THE EQUINOX
harsh and wild, irritated; quickened further to a rush like
flames devouring a hayrick; softened again to a dirge.
Each time she changed the soul of the song it seemed as if
she was exhausted: as if she was trying to sound a particular
phrase, and always fell back baffled at the last moment.
Nor did any light infuse her eyes. There was intentness,
there was weariness, there was patience, there was alertness.
And the room was strangely silent, unsympathetic to her
mood. She was the dimmest thing in that gray light. Still
she strove. She grew more tense, her mouth tightened, an
ugly compression. Her eyes flashed with—was it hate? The
soul of the song was now all anguish, all pleading, all despair
—ever reaching to some unattainable thing.
She choked, a spasmodic sob. She stopped playing; she
bit her lips, and a drop of blood stood on them scarlet against
their angry purple, like sunset and storm. She pressed them
to the square, and a smear stained the white. She caught at
her heart; for some strange pang tore it.
Up went her violin, and the bow crossed it. It might have
been the swords of two skilled fencers, both blind with mortal
hate. It might have been the bodies of two skilled lovers,
blind with immortal love.
She tore life and death asunder on her strings. Up, up
soared the phoenix of her song; step by step on music’s golden
scaling-ladder she stormed the citadel of her Desire. The
blood flushed and swelled her face beneath its sweat. Her
eyes were injected with blood.
The song rose, culminated—overleapt the barriers, achieved
its phrase.
She stopped; but the music went on. A cloud gathered
278