That tendency I must resist. For the artist
_ought_ to be able to make material of his own sufferings, even
while the suffering is at its height. To what other end does he
suffer? In very deed, he is the only man whose misery finds
justification in apparent result."
"I am not an artist," sighed Julian.
"On the contrary, I firmly believe that you are. And it makes me
angry to see the impulse dying in you."
"What am I to do?" Julian cried, almost with a voice of anguish. "I
am so helpless, so hopelessly fettered! Release is impossible. No
words could express the desperate struggles I go through when I
recognise how my life is being wasted and my powers, whatever they
may be, numbed and crushed. Something I might do, if I were free; I
feel that! But there is no hope of freedom. I shall fall into darker
and darker depths of weakness and ruin, always conscious of what I
am losing. What will be the end?"
"What the end will be, under the present circumstances, is only too
clear to me. But it might easily be averted?"
"How? Give me some practical advice, Waymark! Let us talk of the
matter freely. Tell me what you would do!"
Waymark thought for a moment.
"Does there seem any chance of her health being permanently
improved?" he asked.
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