There he lay, solitary, under the crimson glow, locked in his castle, human, with the outward semblance of a man like other men, and yet the cities of Europe were weeping for him.

He heard them weeping.
Every lover of great painting was under a sense of personal bereavement.
The very voice of the world was hushed.

After all, it was something to have done your best; after all, good stuff _was_ appreciated by the mass of the race.

The phenomena presented by the evening papers was certainly prodigious, and prodigiously affecting.

Mankind was unpleasantly stunned by the report of his decease.