I think, that, if ever there was a born artist,
who united to a fine aesthetic sense the fervor of a devotee, Clarian was
that one, heart and soul. Some men make a mistress of Art, and sink down,
lost in sensual pleasure and excess, till the Siren grows tired and
destroys them. Other men wed Art, and from the union beget them fair,
lovely, ay, immortal children, as Raphael did. Some again, confounding Art
with their own inordinate vanity, grow stern and harsh with making
sacrifices to the stone idol, grinding down their own hearts in vain
experimenting after properer pigments, whereby themselves may attain to a
chill and profitless immortality. But there are others still, who,
elevating Art into a grand divinity, bow down and worship it, devote their
lives to its priesthood, and, as a reward, only ask the god to reveal to
them once his unveiled effulgence, content with the one communion, though
their rashness be fatal, and the god's benison prove but the ashes of
Semele. Towards this class Clarian tended, I knew very well, and hence,
from the first, I had thrown a damper upon his artistic aspirations, often
rewarded by his mournful and reproaching glances, as I sneered at his
sketches,--which, to tell the truth, were most admirable, showing at once a
keen poetic insight, fine composition, and an unusual mastery of technical
details. The obedient fellow had bowed to what he deemed my better
judgment, and turned away, with something of a sigh, from his dear love and
ambition.
Pages:
158
159
160
161
162
163
164
165
166
167
168
169
170
171
172
173
174
175
176
177
178
179
180
181
182