twice-told tales- the artist of the beautiful-第3部分

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he　almost　totally　relinquished　his　business；　and　permitted　Father

Time；　so　far　as　the　old　gentleman　was　represented　by　the　clocks　and

watches　under　his　control；　to　stray　at　random　through　human　life；

making　infinite　confusion　among　the　train　of　bewildered　hours。　He

wasted　the　sunshine；　as　people　said；　in　wandering　through　the　woods

and　fields；　and　along　the　banks　of　streams。　There；　like　a　child；　he

found　amusement　in　chasing　butterflies；　or　watching　the　motions　of

water…insects。　There　was　something　truly　mysterious　in　the

intentness　with　which　he　contemplated　these　living　playthings；　as　they

sported　on　the　breeze；　or　examined　the　structure　of　an　imperial　insect

whom　he　had　imprisoned。　The　chase　of　butterflies　was　an　apt　emblem

of　the　ideal　pursuit　in　which　he　had　spent　so　many　golden　hours。

But；　would　the　Beautiful　Idea　ever　be　yielded　to　his　hand；　like　the

butterfly　that　symbolized　it？　Sweet；　doubtless；　were　these　days；　and

congenial　to　the　artist's　soul。　They　were　full　of　bright

conceptions；　which　gleamed　through　his　intellectual　world；　as　the

butterflies　gleamed　through　the　outward　atmosphere；　and　were　real　to

him　for　the　instant；　without　the　toil　and　perplexity；　and　many

disappointments；　of　attempting　to　make　them　visible　to　the　sensual

eye。　Alas；　that　the　artist；　whether　in　poetry　or　whatever　other

material；　may　not　content　himself　with　the　inward　enjoyment　of　the

Beautiful；　but　must　chase　the　flitting　mystery　beyond　the　verge　of　his

ethereal　domain；　and　crush　its　frail　being　in　seizing　it　with　a

material　grasp！　Owen　Warland　felt　the　impulse　to　give　external　reality

to　his　ideas；　as　irresistibly　as　any　of　the　poets　or　painters；　who

have　arrayed　the　world　in　a　dimmer　and　fainter　beauty；　imperfectly

copied　from　the　richness　of　their　visions。

　　　The　night　was　now　his　time　for　the　slow　progress　of　recreating

the　one　Idea；　to　which　all　his　intellectual　activity　referred

itself。　Always　at　the　approach　of　dusk；　he　stole　into　the　town；　locked

himself　within　his　shop；　and　wrought　with　patient　delicacy　of　touch；

for　many　hours。　Sometimes　he　was　startled　by　the　rap　of　the

watchman；　who；　when　all　the　world　should　be　asleep；　had　caught　the

gleam　of　lamplight　through　the　crevices　of　Owen　Warland's　shutters。

Daylight；　to　the　morbid　sensibility　of　his　mind；　seemed　to　have　an

intrusiveness　that　interfered　with　his　pursuits。　On　cloudy　and

inclement　days；　therefore；　he　sat　with　his　head　upon　his　hands；

muffling；　as　it　were；　his　sensitive　brain　in　a　mist　of　indefinite

musings；　for　it　was　a　relief　to　escape　from　the　sharp　distinctness

with　which　he　was　compelled　to　shape　out　his　thoughts；　during　his

nightly　toil。

　　　From　one　of　these　fits　of　torpor；　he　was　aroused　by　the　entrance　of

Annie　Hovenden；　who　came　into　the　shop　with　the　freedom　of　a　customer；

and　also　with　something　of　the　familiarity　of　a　childish　friend。　She

had　worn　a　hole　through　her　silver　thimble；　and　wanted　Owen　to

repair　it。

　　　〃But　I　don't　know　whether　you　will　condescend　to　such　a　task；〃　said

she；　laughing；　〃now　that　you　are　so　taken　up　with　the　notion　of

putting　spirit　into　machinery。〃

　　　〃Where　did　you　get　that　idea；　Annie？〃　said　Owen；　starting　in

surprise。

　　　〃Oh；　out　of　my　own　head；〃　answered　she；　〃and　from　something　that

I　heard　you　say；　long　ago；　when　you　were　but　a　boy；　and　I　a　little

child。　But；　come！　will　you　mend　this　poor　thimble　of　mine？〃

　　　〃Anything　for　your　sake；　Annie；〃　said　Owen　Warland…　〃anything！　even

were　it　to　work　at　Robert　Danforth's　forge。〃

　　　〃And　that　would　be　a　pretty　sight！〃　retorted　Annie；　glancing　with

imperceptible　slightness　at　the　artist's　small　and　slender　frame。

〃Well；　here　is　the　thimble。〃

　　　〃But　that　is　a　strange　idea　of　yours；〃　said　Owen；　〃about　the

spiritualization　of　matter！〃

　　　And　then　the　thought　stole　into　his　mind；　that　this　young　girl

possessed　the　gift　to　comprehend　him；　better　than　all　the　world

beside。　And　what　a　help　and　strength　would　it　be　to　him；　in　his　lonely

toil；　if　he　could　gain　the　sympathy　of　the　only　being　whom　he　loved！

To　persons　whose　pursuits　are　insulated　from　the　common　business　of

life…　who　are　either　in　advance　of　mankind；　or　apart　from　it…　there

often　comes　a　sensation　of　moral　cold；　that　makes　the　spirit　shiver；

as　if　it　had　reached　the　frozen　solitudes　around　the　pole。　What　the

prophet；　the　poet；　the　reformer；　the　criminal；　or　any　other　man；

with　human　yearnings；　but　separated　from　the　multitude　by　a　peculiar

lot；　might　feel；　poor　Owen　Warland　felt。

　　　〃Annie；〃　cried　he；　growing　pale　as　death　at　the　thought；　〃how

gladly　would　I　tell　you　the　secret　of　my　pursuit！　You；　methinks；　would

estimate　it　rightly。　You；　I　know；　would　hear　it　with　a　reverence

that　I　must　not　expect　from　the　harsh；　material　world。〃

　　　〃Would　I　not！　to　be　sure　I　would！〃　replied　Annie　Hovenden；

lightly　laughing。　〃Come；　explain　to　me　quickly　what　is　the　meaning

of　this　little　whirligig；　so　delicately　wrought　that　it　might　be　a

plaything　for　Queen　Mab。　See；　I　will　put　it　in　motion。〃

　　　〃Hold；〃　exclaimed　Owen；　hold！〃

　　　Annie　had　but　given　the　slightest　possible　touch；　with　the　point　of

a　needle；　to　the　same　minute　portion　of　complicated　machinery　which

has　been　more　than　once　mentioned；　when　the　artist　seized　her　by　the

wrist　with　a　force　that　made　her　scream　aloud。　She　was　affrighted　at

the　convulsion　of　intense　rage　and　anguish　that　writhed　across　his

features。　The　next　instant　he　let　his　head　sink　upon　his　hands。

　　　〃Go；　Annie；〃　murmured　he；　〃I　have　deceived　myself；　and　must

suffer　for　it。　I　yearned　for　sympathy…　and　thought…　and　fancied…　and

dreamed…　that　you　might　give　it　me。　But　you　lack　the　talisman；

Annie；　that　should　admit　you　into　my　secrets。　That　touch　has　undone

the　toil　of　months；　and　the　thought　of　a　lifetime！　It　was　not　your

fault；　Annie…　but　you　have　ruined　me！〃

　　　Poor　Owen　Warland！　He　had　indeed　erred；　yet　pardonably；　for　if

any　human　spirit　could　have　sufficiently　reverenced　the　processes　so

sacred　in　his　eyes；　it　must　have　been　a　woman's。　Even　Annie

Hovenden；　possibly；　might　not　have　disappointed　him；　had　she　been

enlightened　by　the　deep　intelligence　of　love。

　　　The　artist　spent　the　ensuing　winter　in　a　way　that　satisfied　any

persons；　who　had　hitherto　retained　a　hopeful　opinion　of　him；　that　he

was；　in　truth；　irrevocably　doomed　to　inutility　as　regarded　the

world；　and　to　an　evil　destiny　on　his　own　part。　The　decease　of　a

relative　had　put　him　in　possession　of　a　small　inheritance。　Thus

freed　from　the　necessity　of　toil；　and　having　lost　the　steadfast

influence　of　a　great　purpose…　great；　at　least；　to　him…　he　abandoned

himself　to　habits　from　which；　it　might　have　been　supposed；　the　mere

delicacy　of　his　organization　would　have　availed　to　secure　him。　But

when　the　ethereal　portion　of　a　man　of　genius　is　obscured；　the

earthly　part　assumes　an　influence　the　more　uncontrollable；　because　the

character　is　now　thrown　off　the　balance　to　which　Providence　had　so

nicely　adjusted　it；　and　which；　in　coarser　natures；　is　adjusted　by　some

other　method。　Owen　Warland　made　proof　of　whatever　show　of　bliss　may　be

found　in　riot。　He　looked　at　the　world　through　the　golden　medium　of

wine；　and　contemplated　the　visions　that　bubble　up　so　gaily　around

the　brim　of　the　glass；　and　that　people　the　air　with　shapes　of　pleasant

madness；　which　so　soon　grow　ghostly　and　forlorn。　Even　when　this　dismal

and　inevitable　change　had　taken　place；　the　young　man　might　still

have　continued　to　quaff　the　cup　of　enchantments；　though　its　vapor

did　but　shroud　life　in　gloom；　and　fill　the　gloom　with　spectres　that

mocked　at　him。　There　was　a　certain　irksomeness　of　spirit；　which；　being

real；　and　the　deepest　sensation　of　which　the　artist　was　now　conscious；

was　more　intolerable　than　any　fantastic　miseries　and　horrors　that

the　abuse　of　wine　could　summon　up。　In　the　latter　case；　he　could

remember；　even　out　of　the　midst　of　his　trouble；　that　all　was　but　a

delusion；　in　the　former；　the　heavy　anguish　was　his　actual　life。

　　　From　this　perilous　state；　he　was　redeemed　by　an　incident　which　more

than　one　person　witnessed；　but　of　which　the　shrewdest　could　not

explain　nor　conjecture　the　operation　on　Owen　Warland's　mind。　It　was

very　simple。　On　a　warm　afternoon　of　Spring；　as　the　artist　sat　among

his　riotous　companions；　with　a　glass　of　wine　before　him；　a　splendid

butterfly　flew　in　at　the　open　window；　and　fluttered　about　his　head。

　　　〃Ah！〃　exclaimed　Owen；　who　had　drunk　freely；　〃are　you　alive　again；

child　of　the　sun；　and　playmate　of　the　summer　breeze；　after　your　dismal

winter's　nap！　Then　it　is　time　for　me　to　be　at　work！〃

　　　And　leaving　his　unemptied　glass　upon　the　table；　he　departed；　and

was　never　known　to　sip　another　drop　of　wine。

　　　And　now；　again；　he　resumed　his　wanderings　in　the　woods　and

fields。　It　might　be　fancied　that　the　bright　butterfly；　which　had

come　so　spiritlike　into　the　window；　as　Owen　sat　with　the　rude

revellers；　was　indeed　a　spirit；　commissioned　to　recall　him　to　the

pure；　ideal　life　that　had　so　etherealised　him　among　men。　It　might　be

fancied；　that　he　went　forth　to　seek　this　spirit；　in　its　sunny

haunts；　for　still；　as　in　the　summer…time　gone　by；　he　was　seen　to　steal

gently　up；　wherever　a　butterfly　had　alighted；　and　lose　himself　in

contemplation　of　it。　When　it　took　flight；　his　eyes　followed　the　winged

vision；　as　if　its　airy　track　would　show　the　path　to　heaven。　But　what

could　be　the　purpose　of　the　unseasonable　toil；　which　was　again

resumed；　as　the　watchman　knew　by　the　lines　of　lamp…light　through　the

crevices　of　Owen　Warland's　shutters？　The　townspeople　had　one

comprehensive　explanation　of　all　these　singularities。　Owen　Warland　had

gone　mad！　How　universally　efficacious…　how　satisfactory；　too；　and

soothing　to　the　injured　sensibility　of　narrowness　and　dullness…　is

this　easy　method　of　accounting　for　whatever　lies　beyond　the　world's

most　ordinary　scope！　From　Saint　Paul's　days；　down　to　our　poor　little

Artist　of　the　Beautiful；　the　same　talisman　had　been　applied　to　the

elucidation　of　all　mysteries　in　the　words　or　deeds　of　men；　who　spoke

or　acted　too　wisely　or　too　well。　In　Owen　Warland's　case；　the

judgment　of　his　townsp