There one day I saw him standing, a note book in his hand.
I saw that he was drawing. He was drawing the old crest with the bird over the door of our house.
And I stood at a window, concealed behind a curtain, and gazed at him.
I saw with astonishment his attentive, cool, bright features turned to the crest, the features of a man,
of a research worker, or an artist, superior and full of will-power, oddly bright and cool, with knowing eyes.
And again I can see him. It was a little later, in the street; we had come out of school and were all standing round a horse that had fallen down.
It lay, still harnessed to the shaft, in front of a peasant’s cart, and sniffed the air pitifully with open nostrils,
while blood flowed from an invisible wound, so that the white dust in the street darkened as it became slowly saturated.
As I, with a feeling of nausea, turned my gaze away, I saw Demian’s face.
He had not pressed forward, he stood furthest back of all, rather elegant, quite at his ease, as was proper to him.
His gaze seemed to be directed at the horse’s head, and expressed again that deep, quiet, almost fanatical and yet calm attentiveness.
I could not resist watching him some considerable time, and I remember feeling,
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