Мхи старой усадьбы
The Artist of the Beautiful
OwenWarlandfelttheimpulsetogiveexternalrealitytohisideasasirresistiblyasanyofthepoetsorpainterswhohavearrayedtheworldinadimmerandfainterbeauty,imperfectlycopiedfromtherichnessoftheirvisions.
Thenightwasnowhistimefortheslowprogressofre-creatingtheoneideatowhichallhisintellectualactivityreferreditself.Alwaysattheapproachofduskhestoleintothetown,lockedhimselfwithinhisshop,andwroughtwithpatientdelicacyoftouchformanyhours.Sometimeshewasstartledbytherapofthewatchman,who,whenalltheworldshouldbeasleep,hadcaughtthegleamoflamplightthroughthecrevicesofOwenWarland’sshutters.Daylight,tothemorbidsensibilityofhismind,seemedtohaveanintrusivenessthatinterferedwithhispursuits.Oncloudyandinclementdays,therefore,hesatwithhisheaduponhishands,muffling,asitwere,hissensitivebraininamistofindefinitemusings,foritwasarelieftoescapefromthesharpdistinctnesswithwhichhewascompelledtoshapeouthisthoughtsduringhisnightlytoil.
FromoneofthesefitsoftorporhewasarousedbytheentranceofAnnieHovenden,whocameintotheshopwiththefreedomofacustomer,andalsowithsomethingofthefamiliarityofachildishfriend.Shehadwornaholethroughhersilverthimble,andwantedOwentorepairit.
"ButIdon’tknowwhetheryouwillcondescendtosuchatask,"saidshe,laughing,"nowthatyouaresotakenupwiththenotionofputtingspiritintomachinery."
"Wheredidyougetthatidea,Annie?"saidOwen,startinginsurprise.
