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How
exquisite
they
were
!
As
one
read
them
,
one
seemed
to
be
floating
down
the
green
water-ways
of
the
pink
and
pearl
city
,
seated
in
a
black
gondola
with
silver
prow
and
trailing
curtains
.
The
mere
lines
looked
to
him
like
those
straight
lines
of
turquoise-blue
that
follow
one
as
one
pushes
out
to
the
Lido
.
The
sudden
flashes
of
colour
reminded
him
of
the
gleam
of
the
opal-and-iris-throated
birds
that
flutter
round
the
tall
honey-combed
Campanile
,
or
stalk
,
with
such
stately
grace
,
through
the
dim
,
dust-stained
arcades
.
Leaning
back
with
half-closed
eyes
,
he
kept
saying
over
and
over
to
himself
:
--
"
Devant
une
façade
rose
,
Sur
le
marbre
d'un
escalier
.
"
The
whole
of
Venice
was
in
those
two
lines
.
He
remembered
the
autumn
that
he
had
passed
there
,
and
a
wonderful
love
that
had
stirred
him
to
mad
,
delightful
follies
.
There
was
romance
in
every
place
.
But
Venice
,
like
Oxford
,
had
kept
the
background
for
romance
,
and
,
to
the
true
romantic
,
background
was
everything
,
or
almost
everything
.
Basil
had
been
with
him
part
of
the
time
,
and
had
gone
wild
over
Tintoret
.
Poor
Basil
!
what
a
horrible
way
for
a
man
to
die
!
He
sighed
,
and
took
up
the
volume
again
,
and
tried
to
forget
.
He
read
of
the
swallows
that
fly
in
and
out
of
the
little
café
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
.
