to display genius.  But afterwards I become distracted, and am never satisfied with the daily task; I condemn the book before it is finished, judging it inferior to its elders; and I torture myself about certain pages, about certain sentences, certain words, so that at last the very commas assume an ugly look, from which I suffer.  And when it is finished—­ah! when it is finished, what a relief!  Not the enjoyment of the gentleman who exalts himself in the worship of his offspring, but the curse of the labourer who throws down the burden that has been breaking his back.  Then, later on, with another book, it all begins afresh; it will always begin afresh, and I shall die under it, furious with myself, exasperated at not having had more talent, enraged at not leaving a “work” more complete, of greater dimensions—­books upon books, a pile of mountain height!  And at my death I shall feel horrible doubts about the task I may have accomplished, asking myself whether I ought not to have gone to the left when I went to the right, and my last word, my last gasp, will be to recommence the whole over again—­’

He was thoroughly moved; the words stuck in his throat; he was obliged to draw breath for a moment before delivering himself of this passionate cry in which all his impenitent lyricism took wing: 

Ah, life! a second span of life, who shall give it to me, that work may rob me of it again—­that I may die of it once more?’

It had now become quite dark; the mother’s rigid silhouette was no longer visible; the hoarse breathing of the child sounded amidst the obscurity like a terrible and distant signal of distress, uprising from the streets.  In the whole studio, which had become lugubriously black, the big canvas only showed a glimpse of pallidity, a last vestige of the waning daylight.  The nude figure, similar to an agonising vision, seemed to be floating about, without definite shape, the legs having already vanished, one arm being already submerged, and the only part at all distinct being the trunk, which shone like a silvery moon.

After a protracted pause, Sandoz inquired: 

‘Shall I go with you when you take your picture?’

Getting no answer from Claude, he fancied he could hear him crying.  Was it with the same infinite sadness, the despair by which he himself had been stirred just now?  He waited for a moment, then repeated his question, and at last the painter, after choking down a sob, stammered: 

‘Thanks, the picture will remain here; I sha’n’t send it.’

‘What?  Why, you had made up your mind?’

’Yes, yes, I had made up my mind; but I had not seen it as I saw it just now in the waning daylight.  I have failed with it, failed with it again—­it struck my eyes like a blow, it went to my very heart.’

His tears now flowed slow and scalding in the gloom that hid him from sight.  He had been restraining himself, and now the silent anguish which had consumed him burst forth despite all his efforts.