ngs that
were to illustrate the book having been made (the drawings for which my
own text was to serve as commentary would be the better expression), the
superintendence of their production had been left to Schofield. He,
Maschka, and I passed the proofs in consultation. The blocks were almost
ready; and the reason for their call that evening was to consider the
possibility of having all ready for production in the early spring--a
possibility which was contingent on the state of advancement of my own
share of the book.

That evening I had experienced my second check. (I omit those that had
immediately succeeded the first one, as resembling that one so closely in
the manner of their coming.) It had not come by any means so completely
and definitively as the former one, but it had sufficed to make my
progress, both mentally and mechanically, so sluggish and struggling
a performance that for the time being I had given up the attempt, and was
once more regarding with a sort of perturbed stupor my hand that held the
pen. Andriaovsky's portrait stood in its usual place, on the chair at the
end of my writing-table; but I had eyes for nothing but that refractory
hand of mine.

Now it is true that during the past weeks I had studied Andriaovsky's
portrait thoroughly enough to be able to call up the vivid mental image
of it at will; but that did not entirely account for the changed aspect
with which it now presented itself to that uncomprehended sense within
us that makes of these shadows such startling realities. Flashing and
life-like as was the presentation on the canvas (mind you, I was not
looking at it, but all the time at my own hand), it was dead paint by
comparison with that _mental image_ which I saw (if I may so use a term
of which custom has restricted the meaning to one kind of seeing) as
plainly as I ever saw Andriaovsky in his life. I know now that it was
by virtue of that essential essence that bound us heart and brain and
soul together that I so saw him, eyes glittering, head sardonically
wagging, fine mouth shaping phrases of insight and irony. And the strange
thing was, that I could not have located this so living image by
confining it to any portion of the space within the four walls of my
library. It was before me, behind me, within my head, about me, _was me_,
invading and possessing the "me" that sat at the table. At one moment
the eyes mockingly invited me to go on with my work; the next, a frown
had sea