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

daylight. Why, if you go on in this way, I should even venture to
let you doctor this precious old watch of mine; though, except my
daughter Annie, I have nothing else so valuable in the world."

"I should hardly dare touch it, sir," replied Owen in a depressed
tone; for he was weighed down by his old master's presence.

"In time, said the latter, "in time, you will be capable of it."

The old watchmaker, with the freedom naturally consequent on his
former authority, went on inspecting the work which Owen had in hand
at the moment, together with other matters that were in progress.
The artist, meanwhile, could scarcely lift his head. There was nothing
so antipodal to his nature as this man's cold, unimaginative sagacity,
by contact with which everything was converted into a dream, except
the densest matter of the physical world. Owen groaned in spirit,
and prayed fervently to be delivered from him.

"But what is this?" cried Peter Hovenden abruptly, taking up a
dusty bell-glass, beneath which appeared a mechanical something, as
delicate and minute as the system of a butterfly's anatomy. "What have
we here! Owen, Owen! there is witchcraft in these little chains, and
wheels, and paddles! See! with one pinch of my finger and thumb, I
am going to deliver you from all future peril."

"For Heaven's sake," screamed Owen Warland, springing up with
wonderful energy, "as you would not drive me mad- do not touch it! The
slightest pressure of your finger would ruin me for ever.

"Aha, young man! And is it so?" said the old watchmaker, looking at
him with just enough of penetration to torture Owen's soul with the
bitterness of worldly criticism. "Well; take your own course. But I
warn you again, that in this small piece of mechanism lives your
evil spirit. Shall I exorcise him?"

"You are my Evil Spirit," answered Owen, much excited- "you, and
the hard, coarse world! The leaden thoughts and the despondency that
you fling upon me are my clogs. Else, I should long ago have
achieved the task that I was created for."

Peter Hovenden shook his head, with the mixture of contempt and
indignation which mankind, of whom he was partly a representative,
deem themselves entitled to feel towards all simpletons who seek other
prizes than the dusty one along the highway. He then took his leave
with an uplifted finger, and a sneer upon his face, that haunted the
artist's dreams for many a night afterwards. At the time of his old
master's visit, Owen was probably on the point of taking up the
relinquished task; but, by this sinister event, he was thrown back
into the state whence he had been slowly emerging.