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- Портрет Дориана Грея
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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
lamp-lit
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
,
ai
n'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
discs
of
light
.
The
floor
was
covered
with
ochre-coloured
sawdust
,
trampled
here
and
there
into
mud
,
and
stained
with
dark
rings
of
spilt
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
.
