Мхи старої садиби
The Artist of the Beautiful
OwenWarlandmighthavetoldthemthatthisbutterfly,thisplaything,thisbridalgiftofapoorwatchmakertoablacksmith’swife,was,intruth,agemofartthatamonarchwouldhavepurchasedwithhonorsandabundantwealth,andhavetreasureditamongthejewelsofhiskingdomasthemostuniqueandwondrousofthemall.Buttheartistsmiledandkeptthesecrettohimself.
"Father,"saidAnnie,thinkingthatawordofpraisefromtheoldwatchmakermightgratifyhisformerapprentice,"docomeandadmirethisprettybutterfly."
"Letussee,"saidPeterHovenden,risingfromhischair,withasneeruponhisfacethatalwaysmadepeopledoubt,ashehimselfdid,ineverythingbutamaterialexistence."Hereismyfingerforittoalightupon.IshallunderstanditbetterwhenonceIhavetouchedit."
But,totheincreasedastonishmentofAnnie,whenthetipofherfather’sfingerwaspressedagainstthatofherhusband,onwhichthebutterflystillrested,theinsectdroopeditswingsandseemedonthepointoffallingtothefloor.Eventhebrightspotsofgolduponitswingsandbody,unlesshereyesdeceivedher,grewdim,andtheglowingpurpletookaduskyhue,andthestarrylustrethatgleamedaroundtheblacksmith’shandbecamefaintandvanished.
"Itisdying!itisdying!"criedAnnie,inalarm.
"Ithasbeendelicatelywrought,"saidtheartist,calmly."AsItoldyou,ithasimbibedaspiritualessence—callitmagnetism,orwhatyouwill.Inanatmosphereofdoubtandmockeryitsexquisitesusceptibilitysufferstorture,asdoesthesoulofhimwhoinstilledhisownlifeintoit.
