p 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 des