Мхи старої садиби
The Artist of the Beautiful
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"ForHeaven’ssake,"screamedOwenWarland,springingupwithwonderfulenergy,"asyouwouldnotdrivememad,donottouchit!Theslightestpressureofyourfingerwouldruinmeforever."
"Aha,youngman!Andisitso?"saidtheoldwatchmaker,lookingathimwithjustenoughpenetrationtotortureOwen’ssoulwiththebitternessofworldlycriticism."Well,takeyourowncourse;butIwarnyouagainthatinthissmallpieceofmechanismlivesyourevilspirit.ShallIexorcisehim?"
"Youaremyevilspirit,"answeredOwen,muchexcited,—"youandthehard,coarseworld!Theleadenthoughtsandthedespondencythatyouflinguponmearemyclogs,elseIshouldlongagohaveachievedthetaskthatIwascreatedfor."
PeterHovendenshookhishead,withthemixtureofcontemptandindignationwhichmankind,ofwhomhewaspartlyarepresentative,deemthemselvesentitledtofeeltowardsallsimpletonswhoseekotherprizesthanthedustyonealongthehighway.Hethentookhisleave,withanupliftedfingerandasneeruponhisfacethathauntedtheartist’sdreamsformanyanightafterwards.Atthetimeofhisoldmaster’svisit,Owenwasprobablyonthepointoftakinguptherelinquishedtask;but,bythissinisterevent,hewasthrownbackintothestatewhencehehadbeenslowlyemerging.
Buttheinnatetendencyofhissoulhadonlybeenaccumulatingfreshvigorduringitsapparentsluggishness.
