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The Artist of the Beautiful
"Alive?Yes,Annie;itmaywellbesaidtopossesslife,forithasabsorbedmyownbeingintoitself;andinthesecretofthatbutterfly,andinitsbeauty,—whichisnotmerelyoutward,butdeepasitswholesystem,—isrepresentedtheintellect,theimagination,thesensibility,thesoulofanArtistoftheBeautiful!Yes;Icreatedit.But"—andherehiscountenancesomewhatchanged—"thisbutterflyisnotnowtomewhatitwaswhenIbehelditafaroffinthedaydreamsofmyyouth."
"Beitwhatitmay,itisaprettyplaything,"saidtheblacksmith,grinningwithchildlikedelight."Iwonderwhetheritwouldcondescendtoalightonsuchagreatclumsyfingerasmine?Holdithither,Annie."
Bytheartist’sdirection,Annietouchedherfinger’stiptothatofherhusband;and,afteramomentarydelay,thebutterflyflutteredfromonetotheother.Itpreludedasecondflightbyasimilar,yetnotpreciselythesame,wavingofwingsasinthefirstexperiment;then,ascendingfromtheblacksmith’sstalwartfinger,itroseinagraduallyenlargingcurvetotheceiling,madeonewidesweeparoundtheroom,andreturnedwithanundulatingmovementtothepointwhenceithadstarted.
"Well,thatdoesbeatallnature!"criedRobertDanforth,bestowingtheheartiestpraisethathecouldfindexpressionfor;and,indeed,hadhepausedthere,amanoffinerwordsandnicerperceptioncouldnoteasilyhavesaidmore."Thatgoesbeyondme,Iconfess.Butwhatthen?Thereismorerealuseinonedownrightblowofmysledgehammerthaninthewholefiveyears’laborthatourfriendOwenhaswastedonthisbutterfly.
