The wind tears at the shingles that poorly cover the attic at the top
of seven flights of stairs. The snow crystals, blown as fine as frost
by the force of the tempest, buzz through crannies and sift upon the
mean bed. Some shutters outside slam and creak with every frequent
gale, and the snow clouds sweeping southward suffer a splendent
blue-tinged star to turn a radiant eye downward upon the world.
Through a rift in the roof of the attic the star alone sees what
transpires there that night. On the bare floor stands some rickety
furniture, and in the center is a table on which lie paper, pens and
ink, and stands a lighted candle.
The man who sits in the wooden chair with his elbows on the table, and
a hand clenched beneath his chin, does not feel the bitter cold,
albeit he is shivering in every limb. His hair is tossed back
confusedly from a high brow, and in his eyes there shines a light that
the star knows as it twinkles down a brotherly greeting. Genius is
heaven-born and its light comes from a height on a level with the
source of the star's rays.
Suddenly the man seizes the pen and writes. He bends over the paper
and his hand flies. He does not heed the howling wind or the deadly
snow mist that falls around him. He writes and writes. The clock
strikes, and when the hour has passed, and it clangs again, he dashes
down the pen, starts to his feet and raises a hand with the fine
gesture of a conqueror. It is a natural movement, for there is no one
to see him but the star. "By Heaven!" he mutters, "I have won. I am
the first in the field. The thought is mine and mine alone. It will
live forever. There is nothing like it in literature; but why, oh,
why, have I been made to follow such rugged, weary paths to have it
come upon me in a moment as easily as falls a moulting feather from
the breast of the eagle?"
He sits down again and reads what he has written. Then he lays it
lovingly down. He does not alter a letter or erase a word. He knows it
is perfect, and so tells himself; for true genius knows no mock
humility.
The man's eyes soften. The fire dies from them, leaving a warm glow
that the star does not respond to. About his lips plays a lingering,
thin smile that shows half pleasure, half contempt. He is artist
enough to know that he has created an original idea, and he knows its
value.
His far-focused gaze sees warmth, love, pleasure, wine, crystal,
mirth, and living beauty--things that he is hungering for with a
wolf-like hunger that adds self-contempt to his starved soul's
gnawings.
Suddenly the sharp whip of the present cracks in his ear and the cold
strikes to his marrow and rouses him to action. He rises, dons a
ragged overcoat, goes out the door, and down the seven flights of
stairs. He returns directly with bread and cheese, wrapped in an old
newspaper. He sits again, gulping down the food, which tastes like
nectar of the gods. The star looks down through the crack and twinkles
with heavenly sympathy, for the man has fought a long and very dreary
fight to the end that he is now eating cheese crumbs, with drifting
snow falling upon his shoulders. For the first time in many years the
man wears the look of success.
* * * * *
He has gained in an hour what others have strived for during a life
time without success. As the man eats he glances idly at the old
newspaper that contains his food. The star sees him suddenly grip the
paper convulsively with both hands, stare with burning eyes among its
columns, and then, with a hoarse choking oath, stumble to his feet,
whirl, and fall upon the bare floor.
* * * * *
In the morning, since he does not appear as usual, two men break open
the attic door and find him there.
"Suicide?" says one.
"Starvation, more likely," says the other.
"No, here's bread and cheese. Case for the coroner, anyway. Cheerful
sort of a den he lived in. Hullo, what's this he's been writing?"
One of them reads what the dead man has written, and says:
"It's peculiar stuff. I can't just make it out. Look at his hand; he's
got an old newspaper in it gripped like a vise."
He stoops and forces the old paper from the cold fingers. He examines
it from curiosity and dully stumbles upon the truth.
"Say, Bill," he says, "here's a funny thing. This old newspaper's got
an article in it very near exactly the same as that thing the gent
wrote himself."
(_Houston Daily Post_, Friday morning, November 29, 1895.)