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Online Book: The Picture of Dorian Gray by Oscar Wilde - Chapter 16

Oscar Wilde
(1854 -- 1900)

The Picture of Dorian Gray was first published in 1890 in Lippincott's Monthly Magazine. Wilde then revised the story and after the addition of some extra chapters, the novel was published by the following year by Ward, Lock, and Company.

In its most basic the story is about a man who retains his youth and good looks while his portrait becomes aged and disfigured by his sins. There is nothing basic about this story though and more than anything else it is a story of corruption.

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The Picture of Dorian Gray

by Oscar Wilde

Chapter 16

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The Picture of Dorian Gray (book review)

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.

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, "To cure the soul by means of the senses,
and the senses by means of the soul." 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.

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.

"To cure the soul by means of the senses, and the senses
by means of the soul!" 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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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's 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.

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.

"Somewhere about here, sir, ain't it?" he asked huskily through the trap.

Dorian started and peered round. "This will do," 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.

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.

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.
"He thinks he's got red ants on him," laughed one of them,
as Dorian passed by. The man looked at her in terror and began
to whimper.

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.

"You here, Adrian?" muttered Dorian.

"Where else should I be?" he answered, listlessly. "None of the chaps
will speak to me now."

"I thought you had left England."

"Darlington is not going to do anything. My brother paid the bill at last.
George doesn't speak to me either. . . . I don't care," he added
with a sigh. "As long as one has this stuff, one doesn't want friends.
I think I have had too many friends."

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.

"I am going on to the other place," he said after a pause.

"On the wharf?"


"That mad-cat is sure to be there. They won't have her in this place now."

Dorian shrugged his shoulders. "I am sick of women who love one.
Women who hate one are much more interesting. Besides, the stuff
is better."

"Much the same."

"I like it better. Come and have something to drink.
I must have something."

"I don't want anything," murmured the young man.

"Never mind."

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.

A crooked smile, like a Malay crease, writhed across the face of one
of the women. "We are very proud to-night," she sneered.

"For God's sake don't talk to me," cried Dorian, stamping his
foot on the ground. "What do you want? Money? Here it is.
Don't ever talk to me again."

Two red sparks flashed for a moment in the woman's 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.

"It's no use," sighed Adrian Singleton. "I don't care to go back.
What does it matter? I am quite happy here."

"You will write to me if you want anything, won't you?" said Dorian,
after a pause.


"Good night, then."

"Good night," answered the young man, passing up the steps and wiping
his parched mouth with a handkerchief.

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.
"There goes the devil's bargain!" she hiccoughed, in a
hoarse voice.

"Curse you!" he answered, "don't call me that."

She snapped her fingers. "Prince Charming is what you like to be called,
ain't it?" she yelled after him.

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.

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's days were too
brief to take the burden of another's errors on one's 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.

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.

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 be had time to defend himself, he was thrust back
against the wall, with a brutal hand round his throat.

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.

"What do you want?" he gasped.

"Keep quiet," said the man. "If you stir, I shoot you."

"You are mad. What have I done to you?"

"You wrecked the life of Sibyl Vane," was the answer,
"and 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."

Dorian Gray grew sick with fear. "I never knew her," he stammered.
"I never heard of her. You are mad."

"You had better confess your sin, for as sure as I am James Vane,
you are going to die." There was a horrible moment. Dorian did
not know what to say or do. "Down on your knees!" growled the man.
"I give you one minute to make your peace--no more. I go on board
to-night for India, and I must do my job first. One minute.
That's all."

Dorian's arms fell to his side. Paralysed with terror, he did not
know what to do. Suddenly a wild hope flashed across his brain.
"Stop," he cried. "How long ago is it since your sister died?
Quick, tell me!"

"Eighteen years," said the man. "Why do you ask me?
What do years matter?"

"Eighteen years," laughed Dorian Gray, with a touch of triumph in his voice.
"Eighteen years! Set me under the lamp and look at my face!"

James Vane hesitated for a moment, not understanding what was meant.
Then he seized Dorian Gray and dragged him from the archway.

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.

He loosened his hold and reeled back. "My God! my God!"
he cried, "and I would have murdered you!"

Dorian Gray drew a long breath. "You have been on the brink of
committing a terrible crime, my man," he said, looking at him sternly.
"Let this be a warning to you not to take vengeance into your
own hands."

"Forgive me, sir," muttered James Vane. "I was deceived.
A chance word I heard in that damned den set me on the wrong track."

"You had better go home and put that pistol away, or you may get
into trouble," said Dorian, turning on his heel and going slowly
down the street.

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.

"Why didn't you kill him?" she hissed out, putting haggard face
quite close to his. "I knew you were following him when you
rushed out from Daly's. You fool! You should have killed him.
He has lots of money, and he's as bad as bad."

"He is not the man I am looking for," he answered, "and I want
no man's money. I want a man's 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."

The woman gave a bitter laugh. "Little more than a boy!" she sneered.
"Why, man, it's nigh on eighteen years since Prince Charming made me what
I am."

"You lie!" cried James Vane.

She raised her hand up to heaven. "Before God I am telling the truth,"
she cried.

"Before God?"

"Strike me dumb if it ain't so. He is the worst one that comes here.
They say he has sold himself to the devil for a pretty face. It's nigh
on eighteen years since I met him. He hasn't changed much since then.
I have, though," she added, with a sickly leer.

"You swear this?"

"I swear it," came in hoarse echo from her flat mouth.
"But don't give me away to him," she whined; "I am afraid of him.
Let me have some money for my night's lodging."

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.

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