-
Главная
-
- Книги
-
- Авторы
-
- Натаниэль Хоторн
-
- Мхи старой усадьбы
-
- Стр. 101/106
Для того чтобы воспользоваться озвучкой предложений, необходимо
Войти или зарегистрироваться
Озвучка предложений доступна при наличии PRO-доступа
Купить PRO-доступ
After
his
recovery
his
small
and
slender
frame
assumed
an
obtuser
garniture
of
flesh
than
it
had
ever
before
worn
.
His
thin
cheeks
became
round
;
his
delicate
little
hand
,
so
spiritually
fashioned
to
achieve
fairy
task
-
work
,
grew
plumper
than
the
hand
of
a
thriving
infant
.
His
aspect
had
a
childishness
such
as
might
have
induced
a
stranger
to
pat
him
on
the
head
—
pausing
,
however
,
in
the
act
,
to
wonder
what
manner
of
child
was
here
.
It
was
as
if
the
spirit
had
gone
out
of
him
,
leaving
the
body
to
flourish
in
a
sort
of
vegetable
existence
.
Not
that
Owen
Warland
was
idiotic
.
He
could
talk
,
and
not
irrationally
.
Somewhat
of
a
babbler
,
indeed
,
did
people
begin
to
think
him
;
for
he
was
apt
to
discourse
at
wearisome
length
of
marvels
of
mechanism
that
he
had
read
about
in
books
,
but
which
he
had
learned
to
consider
as
absolutely
fabulous
.
Among
them
he
enumerated
the
Man
of
Brass
,
constructed
by
Albertus
Magnus
,
and
the
Brazen
Head
of
Friar
Bacon
;
and
,
coming
down
to
later
times
,
the
automata
of
a
little
coach
and
horses
,
which
it
was
pretended
had
been
manufactured
for
the
Dauphin
of
France
;
together
with
an
insect
that
buzzed
about
the
ear
like
a
living
fly
,
and
yet
was
but
a
contrivance
of
minute
steel
springs
.
There
was
a
story
,
too
,
of
a
duck
that
waddled
,
and
quacked
,
and
ate
;
though
,
had
any
honest
citizen
purchased
it
for
dinner
,
he
would
have
found
himself
cheated
with
the
mere
mechanical
apparition
of
a
duck
.
"
But
all
these
accounts
,
"
said
Owen
Warland
,
"
I
am
now
satisfied
are
mere
impositions
.
"
Then
,
in
a
mysterious
way
,
he
would
confess
that
he
once
thought
differently
.
In
his
idle
and
dreamy
days
he
had
considered
it
possible
,
in
a
certain
sense
,
to
spiritualize
machinery
,
and
to
combine
with
the
new
species
of
life
and
motion
thus
produced
a
beauty
that
should
attain
to
the
ideal
which
Nature
has
proposed
to
herself
in
all
her
creatures
,
but
has
never
taken
pains
to
realize
.
He
seemed
,
however
,
to
retain
no
very
distinct
perception
either
of
the
process
of
achieving
this
object
or
of
the
design
itself
.
"
I
have
thrown
it
all
aside
now
,
"
he
would
say
.
"
It
was
a
dream
such
as
young
men
are
always
mystifying
themselves
with
.
Now
that
I
have
acquired
a
little
common
sense
,
it
makes
me
laugh
to
think
of
it
.
"
Poor
,
poor
and
fallen
Owen
Warland
!
These
were
the
symptoms
that
he
had
ceased
to
be
an
inhabitant
of
the
better
sphere
that
lies
unseen
around
us
.
He
had
lost
his
faith
in
the
invisible
,
and
now
prided
himself
,
as
such
unfortunates
invariably
do
,
in
the
wisdom
which
rejected
much
that
even
his
eye
could
see
,
and
trusted
confidently
in
nothing
but
what
his
hand
could
touch
.
This
is
the
calamity
of
men
whose
spiritual
part
dies
out
of
them
and
leaves
the
grosser
understanding
to
assimilate
them
more
and
more
to
the
things
of
which
alone
it
can
take
cognizance
;
but
in
Owen
Warland
the
spirit
was
not
dead
nor
passed
away
;
it
only
slept
.
How
it
awoke
again
is
not
recorded
.
Perhaps
the
torpid
slumber
was
broken
by
a
convulsive
pain
.
Perhaps
,
as
in
a
former
instance
,
the
butterfly
came
and
hovered
about
his
head
and
reinspired
him
,
—
as
indeed
this
creature
of
the
sunshine
had
always
a
mysterious
mission
for
the
artist
,
—
reinspired
him
with
the
former
purpose
of
his
life
.
Whether
it
were
pain
or
happiness
that
thrilled
through
his
veins
,
his
first
impulse
was
to
thank
Heaven
for
rendering
him
again
the
being
of
thought
,
imagination
,
and
keenest
sensibility
that
he
had
long
ceased
to
be
.
"
Now
for
my
task
,
"
said
he
.
"
Never
did
I
feel
such
strength
for
it
as
now
.
"
Yet
,
strong
as
he
felt
himself
,
he
was
incited
to
toil
the
more
diligently
by
an
anxiety
lest
death
should
surprise
him
in
the
midst
of
his
labors
.
This
anxiety
,
perhaps
,
is
common
to
all
men
who
set
their
hearts
upon
anything
so
high
,
in
their
own
view
of
it
,
that
life
becomes
of
importance
only
as
conditional
to
its
accomplishment
.
So
long
as
we
love
life
for
itself
,
we
seldom
dread
the
losing
it
.
When
we
desire
life
for
the
attainment
of
an
object
,
we
recognize
the
frailty
of
its
texture
.
But
,
side
by
side
with
this
sense
of
insecurity
,
there
is
a
vital
faith
in
our
invulnerability
to
the
shaft
of
death
while
engaged
in
any
task
that
seems
assigned
by
Providence
as
our
proper
thing
to
do
,
and
which
the
world
would
have
cause
to
mourn
for
should
we
leave
it
unaccomplished
.
Can
the
philosopher
,
big
with
the
inspiration
of
an
idea
that
is
to
reform
mankind
,
believe
that
he
is
to
be
beckoned
from
this
sensible
existence
at
the
very
instant
when
he
is
mustering
his
breath
to
speak
the
word
of
light
?
Should
he
perish
so
,
the
weary
ages
may
pass
away
—
the
world
’
s
,
whose
life
sand
may
fall
,
drop
by
drop
—
before
another
intellect
is
prepared
to
develop
the
truth
that
might
have
been
uttered
then
.
