And there was an element of the eternal, he used
to declare, in every creature of earth.
His was an enviable life. He dwelt among masterpieces. They were his
beacons, his comrades, his realities. As for other things--the social
accidents of time and place, his cares and his poverty--he wore them
lightly; they sat upon his shoulders with easy grace, like his own
threadbare coat. When he walked among men he could not help contriving
imaginary statuary in his head, historical portraits or legendary
groups; the faces and attitudes of those he encountered--each one found
a place in the teeming realm of his creative phantasy, each one
beckoned to him, from afar, as a joyous and necessary revelation.
An enviable life; and never more enviable than on the occasion when he
was introduced, at some absurd tea-party to the lady known as the
Commissioner's stepsister. The face! It took possession of him. It
haunted his artistic dreamings from the same day onwards. He had always
cherished ambitious designs--none more ambitious than a certain piece of
work conceived in the bold Pergamese manner, a noble cluster of women
to be entitled "The Eumenides.
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