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_ Not long after the preceding incident, in order to get the ache of
too constant labor out of my bones, and to relieve my spirit of the
irksomeness of a settled routine, I took a holiday. It was my
purpose to spend it all alone, from breakfast-time till twilight, in
the deepest wood-seclusion that lay anywhere around us. Though fond
of society, I was so constituted as to need these occasional
retirements, even in a life like that of Blithedale, which was itself
characterized by a remoteness from the world. Unless renewed by a
yet further withdrawal towards the inner circle of self-communion, I
lost the better part of my individuality. My thoughts became of
little worth, and my sensibilities grew as arid as a tuft of moss (a
thing whose life is in the shade, the rain, or the noontide dew),
crumbling in the sunshine after long expectance of a shower. So,
with my heart full of a drowsy pleasure, and cautious not to
dissipate my mood by previous intercourse with any one, I hurried
away, and was soon pacing a wood-path, arched overhead with
boughs, and dusky-brown beneath my feet.
At first I walked very swiftly, as if the heavy flood tide of social
life were roaring at my heels, and would outstrip and overwhelm me,
without all the better diligence in my escape. But, threading the
more distant windings of the track, I abated my pace, and looked
about me for some side-aisle, that should admit me into the innermost
sanctuary of this green cathedral, just as, in human acquaintanceship,
a casual opening sometimes lets us, all of a sudden, into the
long-sought intimacy of a mysterious heart. So much was I absorbed
in my reflections,--or, rather, in my mood, the substance of which
was as yet too shapeless to be called thought,--that footsteps
rustled on the leaves, and a figure passed me by, almost without
impressing either the sound or sight upon my consciousness.
A moment afterwards, I heard a voice at a little distance behind me,
speaking so sharply and impertinently that it made a complete discord
with my spiritual state, and caused the latter to vanish as abruptly
as when you thrust a finger into a soap-bubble.
"Halloo, friend!" cried this most unseasonable voice. "Stop a moment,
I say! I must have a word with you!"
I turned about, in a humor ludicrously irate. In the first place,
the interruption, at any rate, was a grievous injury; then, the tone
displeased me. And finally, unless there be real affection in his
heart, a man cannot,--such is the bad state to which the world has
brought itself,--cannot more effectually show his contempt for a
brother mortal, nor more gallingly assume a position of superiority,
than by addressing him as "friend." Especially does the
misapplication of this phrase bring out that latent hostility which
is sure to animate peculiar sects, and those who, with however
generous a purpose, have sequestered themselves from the crowd; a
feeling, it is true, which may be hidden in some dog-kennel of the
heart, grumbling there in the darkness, but is never quite extinct,
until the dissenting party have gained power and scope enough to
treat the world generously. For my part, I should have taken it as
far less an insult to be styled "fellow," "clown," or "bumpkin." To
either of these appellations my rustic garb (it was a linen blouse,
with checked shirt and striped pantaloons, a chip hat on my head, and
a rough hickory stick in my hand) very fairly entitled me. As the
case stood, my temper darted at once to the opposite pole; not friend,
but enemy!
"What do you want with me?" said I, facing about.
"Come a little nearer, friend," said the stranger, beckoning.
"No," answered I. "If I can do anything for you without too much
trouble to myself, say so. But recollect, if you please, that you
are not speaking to an acquaintance, much less a friend!"
"Upon my word, I believe not!" retorted he, looking at me with some
curiosity; and, lifting his hat, he made me a salute which had enough
of sarcasm to be offensive, and just enough of doubtful courtesy to
render any resentment of it absurd. "But I ask your pardon! I
recognize a little mistake. If I may take the liberty to suppose it,
you, sir, are probably one of the aesthetic--or shall I rather say
ecstatic?--laborers, who have planted themselves hereabouts. This is
your forest of Arden; and you are either the banished Duke in person,
or one of the chief nobles in his train. The melancholy Jacques,
perhaps? Be it so. In that case, you can probably do me a favor."
I never, in my life, felt less inclined to confer a favor on any man.
"I am busy," said I.
So unexpectedly had the stranger made me sensible of his presence,
that he had almost the effect of an apparition; and certainly a less
appropriate one (taking into view the dim woodland solitude about us)
than if the salvage man of antiquity, hirsute and cinctured with a
leafy girdle, had started out of a thicket. He was still young,
seemingly a little under thirty, of a tall and well-developed figure,
and as handsome a man as ever I beheld. The style of his beauty,
however, though a masculine style, did not at all commend itself to
my taste. His countenance--I hardly know how to describe the
peculiarity--had an indecorum in it, a kind of rudeness, a hard,
coarse, forth-putting freedom of expression, which no degree of
external polish could have abated one single jot. Not that it was
vulgar. But he had no fineness of nature; there was in his eyes
(although they might have artifice enough of another sort) the naked
exposure of something that ought not to be left prominent. With
these vague allusions to what I have seen in other faces as well as
his, I leave the quality to be comprehended best--because with an
intuitive repugnance--by those who possess least of it.
His hair, as well as his beard and mustache, was coal-black; his eyes,
too, were black and sparkling, and his teeth remarkably brilliant.
He was rather carelessly but well and fashionably dressed, in a
summer-morning costume. There was a gold chain, exquisitely wrought,
across his vest. I never saw a smoother or whiter gloss than that
upon his shirt-bosom, which had a pin in it, set with a gem that
glimmered, in the leafy shadow where he stood, like a living tip of
fire. He carried a stick with a wooden head, carved in vivid
imitation of that of a serpent. I hated him, partly, I do believe,
from a comparison of my own homely garb with his well-ordered
foppishness.
"Well, sir," said I, a little ashamed of my first irritation, but
still with no waste of civility, "be pleased to speak at once, as I
have my own business in hand."
"I regret that my mode of addressing you was a little unfortunate,"
said the stranger, smiling; for he seemed a very acute sort of person,
and saw, in some degree, how I stood affected towards him. "I
intended no offence, and shall certainly comport myself with due
ceremony hereafter. I merely wish to make a few inquiries respecting
a lady, formerly of my acquaintance, who is now resident in your
Community, and, I believe,
largely concerned in your social enterprise. You call her, I think,
Zenobia."
"That is her name in literature," observed I; "a name, too, which
possibly she may permit her private friends to know and address her
by,--but not one which they feel at liberty to recognize when used of
her personally by a stranger or casual acquaintance."
"Indeed!" answered this disagreeable person; and he turned aside his
face for an instant with a brief laugh, which struck me as a
noteworthy expression of his character. "Perhaps I might put forward
a claim, on your own grounds, to call the lady by a name so
appropriate to her splendid qualities. But I am willing to know her
by any cognomen that you may suggest."
Heartily wishing that he would be either a little more offensive, or
a good deal less so, or break off our intercourse altogether, I
mentioned Zenobia's real name.
"True," said he; "and in general society I have never heard her
called otherwise. And, after all, our discussion of the point has
been gratuitous. My object is only to inquire when, where, and how
this lady may most conveniently be seen."
"At her present residence, of course," I replied. "You have but to
go thither and ask for her. This very path will lead you within
sight of the house; so I wish you good-morning."
"One moment, if you please," said the stranger. "The course you
indicate would certainly be the proper one, in an ordinary morning
call. But my business is private, personal, and somewhat peculiar.
Now, in a community like this, I should judge that any little
occurrence is likely to be discussed rather more minutely than would
quite suit my views. I refer solely to myself, you understand, and
without intimating that it would be other than a matter of entire
indifference to the lady. In short, I especially desire to see her
in private. If her habits are such as I have known them, she is
probably often to be met with in the woods, or by the river-side; and
I think you could do me the favor to point out some favorite walk,
where, about this hour, I might be fortunate enough to gain an
interview."
I reflected that it would be quite a supererogatory piece of
Quixotism in me to undertake the guardianship of Zenobia, who, for my
pains, would only make me the butt of endless ridicule, should the
fact ever come to her knowledge. I therefore described a spot which,
as often as any other, was Zenobia's resort at this period of the day;
nor was it so remote from the farmhouse as to leave her in much
peril, whatever might be the stranger's character.
"A single word more," said he; and his black eyes sparkled at me,
whether with fun or malice I knew not, but certainly as if the Devil
were peeping out of them. "Among your fraternity, I understand,
there is a certain holy and benevolent blacksmith; a man of iron, in
more senses than one; a rough, cross-grained, well-meaning individual,
rather boorish in his manners, as might be expected, and by no means
of the highest intellectual cultivation. He is a philanthropical
lecturer, with two or three disciples, and a scheme of his own, the
preliminary step in which involves a large purchase of land, and the
erection of a spacious edifice, at an expense considerably beyond his
means; inasmuch as these are to be reckoned in copper or old iron
much more conveniently than in gold or silver. He hammers away upon
his one topic as lustily as ever he did upon a horseshoe! Do you
know such a person?" I shook my head, and was turning away. "Our
friend," he continued, "is described to me as a brawny, shaggy, grim,
and ill-favored personage, not particularly well calculated, one
would say, to insinuate himself with the softer sex. Yet, so far has
this honest fellow succeeded with one lady whom we wot of, that he
anticipates, from her abundant resources, the necessary funds for
realizing his plan in brick and mortar!"
Here the stranger seemed to be so much amused with his sketch of
Hollingsworth's character and purposes, that he burst into a fit of
merriment, of the same nature as the brief, metallic laugh already
alluded to, but immensely prolonged and enlarged. In the excess of
his delight, he opened his mouth wide, and disclosed a gold band
around the upper part of his teeth, thereby making it apparent that
every one of his brilliant grinders and incisors was a sham. This
discovery affected me very oddly.
I felt as if the whole man were a moral and physical humbug; his
wonderful beauty of face, for aught I knew, might be removable like a
mask; and, tall and comely as his figure looked, he was perhaps but a
wizened little elf, gray and decrepit, with nothing genuine about him
save the wicked expression of his grin. The fantasy of his spectral
character so wrought upon me, together with the contagion of his
strange mirth on my sympathies, that I soon began to laugh as loudly
as himself.
By and by, he paused all at once; so suddenly, indeed, that my own
cachinnation lasted a moment longer.
"Ah, excuse me!" said he. "Our interview seems to proceed more
merrily than it began."
"It ends here," answered I. "And I take shame to myself that my folly
has lost me the right of resenting your ridicule of a friend."
"Pray allow me," said the stranger, approaching a step nearer, and
laying his gloved hand on my sleeve. "One other favor I must ask of
you. You have a young person here at Blithedale, of whom I have
heard,--whom, perhaps, I have known,--and in whom, at all events, I
take a peculiar interest. She is one of those delicate, nervous
young creatures, not uncommon in New England, and whom I suppose to
have become what we find them by the gradual refining away of the
physical system among your women. Some philosophers choose to
glorify this habit of body by terming it spiritual; but, in my
opinion, it is rather the effect of unwholesome food, bad air, lack
of outdoor exercise, and neglect of bathing, on the part of these
damsels and their female progenitors, all resulting in a kind of
hereditary dyspepsia. Zenobia, even with her uncomfortable surplus
of vitality, is far the better model of womanhood. But--to revert
again to this young person--she goes among you by the name of
Priscilla. Could you possibly afford me the means of speaking with
her?"
"You have made so many inquiries of me," I observed, "that I may at
least trouble you with one. What is your name?"
He offered me a card, with "Professor Westervelt" engraved on it. At
the same time, as if to vindicate his claim to the professorial
dignity, so often assumed on very questionable grounds, he put on a
pair of spectacles, which so altered the character of his face that I
hardly knew him again. But I liked the present aspect no better than
the former one.
"I must decline any further connection with your affairs," said I,
drawing back. "I have told you where to find Zenobia. As for
Priscilla, she has closer friends than myself, through whom, if they
see fit, you can gain access to her."
"In that case," returned the Professor, ceremoniously raising his hat,
"good-morning to you."
He took his departure, and was soon out of sight among the windings
of the wood-path. But after a little reflection, I could not help
regretting that I had so peremptorily broken off the interview, while
the stranger seemed inclined to continue it. His evident knowledge
of matters affecting my three friends might have led to disclosures
or inferences that would perhaps have been serviceable. I was
particularly struck with the fact that, ever since the appearance of
Priscilla, it had been the tendency of events to suggest and
establish a connection between Zenobia and her. She had come, in the
first instance, as if with the sole purpose of claiming Zenobia's
protection. Old Moodie's visit, it appeared, was chiefly to
ascertain whether this object had been accomplished. And here,
to-day, was the questionable Professor, linking one with the other in
his inquiries, and seeking communication with both.
Meanwhile, my inclination for a ramble having been balked, I lingered
in the vicinity of the farm, with perhaps a vague idea that some new
event would grow out of Westervelt's proposed interview with Zenobia.
My own part in these transactions was singularly subordinate. It
resembled that
of the Chorus in a classic play, which seems to be set aloof from the
possibility of personal concernment, and bestows the whole measure of
its hope or fear, its exultation or sorrow, on the fortunes of others,
between whom and itself this sympathy is the only bond. Destiny, it
may be,--the most skilful of stage managers,--seldom chooses to
arrange its scenes, and carry forward its drama, without securing the
presence of at least one calm observer. It is his office to give
applause when due, and sometimes an inevitable tear, to detect the
final fitness of incident to character, and distil in his
long-brooding thought the whole morality of the performance.
Not to be out of the way in case there were need of me in my vocation,
and, at the same time, to avoid thrusting myself where neither
destiny nor mortals might desire my presence, I remained pretty near
the verge of the woodlands. My position was off the track of
Zenobia's customary walk, yet not so remote but that a recognized
occasion might speedily have brought me thither. _
Read next: CHAPTER XII - COVERDALE'S HERMITAGE
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