?"

"I do indeed," he replied, "since it is a certain proof that the world
does not understand you. To achieve something that is above human
comprehension, THAT is greatness. To have the serene sublimity of the
God-man Christ, and consent to be crucified by a gibing world that was
fated to be afterwards civilized and dominated by His teachings, what
can be more glorious? To have the magnificent versatility of a
Shakespeare, who was scarcely recognized in his own day, but whose
gifts were so vast and various that the silly multitudes wrangle over
his very identity and the authenticity of his plays to this hour--what
can be more triumphant? To know that one's own soul can, if
strengthened and encouraged by the force of will, rise to a supreme
altitude of power--is not that sufficient to compensate for the little
whining cries of the common herd of men and women who have forgotten
whether they ever had a spiritual spark in them, and who, straining up
to see the light of genius that burns too fiercely for their
earth-dimmed eyes, exclaim: 'WE see nothing, therefore there CAN be
nothing.' Ah, mademoiselle, the knowledge of one's own inner
Self-Existence is a knowledge surpassing all the marvels of art and
science!"

Cellini spoke with enthusiasm, and his countenance seemed illumined by
the eloquence that warmed his speech. I listened with a sort of dreamy
satisfaction; the visual sensation of utter rest that I always
experienced in this man's presence was upon me, and I watched him with
interest as he drew with quick and facile touch the outline of my
features on his canvas.

Gradually he became more and more absorbed in his work; he glanced at
me from time to time, but did not speak, and his pencil worked rapidly.
I turned over the "Letters of a Dead Musician" with some curiosity.
Several passages struck me as being remarkable for their originality
and depth of thought; but what particularly impressed me as I read on,
was the tone of absolute joy and contentment that seemed to light up
every page. There were no wailings over disappointed ambition, no
regrets for the past, no complaints, no criticism, no word for or
against the brothers of his art; everything was treated from a lofty
standpoint of splendid equality, save when the writer spoke of himself,
and then he became the humblest of the humble, yet never abject, and
always happy.

"O Music!" he wrote, "Music, thou Sweetest Spirit of all that serve
God, what have