第37章

Anniehadbutgiventheslightestpossibletouch，withthepointof

aneedle，tothesameminuteportionofcomplicatedmachinerywhich

hasbeenmorethanoncementioned，whentheartistseizedherbythe

wristwithaforcethatmadeherscreamaloud。Shewasaffrightedat

theconvulsionofintenserageandanguishthatwrithedacrosshis

features。Thenextinstanthelethisheadsinkuponhishands。

“Go，Annie。”murmuredhe，“Ihavedeceivedmyself，andmust

sufferforit。Iyearnedforsympathy-andthought-andfancied-and

dreamed-thatyoumightgiveitme。Butyoulackthetalisman，

Annie，thatshouldadmityouintomysecrets。Thattouchhasundone

thetoilofmonths，andthethoughtofalifetime！Itwasnotyour

fault，Annie-butyouhaveruinedme！”

PoorOwenWarland！Hehadindeederred，yetpardonably；forif

anyhumanspiritcouldhavesufficientlyreverencedtheprocessesso

sacredinhiseyes，itmusthavebeenawoman’s。EvenAnnie

Hovenden，possibly，mightnothavedisappointedhim，hadshebeen

enlightenedbythedeepintelligenceoflove。

Theartistspenttheensuingwinterinawaythatsatisfiedany

persons，whohadhithertoretainedahopefulopinionofhim，thathe

was，intruth，irrevocablydoomedtoinutilityasregardedthe

world，andtoanevildestinyonhisownpart。Thedeceaseofa

relativehadputhiminpossessionofasmallinheritance。Thus

freedfromthenecessityoftoil，andhavinglostthesteadfast

influenceofagreatpurpose-great，atleast，tohim-heabandoned

himselftohabitsfromwhich，itmighthavebeensupposed，themere

delicacyofhisorganizationwouldhaveavailedtosecurehim。But

whentheetherealportionofamanofgeniusisobscured，the

earthlypartassumesaninfluencethemoreuncontrollable，becausethe

characterisnowthrownoffthebalancetowhichProvidencehadso

nicelyadjustedit，andwhich，incoarsernatures，isadjustedbysome

othermethod。OwenWarlandmadeproofofwhatevershowofblissmaybe

foundinriot。Helookedattheworldthroughthegoldenmediumof

wine，andcontemplatedthevisionsthatbubbleupsogailyaround

thebrimoftheglass，andthatpeopletheairwithshapesofpleasant

madness，whichsosoongrowghostlyandforlorn。Evenwhenthisdismal

andinevitablechangehadtakenplace，theyoungmanmightstill

havecontinuedtoquaffthecupofenchantments，thoughitsvapor

didbutshroudlifeingloom，andfillthegloomwithspectresthat

mockedathim。Therewasacertainirksomenessofspirit，which，being

real，andthedeepestsensationofwhichtheartistwasnowconscious，

wasmoreintolerablethananyfantasticmiseriesandhorrorsthat

theabuseofwinecouldsummonup。Inthelattercase，hecould

remember，evenoutofthemidstofhistrouble，thatallwasbuta

delusion；intheformer，theheavyanguishwashisactuallife。

Fromthisperilousstate，hewasredeemedbyanincidentwhichmore

thanonepersonwitnessed，butofwhichtheshrewdestcouldnot

explainnorconjecturetheoperationonOwenWarland’smind。Itwas

verysimple。OnawarmafternoonofSpring，astheartistsatamong

hisriotouscompanions，withaglassofwinebeforehim，asplendid

butterflyflewinattheopenwindow，andflutteredabouthishead。

“Ah！”exclaimedOwen，whohaddrunkfreely，“areyoualiveagain，

childofthesun，andplaymateofthesummerbreeze，afteryourdismal

winter’snap！Thenitistimeformetobeatwork！”

Andleavinghisunemptiedglassuponthetable，hedeparted，and

wasneverknowntosipanotherdropofwine。

Andnow，again，heresumedhiswanderingsinthewoodsand

fields。Itmightbefanciedthatthebrightbutterfly，whichhad

comesospiritlikeintothewindow，asOwensatwiththerude

revellers，wasindeedaspirit，commissionedtorecallhimtothe

pure，ideallifethathadsoetherealisedhimamongmen。Itmightbe

fancied，thathewentforthtoseekthisspirit，initssunny

haunts；forstill，asinthesummer-timegoneby，hewasseentosteal

gentlyup，whereverabutterflyhadalighted，andlosehimselfin

contemplationofit。Whenittookflight，hiseyesfollowedthewinged

vision，asifitsairytrackwouldshowthepathtoheaven。Butwhat

couldbethepurposeoftheunseasonabletoil，whichwasagain

resumed，asthewatchmanknewbythelinesoflamp-lightthroughthe

crevicesofOwenWarland’sshutters？Thetownspeoplehadone

comprehensiveexplanationofallthesesingularities。OwenWarlandhad

gonemad！Howuniversallye