the artist of the beautiful-第4部分

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accounting　for　whatever　lies　beyond　the　world's　most　ordinary

scope！　From　St。　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　towns…people　may　have　been　correct。　Perhaps　he　was　mad。　The

lack　of　sympathythat　contrast　between　himself　and　his　neighbors

which　took　away　the　restraint　of　examplewas　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　daylight。



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　to…morrow

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。〃



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　outbreak。　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　creature　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　headpausing；　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　passed　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　awaythe　world's；　whose　life

sand　may　fall；　drop　by　dropbefore　another　intellect　is　prepared

to　develop　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　painteras

Allston　didleaves　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　proje