cape ridicule and dishonor for the work in which he had failed, when danger threatened that the grievous decline of his genius would be exposed and that he would be thrown into an abyss of humiliation, in comparison with which exile had been a happy fate, the Painter of Camellias was actually saved by her for whom he longed as an artist and as a man, and whom he mutely implored for help. The night following the day when, shut up alone in the Hall of Clouds, which originally was to have been the Hall of Camellias, it was brought home to him with full force that he was at the end of his tether and on the verge of ruin, and that he no longer had the strength to go on with the comedy . . . that night, when in his apartments he was dispairingly trying to imagine Tsubaki-San, his former happiness at her side, her devoted love, and her ability to inspire him . . . that night, when his dry burning eyes wept without tears for the camellias that had led him on to the right path in art andi which he had lightheartedly betrayed . . . that night a terrible fire broke out in the imperial palace, and running out-of-doors so that he could watch it from afar, the Painter of Camellias had the impression that gigantic and unbelievably beautiful camellias were being tossed upwards to the midnight sky. At the first moment the possibility did not strike him that in this fire might also be turned to ashes the work in which he had been a traitor to himself, a liar and a failure, for which he had deserted sweet Tsubaki-San and given up painting camellias: but hardly had the thought taken form when his heart was filled with certainty that this had happened, that he was saved, and that his deliverer was his own sweet Tsubaki-San. His happiness was so great that the first instant his heart failed him and he nearly fainted; but when a little later breathless people rushed to him with the news that it was his paintings which were flaming to the sky and suffusing it with crimson, he was to all intents and purposes extraordinarily calm. He even smiled, and people admired his strength of spirit. Very soon, however, he reentered his house, for he was afraid that he would not be able to suppress either wild joy or overpowering emotion, which alternately were taking possession of him; far from the turmoil and alone, he sat down in the room flooded with reddish reflections and endeavored to imagine his Tsubaki-San and his return to his mountain retreat, where he had been so happy in life and art. For the first time his own folly and meanness were fully impressed upon his mind and he was filled with bitter remorse for his infatuation. Notwithstanding, do what he would he could not call forth in his memory the picture of his companion and adviser; ever and again there appeared to his inner sight a magnificent camellia flower whenever he
