What a dreadful utilitarian Laura was, I thought. Now, the whole world and Boston were full of beautiful things,—full of things that had no special usefulness, but were absolutely and of themselves beautiful. And such a thing I wanted,—such a presence before me,—"a thing of beauty and of joy forever,"—something that would not speak directly or indirectly of labor, of something to be wrought out with toil, or associated with common, every-day objects. When that life should come to which I secretly looked forward,—when my soul should bound into a more radiant atmosphere, where the clouds, if any were, should be all gold- and silver-tinted, and where my sorrows, love-colored, were to be sweeter than other people's joys,—in that life, there would be moments of sweet abandonment to the simple sense of happiness. Then I should want something on which my mind might linger, my eye rest,—as the bird rests for an instant, to turn her plumage in the sun, and take another and loftier flight. Not a word of all this, which common minds called farrago, but which had its truth to me, did I utter to Laura. Of course, none of these things bear transplanting or expressing.
"Laura, do you like that statue of Mercury in Mrs. Gore's library?"
"Very much. But I am sure I should be tired of seeing it every day, standing on one toe. I should be tired, if he wasn't."
"Mrs. Gore says she never tires of it. I asked her. She says it is a delight to her to lie on the sofa and trace the beautiful undulations of his figure. How airy! It looks as if it would fly again without the least effort,—as if it had just 'new-lighted on a heaven-kissing hill'! Don't you think it perfect, Laura?"
"Well—yes,—I suppose so. I am not so enthusiastic as you are about it."
"Why don't you like it?"
I would not let Laura see how disappointed I was.
"One thing,—I don't like statuary in any attitude which, if continued, would seem to be painful. I know artists admire what gives an impression of motion; and I like to look at Mercury once; as you say, it gives an idea of flight, of motion,—and it is beautiful for two minutes. But then comes a sense of its being painful. So that statue of Hebe, or Aurora,—which is it?—looks as if swiftly coming towards you; but only for a minute. It does not satisfy you longer, because the unfitness comes then, and the fatigue, and your imagination is harassed and fretted. I think statuary should be in repose,—that is, if we want it in the house as a constant object of sight. Eve at the fountain, or Echo listening, or Sabrina fair sitting
"'Under the glassy, cool, translucent wave,
With twisted braids of lilies knitting
The loose train of her amber-dropping hair.'
"No matter, if she is represented employed. The motion may go so far."