twice-told tales- the artist of the beautiful-第5部分

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

any　strain　that　he　had　left　unfinished　here？

　　　But　to　return　to　Owen　Warland。　It　was　his　fortune；　good　or　ill；

to　achieve　the　purpose　of　his　life。　Pass　we　over　a　long　space　of

intense　thought；　yearning　effort；　minute　toil；　and　wasting　anxiety；

succeeded　by　an　instant　of　solitary　triumph；　let　all　this　be　imagined；

and　then　behold　the　artist；　on　a　winter　evening；　seeking　admittance　to

Robert　Danforth's　fireside　circle。　There　he　found　the　Man　of　Iron；

with　his　massive　substance；　thoroughly　warmed　and　attempered　by

domestic　influences。　And　there　was　Annie；　too；　now　transformed　into

a　matron；　with　much　of　her　husband's　plain　and　sturdy　nature；　but

imbued；　as　Owen　Warland　still　believed；　with　a　finer　grace；　that　might

enable　her　to　be　the　interpreter　between　Strength　and　Beauty。　It

happened；　likewise；　that　old　Peter　Hovenden　was　a　guest；　this　evening；

at　his　daughter's　fireside；　and　it　was　his　well…remembered

expression　of　keen；　cold　criticism；　that　first　encountered　the

artist's　glance。

　　　〃My　old　friend　Owen！〃　cried　Robert　Danforth；　starting　up；　and

compressing　the　artist's　delicate　fingers　within　a　hand　that　was

accustomed　to　gripe　bars　of　iron。　〃This　is　kind　and　neighborly；　to

come　to　us　at　last！　I　was　afraid　your　Perpetual　Motion　had　bewitched

you　out　of　the　remembrance　of　old　times。〃

　　　〃We　are　glad　to　see　you！〃　said　Annie；　while　a　blush　reddened　her

matronly　cheek。　〃It　was　not　like　a　friend　to　stay　from　us　so　long。〃

　　　〃Well；　Owen；〃　inquired　the　old　watchmaker；　as　his　first　greeting；

〃how　comes　on　the　Beautiful？　Have　you　created　it　at　last？〃

　　　The　artist　did　not　immediately　reply；　being　startled　by　the

apparition　of　a　young　child　of　strength；　that　was　tumbling　about　on

the　carpet；　a　little　personage　who　had　come　mysteriously　out　of　the

infinite；　but　with　something　so　sturdy　and　real　in　his　composition

that　he　seemed　moulded　out　of　the　densest　substance　which　earth

could　supply。　This　hopeful　infant　crawled　towards　the　newcomer；　and

setting　himself　on　end…　as　Robert　Danforth　expressed　the　posture…

stared　at　Owen　with　a　look　of　such　sagacious　observation；　that　the

mother　could　not　help　exchanging　a　proud　glance　with　her　husband。

But　the　artist　was　disturbed　by　the　child's　look；　as　imagining　a

resemblance　between　it　and　Peter　Hovenden's　habitual　expression。　He

could　have　fancied　that　the　old　watchmaker　was　compressed　into　this

baby…shape；　and　looking　out　of　those　baby…eyes；　and　repeating…　as　he

now　did…　the　malicious　question：　〃The　Beautiful；　Owen！　How　comes　on

the　Beautiful？　Have　you　succeeded　in　creating　the　Beautiful？〃

　　　〃I　have　succeeded；〃　replied　the　artist；　with　a　momentary　light　of

triumph　in　his　eyes；　and　a　smile　of　sunshine；　yet　steeped　in　such

depth　of　thought；　that　it　was　almost　sadness。　〃Yes；　my　friends；　it

is　the　truth。　I　have　succeeded！〃

　　　〃Indeed！〃　cried　Annie；　a　look　of　maiden　mirthfulness　peeping　out　of

her　face　again。　〃And　is　it　lawful；　now；　to　inquire　what　the　secret

is？〃

　　　〃Surely；　it　is　to　disclose　it；　that　I　have　come；〃　answered　Owen

Warland。　〃You　shall　know；　and　see；　and　touch；　and　possess　the

secret！　For；　Annie…　if　by　that　name　I　may　still　address　the　friend

of　my　boyish　years…　Annie；　it　is　for　your　bridal　gift　that　I　have

wrought　this　spiritualized　mechanism；　this　harmony　of　motion；　this

Mystery　of　Beauty！　It　comes　late；　indeed；　but　it　is　as　we　go　onward　in

life；　when　objects　begin　to　lose　their　freshness　of　hue；　and　our　souls

their　delicacy　of　perception；　that　the　spirit　of　Beauty　is　most

needed。　If…　forgive　me；　Annie…　if　you　know　how　to　value　this　gift；

it　can　never　come　too　late！〃

　　　He　produced；　as　he　spoke；　what　seemed　a　jewel…box。　It　was　carved

richly　out　of　ebony　by　his　own　hand；　and　inlaid　with　a　fanciful

tracery　of　pearl；　representing　a　boy　in　pursuit　of　a　butterfly；　which；

elsewhere；　had　become　a　winged　spirit；　and　was　flying　heavenward；

while　the　boy；　or　youth；　had　found　such　efficacy　in　his　strong　desire；

that　he　ascended　from　earth　to　cloud；　and　from　cloud　to　celestial

atmosphere；　to　win　the　Beautiful。　This　case　of　ebony　the　artist

opened；　and　bade　Annie　place　her　finger　on　its　edge。　She　did　so；　but

almost　screamed；　as　a　butterfly　fluttered　forth；　and；　alighting　on　her

finger's　tip；　sat　waving　the　ample　magnificence　of　its　purple　and

gold…speckled　wings；　as　if　in　prelude　to　a　flight。　It　is　impossible　to

express　by　words　the　glory；　the　splendor；　the　delicate　gorgeousness；

which　were　softened　into　the　beauty　of　this　object。　Nature's　ideal

butterfly　was　here　realized　in　all　its　perfection；　not　in　the

pattern　of　such　faded　insects　as　flit　among　earthly　flowers；　but　of

those　which　hover　across　the　meads　of　Paradise；　for　child…angels　and

the　spirits　of　departed　infants　to　disport　themselves　with。　The　rich

down　was　visible　upon　its　wings；　the　lustre　of　its　eyes　seemed

instinct　with　spirit。　The　firelight　glimmered　around　this　wonder…

the　candles　gleamed　upon　it…　but　it　glistened　apparently　by　its　own

radiance；　and　illuminated　the　finger　and　outstretched　hand　on　which　it

rested；　with　a　white　gleam　like　that　of　precious　stones。　In　its

perfect　beauty；　the　consideration　of　size　was　entirely　lost。　Had　its

wings　overreached　　the　firmament；　the　mind　could　not　have　been　more

filled　or　satisfied。

　　　〃Beautiful！　Beautiful！〃　exclaimed　Annie。　〃Is　it　alive？　Is　it

alive？〃

　　　〃Alive？　To　be　sure　it　is；〃　answered　her　husband。　〃Do　you　suppose

any　mortal　has　skill　enough　to　make　a　butterfly…　or　would　put

himself　to　the　trouble　of　making　one；　when　any　child　may　catch　a　score

of　them　in　a　summer's　afternoon？　Alive？　certainly！　But　this　pretty　box

is　undoubtedly　of　our　friend　Owen's　manufacture；　and　really　it　does

him　credit。〃

　　　At　this　moment；　the　butterfly　waved　its　wings　anew；　with　a　motion

so　absolutely　lifelike　that　Annie　was　startled；　and　even　awe…stricken；

for；　in　spite　of　her　husband's　opinion；　she　could　not　satisfy

herself　whether　it　was　indeed　a　living　creature；　or　a　piece　of

wondrous　mechanism。

　　　〃Is　it　alive？〃　she　repeated；　more　earnestly　than　before。

　　　〃Judge　for　yourself；〃　said　Owen　Warland；　who　stood　gazing　in　her

face　with　fixed　attention。

　　　The　butterfly　now　flung　itself　upon　the　air；　fluttered　round

Annie's　head；　and　soared　into　a　distant　region　of　the　parlor；　still

making　itself　perceptible　to　sight　by　the　starry　gleam　in　which　the

motion　of　its　wings　enveloped　it。　The　infant；　on　the　floor；　followed

its　course　with　his　sagacious　little　eyes。　After　flying　about　the

room；　it　returned；　in　a　spiral　curve；　and　settled　again　on　Annie's

finger。

　　　〃But　is　it　alive？〃　exclaimed　she　again；　and　the　finger；　on　which

the　gorgeous　mystery　had　alighted；　was　so　tremulous　that　the　butterfly

was　forced　to　balance　himself　with　his　wings。　〃Tell　me　if　it　be　alive；

or　whether　you　created　it？〃

　　　〃Wherefore　ask　who　created　it；　so　it　be　beautiful？〃　replied　Owen

Warland。　〃Alive？　Yes；　Annie；　it　may　well　be　said　to　possess　life；

for　it　has　absorbed　my　own　being　into　itself；　and　in　the　secret　of

that　butterfly；　and　in　its　beauty…　which　is　not　merely　outward；　but

deep　as　its　whole　system…　is　represented　the　intellect；　the

imagination；　the　sensibility；　the　soul；　of　an　Artist　of　the　Beautiful！

Yes；　I　created　it。　But〃…　and　here　his　countenance　somewhat　changed…

〃this　butterfly　is　not　now　to　me　what　it　was　when　I　beheld　it　afar

off；　in　the　day…dreams　of　my　youth。〃

　　　〃Be　it　what　it　may；　it　is　a　pretty　plaything；〃　said　the　blacksmith；

grinning　with　childlike　delight。　〃I　wonder　whether　it　would　condescend

to　alight　on　such　a　great　clumsy　finger　as　mine？　Hold　it　hither；

Annie！〃

　　　By　the　artist's　direction；　Annie　touched　her　finger's　tip　to　that

of　her　husband；　and；　after　a　momentary　delay；　the　butterfly

fluttered　from　one　to　the　other。　It　preluded　a　second　flight　by　a

similar；　yet　not　precisely　the　same　waving　of　wings；　as　in　the　first

experiment。　Then　ascending　from　the　blacksmith's　stalwart　finger；　it

rose　in　a　gradually　enlarging　curve　to　the　ceiling；　made　one　wide

sweep　around　the　room；　and　returned　with　an　undulating　movement　to　the

point　whence　it　had　started。

　　　〃Well；　that　does　beat　all　nature！〃　cried　Robert　Danforth；　bestowing

the　heartiest　praise　that　he　could　find　expression　for；　and；　indeed；

had　he　paused　there；　a　man　of　finer　words　and　nicer　perception　could

not　easily　have　said　more。　〃That　goes　beyond　me；　I　confess！　But　what

then？　There　is　more　real　use　in　one　downright　blow　of　my

sledge…hammer；　than　in　the　whole　five　years'　labor　that　our　friend

Owen　has　wasted　on　this　butterfly！〃

　　　Here　the　child　clapped　his　hands；　and　made　a　great　babble　of

indistinct　utterance；　apparently　demanding　that　the　butterfly　should

be　given　him　for　a　plaything。

　　　Owen　Warland；　meanwhile；　glanced　sidelong　at　Annie；　to　discover

whether　she　sympathized　in　her　husband's　estimate　of　the　comparative

value　of　the　Beautiful　and　the　Practical。　There　was；　amid　all　her

kindness　towards　himself；　amid　all　the　wonder　and　admiration　with

which　she　contemplated　the　marvellous　work　of　his　hands；　and

incarnation　of　his　ideal　a　secret　scorn；　too　secret；　perhaps；　for

her　own　consciousness；　and　perceptible　only　to　such　intuitive

discernment　as　that　of　the　artist。　But　Owen；　in　the　latter　stages　of

his　pursuit；　had　risen　out　of　the　region　in　which　such　a　discovery

might　have　been　torture。　He　knew　that　the　world；　and　Annie　as　the

representative　of　the　world；　whatever　praise　might　be　bestowed；

could　never　say　the　fitting　word；　nor　feel　the　fitting　sentiment　which

should　be　the　perfect　recompense　of　an　artist　who；　symbolizing　a　lofty

moral　by　a　material　trifle…　converting　what　was　earthly　to　spiritual

gold…　had　won　the　Beautiful　into　his　handiwork。　Not　at　this　latest

moment　was　he　to　learn　that　the　reward　of　all　high　performance　must　be

sought　within　itself；　or　sought　in　vain。　There　was；　however；　a　view　of

the　matter；　which　Annie；　and　her　husband；　and　even　Peter　Hovenden；

might　fully　have　understood；　and　which　would　have　satisfied　them

that　the　toil　of　years　had　here　been　worthily　bestowed。　Owen　W