It is not the way to create masterpieces."
"I would take myself seriously, I think," said Denis. "I would not
dissipate my energies."
He meant it. To be an artist--it dawned upon him that this was his true
vocation. To renounce pleasure and discipline the mind; to live a life
of self-denial, submitting himself humbly to the inspiration of the
great masters. . . . To be serene, like this old man; to avoid that
facile, glib, composite note--those monkey-tricks of cleverness. . . .
Then, after this vision had passed before his eyes like a flash, he
remembered his grief. The notion of becoming a world-famous artist lost
all meaning for him. Everything was blighted. There was not a grain of
solace to be found on earth.
The Count, meanwhile, was looking with concern upon his companion's
grave face, whose flawless profile might have emerged into life under
the thought-laden chisel of Lysippus. He wondered what he could say or
do to drive away this melancholy. The youth had been so bright that day
at the entertainment of the Duchess; he seemed to have stepped straight
out of a sunny dialogue of Plato.
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