On a thin tortuous little branch, or rather an ugly likeness of
one, lay crooked, strange, unsightly, shapeless heaps of something
turned outside in, or something turned inside out--wild fragments
which seemed to be feebly trying to get away from themselves. And,
accidentally, under one of the wild projections, they noticed a
wonderfully sculptured butterfly, with transparent wings, trembling as
though with a weak longing to fly.
"Why that wonderful butterfly, Aurelius?" timidly asked some one.
"I do not know," answered the sculptor.
The truth had to be told, and one of his friends, the one who loved
Aurelius best, said: "This is ugly, my poor friend. It must be
destroyed. Give me the hammer." And with two blows he destroyed the
monstrous mass, leaving only the wonderfully sculptured butterfly.
After that Aurelius created nothing. He looked with absolute
indifference at marble and at bronze and at his own divine creations,
in which dwelt immortal beauty. In the hope of breathing into him once
again the old flame of inspiration, with the idea of awakening his
dead soul, his friends led him to see the beautiful creations of
others, but he remained indifferent and no smile warmed his closed
lips.
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