twice-told tales- the artist of the beautiful-第4部分

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

judgment　of　his　townspeople　may　have　been　correct。　Perhaps　he　was　mad。

The　lack　of　sympathy…　that　contrast　between　himself　and　his　neighbors；

which　took　away　the　restraint　of　example…　was　enough　to　make　him　so。

Or；　possibly；　he　had　caught　just　so　much　of　ethereal　radiance　as

served　to　bewilder　him；　in　an　earthly　sense；　by　its　intermixture

with　the　common　day　light。

　　　One　evening；　when　the　artist　had　returned　from　a　customary

ramble；　and　had　just　thrown　the　lustre　of　his　lamp　on　the　delicate

piece　of　work；　so　often　interrupted；　but　still　taken　up　again；　as　if

his　fate　were　embodied　in　its　mechanism；　he　was　surprised　by　the

entrance　of　old　Peter　Hovenden。　Owen　never　met　this　man　without　a

shrinking　of　the　heart。　Of　all　the　world；　he　was　most　terrible；　by

reason　of　a　keen　understanding；　which　saw　so　distinctly　what　it　did

see；　and　disbelieved　so　uncompromisingly　in　what　it　could　not　see。

On　this　occasion；　the　old　watchmaker　had　merely　a　gracious　word　or　two

to　say。

　　　〃Owen；　my　lad；〃　said　he；　〃we　must　see　you　at　my　house　tomorrow

night。〃

　　　The　artist　began　to　mutter　some　excuse。

　　　〃Oh；　but　it　must　be　so；〃　quoth　Peter　Hovenden；　〃for　the　sake　of　the

days　when　you　were　one　of　the　household。　What；　my　boy；　don't　you

know　that　my　daughter　Annie　is　engaged　to　Robert　Danforth？　We　are

making　an　entertainment；　in　our　humble　way；　to　celebrate　the　event。〃

　　　〃Ah！〃　said　Owen。

　　　That　little　monosyllable　was　all　he　uttered；　its　tone　seemed　cold

and　unconcerned；　to　an　ear　like　Peter　Hovenden's；　and　yet　there　was　in

it　the　stifled　outcry　of　the　poor　artist's　heart；　which　he

compressed　within　him　like　a　man　holding　down　an　evil　spirit。　One

slight　out…break；　however；　imperceptible　to　the　old　watchmaker；　he

allowed　himself。　Raising　the　instrument　with　which　he　was　about　to

begin　his　work；　he　let　it　fall　upon　the　little　system　of　machinery

that　had；　anew；　cost　him　months　of　thought　and　toil。　It　was

shattered　by　the　stroke！

　　　Owen　Warland's　story　would　have　been　no　tolerable　representation　of

the　troubled　life　of　those　who　strive　to　create　the　Beautiful；　if；

amid　all　other　thwarting　influences；　love　had　not　interposed　to

steal　the　cunning　from　his　hand。　Outwardly　he　had　been　no　ardent　or

enterprising　lover；　the　career　of　his　passion　had　confined　its　tumults

and　vicissitudes　so　entirely　within　the　artist's　imagination；　that

Annie　herself　had　scarcely　more　than　a　woman's　intuitive　perception　of

it。　But；　in　Owen's　view；　it　covered　the　whole　field　of　his　life。

Forgetful　of　the　time　when　she　had　shown　herself　incapable　of　any　deep

response；　he　had　persisted　in　connecting　all　his　dreams　of

artistical　success　with　Annie's　image；　she　was　the　visible　shape　in

which　the　spiritual　power　that　he　worshipped；　and　on　whose　altar　he

hoped　to　lay　a　not　unworthy　offering；　was　made　manifest　to　him。　Of

course　he　had　deceived　himself；　there　were　no　such　attributes　in　Annie

Hovenden　as　his　imagination　had　endowed　her　with。　She；　in　the　aspect

which　she　wore　to　his　inward　vision；　was　as　much　a　creation　of　his

own；　as　the　mysterious　piece　of　mechanism　would　be　were　it　ever

realized。　Had　he　become　convinced　of　his　mistake　through　the　medium　of

successful　love；　had　he　won　Annie　to　his　bosom；　and　there　beheld　her

fade　from　angel　into　ordinary　woman；　the　disappointment　might　have

driven　him　back；　with　concentrated　energy；　upon　his　sole　remaining

object。　On　the　other　hand；　had　he　found　Annie　what　he　fancied；　his　lot

would　have　been　so　rich　in　beauty；　that　out　of　its　mere　redundancy

he　might　have　wrought　the　Beautiful　into　many　a　worthier　type　than

he　had　toiled　for。　But　the　guise　in　which　his　sorrow　came　to　him；

the　sense　that　the　angel　of　his　life　had　been　snatched　away　and

given　to　a　rude　man　of　earth　and　iron；　who　could　neither　need　nor

appreciate　her　ministrations；　this　was　the　very　perversity　of　fate；

that　makes　human　existence　appear　too　absurd　and　contradictory　to　be

the　scene　of　one　other　hope　or　one　other　fear。　There　was　nothing

left　for　Owen　Warland　but　to　sit　down　like　a　man　that　had　been

stunned。

　　　He　went　through　a　fit　of　illness。　After　his　recovery；　his　small　and

slender　frame　assumed　an　obtuser　garniture　of　flesh　than　it　had　ever

before　worn。　His　thin　cheeks　became　round；　his　delicate　little　hand；

so　spiritually　fashioned　to　achieve　fairy　task…work；　grew　plumper　than

the　hand　of　a　thriving　infant。　His　aspect　had　a　childishness；　such

as　might　have　induced　a　stranger　to　pat　him　on　the　head…　pausing；

however；　in　the　act；　to　wonder　what　manner　of　child　was　here。　It　was

as　if　the　spirit　had　gone　out　of　him；　leaving　the　body　to　flourish

in　a　sort　of　vegetable　existence。　Not　that　Owen　Warland　was　idiotic。

He　could　talk；　and　not　irrationally。　Somewhat　of　a　babbler；　indeed；

did　people　begin　to　think　him；　for　he　was　apt　to　discourse　at

wearisome　length；　of　marvels　of　mechanism　that　he　had　read　about　in

books；　but　which　he　had　learned　to　consider　as　absolutely　fabulous。

Among　them　he　enumerated　the　Man　of　Brass；　constructed　by　Albertus

Magnus；　and　the　Brazen　Head　of　Friar　Bacon；　and；　coming　down　to

later　times；　the　automata　of　a　little　coach　and　horses；　which；　it

was　pretended；　had　been　manufactured　for　the　Dauphin　of　France；

together　with　an　insect　that　buzzed　about　the　ear　like　a　living　fly；

and　yet　was　but　a　contrivance　of　minute　steel　springs。　There　was　a

story；　too；　of　a　duck　that　waddled；　and　quacked；　and　ate；　though；

had　any　honest　citizen　purchased　it　for　dinner；　he　would　have　found

himself　cheated　with　the　mere　mechanical　apparition　of　a　duck。

　　　〃But　all　these　accounts；〃　said　Owen　Warland；　〃I　am　now　satisfied；

are　mere　impositions。〃

　　　Then；　in　a　mysterious　way；　he　would　confess　that　he　once　thought

differently。　In　his　idle　and　dreamy　days　he　had　considered　it

possible；　in　a　certain　sense；　to　spiritualize　machinery；　and　to

combine　with　the　new　species　of　life　and　motion；　thus　produced；　a

beauty　that　should　attain　to　the　ideal；　which　Nature　has　proposed　to

herself；　in　all　her　creatures；　but　has　never　taken　pains　to　realize。

He　seemed；　however；　to　retain　no　very　distinct　perception　either　of

the　process　of　achieving　this　object；　or　of　the　design　itself。

　　　〃I　have　thrown　it　all　aside　now；〃　he　would　say。　〃It　was　a　dream；

such　as　young　men　are　always　mystifying　themselves　with。　Now　that　I

have　acquired　a　little　common　sense；　it　makes　me　laugh　to　think　of　it。

　　　Poor；　poor；　and　fallen　Owen　Warland！　These　were　the　symptoms　that

he　had　ceased　to　be　an　inhabitant　of　the　better　sphere　that　lies

unseen　around　us。　He　had　lost　his　faith　in　the　invisible；　and　now

prided　himself；　as　such　unfortunates　invariably　do；　in　the　wisdom

which　rejected　much　that　even　his　eye　could　see；　and　trusted

confidently　in　nothing　but　what　his　hand　could　touch。　This　is　the

calamity　of　men　whose　spiritual　part　dies　out　of　them；　and　leaves

the　grosser　understanding　to　assimilate　them　more　and　more　to　the

things　of　which　alone　it　can　take　cognizance。　But；　in　Owen　Warland；

the　spirit　was　not　dead；　nor　past　away；　it　only　slept。

　　　How　it　awoke　again；　is　not　recorded。　Perhaps；　the　torpid　slumber

was　broken　by　a　convulsive　pain。　Perhaps；　as　in　a　former　instance；　the

butterfly　came　and　hovered　about　his　head；　and　reinspired　him…　as；

indeed；　this　creature　of　the　sunshine　had　always　a　mysterious

mission　for　the　artist…　reinspired　him　with　the　former　purpose　of

his　life。　Whether　it　were　pain　or　happiness　that　thrilled　through

his　veins；　his　first　impulse　was　to　thank　Heaven　for　rendering　him

again　the　being　of　thought；　imagination；　and　keenest　sensibility；　that

he　had　long　ceased　to　be。

　　　〃Now　for　my　task；〃　said　he。　〃Never　did　I　feel　such　strength　for

it　as　now。〃

　　　Yet；　strong　as　he　felt　himself；　he　was　incited　to　toil　the　more

diligently；　by　an　anxiety　lest　death　should　surprise　him　in　the

midst　of　his　labors。　This　anxiety；　perhaps；　is　common　to　all　men　who

set　their　hearts　upon　anything　so　high；　in　their　own　view　of　it；

that　life　becomes　of　importance　only　as　conditional　to　its

accomplishment。　So　long　as　we　love　life　for　itself；　we　seldom　dread

the　losing　it。　When　we　desire　life　for　the　attainment　of　an　object；　we

recognize　the　frailty　of　its　texture。　But；　side　by　side　with　this

sense　of　insecurity；　there　is　a　vital　faith　in　our　invulnerability

to　the　shaft　of　death；　while　engaged　in　any　task　that　seems　assigned

by　Providence　as　our　proper　thing　to　do；　and　which　the　world　would

have　cause　to　mourn　for；　should　we　leave　it　unaccomplished。　Can　the

philosopher；　big　with　the　inspiration　of　an　idea　that　is　to　reform

mankind；　believe　that　he　is　to　be　beckoned　from　this　sensible

existence；　at　the　very　instant　when　he　is　mustering　his　breath　to

speak　the　word　of　light？　Should　he　perish　so；　the　weary　ages　may

pass　away…　the　world's　whole　life…　sand　may　fall；　drop　by　drop…　before

another　intellect　is　prepared　to　develope　the　truth　that　might　have

been　uttered　then。　But　history　affords　many　an　example；　where　the　most

precious　spirit；　at　any　particular　epoch　manifested　in　human　shape；

has　gone　hence　untimely；　without　space　allowed　him；　so　far　as　mortal

judgment　could　discern；　to　perform　his　mission　on　the　earth。　The

prophet　dies；　and　the　man　of　torpid　heart　and　sluggish　brain　lives　on。

The　poet　leaves　his　song　half　sung；　or　finishes　it；　beyond　the　scope

of　mortal　ears；　in　a　celestial　choir。　The　painter…　as　Allston　did…

leaves　half　his　conception　on　the　canvas；　to　sadden　us　with　its

imperfect　beauty；　and　goes　to　picture　forth　the　whole；　if　it　be　no

irreverence　to　say　so；　in　the　hues　of　Heaven。　But；　rather；　such

incomplete　designs　of　this　life　will　be　perfected　nowhere。　This　so

frequent　abortion　of　man's　dearest　projects　must　be　taken　as　a

proof；　that　the　deeds　of　earth；　however　etherealized　by　piety　or

genius；　are　without　value；　except　as　exercises　and　manifestations　of

the　spirit。　In　Heaven；　all　ordinary　thought　is　higher　and　more

melodious　than　Milton's　song。　Then；　would　he　add　another　verse　to

any　strain　that　he　had　left　unfinished　here？

　　　But　to　return　to　Ow