Was he going to be ill? When he reached
his desk he sat down before it and mechanically took up his pen.
He leaned his head on his hand, like a man in a state of mental
exhaustion, and closed his eyes for a moment. Then he opened them
wide, with an exclamation which was almost a cry; and of his usual
calm repose there was not a trace remaining. He leaned forward
breathlessly and put his pen to the paper. "Her eyes! Her skin! Her
form!" he muttered uncertainly. "Her--her--her--Oh! _what_ is it?
_Why_ cannot I say it? It has come at last--_she_ was right after
all--but the words--the words--why will not they come? The music is
there--a great rhythm and harmony--but the words are floating about
like wraiths of mist. If I could only grasp and crystallize them, and
set them to that wonderful music, the world--the world would rise at
last and call me great! Her eyes--her hair--oh, my God, _what_ is it?"
He threw down his pen and staggered to his feet. His face was blanched
and drawn, and his eyes had lost their steady light. He grasped the
chair to save himself from falling; he had lost over himself both
physical and mental control.
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