“All right, sir,” answered the man, “you
will be there in an hour,” and after his fare
had got in he turned his horse round and drove rapidly
towards the river.
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.
