To know that these eyes and their pure passion were so close to him; to
be able to touch this cool, sincere, mutely-eloquent mouth with his
lips; to be able to hold these hands in which passion resided as it does
in the speechless unrest of a messenger; to be able to press this
throbbing figure with all its willingness and hesitation to his
bosom--it was almost too much for Daniel. It involved pain; it aroused
an impatience, a thirst for more and more. His daily work was
interrupted; his thoughts, plans, and arrangements were torn from their
connection.
He spoke to people whom he knew as though they were total strangers; he
amazed those whom he did not know by the loyal confidence he voluntarily
placed in them. He forgot to put on his hat when he walked along the
street; the distraction he revealed was the source of constant merriment
to passersby and on-lookers. He would not know when it was noon; he would
come home at three o'clock, thinking it was twelve. Once he came nearly
being run over by a team of galloping horses; another time he had his
umbrella taken straight from his hands without noticing it. This took
place at the Ludwig Station.
"Oh, winged creature, winged creature," he would say to himself, and
smile like a somnambulist. Deep in his soul a sea of tones was surging.
He listened to them with complete assurance, angry though he would
become at times because of the failure of this or that. He was so
absorbed in himself, so enmeshed in his own thoughts, that he scarcely
saw the sky above him; houses, people, animals, and the things that are
after all necessary to human existence existed only in his dreams, if at
all.
Winged creature, winged creature!