At present he had but jotted down the skeleton of bars that could be filled in afterwards, and it gave him enormous pleasure to see the roles reversed and himself out of his own brain, setting Falbe his task.
But he felt much more than this.

He had done something.

Michael, the dumb, awkward Michael, was somehow revealed on those eight pages of music.

All his twenty-five years he had stood wistfully inarticulate, unable, so it had seemed to him, to show himself, to let himself out.
And not till now, when he had found this means of access, did he know how passionately he had desired it, nor how immensely, in the process of so doing, his desire had grown.

He must find out more ways, other channels of projecting himself.