按键盘上方向键 ← 或 → 可快速上下翻页，按键盘上的 Enter 键可回到本书目录页，按键盘上方向键 ↑ 可回到本页顶部！
————未阅读完？加入书签已便下次继续阅读！
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
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