My simple release turned to more frustration. I pounded my desk and ground my teeth together. Would I never know ecstasy? Was I doomed to be the purveyor of that for others and never to taste the sweet fruit of fulfillment! How I hated being a woman!
I glanced with resentment of the picture of Dorian Gray.
His features had turned even more feminine. The painting was altering. I felt an urge to slash the canvas to ribbons, but something stopped me. Instead, I wailed like a tortured animal, an animal in heat that seemed to be the only one of its kind in existence. An animal for whom true release seemed impossible!
Chapter Eighteen
The following evening I had planned to stop at Vita’s, but I found her shop closed, and the backroom dark. Never you mind, I told myself. I still had my trusty dildo, tucked neatly inside my trousers—I had other plans.
The grimy theater in that seedy part of town was not nearly as busy as on the previous occasion when I’d visited. I had to pay the fellow at the front four guineas for the same box; I vowed that one day soon I would take revenge on this most grotesque of creatures, for I had discovered accidently that he owned this “establishment.” Soon I would spirit Sybil Vane away, for I had decided that it was with her that I had my best chance of fulfillment.
Perhaps, I thought, in some country parish, we could marry and set up house together. I envisioned days of blissful contentment, and nights of outrageous passions. Of course, I might have my dalliances on the side, but that was expected of men. My inheritance would keep us comfortable. No one would be the wiser.
The fantasy had simply come to me when I awoke, and now, being so near to my Sybil, I saw that it was not only possible but probable to actualize. I would simply wait for the performance to end tonight and even before Sybil and I indulged ourselves, I would propose. I had no doubt she would accept. After all, what kind of life was it, here in this dreadful place. If she wanted the stage, surely there were charming spots outside London where she could act out her plays to her heart’s content.
I sat back in the box, observing the raw crowd, smelling the odors, listening to the harsh cacophony. Soon, I would have Sybil away from all this! I smiled to myself as the curtain rose.
Before me on the stage stood the back of my precious Sybil. I waited for the moment I knew was coming, when she would spin round and face the audience. I leaned forward, over the railing of the box, prepared to gaze into the face of my beloved.
Suddenly, to the sharp sound of violin, she spun around.
I leaned farther over the railing, disbelieving my eyes.
This was not Sybil!
It took me a moment to understand, for I thought that perhaps it was a different production. But no, this was definitely The Taming of the Screw, for there was Kate, having her bottom soundly thrashed by the young Petrucio. I shook my head in confusion. Several minutes passed before I could rouse myself.
First I headed round to the dressing rooms, thinking that Sybil simply had the night off, or she was ill or… Her room was empty. Next, I raced to the front of the theater and when I found that despicable fellow who was responsible for all this, I grabbed him by the shoulders and shook him soundly.
“Where is she?” I demanded.
The leprous cretin stared at me as though I were quite insane. I slapped him, hard, to get his attention, and only then did he put two and two together.
“You mean Sybil Vane, don’t you?”
“Who else?” I yelled. “Why is she not onstage?”
“A question I’ve asked myself,” he said, calming a bit, rubbing his cheek. He pulled away from me, easily for he was taller and heavier, and although there was a class difference, he overcame it. He began to straighten his ragged coat.
“Tell me, or I shall thrash you!” I snarled.
Now he sneered at me, insolence personified. Would that I’d had a riding crop, I’d have brought it across his ugly face.
“She’s gone,” he said. “Left, she did. With the fellow who plays her opposite. Eloped, I’d wager, from the rumors you hear.”
“Eloped?” I sounded stupid, for I felt stunned. “That’s not possible,” I said, but not really to him.
“But it is,” he assured me. “They’ve been an item for some time, you know. I believe Sybil wanted a family, or so she always said.”
“Said? How could she say?”
Now truly he gazed at me with such a suspicious eye that I began to doubt my own sanity. He glanced down the street, as if looking for a copper in case one was needed. In my mad despondency, I grabbed his arm tightly. “Tell me,” I demanded, in an ominous voice, speaking slowly, enunciating clearly, as though I were talking to a child. “How did she say it?”
“Why with words, of course. She’s a lovely voice. Surely you’ve heard her speak. And she’s quite the singer.”
“But she’s silent on stage. They both are, her and the male.”
Now his suspicious look turned mocking. He was convinced I was not just a lunatic, but a fool as well. With his barker’s cane, he pointed to a large billboard against the wall. The billboard advertised the current production, listing the actors and actresses, including the name Sybil Vane.
I stared stupidly at the poster, not catching his drift at all. Then suddenly, he tapped at one line that read simply: MIME. This theater was devoted to mime, that accursed movement imported from France!
My hand drifted to my brow. I felt light-headed. Weak.
“Perhaps you ought to have yourself a pint or two,” the cretin suggested. “There’s a pub down the road…”
I stared again at him, speechless, and then began to walk away.
That night I wandered the streets, having no clue as to my whereabouts most of the time, not caring in the least either. Sybil had deceived me! Or I had allowed myself to be deceived!
She spoke. Both of them spoke. And yet that was not the worst of it. By far the most horrifying aspect was that Sybil had led me on. I had been convinced she loved me, loved me enough to give herself to me, body and soul. And yet I had been naive. Not only did she love another, but our lovemaking was not that to her, apparently. It was simply play. Release. No emotional commitment whatsoever!
Dawn found me wandering forlornly by the Thames, contemplating the unthinkable. As I stared into the dark waters, watching the currents travel downstream at a rapid pace, imagining myself carried with them out to the channel, to wondrous oblivion, I heard the sound of hooves that stopped quite near.
“Dorian!”
Forlornly, I glanced over my shoulder to see Basil and Lord Wotton in a carriage.
“You look frightful,” Basil declared.
I stared at him dully. Even Lord Wotton provoked no feeling in me.
My lack of response must have frightened them, for soon they were both out of the carriage and helping me up the step.
Once we were seated and the coach started up again, I glanced at both men. They stared at me with concern on their faces, but that meant nothing to me.
“Dorian, what is troubling you?” Basil inquired.
“Troubling me?” I retorted. “Oh, nothing. Only that my life is limited.”
“There are many prisons of life, Dorian,” Lord Henry said.
“Prisons of stone, prisons of passion, prisons of intellect, prisons of morality and the rest—all limitations, external or internal, all prisons, really. All life is limitation.”
His words touched me, and the kindness that seemed to me then to be behind them. In a moment, I found myself weeping in Lord Henry’s arms, sobbing out my feelings for my lost love.
Chapter Nineteen
Basil and Lord Henry deposited me at my door. Miss Pruit was not about, and I crawled my way to bed, there to sleep soundly for several days on end. The thinking in the household was that I had come down with a malady of some sort, and that rest was what I needed. The doctor confirmed that I was under the weather and that the affliction would indeed pass.
Pass it did, and my br
oken heart began to mend, much to my surprise. Such is the way of youth, for the glue that cements a broken heart together comes in the strangest guises. In my case, it came in the form of additional opportunities. It came in the form of the delicious Duchess Gladys Monmouth, from whom I received an invitation to join her and her guests at her country estate for the weekend.
Newly excited, I could not wait for evening, but dressed in a blue frock and hurried from my home at noon. I had Matilda hail an omnibus for me, as Miss Pruit had the small carriage, and the large coach seemed excessive.
I directed the driver to Vita’s shop which, fortunately, was open.
Vita was present that day in the front of the store. She eyed me suspiciously, and I thought for a moment that she did not make the connection between my female self and that of my male version, but then she said rather forthrightly, “What? Are you having trouble with the codpiece?”
My face turned scarlet—I could feel it. Her manner was so direct, not befitting an Englishwoman at all. Still, I found this trait appealing, and encouraging, and I answered her as directly.
“It fits well enough, and does the job, if that’s what you’re getting at. Still, it’s not the miracle cure-all.”
“I don’t sell miracles,” she snapped. “I sell leather goods, fine ones, tailored to the job at hand. I can’t guarantee how they’re used at all, and would be a fool to try. Maybe your technique is lacking.”
“I’ve come here to buy a new riding crop!” I said defensively. In fact, that was a lie. I had very much come for another reasons, which wasn’t apparent to me until I stepped through the door. To my horror, I wanted to use Vita as a sort of mother-confessor. What a silly girl I was! This woman would no more counsel me than a spider would! It was the lack of female counsel which had gotten me into so many messes of late.
If only I’d had someone to confide in…
Again, to my sheer horror, Sir Henry Wotton came to mind.
I was indeed grateful for his tender moment of the night before.
And for the floral arrangement he sent me between then and now.
I consoled myself with this thought for a moment, and then another came to me in a blinding flash—how he had humiliated me at the theater, and left me aching for fulfillment, while he, himself, walked away sated! And beyond that, all the times he had laughed at me, taunted me for my duel identity, as though I were a spoilt child, playing a silly game…
“Come in the back!” Vita said.
I was about to tell her she needn’t bother, but she had already disappeared through the leather curtains.
With a sigh, I went into the back room to join her. She was busy at the workstation and I stood awkwardly in the doorway for a moment. “Listen,” I said, “perhaps another day—”
“Take the chair by the fireplace.”
I looked and saw a leather chair which appeared comfortable enough, and sat in it. And waited.
Vita took her own good time. While I sat there, I realized how exhausted I was. Days of depression will do that to one. I laid my head back and closed my eyes. I must have dozed off, for Vita’s voice brought me back.
“Drink this.”
She handed me a green liquid in a tall glass.
“What is it?” I asked.
“Absinthe, of course. It’s bitter. Take a sugar cube with it, or you’ll be sick.”
A tea service had been laid as well, with little scones.
I glanced up at Vita, for following this formality was not an act I would have ascribed this woman capable of.
I drank the absinthe, and it was indeed bitter. The sugar helped, but not much. When I’d consumed one half of the prescribed dose, Vita told me to eat a scone, as I needed a base in my stomach.
I did as she said, and found the scone so tasty that I had two.
“You’ve not eaten lately, I take it.”
“Not much,” I said, picking a crumb from my bosom and popping it into my mouth. I helped myself to another, with Devon cream atop, while Vita poured the tea.
“What? You’re obviously being good.” She referred to my dress, my female attire, alluding to the fact that I was part and parcel to the established order, an order she, mostly, stayed apart from. For that, I had to admire her. I also felt that perhaps she looked down on me for my own conformity.
“When we are happy, we are always good, but when we are good, we are not always happy,” I said.
To this, Vita snorted.
Oddly enough, perhaps it was the absinthe, I found that snort delightful. I began giggling, like a schoolgirl.
Vita sat and watched me. It took some time for me to gain control of myself, and just as I did, Vita said, “Tell me the story, then. Where you went wrong.”
I began at the beginning, or what was the beginning for me. I told her of meeting Basil at a garden party and being, if not enamored with the painter, at least interested in him.
“His studio is like nothing I’d seen before,” I told her, “and perhaps I felt a deep attraction to paint myself.”
“Why haven’t you, then?” Vita wanted to know.
All of the usual reasons came to mind, including that such an activity was not a prescribed route for a woman. When I told her his last, she laughed at me.
“Miss, you’re certainly a study. Here you dress in male attire by night, and play the prim society girl by day, and yet you think your equals would scorn you for picking up a paint brush?”
I thought for a moment and realized just how correct this woman was. It had never seemed so clear to me before. I felt an epiphany of understanding descend over me and, with it, tears welled in my eyes. Tears of gratitude. “Vita, you’ve given me the answer!” I rose from my chair.
“Sit down, Miss, or I’ll sit you down!”
That firm tone cut through my euphoria and I sat immediately.
“You’ve a natural tendency toward obedience,” she said, “and yet why do I have the feeling you are always the one obeyed?”
“I…I don’t know,” I said, confused. “I want to be the one in charge. Of course! Who wouldn’t?”
“Many wouldn’t,” she said. “But you were telling me a story.”
“When I met Basil, he was part of a collective of painters and sculptors, from London, Paris and Vienna. They meet regularly and exchange ideas. One of their meetings was coming up soon, and Basil was so taken with me, he said, ‘Miss Gray, your features are perfect. I would love to bring you to the next meeting—the others would be as eager to recreate you in paints and clays as I am, but alas, women are forbidden, by mutual agreement. It pains me to say it, considering we are nearing the turn of the century and enlightened thoughts should prevail, but for all our innovative ideas, we artists are rather conservative in our thinking in some arenas.’
“I can tell you, Vita, that from the moment he said that, I became determined to attend.”
“Of course!” she replied, as though anyone would.
“Spontaneously I mentioned to Basil that I had a cousin, from the country, who looked remarkably like me. Then I began fabricating a life for my cousin, ‘Dorian’ I called him, and how he was planning a visit to the city shortly. ‘I should love for the two of you to meet,’ I told Basil, and an invitation to tea for both of us was forthcoming.
“This, naturally, put me in a bind. How could I be two at once? I determined that only Dorian should attend, while I would be down with a malady.”
“Ah yes, men always indulge a woman with a ‘malady’, for they are frequently terrified of what they cannot understand, and would rather hide their heads in the sand than be too aware.”
I laughed at Vita’s comment. It was something I’d thought about myself often enough. I wondered if there was a man alive who could truly understand the nature of a woman, a cyclic nature, controlled by internal and external tides that ebbed and flowed.
“Go on,” Vita said, pulling me back to the present.
I sipped at the absinthe, which did not taste as fo
ul to me by then, so much so that I forsook the sugar cube entirely.
“I shopped throughout London, buying what I needed to transform myself from Dorianne into Dorian. The afternoon of the tea, I arrived at Basil’s studio, extremely nervous. To my delight, I found several other artists, including a Frenchman who sculpted in stone, and an Italian who favored marble. Oh Vita, I cannot tell you how I felt! To be surrounded by all this talent, this intensity of vision and passion for the arts… I knew more than anything that I wanted to be in such company always! And in a way that women never can experience.
“We spoke about the universe! And how the larger world relates to the smaller, heaven and earth, all components reflecting one another. And Vita, I was not afraid to speak to them as an equal! I recall saying something along the lines of ‘Nay, without thought or conscious desire, might not things external to ourselves vibrate in unison with our moods and passions, atom calling to atom in secret love of strange affinity?’ These men were stunned.”
“I should think so. When have they permitted themselves to have the benefit of a woman’s thinking? That’s what’s wrong with the world.”
“Indeed,” I agreed. “And our conversation traversed many areas, from the personal to the profound. At one point we spoke of emotions, and I recall saying something to this effect: ‘I don’t want to be at the mercy of my emotions. I want to use them, to enjoy them, and to dominate them.’ That gave them pause for a moment, and then I received a rousing round of ‘Here! Here!’ I can tell you, Vita, that afternoon was a heady experience.”
“And then?”
“And then someone asked the question I’d dreaded all along. Which discipline did I ascribe to. You see, they thought I was an artist, like themselves. And I had never put pen to paper, or dipped brush into paint. I managed to make an excuse, and headed for the lavatory, clutching my stomach, for tears already welled in my eyes. Tears that spoke a thousand pains because I had been born a woman and not a man. Because the world limited me—”
Darker Passions: The Picture of Dorian Gray Page 10