But
Julian stretched his arms towards the flame which drew its brightness and
its force from Cuckoo sleeping. That was a last battle of souls, and the
allegory of it came clearly to the doctor's mind.
He divined, as in a vision, or as in a dream that is more real than
reality, the story of his friend, the true Valentine, whom he had loved.
He remembered Valentine's dissatisfaction with the glory of his own
beautiful nature, his mad desire to change it. That dissatisfaction, that
desire, had been the opportunity of the enemy. The soul that sighed in
sorrow as it contemplated its own loveliness had been expelled by the
soul that was completely satisfied with its own hatefulness. The weakness
of the flame of purity had built up the strength of the flame of
impurity. And so beauty was driven out to wander in the wilderness of the
air, and ugliness dwelled in its body, its temple swept and garnished,
like the seven devils of the Scripture. For how long a time had the
wandering flame or soul of beauty been helpless, impotent, tortured by
the appalling deception of the soul of Julian, whom it could no longer
protect! Unable to be at rest, it had stayed to contemplate the dreary
legend of Julian's gradual fall.
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