always remain young and beautiful? Besides, the change was no longer under his control. Why it had happened was really of no importance. What had happened, had happened. He would lock the portrait away and separate it from the sunlight and the condemnations of the rest of the world. A few hours later, he was at the opera with Lady Helena leaning seductively over his chair.
Chapter 12.
The Hunt
Night descended on the wolf’s hunting ground. That territory had been growing wider and moving closer to the heart of the city. The forests had recently provided fewer animals to sustain his hunger. Many had been massacred by the wolf and the rest had learned his scent and now gave him a wide berth. Some had abandoned their habitat entirely. The caged prey-animals on the outskirts of the city no longer offered any challenge for the wolf, nor any pleasure in the kill. They were also becoming increasingly better defended by the men that lived in the surrounding villages.
As a result, the wolf had taken to ranging through the stone buildings and paved streets of the town, in pursuit of more challenging prey. He would now take the occasional Bulldog or an unattended carriage horse. Whenever possible, he would stick to the shadows or move amongst the trees of the parks and green areas. Avoiding the detection of man was quite easily done for the cunning beast. If the slightest scent or sound indicated the approach of someone, he could fall onto all fours and lope away at a terrific speed. If needed he would leap high onto buildings and move across the rooftops. His long claws and powerful legs provided all the purchase needed for climbing.
It had been far too long since the wolf had last eaten and the insistent hunger was upon him yet again. The wolf moved through the darkened streets silently. He had the scent of a cart horse and followed along as it moved across the cobbled road. However, he dared not take the animal while the man sat astride the carriage attached to it. After a few more kilometers, he gave up the pursuit to look for more suitable prey. He followed the fading tracks of a pack of stray dogs into an abandoned alley, but was frustrated to find them long gone from the area. It was possible that no sufficient food would be found this night.
The previous night, he had raided the London Zoo. The high iron bars had initially perplexed the wolf. They were stronger and taller than any of the wooden fences he typically encountered. As he circled the zoo, he eventually found a nearby
tree that allowed him to jump the spiked fencing. The scents of many new and strange animals excited the wolf as he wandered among the enclosures.
Many of the larger animals seemed too costly to kill, like the fierce-looking hippo that was over three meters long and weighed nearly three thousand kilograms. Its hide was tough, not to mention it was mostly submerged in a pool of water as it brandished its fearsome tusks. The wolf was also tempted by the large male African elephant. Eventually, he was put off by the almost ten thousand kilogram weight and approximate four-meter height of the thing. The animal also had large tusks and would put up a vicious fight.
He finally settled for taking the striped female zebra that was slumbering in her roofless enclosure. The white and black animal awoke as the bulk of the wolf landed nearby after leaping the fence. She had less than a few seconds to scream and attempt in vain to flee, before the powerful jaws of her attacker ended her once peaceful life. The warm flesh sated his bloodlust. The wolf was able to devour the carcass almost entirely before the night watchman approached on his regular rounds, whistling a tune and swinging his lantern as he walked. The wolf was gone before the watchman knew what was happening.
On this night, the wolf was lurking amongst the tall beech trees in the park of a particularly poor area of town. He abruptly caught a familiar scent—the Master! He was nearby. The wolf ran across the gentle grass in the park and reached the border of the street. Ignoring all caution, the wolf continued to move towards the scent. His movements were brazen in the late hour of the evening and emboldened by the deserted silence of the road.
The wolf was only three meters away from the source of the smell when he stopped and realized his mistake. No, that was not the Master. His scent was there faintly, but it was overlaid onto a mate. The young female. She had recently been cast out from the pack. The stink of shame was upon her. He briefly considered taking her for his own mate, but that would displease the Master. Instead, he retreated behind the bushes and followed her silently, to see what she would do.
The Wolf of Dorian Gray_A Werewolf Spawned by the Evil of Man Page 8