round, that I could not make up my mind to begin reading them, and I merely fingered the books, passing my hand caressingly over them. I felt a smile spread over my face, most probably a very silly smile, but I could not keep it back, as I contemplated admiringly the type, the vignettes, the severe beautiful simplicity of the drawings. How much thought and sense of beauty there as in them all!. How many people had to work and search, how much talent and taste were needed to bring forth that letter, or instance so simple and elegant, so clever, harmonious and eloquent in its interlaced lines.
"And now I must set to work," said I, seriously, full of respect for work.
And I took up my pen to write the heading and, like a frog tied to a string, my hand began plunging about the paper. The pen stuck into he paper, scratched it, jerked about, slipped irresistibly aside, and brought forth, hideous lines, broken, crooked, devoid of all sense. And I did not cry out or move, I grew cold and still as the approaching terrible truth dawned upon me; while my hand danced over the brightly illuminated paper, and each finger shook in such hopeless, living, insane horror, as if they, those fingers, were still at the front and saw the conflagrations and blood, and heard the groans and cries of undescribable pain. They had detached themselves from me, those madly quivering fingers, they were alive, they had become ears and eyes; and, growing cold from horror, without the strength to move or cry out, I watched their wild dance over the clean, bright white page.
