Портрет художника в юності

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.

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