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- Оскар Уайльд
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- Портрет Дориана Грея
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- Стр. 127/164
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"
Here
is
a
sovereign
for
you
,
"
said
Dorian
.
"
You
shall
have
another
if
you
drive
fast
.
"
"
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
side-windows
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
spilt
.
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
fan-like
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
.
