He read of the swallows that fly in and out of the little cafe at Smyrna where the Hadjis sit counting their amber beads and the turbaned merchants smoke their long tasselled pipes and talk gravely to each other; he read of the Obelisk in the Place de la Concorde that weeps tears of granite in its lonely sunless exile and longs to be back by the hot, lotus-covered Nile, where there are Sphinxes, and rose-red ibises, and white vultures with gilded claws, and crocodiles with small beryl eyes that crawl over the green steaming mud; he began to brood over those verses which, drawing music from kiss-stained marble, tell of that curious statue that Gautier compares to a contralto voice, the " monstre charmant " that couches in the porphyry-room of the Louvre.But after a time the book fell from his hand.He grew nervous, and a horrible fit of terror came over him.
What if Alan Campbell should be out of England? Days would elapse before he could come back.Perhaps he might refuse to come.What could he do then?
Every moment was of vital importance.
They had been great friends once, five years before-- almost inseparable, indeed.Then the intimacy had come suddenly to an end.When they met in society now, it was only Dorian Gray who smiled: Alan Campbell never did.
He was an extremely clever young man, though he had no real appreciation of the visible arts, and whatever little sense of the beauty of poetry he possessed he had gained entirely from Dorian.His dominant intellectual passion was for science.At Cambridge he had spent a great deal of his time working in the laboratory, and had taken a good class in the Natural Science Tripos of his year.Indeed, he was still devoted to the study of chemistry, and had a laboratory of his own in which he used to shut himself up all day long, greatly to the annoyance of his mother, who had set her heart on his standing for Parliament and had a vague idea that a chemist was a person who made up prescriptions.He was an excellent musician, however, as well, and played both the violin and the piano better than most amateurs.
In fact, it was music that had first brought him and Dorian Gray together--music and that indefinable attraction that Dorian seemed to be able to exercise whenever he wished-- and, indeed, exercised often without being conscious of it.They had met at Lady Berkshire's the night that Rubinstein played there, and after that used to be always seen together at the opera and wherever good music was going on.For eighteen months their intimacy lasted.
Campbell was always either at Selby Royal or in Grosvenor Square.To him, as to many others, Dorian Gray was the type of everything that is wonderful and fascinating in life.Whether or not a quarrel had taken place between them no one ever knew.But suddenly people remarked that they scarcely spoke when they met and that Campbell seemed always to go away early from any party at which Dorian Gray was present.He had changed, too--was strangely melancholy at times, appeared almost to dislike hearing music, and would never himself play, giving as his excuse, when he was called upon, that he was so absorbed in science that he had no time left in which to practise.
And this was certainly true.Every day he seemed to become more interested in biology, and his name appeared once or twice in some of the scientific reviews in connection with certain curious experiments.
This was the man Dorian Gray was waiting for.Every second he kept glancing at the clock.As the minutes went by he became horribly agitated.
At last he got up and began to pace up and down the room, looking like a beautiful caged thing.He took long stealthy strides.His hands were curiously cold.
The suspense became unbearable.Time seemed to him to be crawling with feet of lead, while he by monstrous winds was being swept towards the jagged edge of some black cleft of precipice.He knew what was waiting for him there; saw it, indeed, and, shuddering, crushed with dank hands his burning lids as though he would have robbed the very brain of sight and driven the eyeballs back into their cave.It was useless.The brain had its own food on which it battened, and the imagination, made grotesque by terror, twisted and distorted as a living thing by pain, danced like some foul puppet on a stand and grinned through moving masks.Then, suddenly, time stopped for him.Yes: that blind, slow-breathing thing crawled no more, and horrible thoughts, time being dead, raced nimbly on in front, and dragged a hideous future from its grave, and showed it to him.He stared at it.Its very horror made him stone.
At last the door opened and his servant entered.He turned glazed eyes upon him.
"Mr.Campbell, sir," said the man.
A sigh of relief broke from his parched lips, and the colour came back to his cheeks.
"Ask him to come in at once, Francis." He felt that he was himself again.His mood of cowardice had passed away.
The man bowed and retired.In a few moments, Alan Campbell walked in, looking very stern and rather pale, his pallor being intensified by his coal-black hair and dark eyebrows.
"Alan! This is kind of you.I thank you for coming.""I had intended never to enter your house again, Gray.But you said it was a matter of life and death." His voice was hard and cold.He spoke with slow deliberation.There was a look of contempt in the steady searching gaze that he turned on Dorian.He kept his hands in the pockets of his Astrakhan coat, and seemed not to have noticed the gesture with which he had been greeted.
"Yes: it is a matter of life and death, Alan, and to more than one person.Sit down."Campbell took a chair by the table, and Dorian sat opposite to him.The two men's eyes met.In Dorian's there was infinite pity.He knew that what he was going to do was dreadful.
After a strained moment of silence, he leaned across and said, very quietly, but watching the effect of each word upon the face of him he had sent for, "Alan, in a locked room at the top of this house, a room to which nobody but myself has access, a dead man is seated at a table.