refinements of art, or in those streams of consciousness
that flow as the senses are touched by some reminiscent odor,
apparition, or sound. She was the whole, dear, fading world compressed
into one shape, as the goddesses of ancient times personified
blindingly a host of precious elements that had previously been
diffuse. And since she was so, he determined, with all this new mental
energy evoked by love, to cling to her another day, another week or
season, like a drowning man who, as he sinks, clutches at a flower
hanging over the water, with the thought, "In this flower, whose petals
hold as much wonder as the whole universe, there is surely strength
enough to sustain me till I have filled my throat with one more draught
of life?"

Inevitably all this fervor and pathos, gratitude and adoration, were
transmuted into a consciousness of music. He felt ever more strongly
the artist's need of expression. Since he had never previously known
such exaltation--or, indeed, such dejection--the music that he finally
produced, his physical weakness notwithstanding, was music such as he
had never written before.

At Brantome's, when that piece was to be played for the first time, he
sat in his wheel chair suffocated by sudden doubts, as if on trial for
his life. Lilla sat beside him, her hand on his. No one else was
there except Brantome, who bent over the manuscript his haggard old
face, revealing nearly as much agitation as did David.

At last, raising his head, the critic murmured:

"You think this is going to be easy for me? Reflect on what I must do.
To satisfy you I must take the rigidity out of all these ink marks,
restore to this score the emotions that you felt in writing it."

David responded:

"The emotions that I felt in writing it are not there; for the idea
always loses its original form the moment it is seized by the pen.
That is the first loss. The second comes now. You cannot help it. It
is the old misfortune, the inability to transmit what one feels, the
isolation of the human soul. But nobody could play as well as you
what's left of those thoughts of mine."

The bullet-headed attendant appeared beside the wheel chair, a bottle
of medicine and a glass of water in his hands. With that pretentious
solicitude of his, he uttered:

"It is time----"

David Verne gave a shudder.

"Ah! At this moment! Will you get out of the room?" And when the
attendant had gone, "Is he, can he be, so stupid