the artist of the beautiful-第3部分

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But　the　innate　tendency　of　his　soul　had　only　been　accumulating

fresh　vigor　during　its　apparent　sluggishness。　As　the　summer

advanced　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　re…creating

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

besides。　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　lifewho　are　either　in　advance　of　mankind　or　apart

from　itthere　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　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　unutility　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　gayly　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　or　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　drank　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　spirit…like　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　etheralized　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　lamplight　through　the　crevices　of　Owen　Warland's　shutters？　The

towns…people　had　one　comprehensive　explanation　of　all　these

singularities。　Owen　Warland　had　gone　mad！　How　universally

efficacioushow　satisfactory；　too；　and　soothing　to　the　injured

sensibility　of　narrowness　and　dulnessis　this　easy　method　of

accounting　for　whatever　lies　beyond　the　world's　most　ordinary

sco