I have genius and I waste it; I have a soul
and I am crushing it. I am a most unworthy and miserable being!"
Absolutely sincere in every word he said, his dramatic temperament gave
force and a kind of rhythm to his confession that made it very poignant,
and his face very white, his big eyes glowed tragically as he stood
looking over his hearer's head.
"A most miserable being."
He groaned, and throwing himself into a chair, buried his face in his
hands.
Outside one or two carriages hurried past, and the darkness was streaked
with quick recurring flashes of lightning.
Brigit looked long at Joyselle, and then, irresistibly drawn to him,
laid her hand with great gentleness on his head. "You are tired, and the
storm has got on your nerves."
"No, no! I am not tired. There is for my great good-for-nothingness not
that excuse. I am--a wastrel of my gifts." It was, she saw, one of the
crises of despair under which many artists suffer, but its intensity was
most painful. "You are good to me, Brigitte," he said, brokenly, taking
her left hand and holding it to his forehead, which was cold and damp.
"You are an angel!"
As he spoke a terrific zigzag of fire crossed the windows, and the house
shook in the almost immediate crash.
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