The artist listened with grave and fixed attention.  When I had concluded he said: 

“The elixir I gave you acted more potently than even I imagined it would.  You are more sensitive than I thought.  Do not fatigue yourself any more, mademoiselle, by talking.  With your permission I will sit down here opposite to you and tell you my story.  Afterwards you must decide for yourself whether you will adopt the method of treatment to which I owe my life, and something more than my life—­ my reason.”

He turned his own library-chair towards me, and seated himself.  A few moments passed in silence; his expression was very earnest and absorbed, and he regarded my face with a sympathetic interest which touched me profoundly.  Though I felt myself becoming more and more enervated and apathetic as the time went on, and though I knew I was gradually sinking down again into my old Slough of Despond, yet I felt instinctively that I was somehow actively concerned in what was about to be said, therefore I forced myself to attend closely to every word uttered.  Cellini began to speak in low and quiet tones as follows: 

“You must be aware, mademoiselle, that those who adopt any art as a means of livelihood begin the world heavily handicapped—­weighted down, as it were, in the race for fortune.  The following of art is a very different thing to the following of trade or mercantile business.  In buying or selling, in undertaking the work of import or export, a good head for figures, and an average quantity of shrewd common sense, are all that is necessary in order to win a fair share of success.  But in the finer occupations, whose results are found in sculpture, painting, music and poetry, demands are made upon the imagination, the emotions, the entire spiritual susceptibility of man.  The most delicate fibres of the brain are taxed; the subtle inner workings of thought are brought into active play; and the temperament becomes daily and hourly more finely strung, more sensitive, more keenly alive to every passing sensation.  Of course there are many so-called ‘artists’ who are mere shams of the real thing; persons who, having a little surface-education in one or the other branch of the arts, play idly with the paint-brush, or dabble carelessly in the deep waters of literature,—­or borrow a few crotchets and quavers from other composers, and putting them together in haste, call it original composition.  Among these are to be found the self-called ‘professors’ of painting; the sculptors who allow the work of their ‘ghosts’ to be admired as their own; the magazine-scribblers; the ‘smart’ young leader-writers and critics; the half-hearted performers on piano or violin who object to any innovation, and prefer to grind on in the unemotional, coldly correct manner which they are pleased to term the ’classical’—­such persons exist, and will exist, so long as good and evil are leading forces of life.  They are the aphides on the rose of art.  But the men and women