Портрет художника в юности
Chapter 3
—Goodnight,husband!Comingintohaveashorttime?
Theequationonthepageofhisscribblerbegantospreadoutawideningtail,eyedandstarredlikeapeacock’s;and,whentheeyesandstarsofitsindiceshadbeeneliminated,beganslowlytofolditselftogetheragain.Theindicesappearinganddisappearingwereeyesopeningandclosing;theeyesopeningandclosingwerestarsbeingbornandbeingquenched.Thevastcycleofstarrylifeborehiswearymindoutwardtoitsvergeandinwardtoitscentre,adistantmusicaccompanyinghimoutwardandinward.Whatmusic?Themusiccamenearerandherecalledthewords,thewordsofShelley’sfragmentuponthemoonwanderingcompanionless,paleforweariness.Thestarsbegantocrumbleandacloudoffinestardustfellthroughspace.
Thedulllightfellmorefaintlyuponthepagewhereonanotherequationbegantounfolditselfslowlyandtospreadabroaditswideningtail.Itwashisownsoulgoingforthtoexperience,unfoldingitselfsinbysin,spreadingabroadthebale-fireofitsburningstarsandfoldingbackuponitself,fadingslowly,quenchingitsownlightsandfires.Theywerequenched:andthecolddarknessfilledchaos.
Acoldlucidindifferencereignedinhissoul.Athisfirstviolentsinhehadfeltawaveofvitalitypassoutofhimandhadfearedtofindhisbodyorhissoulmaimedbytheexcess.
