_ Two nights had passed since the foregoing occurrences, when, in a
breezy September forenoon, I set forth from town, on foot, towards
Blithedale. It was the most delightful of all days for a walk, with
a dash of invigorating ice-temper in the air, but a coolness that
soon gave place to the brisk glow of exercise, while the vigor
remained as elastic as before. The atmosphere had a spirit and
sparkle in it. Each breath was like a sip of ethereal wine, tempered,
as I said, with a crystal lump of ice. I had started on this
expedition in an exceedingly sombre mood, as well befitted one who
found himself tending towards home, but was conscious that nobody
would be quite overjoyed to greet him there. My feet were hardly off
the pavement, however, when this morbid sensation began to yield to
the lively influences of air and motion. Nor had I gone far, with
fields yet green on either side, before my step became as swift and
light as if Hollingsworth were waiting to exchange a friendly
hand-grip, and Zenobia's and Priscilla's open arms would welcome the
wanderer's reappearance. It has happened to me on other occasions,
as well as this, to prove how a state of physical well-being can
create a kind of joy, in spite of the profoundest anxiety of mind.
The pathway of that walk still runs along, with sunny freshness,
through my memory. I know not why it should be so. But my mental
eye can even now discern the September grass, bordering the pleasant
roadside with a brighter verdure than while the summer heats were
scorching it; the trees, too, mostly green, although here and there a
branch or shrub has donned its vesture of crimson and gold a week or
two before its fellows. I see the tufted barberry-bushes, with their
small clusters of scarlet fruit; the toadstools, likewise,--some
spotlessly white, others yellow or red,--mysterious growths,
springing suddenly from no root or seed, and growing nobody can tell
how or wherefore. In this respect they resembled many of the
emotions in my breast. And I still see the little rivulets, chill,
clear, and bright, that murmured beneath the road, through
subterranean rocks, and deepened into mossy pools, where tiny fish
were darting to and fro, and within which lurked the hermit frog.
But no,--I never can account for it, that, with a yearning interest
to learn the upshot of all my story, and returning to Blithedale for
that sole purpose, I should examine these things so like a
peaceful-bosomed naturalist. Nor why, amid all my sympathies and
fears, there shot, at times, a wild exhilaration through my frame.
Thus I pursued my way along the line of the ancient stone wall that
Paul Dudley built, and through white villages, and past orchards of
ruddy apples, and fields of ripening maize, and patches of woodland,
and all such sweet rural scenery as looks the fairest, a little
beyond the suburbs of a town. Hollingsworth, Zenobia, Priscilla!
They glided mistily before me, as I walked. Sometimes, in my
solitude, I laughed with the bitterness of self-scorn, remembering
how unreservedly I had given up my heart and soul to interests that
were not mine. What had I ever had to do with them? And why, being
now free, should I take this thraldom on me once again? It was both
sad and dangerous, I whispered to myself, to be in too close affinity
with the passions, the errors, and the misfortunes of individuals who
stood within a circle of their own, into which, if I stept at all, it
must be as an intruder, and at a peril that I could not estimate.
Drawing nearer to Blithedale, a sickness of the spirits kept
alternating with my flights of causeless buoyancy. I indulged in a
hundred odd and extravagant conjectures. Either there was no such
place as Blithedale, nor ever had been, nor any brotherhood of
thoughtful laborers, like what I seemed to recollect there, or else
it was all changed during my absence. It had been nothing but dream
work and enchantment. I should seek in vain for the old farmhouse,
and for the greensward, the potato-fields, the root-crops, and acres
of Indian corn, and for all that configuration of the land which I
had imagined. It would be another spot, and an utter strangeness.
These vagaries were of the spectral throng so apt to steal out of an
unquiet heart. They partly ceased to haunt me, on my arriving at a
point whence, through the trees, I began to catch glimpses of the
Blithedale farm. That surely was something real. There was hardly a
square foot of all those acres on which I had not trodden heavily, in
one or another kind of toil. The curse of Adam's posterity--and,
curse or blessing be it, it gives substance to the life around
us--had first come upon me there. In the sweat of my brow I had
there earned bread and eaten it, and so established my claim to be on
earth, and my fellowship with all the sons of labor. I could have
knelt down, and have laid my breast against that soil. The red clay
of which my frame was moulded seemed nearer akin to those crumbling
furrows than to any other portion of the world's dust. There was my
home, and there might be my grave.
I felt an invincible reluctance, nevertheless, at the idea of
presenting myself before my old associates, without first
ascertaining the state in which they were. A nameless foreboding
weighed upon me. Perhaps, should I know all the circumstances that
had occurred, I might find it my wisest course to turn back,
unrecognized, unseen, and never look at Blithedale more. Had it been
evening, I would have stolen softly to some lighted window of the old
farmhouse, and peeped darkling in, to see all their well-known faces
round the supper-board. Then, were there a vacant seat, I might
noiselessly unclose the door, glide in, and take my place among them,
without a word. My entrance might be so quiet, my aspect so familiar,
that they would forget how long I had been away, and suffer me to
melt into the scene, as a wreath of vapor melts into a larger cloud.
I dreaded a boisterous greeting. Beholding me at table, Zenobia, as
a matter of course, would send me a cup of tea, and Hollingsworth
fill my plate from the great dish of pandowdy, and Priscilla, in her
quiet way, would hand the cream, and others help me to the bread and
butter. Being one of them again, the knowledge of what had happened
would come to me without a shock. For still, at every turn of my
shifting fantasies, the thought stared me in the face that some evil
thing had befallen us, or was ready to befall.
Yielding to this ominous impression, I now turned aside into the
woods, resolving to spy out the posture of the Community as craftily
as the wild Indian before he makes his onset. I would go wandering
about the outskirts of the farm, and, perhaps, catching sight of a
solitary acquaintance, would approach him amid the brown shadows of
the trees (a kind of medium fit for spirits departed and revisitant,
like myself), and entreat him to tell me how all things were.
The first living creature that I met was a partridge, which sprung up
beneath my feet, and whirred away; the next was a squirrel, who
chattered angrily at me from an overhanging bough. I trod along by
the dark, sluggish river, and remember pausing on the bank, above one
of its blackest and most placid pools (the very spot, with the
barkless stump of a tree aslantwise over the water, is depicting
itself to my fancy at this instant), and wondering how deep it was,
and if any overladen soul had ever flung its weight of mortality in
thither, and if it thus escaped the burden, or only made it heavier.
And perhaps the skeleton of the drowned wretch still lay beneath the
inscrutable depth, clinging to some sunken log at the bottom with the
gripe of its old despair. So slight, however, was the track of these
gloomy ideas, that I soon forgot them in the contemplation of a brood
of wild ducks, which were floating on the river, and anon took flight,
leaving each a bright streak over the black surface. By and by, I
came to my hermitage, in the heart of the white-pine tree, and
clambering up into it, sat down to rest. The grapes, which I had
watched throughout the summer, now dangled around me in abundant
clusters of the deepest purple, deliciously sweet to the taste, and,
though wild, yet free from that ungentle flavor which distinguishes
nearly all our native and uncultivated grapes. Methought a wine
might be pressed out of them possessing a passionate zest, and
endowed with a new kind of intoxicating quality, attended with such
bacchanalian ecstasies as the tamer grapes of Madeira, France, and
the Rhine are inadequate to produce. And I longed to quaff a great
goblet of it that moment!
While devouring the grapes, I looked on all sides out of the
peep-holes of my hermitage, and saw the farmhouse, the fields, and
almost every part of our domain, but not a single human figure in the
landscape. Some of the windows of the house were open, but with no
more signs of life than in a dead man's unshut eyes. The barn-door
was ajar, and swinging in the
breeze. The big old dog,--he was a relic of the former dynasty of
the farm,--that hardly ever stirred out of the yard, was nowhere to
be seen. What, then, had become of all the fraternity and
sisterhood? Curious to ascertain this point, I let myself down out
of the tree, and going to the edge of the wood, was glad to perceive
our herd of cows chewing the cud or grazing not far off. I fancied,
by their manner, that two or three of them recognized me (as, indeed,
they ought, for I had milked them and been their chamberlain times
without number); but, after staring me in the face a little while,
they phlegmatically began grazing and chewing their cuds again. Then
I grew foolishly angry at so cold a reception, and flung some rotten
fragments of an old stump at these unsentimental cows.
Skirting farther round the pasture, I heard voices and much laughter
proceeding from the interior of the wood. Voices, male and feminine;
laughter, not only of fresh young throats, but the bass of grown
people, as if solemn organ-pipes should pour out airs of merriment.
Not a voice spoke, but I knew it better than my own; not a laugh, but
its cadences were familiar. The wood, in this portion of it, seemed
as full of jollity as if Comus and his crew were holding their revels
in one of its usually lonesome glades. Stealing onward as far as I
durst, without hazard of discovery, I saw a concourse of strange
figures beneath the overshadowing branches. They appeared, and
vanished, and came again, confusedly with the streaks of sunlight
glimmering down upon them.
Among them was an Indian chief, with blanket, feathers, and war-paint,
and uplifted tomahawk; and near him, looking fit to be his woodland
bride, the goddess Diana, with the crescent on her head, and attended
by our big lazy dog, in lack of any fleeter hound. Drawing an arrow
from her quiver, she let it fly at a venture, and hit the very tree
behind which I happened to be lurking. Another group consisted of a
Bavarian broom-girl, a negro of the Jim Crow order, one or two
foresters of the Middle Ages, a Kentucky woodsman in his trimmed
hunting-shirt and deerskin leggings, and a Shaker elder, quaint,
demure, broad-brimmed, and square-skirted. Shepherds of Arcadia, and
allegoric figures from the "Faerie Queen," were oddly mixed up with
these. Arm in arm, or otherwise huddled together in strange
discrepancy, stood grim Puritans, gay Cavaliers, and Revolutionary
officers with three-cornered cocked hats, and queues longer than
their swords. A bright-complexioned, dark-haired, vivacious little
gypsy, with a red shawl over her head, went from one group to another,
telling fortunes by palmistry; and Moll Pitcher, the renowned old
witch of Lynn, broomstick in hand, showed herself prominently in the
midst, as if announcing all these apparitions to be the offspring of
her necromantic art. But Silas Foster, who leaned against a tree
near by, in his customary blue frock and smoking a short pipe, did
more to disenchant the scene, with his look of shrewd, acrid, Yankee
observation, than twenty witches and necromancers could have done in
the way of rendering it weird and fantastic.
A little farther off, some old-fashioned skinkers and drawers, all
with portentously red noses, were spreading a banquet on the
leaf-strewn earth; while a horned and long-tailed gentleman (in whom
I recognized the fiendish musician erst seen by Tam O'Shanter) tuned
his fiddle, and summoned the whole motley rout to a dance, before
partaking of the festal cheer. So they joined hands in a circle,
whirling round so swiftly, so madly, and so merrily, in time and tune
with the Satanic music, that their separate incongruities were
blended all together, and they became a kind of entanglement that
went nigh to turn one's brain with merely looking at it. Anon they
stopt all of a sudden, and staring at one another's figures, set up a
roar of laughter; whereat a shower of the September leaves (which,
all day long, had been hesitating whether to fall or no) were shaken
off by the movement of the air, and came eddying down upon the
revellers.
Then, for lack of breath, ensued a silence, at the deepest point of
which, tickled by the oddity of surprising my grave associates in
this masquerading trim, I could not possibly refrain from a burst of
laughter on my own separate account;
"Hush!" I heard the pretty gypsy fortuneteller say. "Who is that
laughing?"
"Some profane intruder!" said the goddess Diana. "I shall send an
arrow through his heart, or change him into a stag, as I did Actaeon,
if he peeps from behind the trees!"
"Me take his scalp!" cried the Indian chief, brandishing his tomahawk,
and cutting a great caper in the air.
"I'll root him in the earth with a spell that I have at my tongue's
end!" squeaked Moll Pitcher. "And the green moss shall grow all over
him, before he gets free again!"
"The voice was Miles Coverdale's," said the fiendish fiddler, with a
whisk of his tail and a toss of his horns. "My music has brought him
hither. He is always ready to dance to the Devil's tune!"
Thus put on the right track, they all recognized the voice at once,
and set up a simultaneous shout.
"Miles! Miles! Miles Coverdale, where are you?" they cried.
"Zenobia! Queen Zenobia! here is one of your vassals lurking in the
wood. Command him to approach and pay his duty!"
The whole fantastic rabble forthwith streamed off in pursuit of me,
so that I was like a mad poet hunted by chimeras. Having fairly the
start of them, however, I succeeded in making my escape, and soon
left their merriment and riot at a good distance in the rear. Its
fainter tones assumed a kind of mournfulness, and were finally lost
in the hush and solemnity of the wood. In my haste, I stumbled over
a heap of logs and sticks that had been cut for firewood, a great
while ago, by some former possessor of the soil, and piled up square,
in order to be carted or sledded away to the farmhouse. But, being
forgotten, they had lain there perhaps fifty years, and possibly much
longer; until, by the accumulation of moss, and the leaves falling
over them, and decaying there, from autumn to autumn, a green mound
was formed, in which the softened outline of the woodpile was still
perceptible. In the fitful mood that then swayed my mind, I found
something strangely affecting in this simple circumstance. I
imagined the long-dead woodman, and his long-dead wife and children,
coming out of their chill graves, and essaying to make a fire with
this heap of mossy fuel!
From this spot I strayed onward, quite lost in reverie, and neither
knew nor cared whither I was going, until a low, soft,
well-remembered voice spoke, at a little distance.
"There is Mr. Coverdale!"
"Miles Coverdale!" said another voice,--and its tones were very stern.
"Let him come forward, then!"
"Yes, Mr. Coverdale," cried a woman's voice,--clear and melodious,
but, just then, with something unnatural in its chord,--"you are
welcome! But you come half an hour too late, and have missed a scene
which you would have enjoyed!"
I looked up and found myself nigh Eliot's pulpit, at the base of
which sat Hollingsworth, with Priscilla at his feet and Zenobia
standing before them. _