"Nathaniel Hawthorne - The Artist of the Beautiful" - читать интересную книгу автора (Hawthorne Nathaniel)

himself to arrange a dance or funeral procession of figures across its
venerable face, representing twelve mirthful or melancholy hours.
Several freaks of this kind quite destroyed the young watchmaker's
credit with that steady and matter-of-fact class of people, who hold
the opinion that time is not to be trifled with, whether considered as
the medium of advancement and prosperity in this world, or preparation
for the next. His custom rapidly diminished- a misfortune, however,
that was probably reckoned among his better accidents by Owen Warland,
who was becoming more and more absorbed in a secret occupation,
which drew all his science and manual dexterity into itself, and
likewise gave full employment to the characteristic tendencies of
his genius. This pursuit had already consumed many months.

After the old watchmaker and his pretty daughter had gazed at
him, out of the obscurity of the street, Owen Warland was seized
with a fluttering of the nerves, which made his hand tremble too
violently to proceed with such delicate labor as he was now engaged
upon.

"It was Annie herself!" murmured he. "I should have known by this
throbbing of my heart, before I heard her father's voice. Ah, how it
throbs! I shall scarcely be able to work again on this exquisite
mechanism tonight. Annie- dearest Annie- thou shouldst give firmness
to my heart and hand, and not shake them thus; for if I strive to
put the very spirit of Beauty into form, and give it motion, it is for
thy sake alone. Oh, throbbing heart, be quiet! If my labor be thus
thwarted, there will come vague and unsatisfied dreams, which will
leave me spiritless tomorrow."

As he was endeavoring to settle himself again to his task, the
shop-door opened, and gave admittance to no other than the stalwart
figure which Peter Hovenden had paused to admire, as seen amid the
light and shadow of the blacksmith's shop. Robert Danforth had brought
a little anvil of his own manufacture, and peculiarly constructed,
which the young artist had recently bespoken. Owen examined the
article, and pronounced it fashioned according to his wish.

"Why, yes," said Robert Danforth, his strong voice filling the shop
as with the sound of a bass-viol, "I consider myself equal to anything
in the way of my own trade; though I should have made but a poor
figure at yours, with such a fist as this"- added he, laughing, as
he laid his vast hand beside the delicate one of Owen. "But what then?
I put more main strength into one blow of my sledge-hammer, than all
that you have expended since you were a 'prentice. Is not that the
truth?"

"Very probably," answered the low and slender voice of Owen.
"Strength is an earthly monster. I make no pretensions to it. My
force, whatever there may be of it, is altogether spiritual."