- end_line
- 13539
- extracted_at
- 2026-01-30T20:48:52.924Z
- extracted_by
- structure-extraction-lambda
- start_line
- 13478
- text
- so decreed, that the one can not be composed on the paper, but only as
the other is writ down in his soul. And the one of the soul is
elephantinely sluggish, and will not budge at a breath. Thus Pierre is
fastened on by two leeches;--how then can the life of Pierre last? Lo!
he is fitting himself for the highest life, by thinning his blood and
collapsing his heart. He is learning how to live, by rehearsing the part
of death.
Who shall tell all the thoughts and feelings of Pierre in that desolate
and shivering room, when at last the idea obtruded, that the wiser and
the profounder he should grow, the more and the more he lessened the
chances for bread; that could he now hurl his deep book out of the
window, and fall to on some shallow nothing of a novel, composable in a
month at the longest, then could he reasonably hope for both
appreciation and cash. But the devouring profundities, now opened up in
him, consume all his vigor; would he, he could not now be entertainingly
and profitably shallow in some pellucid and merry romance. Now he sees,
that with every accession of the personal divine to him, some great
land-slide of the general surrounding divineness slips from him, and
falls crashing away. Said I not that the gods, as well as mankind, had
unhanded themselves from this Pierre? So now in him you behold the baby
toddler I spoke of; forced now to stand and toddle alone.
Now and then he turns to the camp-bed, and wetting his towel in the
basin, presses it against his brow. Now he leans back in his chair, as
if to give up; but again bends over and plods.
Twilight draws on, the summons of Isabel is heard from the door; the
poor, frozen, blue-lipped, soul-shivering traveler for St. Petersburg is
unpacked; and for a moment stands toddling on the floor. Then his hat,
and his cane, and out he sallies for fresh air. A most comfortless
staggering of a stroll! People gaze at him passing, as at some imprudent
sick man, willfully burst from his bed. If an acquaintance is met, and
would say a pleasant newsmonger's word in his ear, that acquaintance
turns from him, affronted at his hard aspect of icy discourtesy.
"Bad-hearted," mutters the man, and goes on.
He comes back to his chambers, and sits down at the neat table of Delly;
and Isabel soothingly eyes him, and presses him to eat and be strong.
But his is the famishing which loathes all food. He can not eat but by
force. He has assassinated the natural day; how then can he eat with an
appetite? If he lays him down, he can not sleep; he has waked the
infinite wakefulness in him; then how can he slumber? Still his book,
like a vast lumbering planet, revolves in his aching head. He can not
command the thing out of its orbit; fain would he behead himself, to
gain one night's repose. At last the heavy hours move on; and sheer
exhaustion overtakes him, and he lies still--not asleep as children and
day-laborers sleep--but he lies still from his throbbings, and for that
interval holdingly sheaths the beak of the vulture in his hand, and lets
it not enter his heart.
Morning comes; again the dropt sash, the icy water, the flesh-brush, the
breakfast, the hot bricks, the ink, the pen, the
from-eight-o'clock-to-half-past-four, and the whole general inclusive
hell of the same departed day.
Ah! shivering thus day after day in his wrappers and cloaks, is this the
warm lad that once sung to the world of the Tropical Summer?
- title
- Chunk 2