body asketh not only to clothe its nakedness with a decent covering,
but fine cloth, silk, velvet, that it may appear before thy judges in
a proper dress, without which they will not receive thee, thou and
thy productions will die unknown. In order to obtain food, clothes,
thou must _work_: a merchant will order from thee a cellar, a
warehouse; the signore, stables and dog kennels. Now at last thou
hast procured thyself daily bread, a decent habit for thy bones and
flesh: inspiration thirsteth for its nourishment, demanding from thy
soul images and forms. Thou createst, thou art bringing thy Ideal to
fulfilment. How swiftly move the wheels of thy being! Thy existence
is tenfold redoubled, thy pulse is beating as when thou breathest the
atmosphere of high mountains. Thou spendest in one day whole months
of life. How many nights passed without sleep, how many days in
ceaseless chain, all filled with agitation! Or rather, there is nor
day nor night for thee, nor seasons of the year, as for other men.
Thy blood now boileth, then freezeth; the fever of imagination
wasteth thee away. Triumph setteth thee on fire, the fear of failure
maddeneth thee, tearing thee to pieces, tormenting thee with dread of
the judgments of men; then again ariseth the terror of dying with thy
task unfinished. Add, too, the inevitable shade of glory, which
stalketh ever in thy footsteps, and giveth thee not a moment of
repose. This is the period of creation! While creating, thou hast
been dwelling at the footstool of God. Crushed by thy contact with
the hem of his garment, overwhelmed by inspiration from Him whom the
world can scarcely bear, a poor mortal, half alive, half dead, thou
descendest upon earth, and carriest with thee what thou hast created
_there_, in _His_ presence! Mortals surround thy production, judging,
valuing, discussing it in detail; the patron laudeth the ornaments,
the grandeur of the columns, the weight of the work; the distributors
of favour gamble away thy honour, or creep like mice under thy plan,