He fails, that is, to create anything which will please or endure; fails in the first aim, the first duty of an artist.

He comes again and again to the verge of creating something which may give delight to men, but only once succeeds, when by chance, in a moment of excited impulse, caused partly by his own vanity, and partly by the waves of humanity at Palma's _Court of Love_ beating on his soul, he breaks for a passing hour into the song which conquers Eglamor.

When, at the end, he does try to shape himself without for the sake of men he is too late for this life.

He dies of the long struggle, of the revelation of his failure and the reasons of it, of the supreme light which falls on his wasted life; and yet not wasted, since even in death he has found his soul and all it means.

His imagination, formerly only intellectual, has become emotional as well; he loves mankind, and sacrifices fame, power, and knowledge to its welfare.