The Wolf of Dorian Gray - A Werewolf Spawned by the Evil of Man

Chapter 11 - Dark Rumors Part 1

It was long past noon when Dorian finally awoke in his bedchamber. His valet had crept upstairs and into the room several times to see if his master had yet begun to stir. He wondered what made him sleep late so often. Finally, the bell rang and the valet entered with a pot of strong black tea, a selection of fine bacon and delicate sausage, the day's correspondence, and yesterday's edition of The Globe. All these were served meticulously on an ancient set of light-blue china.

The valet gave Dorian a cautious smile. "Monsieur has slept well this morning?"

Dorian let loose a lazy yawn as he stretched his neck and shoulders. "I suppose so. What o'clock is it, my good man?"

"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?"