It was in this winter after his to the that Lucian the pains of desolation. He had all his life the of solitude, and had that of mind which makes a man rich company on the and leads him into the of the to by the dark waterpools. But now in the blank when he was to up his desk, the of him and him with melancholy. On such days he about with him an in his breast; the of the empty page him in his bureau, and the knowledge that it was than to attempt the work. He had into the of always using this phrase "the work" to the of literature; it had in his mind to all the and of "the great work" on the of the alchemists; it every and page and the that sometimes him. All else had by-play, unimportant, trivial; the work was the end, and the means and the food of his life—it him up in the to the struggle, it was the symbol which him as he at night. All through the hours of at the he was enchanted, and when he out and the unknown coasts, the one him, and was the his and the world. Then as he nearer home his steps would quicken, and the more and the walk, the more he as he of his and of the that him there. But when, and without warning, the disappeared, when his mind a waste from which nothing arise, then he to a so that the themselves would have been sorry for him. He had some of these and in the old country days, but then he had taken in the hills, he had to the dark as to an anodyne, his drink in all the wonder and magic of the wild land. Now in these days of January, in the street, there was no such refuge.
He had been for some weeks, well satisfied on the whole with the daily progress, to in the morning, and to read over what he had on the night before. The new year opened with and weather and a in the air, but in a days the great set in. Soon the to the of a city, the that had the deepened, and the over the earth like a white smoke. Night after night the cold increased, and people to go abroad, till the main were empty and deserted, as if the were close in hiding. It was at this time that Lucian himself to impotence. There was a in his thought, and when he on valiantly, against hope, he only more on the of the he had to paper. He ground his teeth together and persevered, at heart, as if all the world were from under his feet, his pen on mechanically, till he was overwhelmed. He saw the he had done without or possible concealment, a and of verbiage, worse, it seemed, than the of his boyhood. He was not longer tautological, he with the art of a leader-writer, his wind and as if he had been a journalist on the staff of the Daily Post. There all the of an in these thoughts; that his patient and was in vain, that for nothing, and that he had the labor of Milton to the tenth-rate. Unhappily he not "give in"; the longing, the for the work him like a fire; he up his in despair.
It was then, while he that no one help him, that he for help, and then, though he was aware that no was possible, he to be comforted. The only friend he had was his father, and he that his father would not his distress. For him, always, the printed book was the and end of literature; the of the maker, his and sickness, were as as the pains of labor. He was to read and the work of the great Smith, but he did not wish to of the period when the great Smith had and like a worm, only to be put out of his misery, to go or die, to somehow from the pains. And Lucian no one else. Now and then he read in the paper the of the great littérateurs; the Gypsies were the Prince of Wales, the Jolly Beggars were with the Lord Mayor, the Old Mumpers were and with the leading members of the Stock Exchange. He was so as to know none of these gentlemen, but it likely that they have done much for him in any case. Indeed, in his heart, he was that help and from without were in the nature of impossible, his and were within, and only his own avail. He to himself, to that his were a proof of his vocation, that the of the who six years in to produce was a thing undesirable, but all the while he for but a of that which he to despise.
He himself out from that of the white paper and the pen. He into the and streets, that he might the from his heart, but the fire was not quenched. As he walked along the iron he that those who passed him on their way to friends and from him into the as they by. Lucian that the fire of his and must in some way visibly about him; he moved, perhaps, in a that the and the within. He knew, of course, that in he had delirious, that the well-coated, smooth-hatted who out of the upon him were in only with cold, but in of common he still that he saw on their an and disgust, and something of the that one at the of a snake, half-killed, its out of sight. By design Lucian to make for and places, and yet when he had succeeded in on the open country, and that the through the was a field, he for some and of life, and again to where were glimmering, and the dancing of across the shrubs. And the of these fires, the of and waiting by them, him the more of the with his own and and sickness, and he that he had long closed an door his and such felicities. If those had come out and had called him by his name to enter and be comforted, it would have been unavailing, since them and him there was a great fixed. Perhaps for the time he that he had the art of for ever. He had when he closed his ears to the and the fauns' for the of the streets, the black for the and light of London, that he had put off the old life, and had his to healthy activities, but the truth was that he had one for another. He not be human, and he there were some of the blood in his that him and a in the world.
He did not to without struggles. He to himself to his by the promise of some easy task; he would not attempt invention, but he had and of ideas in his note-books, and he would the to his hand. But it was hopeless, again and again it was hopeless. As he read over his notes, that he would some hint that might light up the fires, and again that pure of enthusiasm, he how his had fallen. He see no light, no color in the lines he had with fingers; he how all these had been when he them down, but now they were meaningless, into grey. The he had on to the paper, at the of the happy hours they promised, had jargon, and when he the idea it foolish, dull, unoriginal. He something at last that appeared to have a of promise, and to do his best to put it into shape, but the paragraph him; it might have been by an schoolboy. He the paper in pieces, and and locked his desk, like lead into his heart. For the of that day he on the bed, pipe after pipe in the of himself with tobacco fumes. The air in the room and thick with smoke; it was cold, and he himself up in his great-coat and the over him. The night came on and the window darkened, and at last he asleep.
He the at intervals, only to into misery. He the of madness, and that his only was to walk till he was physically exhausted, so that he might come home almost with fatigue, but to asleep the moment he got into bed. He passed the in a of torpor, to avoid thought, to his mind with the pattern of the paper, with the at the end of a book, with the of the light that through the into his room, with the voices that now and then from the street. He to make out the design that had once the on the floor, and about the artist in Japan, the of his bureau. He as to what his had been as he the mother-of-pearl and that great of birds, their as they rose from the reeds, or how he had the in red gold, and the houses in the garden of peach-trees. But sooner or later the of his returned, the loud and of the garden-gate, the of some through the fog, the noise of his pipe to the floor, would him to the of misery. He that it was time to go out; he not to still and suffer. Sometimes she cut a slice of and put it in his pocket, sometimes he to the of a public-house, where he have a sandwich and a of beer. He always from the main and himself in the byways, to be in the of the mist.
The had into iron ridges, the and trees were with crystals, was of and aspect. Lucian walked on and on through the maze, now in a circle of villas, as the of Herculaneum, now in onto open country, that him past great elm-trees white were all still, and past the where the to away into darkness. As he along these and paths he the more of his from all humanity, he allowed that of there being something visibly in his to upon him, and often he looked with a into the of those who passed by, his own gave him false intelligence, and that he had some and shape. It was that, by his own fault, and largely, no doubt, through the operation of coincidence, he was once or twice in this delusion. He came one day into a and byway, a country into ruin, but still with that had an leading to the old manor-house. It was now the road of two suburbs, and on these winter nights as black, dreary, and as a track. Soon after the began, a had been set upon in this as he his way the where the bus had set him down, and his home where the fire was blazing, and his wife the clock. He was through the gloom, a little the walk so long, and for the lamp at the end of his street, when the two at him out of the fog. One him from behind, the other him with a bludgeon, and as he they him of his watch and money, and across the fields. The next all the with the story; the merchant had been hurt, and their husbands go out in the with apprehension, not what might at night. Lucian of was of all these rumors, and into the by-road without where he was or the way would lead him.
He had been out that day as with whips, another attempt to return to the work had him, and an pain. As he entered the gloom, where the heavily, he began, consciously, to gesticulate; he with and shame, and it was a sorry to his into his and the air as he along, his against the and ridges. His was hideous, he said to himself, and he himself and his life, out into a loud oath, and on the ground. Suddenly he was at a of terror, it in his very ear, and looking up he saw for a moment a woman at him out of the mist, her and with fear. A her arms into the of a gesture, and she and ran for dear life, like a beast.
Lucian still in the road while the woman's and died away. His was him as the of this clear. He nothing of his gestures; he had not at the time that he had out loud, or that he was his teeth with rage. He only of that scream, of the on the white that had looked upon him, of the woman's from his presence. He and shuddering, and in a little while he was his face, for some mark, for the of his forehead. He like a man, and when he came into the Uxbridge Road some children saw him and called after him as he and at the lamp-post. When he got to his room he sat at in the dark. He did not to light the gas. Everything in the room was indistinct, but he his as he passed the dressing-table, and sat in a corner, his to the wall. And when at last he and the from the jet, he the glass, and his head, miserably, and with his terrors he look at his own image.
To the best of his power he to deliver himself from these more fantasies; he himself that there was nothing in his but sadness, that his was like the of other men. Yet he not that he had in the woman's eyes, how the had him a dread, her itself and at an sight. Her and in his ears; she had away from him as if he offered some than death.
He looked again and again into the glass, by a uncertainty. His told him there was nothing amiss, yet he had had a proof, and yet, as he most earnestly, there was, it seemed, something and not in the of the eyes. Perhaps it might be the of the gas, or a in the looking-glass, that gave some to the image. He walked up and the room and to steadily, indifferently, into his own face. He would not allow himself to be misguided by a word. When he had himself of humanity, he had only meant that he not the of common life. A man was not necessarily monstrous, he did not high tea, a about the neighbors, and a happy noisy with the children. But with what message, then, did he appear that the woman's mouth so stark? Her hands had up as if they had been with wires; she for the like a puppet. Her was a thing from the Sabbath.
He a and it close up to the so that his own white at him, and the of the room an darkness. He saw nothing but the and his own eyes, and surely they were not as the of common men. As he put the light, a entered his mind, and he a quick breath, at the thought. He to or to shudder. For the he was this: that he had all the of the adventure, and had a sister who would have him to the Sabbath.
He all night, from one and to the other, for a hours when the came. He for a moment to argue with himself when he got up; that his true life was locked up in the bureau, he a attempt to drive the and from his mind. He was that his was in the work, and he the key from his pocket, and as if he would have opened the desk. But the nausea, the of and failure, were too powerful. For many days he about the Manor Lane, dreading, another meeting, and he he would not again mistake the of rapture, the arms in a of delight. In those days he of some dark place where they might and make the marriage of the Sabbath, with such as he had to imagine.
It was only the of a from his father that him from these to madness. Mr. Taylor how they had missed him at Christmas, how the farmers had after him, of the familiar that his boyhood, his mother's voice, the fireside, and the good old fashions that had him. He that he had once been a boy, the cake and and the holly, and all the seventeenth-century that on in the farmhouses. And there came to him the more memory of Mass on Christmas morning. How sweet the dark and earth had as he walked his mother the lane, and from the near the church they had the world to the dawn, and the across the fields. Then he had come into the church and it with and holly, and his father in pure of white sang the music of the at the altar, and the people answered him, till the sun rose with the notes of the Paternoster, and a red through the window.
The left him as he the memory of these dear and things. He away the that the he had was a of joy, that the arms, out, him to an embrace. Indeed, the that he had for such an illusion, that he had over the of that mouth, him with disgust. He that his were deceived, that he had neither heard, but had for a moment his own and dreams. It was necessary that he should be wretched, that his should be discouraged, but he would not to madness.
Yet when he with such good resolutions, it was hard to an that to come from without and within. He did not know it, but people were talking of the great frost, of the that on London, making the dark and terrible, of that came about the in the squares. The Thames rolled out duskily, the ice-blocks, and as one looked on the black water from the it was like a river in a northern tale. To Lucian it all mythical, of the same as his own thoughts. He saw a newspaper, and did not from day to day the of the thermometer, the reports of ice-fairs, of across the river at Hampton, of the on the fens; and hence the iron roads, the and the of appeared as as a picture, significant, appalling. He not look out and see a common and dull, think of the as at work or nuts about their fires; he saw a of a road vanishing, of houses all empty and deserted, and the eternal. And when he out and passed through after street, all void, by the of houses that appeared for a moment and were then up, it to him as if he had into a city that had some doom, that he alone where had once dwelt. It was a town as great as Babylon, terrible as Rome, as Lost Atlantis, set in the of a white by waste places. It was to from it; if he hedges, and away the pools, presently the lines him like an army, and and they away into the night, as some that an in the East. Or in that medium of the mist, all things, he that he an plain, from ages, but and with and that out at him, gigantic, terrible. All London was one temple of an rite, ring ring of about some place, every circle was an initiation, every loss. Or he was for in a land of rocks. He had the light of home, the of the fire on the walls; close at hand, it seemed, was the open door, and he had dear voices calling to him across the gloom, but he had just missed the path. The vanished, the voices thin and died away, and yet he that those were waiting, that they not to close the door, but waited, calling his name, while he had missed the way, and in the of the rocks. Fantastic, hideous, they him he turned, up into shapes, with peaks, the of towers, into a like a rath, and terrible. And as one into another, so these last were the most and persistent; the the and of some half-human, who in hiding, to him away into the of their hills. It was to think that all his were surrounded, that in the he was and surveyed, that every step but him and into the labyrinth.
When, of an evening, he was secure in his room, the and the flaring, he toward sanity. It was not of his free will that he allowed terror to him, and he nothing than a and life, full of work and clear thinking. He that he himself with imagination, that he had been walking through London and not through Pandemonium, and that if he but his all those would be into the mist. But it was hard to say if he himself with such reflections, for the return to common meant also the return to the of defeat. It him to the of his own inefficiency, to the that he only one thing of life, and that this was him. He was to the of a monk in a cloister, to cold, to be hungry, to be and friendless, to all the of speech, and to be of all these things, if only he might be allowed to the in quietness. It a cruelty, that he should so that which he gain.
He was to the old conclusion; he had the of humanity, he was he was an and a citizens. It that the of literature, as he it, the for the art, had in it something of the inhuman, and the from his fellow-creatures. It was possible that the as much, that by some slow of he had at his and impression, by no means a clear conviction; the Philistine, if pressed for the of his dislike, would either inarticulate, "faugh" and "pah" like an old-fashioned Scots Magazine, or else he would give some and reason, that all "littery men" were poor, that cut their hair, that were public-school men, that couldn't to to save their lives, but these were afterthoughts; the man the artist from a of all that was strange, uncanny, to his nature; he gibbered, his harsh, semi-bestial "faugh," and Keats to his from much the same as the black to the white man on an longer journey.
Lucian was not in this of the for the maker, from this point, that it him in his that the love of art the man from the race. One touch of art the whole world alien, but surely of the man were not so much by of their as by the terror of his own thoughts; he would in his last his and go to at their hands, so that he might at least die in company, and the of speech death. And Lucian most that in his case there was a curse; he was as as Keats, and as as his reviewers. The of the work had failed him, and he was in the two worlds.
It was no the of his failures, his of soul, and of life, that had him those common with such and terrors. He had to a without that he had been tempted, and, in the manner of De Quincey, had the in for the more pains. Unconsciously, but still of free will, he had the and the of a his pains, the hard of his own impotence. It was to in melancholy, to in the of a city from ages, to and than to to a and torment, to that a house of would have been more and more practical, that he had promised what he perform. Even as he to the of the mist, and that he would no longer make all the a stage of apparitions, he what he had done, or that the he had called might and return again.
He his long walks, always with the object of producing a physical and that would him to sleep of nights. But when he saw the and in their proper shape, and allowed his to catch the of the lamps, and the dancing of the firelight, he not himself of the that he off, that those and himself there was a great fixed. As he the he often see across the into the and rooms. Sometimes, late in the evening, he a of the family at tea, father, mother, and children laughing and talking together, well pleased with each other's company. Sometimes a wife or a child was by the garden gate through the fog, and the of it all, all the little details, the but to the fire, maroon-red being close to out the night, the and as the fire was up so that it might be for father; these and common were significant. They to him the image of a boy—himself. They the old "parlor" in the country, with its old and carpet, and a whole of and comfort. His mother would walk to the end of the drive and look out for him when he was late (wandering then about the dark woodlands); on winter she would make the fire blaze, and have his by the hearth, and there was toast "as a treat." He on all these circumstances, on the and light after the winter lanes, on the of the toast and the of the tea, on the two old cats fast asleep the fender, and them of pain and regret. Each of these houses that he passed was in his mind with his own home; all was prepared and as in the old days, but he was out, and to in the mist, with feet, and forlorn, and they that would pass from to help him not, neither he pass to them. Again, for the hundredth time, he came to the sentence: he not the art of and he had the art of humanity. He saw the of all his thoughts; he was an nothing for and and the small of life, and yet he allowed his mind to on such things. If one of those passers-by, who walked briskly, for home, should have him by some and asked him to come in, it would have been than useless, yet he for that he not have enjoyed. It was as if he were come to a place of torment, where they who not drink for water, where they who no in the cold. He was by the that he himself still slept the thicket, by the green of the Roman fort. He had come out, but a had gone the hill, and now about the earth.
Beset by such terrors, it was not that events and common should his fancies. He had succeeded one day in from the of the streets, and on a and narrow that into a little valley. For the moment he was in a mood; the sun through the mist, and the air clearer. He saw and peaceful fields, and a in a from an old of warm red brick. The farmer was the slow home from the hill, and his loud to his dog came across the land a note. From another a was the barns, hesitating, while the great rested, and then starting again into lazy motion. In the well of the a line of where a in and out the meadows, and, as Lucian stood, lingering, on the bridge, a soft and through the of a great elm. He soothed, as by music, and it would not be for him to live in some such place, of the and yet from them. It a for still thoughts; he himself at the black tree in the farm garden, at the close of a day. He had almost that he would at the door and ask if they would take him as a lodger, when he saw a child him the lane. It was a little girl, with about her head, and, as she came on, the upon her, her brick-red and the yellow king-cups in her hat. She had with her on the ground, and laughing to herself, and did not see Lucian till she was near him. She started and into his for a moment, and to cry; he out his hand, and she ran from him screaming, no by what was to her a and apparition. He London, and the him in its thick darkness, for on that it was with black. It was only by the of that he did not to the which was always at hand. It had been a difficult to from the of the hills, from the music of the fauns, and now he was by the memory of these old allurements. But he that here, in his loneliness, he was in danger, and by a magic. Horrible into his mind; he was not only to that something in his sent a through all that was and innocent, but he came home one Saturday night, believing, or half-believing, that he was in with evil. He had passed through the and of the "high street," where, as one the hill, the shops all aflame, and the black night air with the gas-jets and the naphtha-lamps, and the February wind. Voices, raucous, clamant, abominable, were out of the public-houses as the doors to and fro, and above these doors were lamps, very slowly in a blast of air, so that they might have been thuribles, the people. Some man was calling his in one long that stopped or paused, and, as a respond, a deeper, louder voice to him from across the road. An Italian the of his piano-organ in a fury, and a ring of around him, and up their till the from some of them, and they still on. A of naphtha, with a noise, a light on one point of the circle, and Lucian a girl of fifteen as she came and to the flash. She was drunk, and had her away, and the and at her. Her black and on her bodice; she and the ring, laughing in Bacchic frenzy, and the to triumph. People were to and fro, against each other, about shops and in a dark that and sent out as if it were one organism. A little a group of men, arm in arm, were the some music-hall in full chorus, so that it like plainsong. An hubbub, a of voices angry as bees, the of five or six girls who ran in and out, and up dark passages and into the crowd; all these together till his ears quivered. A was playing the concertina, and he touched the keys with such slow that the into a dirge; but there was nothing so as the of that out when the public-house doors were opened.
He walked these people, looked at their faces, and looked at the children them. He had come out that he would see the English class, "the best-behaved and the best-tempered in the world," the of the Saturday night's shopping. Mother the joint for Sunday's dinner, and a pair of for father; father had an of beer, and the children were of sweets, and then all these people home to their well-earned rest. De Quincey had the in his day, and had the and of and potatoes. Lucian, indeed, had to take these as an opiate, to the and trouble of his own in plain and the of after labor. He was only he should be too by the of these men who year after year against starvation, who nothing of and grief, but only the of labor, of the long for their and children. It would be pathetic, he thought, to see them with so little, by the of a day's and a good dinner, forced, then, to every penny, and to make their children laugh with halfpence. Either he would be so much content, or else he would be again touched by the of his which take no in the common of life. But still he to be at least taken out of himself, to be to look at another of the world, so that he might a little while his own sorrows.
He was by what he saw and heard. He De Quincey also had the same spectacle, and had his out of for the reader. Here there were no of toilers, but orgies, that out his to music. At the of and had him; the lights in the night wind, the of lamps, the black shadows, the of voices. The about the piano-organ had been the of an meaning, and the of the dark girl as she came and to the had been in its abandon. And what they were all around him, and what terrible out, only to of laughter. In the public-houses the workmen's wives, the of small tradesmen, in black, were their to a red, and their husbands to drink more. Beautiful women, and laughing, put their arms the men's necks and them, and then up the to their lips. In the dark corners, at the openings of streets, the children were talking together, each other, what they had seen; a boy of fifteen was a girl of twelve with whisky, and presently they away. Lucian passed them as they to go, and looked at him. The boy laughed, and the girl quietly. It was above all in the around him that he saw the most things, the Bacchic and unashamed. To his it as if these him as a fellow, and up in his face, aware that he was in the secret. Every of religion, of even, was away; they at one another and at him, of all scruples, children of the earth and nothing more. Now and then a themselves from the swarm, and away into the darkness, the and of their friends as they vanished.
On the of the pavement, not from where he was standing, Lucian noticed a tall and woman who to be alone. She was in the full light of a flame, and her and as she viewed the orgy. She had dark eyes, and a look as of an old picture in her face; and her with an urgent gleam. He saw the each other and at her, and two or three men up and asked her to come for a walk. She her and said "No thank you" again and again, and as if she were looking for somebody in the crowd.
"I'm a friend," she said at last to a man who a drink and a walk afterwards; and Lucian what of friend would appear. Suddenly she to him as he was about to pass on, and said in a low voice:
"I'll go for a walk with you if you like; you just go on, and I'll in a minute."
For a moment he looked at her. He saw that the has him; her was not with drink as he had supposed, but it was with the most color, a red and died on her cheek, and to as she spoke. The was set on the nobly, as in a statue, and about the ears the into little curls. She was and waiting for his answer.
He something about being very sorry, and the hill out of the orgy, from the noise of voices and the of the great very slowly in the blast of wind. He that he had touched the of desolation; there was death in the woman's face, and she had him to the Sabbath. Somehow he had been able to on the instant, but if he had he he would have himself to her, and soul. He locked himself in his room and on the bed, if some had the woman her perfect companion. He looked in the glass, not now to see visible and signs, but for the meaning of that that up his eyes. He had than in the last months, and his were with and sorrow, but there were still about his the of a grace, and the look as of a who has from the and gardens. He had away, but now he the of her about him, a for her that was a madness, as if she every nerve in his and him to her, to her world, to the where every flower was a flame.
He all night of the he had refused, and it was to in the morning, pain to return to the world. The had and the had rolled away, and the was with a clear light. Again he looked out on the long of the houses, for the past by a of mist. Heavy rain had in the night, and the garden rails were still dripping, the still dark with wet, all the line the white were in the upper windows. Not a walked the street; every one was asleep after the of the night before; on the main road it was only at that some by. Presently a woman in a Ulster off on some errand, then a man in shirt-sleeves out his head, the door half-open, and up at a window opposite. After a minutes he in again, and three came the street, for or of some sort. They a house that than the rest, and, by the curtains, the little plot with its shrub, one of the out a piece of and some on the door. His friends watch for him, and the achieved, all three bolted, laughter. Then a began, tang, tang, tang, and here and there children appeared on their way to Sunday-school, and the "teachers" by with and lips, at the little boy who "Piper, piper!" On the main road many people, the men and ill-fitted, the bedizened, passed in the direction of the Independent nightmare, the thing with Doric columns, but on the whole life was stagnant. Presently Lucian the of and cabbage; the early were preparing the one-o'clock meal, but many in and put off dinner till three, with the of the into the late afternoon. A rain as the people were out of church, and the mothers of little boys in and little girls in of every were to their offspring, and to them with father. Then the of and and settled on the street; in some houses they and read the Parish Magazine, in some they and read the and of the week; but the only movement of the was a second of children, now and with food, again the of tang, tang, tang. On the main road the trams, with people, to and fro, and men who haw-hawed and cigars. They the and and verjuice-lipped, not by the of the cigars, but they were on Sunday. By and by the children, having about Moses in the Bulrushes and Daniel in the Lion's Den, came home in an humor. And all the day it was as if on a flickered, by.
And in the rose-garden every flower was a flame! He in symbols, using the Persian of a court, by white cloisters, by gates of bronze. The came out, the sky a violet, but the wall, the in stone, whiter. It was like a of may-blossom, like a a cup of lapis-lazuli, like sea-foam on the sea at dawn. Always those white with the music, always the garden sang with the clear fountain, and in the dusk. And there was a voice through the white and the gates, a soft voice of the Lover and the Beloved, of the Vineyard, of the Gate and the Way. Oh! the language was unknown; but the music of the returned again and again, and through the white of the cloisters. And every rose in the air was a flame.
He had the life which he by these offered to him, and he had it; and he was alone in the street, with its just through the twilight, the blast of a from the main road, a from some parlor, to the of the harmonium. He why he had away from that woman who all secrets, in were all the mysteries. He opened the of his bureau, and was by the and of papers, in as he had left them. He that there was the of his refusal; he had been to all of the work. The and the of his upon him as he looked at the manuscript; it so that such a single should be thwarted. He was aware that if he to now the he could, in a manner, easily enough—he produce a which would be well and of reception. And it would not be the commonplace, of the library; it would in those ranks where the thing is counterfeited, the books which give the reader his of emotions, and yet to be superior, and "art," in his opinion. Lucian had often this of triumph, and had noted the that failed the sham. Romola, for example, had the great of the serious, the portentous, for joy, while the book, The Cloister and the Hearth, was a failure.
He that he a Romola; but he the art of half-crowns less than this of literature. He had definitely to enter the of the who pleased his clients by the of walnut; and though he had the old out into the farmyard, the of or pigs, he would not himself to the masters of veneer. He up and the room, now and again at his papers, and if there were not for him. A great thing he do, but he had to do a true thing, to and pages.
He was again to this for the work by the event of the before, by all that had passed through his mind since the dawn. The picture of that street, the shops and glances, all its and horrors, by the and by the souls, had him; and the noises, the and the whisper, the of the piano-organ, the long-continued of the as he in the blood, the of the singers, these to be into an overture, loud with the of and death. And how the was set in the cloud of dark night, a play on that stage, those lamps, very slowly in a blast. As all the of and now themselves his brain into one clear impression, it that he had and in a drama, that all the had been prepared and for him, and that the he had were but to a act. For in that woman was the and of it all, and the whole stage waited for their meeting. He that after this the voices and the lights died away, that the into the darkness, and that the was at once of the great and of all its apparatus.
Again, he thought, the same would be him; on some dark and night, as he on a road, the wind him, a turn would him again upon the stage, and the would be re-enacted. He would be to the same place, to that woman still there; again he would watch the rose and upon her cheek, the in her eyes, the the white of her neck. And for the second time she would offer herself. He the of the singers to a shriek, and see the dancers in a frenzy, and the with red, as the woman and he away into the dark, into the where every flower was a flame, he would come out.
His only was in the desk; he might if he again his in the and of papers, and again be by the of a phrase. He open his window and looked out on the world and the lights. He that he would early in the morning, and once more for his true life in the work.
But there was a thing. There was a little bottle on the mantelpiece, a bottle of dark glass, and he and it, as if it were a fetish.
