"And who IS his master?" I ventured to ask.
Cellini's face grew serious and absorbed, and his eyes were full of grave contemplation as he answered: "His master, mademoiselle, is MY master--one who among men, is supremely intelligent; among teachers, absolutely unselfish; among thinkers, purely impersonal; among friends, inflexibly faithful. To him I owe everything--even life itself. For him no sacrifice, no extreme devotion would be too great, could I hope thereby to show my gratitude. But he is as far above human thanks or human rewards as the sun is above the sea. Not here, not now, dare I say to him, MY FRIEND, BEHOLD HOW MUCH I LOVE THEE! such language would be all too poor and unmeaning; but hereafter--who knows?----" and he broke off abruptly with a half-sigh. Then, as if forcing himself to change the tenor of his thoughts, he continued in a kind tone: "But, mademoiselle, I am wasting your time, and am taking no advantage of the favour you have shown me by your presence to-day. Will you seat yourself here?" and he placed an elaborately carved oaken settee in one corner of the studio, opposite his own easel. "I should be sorry to fatigue you at all," he went on; "do you care for reading?"
I answered eagerly in the affirmative, and he handed me a volume bound in curiously embossed leather, and ornamented with silver clasps. It was entitled "Letters of a Dead Musician."
"You will find clear gems of thought, passion, and feeling in this book," said Cellini; "and being a musician yourself, you will know how to appreciate them. The writer was one of those geniuses whose work the world repays with ridicule and contempt. There is no fate more enviable!"
I looked at the artist with some surprise as I took the volume he recommended, and seated myself in the position he indicated; and while he busied himself in arranging the velvet curtains behind me as a background, I said: "Do you really consider it enviable, Signor Cellini, to receive the world's ridicule and contempt?"
"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!"