_ It is not, I apprehend, a healthy kind of mental occupation to devote
ourselves too exclusively to the study of individual men and women.
If the person under examination be one's self, the result is pretty
certain to be diseased action of the heart, almost before we can
snatch a second glance. Or if we take the freedom to put a friend
under our microscope, we thereby insulate him from many of his true
relations, magnify his peculiarities, inevitably tear him into parts,
and of course patch him very clumsily together again. What wonder,
then, should we be frightened by the aspect of a monster, which,
after all,--though we can point to every feature of his deformity in
the real personage,--may be said to have been created mainly by
ourselves.
Thus, as my conscience has often whispered me, I did Hollingsworth a
great wrong by prying into his character; and am perhaps doing him as
great a one, at this moment, by putting faith in the discoveries
which I seemed to make. But I could not help it. Had I loved him
less, I might have used him better. He and Zenobia and
Priscilla--both for their own sakes and as connected with him--were
separated from the rest of the Community, to my imagination, and
stood forth as the indices of a problem which it was my business to
solve. Other associates had a portion of my time; other matters
amused me; passing occurrences carried me along with them, while they
lasted. But here was the vortex of my meditations, around which they
revolved, and whitherward they too continually tended. In the midst
of cheerful society, I had often a feeling of loneliness. For it was
impossible not to be sensible that, while these three characters
figured so largely on my private theatre, I--though probably reckoned
as a friend by all--was at best but a secondary or tertiary personage
with either of them.
I loved Hollingsworth, as has already been enough expressed. But it
impressed me, more and more, that there was a stern and dreadful
peculiarity in this man, such as could not prove otherwise than
pernicious to the happiness of those who should be drawn into too
intimate a connection with him. He was not altogether human. There
was something else in Hollingsworth besides flesh and blood, and
sympathies and affections and celestial spirit.
This is always true of those men who have surrendered themselves to
an overruling purpose. It does not so much impel them from without,
nor even operate as a motive power within, but grows incorporate with
all that they think and feel, and finally converts them into little
else save that one principle. When such begins to be the predicament,
it is not cowardice, but wisdom, to avoid these victims. They have
no heart, no sympathy, no reason, no conscience. They will keep no
friend, unless he make himself the mirror of their purpose; they will
smite and slay you, and trample your dead corpse under foot, all the
more readily, if you take the first step with them, and cannot take
the second, and the third, and every other step of their terribly
strait path. They have an idol to which they consecrate themselves
high-priest, and deem it holy work to offer sacrifices of whatever is
most precious; and never once seem to suspect--so cunning has the
Devil been with them--that this false deity, in whose iron features,
immitigable to all the rest of mankind, they see only benignity and
love, is but a spectrum of the very priest himself, projected upon
the surrounding darkness. And the higher and purer the original
object, and the more unselfishly it may have been taken up, the
slighter is the probability that they can be led to recognize the
process by which godlike benevolence has been debased into
all-devouring egotism.
Of course I am perfectly aware that the above statement is
exaggerated, in the attempt to make it adequate. Professed
philanthropists have gone far; but no originally good man, I presume,
ever went quite so far as this. Let the reader abate whatever he
deems fit. The paragraph may remain, however, both for its truth and
its exaggeration, as strongly expressive of the tendencies which were
really operative in Hollingsworth, and as exemplifying the kind of
error into which my mode of observation was calculated to lead me.
The issue was, that in solitude I often shuddered at my friend. In
my recollection of his dark and impressive countenance, the features
grew more sternly prominent than the reality, duskier in their depth
and shadow, and more lurid in their light; the frown, that had merely
flitted across his brow, seemed to have contorted it with an
adamantine wrinkle. On meeting him again, I was often filled with
remorse, when his deep eyes beamed kindly upon me, as with the glow
of a household fire that was burning in a cave. "He is a man after
all," thought I; "his Maker's own truest image, a philanthropic man!--
not that steel engine of the Devil's contrivance, a philanthropist!"
But in my wood-walks, and in my silent chamber, the dark face
frowned at me again.
When a young girl comes within the sphere of such a man, she is as
perilously situated as the maiden whom, in the old classical myths,
the people used to expose to a dragon. If I had any duty whatever,
in reference to Hollingsworth, it was to endeavor to save Priscilla
from that kind of personal worship which her sex is generally prone
to lavish upon saints and heroes. It often requires but one smile
out of the hero's eyes into the girl's or woman's heart, to transform
this devotion, from a sentiment of the highest approval and
confidence, into passionate love. Now, Hollingsworth smiled much
upon Priscilla,--more than upon any other person. If she thought him
beautiful, it was no wonder. I often thought him so, with the
expression of tender human care and gentlest sympathy which she alone
seemed to have power to call out upon his features. Zenobia, I
suspect, would have given her eyes, bright as they were, for such a
look; it was the least that our poor Priscilla could do, to give her
heart for a great many of them. There was the more danger of this,
inasmuch as the footing on which we all associated at Blithedale was
widely different from that of conventional society. While inclining
us to the soft affections of the golden age, it seemed to authorize
any individual, of either sex, to fall in love with any other,
regardless of what would elsewhere be judged suitable and prudent.
Accordingly the tender passion was very rife among us, in various
degrees of mildness or virulence, but mostly passing away with the
state of things that had given it origin. This was all well enough;
but, for a girl like Priscilla and a woman like Zenobia to jostle one
another in their love of a man like Hollingsworth, was likely to be
no child's play.
Had I been as cold-hearted as I sometimes thought myself, nothing
would have interested me more than to witness the play of passions
that must thus have been evolved. But, in honest truth, I would
really have gone far to save Priscilla, at least, from the
catastrophe in which such a drama would be apt to terminate.
Priscilla had now grown to be a very pretty girl, and still kept
budding and blossoming, and daily putting on some new charm, which
you no sooner became sensible of than you thought it worth all that
she had previously possessed. So unformed, vague, and without
substance, as she had come to us, it seemed as if we could see Nature
shaping out a woman before our very eyes, and yet had only a more
reverential sense of the mystery of a woman's soul and frame.
Yesterday, her cheek was pale, to-day, it had a bloom. Priscilla's
smile, like a baby's first one, was a wondrous novelty. Her
imperfections and shortcomings affected me with a kind of playful
pathos, which was as absolutely bewitching a sensation as ever I
experienced. After she had been a month or two at Blithedale, her
animal spirits waxed high, and kept her pretty constantly in a state
of bubble and ferment, impelling her to far more bodily activity than
she had yet strength to endure. She was very fond of playing with
the other girls out of doors. There is hardly another sight in the
world so pretty as that of a company of young girls, almost women
grown, at play, and so giving themselves up to their airy impulse
that their tiptoes barely touch the ground.
Girls are incomparably wilder and more effervescent than boys, more
untamable and regardless of rule and limit, with an ever-shifting
variety, breaking continually into new modes of fun, yet with a
harmonious propriety through all. Their steps, their voices, appear
free as the wind, but keep consonance with a strain of music
inaudible to us. Young men and boys, on the other hand, play,
according to recognized law, old, traditionary games, permitting no
caprioles of fancy, but with scope enough for the outbreak of savage
instincts. For, young or old, in play or in earnest, man is prone to
be a brute.
Especially is it delightful to see a vigorous young girl run a race,
with her head thrown back, her limbs moving more friskily than they
need, and an air between that of a bird and a young colt. But
Priscilla's peculiar charm, in a foot-race, was the weakness and
irregularity with which she ran. Growing up without exercise, except
to her poor little fingers, she had never yet acquired the perfect
use of her legs. Setting buoyantly forth, therefore, as if no rival
less swift than Atalanta could compete with her, she ran falteringly,
and often tumbled on the grass. Such an incident--though it seems
too slight to think of--was a thing to laugh at, but which brought
the water into one's eyes, and lingered in the memory after far
greater joys and sorrows were wept out of it, as antiquated trash.
Priscilla's life, as I beheld it, was full of trifles that affected
me in just this way.
When she had come to be quite at home among us, I used to fancy that
Priscilla played more pranks, and perpetrated more mischief, than any
other girl in the Community. For example, I once heard Silas Foster,
in a very gruff voice, threatening to rivet three horseshoes round
Priscilla's neck and chain her to a post, because she, with some
other young people, had clambered upon a load of hay, and caused it
to slide off the cart. How she made her peace I never knew; but very
soon afterwards I saw old Silas, with his brawny hands round
Priscilla's waist, swinging her to and fro, and finally depositing
her on one of the oxen, to take her first lessons in riding. She met
with terrible mishaps in her efforts to milk a cow; she let the
poultry into the garden; she generally spoilt whatever part of the
dinner she took in charge; she broke crockery; she dropt our biggest
water pitcher into the well; and--except with her needle, and those
little wooden instruments for purse-making--was as unserviceable a
member of society as any young lady in the land. There was no other
sort of efficiency about her. Yet everybody was kind to Priscilla;
everybody loved her and laughed at her to her face, and did not laugh
behind her back; everybody would have given her half of his last
crust, or the bigger share of his plum-cake. These were pretty
certain indications that we were all conscious of a pleasant weakness
in the girl, and considered her not quite able to look after her own
interests or fight her battle with the world. And
Hollingsworth--perhaps because he had been the means of introducing
Priscilla to her new abode--appeared to recognize her as his own
especial charge.
Her simple, careless, childish flow of spirits often made me sad.
She seemed to me like a butterfly at play in a flickering bit of
sunshine, and mistaking it for a broad and eternal summer. We
sometimes hold mirth to a stricter accountability than sorrow; it
must show good cause, or the echo of its laughter comes back drearily.
Priscilla's gayety, moreover, was of a nature that showed me how
delicate an instrument she was, and what fragile harp-strings were
her nerves. As they made sweet music at the airiest touch, it would
require but a stronger one to burst them all asunder. Absurd as it
might be, I tried to reason with her, and persuade her not to be so
joyous, thinking that, if she would draw less lavishly upon her fund
of happiness, it would last the longer. I remember doing so, one
summer evening, when we tired laborers sat looking on, like
Goldsmith's old folks under the village thorn-tree, while the young
people were at their sports.
"What is the use or sense of being so very gay?" I said to Priscilla,
while she was taking breath, after a great frolic. "I love to see a
sufficient cause for everything, and I can see none for this. Pray
tell me, now, what kind of a world you imagine this to be, which you
are so merry in."
"I never think about it at all," answered Priscilla, laughing. "But
this I am sure of, that it is a world where everybody is kind to me,
and where I love everybody. My heart keeps dancing within me, and
all the foolish things which you see me do are only the motions of my
heart. How can I be dismal, if my heart will not let me?"
"Have you nothing dismal to remember?" I suggested. "If not, then,
indeed, you are very fortunate!"
"Ah!" said Priscilla slowly.
And then came that unintelligible gesture, when she seemed to be
listening to a distant voice.
"For my part," I continued, beneficently seeking to overshadow her
with my own sombre humor, "my past life has been a tiresome one
enough; yet I would rather look backward ten times than forward once.
For, little as we know of our life to come, we may be very sure, for
one thing, that the good we aim at will not be attained. People
never do get just the good they seek. If it come at all, it is
something else, which they never dreamed of, and did not particularly
want. Then, again, we may rest certain that our friends of to-day
will not be our friends of a few years hence; but, if we keep one of
them, it will be at the expense of the others; and most probably we
shall keep none. To be sure, there are more to be had; but who cares
about making a new set of friends, even should they be better than
those around us?"
"Not I!" said Priscilla. "I will live and die with these!"
"Well; but let the future go," resumed I. "As for the present moment,
if we could look into the hearts where we wish to be most valued,
what should you expect to see? One's own likeness, in the innermost,
holiest niche? Ah! I don't know! It may not be there at all. It
may be a dusty image, thrust aside into a corner, and by and by to be
flung out of doors, where any foot may trample upon it. If not
to-day, then to-morrow! And so, Priscilla, I do not see much wisdom
in being so very merry in this kind of a world."
It had taken me nearly seven years of worldly life to hive up the
bitter honey which I here offered to Priscilla. And she rejected it!
"I don't believe one word of what you say!" she replied, laughing
anew. "You made me sad, for a minute, by talking about the past; but
the past never comes back again. Do we dream the same dream twice?
There is nothing else that I am afraid of."
So away she ran, and fell down on the green grass, as it was often
her luck to do, but got up again, without any harm.
"Priscilla, Priscilla!" cried Hollingsworth, who was sitting on the
doorstep; "you had better not run any more to-night. You will weary
yourself too much. And do not sit down out of doors, for there is a
heavy dew beginning to fall."
At his first word, she went and sat down under the porch, at
Hollingsworth's feet, entirely contented and happy. What charm was
there in his rude massiveness that so attracted and soothed this
shadow-like girl? It appeared to me, who have always been curious in
such matters, that Priscilla's vague and seemingly causeless flow of
felicitous feeling was that with which love blesses inexperienced
hearts, before they begin to suspect what is going on within them.
It transports them to the seventh heaven; and if you ask what brought
them thither, they neither can tell nor care to learn, but cherish an
ecstatic faith that there they shall abide forever.
Zenobia was in the doorway, not far from Hollingsworth. She gazed at
Priscilla in a very singular way. Indeed, it was a sight worth
gazing at, and a beautiful sight, too, as the fair girl sat at the
feet of that dark, powerful figure. Her air, while perfectly modest,
delicate, and virgin-like, denoted her as swayed by Hollingsworth,
attracted to him, and unconsciously seeking to rest upon his strength.
I could not turn away my own eyes, but hoped that nobody, save
Zenobia and myself, was witnessing this picture. It is before me now,
with the evening twilight a little deepened by the dusk of memory.
"Come hither, Priscilla," said Zenobia. "I have something to say to
you."
She spoke in little more than a whisper. But it is strange how
expressive of moods a whisper may often be. Priscilla felt at once
that something had gone wrong.
"Are you angry with me?" she asked, rising slowly, and standing
before Zenobia in a drooping attitude. "What have I done? I hope
you are not angry!"
"No, no, Priscilla!" said Hollingsworth, smiling. "I will answer for
it, she is not. You are the one little person in the world with whom
nobody can be angry!"
"Angry with you, child? What a silly idea!" exclaimed Zenobia,
laughing. "No, indeed! But, my dear Priscilla, you are getting to
be so very pretty that you absolutely need a duenna; and, as I am
older than you, and have had my own little experience of life, and
think myself exceedingly sage, I intend to fill the place of a maiden
aunt. Every day, I shall give you a lecture, a quarter of an hour in
length, on the morals, manners, and proprieties of social life. When
our pastoral shall be quite played out, Priscilla, my worldly wisdom
may stand you in good stead."
"I am afraid you are angry with me!" repeated Priscilla sadly; for,
while she seemed as impressible as wax, the girl often showed a
persistency in her own ideas as stubborn as it was gentle.
"Dear me, what can I say to the child!" cried Zenobia in a tone of
humorous vexation. "Well, well; since you insist on my being angry,
come to my room this moment, and let me beat you!"
Zenobia bade Hollingsworth good-night very sweetly, and nodded to me
with a smile. But, just as she turned aside with Priscilla into the
dimness of the porch, I caught another glance at her countenance. It
would have made the fortune of a tragic actress, could she have
borrowed it for the moment when she fumbles in her bosom for the
concealed dagger, or the exceedingly sharp bodkin, or mingles the
ratsbane in her lover's bowl of wine or her rival's cup of tea. Not
that I in the least anticipated any such catastrophe,--it being a
remarkable truth that custom has in no one point a greater sway than
over our modes of wreaking our wild passions. And besides, had we
been in Italy, instead of New England, it was hardly yet a crisis for
the dagger or the bowl.
It often amazed me, however, that Hollingsworth should show himself
so recklessly tender towards Priscilla, and never once seem to think
of the effect which it might have upon her heart. But the man, as I
have endeavored to explain, was thrown completely off his moral
balance, and quite bewildered as to his personal relations, by his
great excrescence of a philanthropic scheme. I used to see, or fancy,
indications that he was not altogether obtuse to Zenobia's influence
as a woman. No doubt, however, he had a still more exquisite
enjoyment of Priscilla's silent sympathy with his purposes, so
unalloyed with criticism, and therefore more grateful than any
intellectual approbation, which always involves a possible reserve of
latent censure. A man--poet, prophet, or whatever he may be--readily
persuades himself of his right to all the worship that is voluntarily
tendered. In requital of so rich benefits as he was to confer upon
mankind, it would have been hard to deny Hollingsworth the simple
solace of a young girl's heart, which he held in his hand, and
smelled too, like a rosebud. But what if, while pressing out its
fragrance, he should crush the tender rosebud in his grasp!
As for Zenobia, I saw no occasion to give myself any trouble. With
her native strength, and her experience of the world, she could not
be supposed to need any help of mine. Nevertheless, I was really
generous enough to feel some little interest likewise for Zenobia.
With all her faults (which might have been a great many besides the
abundance that I knew of), she possessed noble traits, and a heart
which must, at least, have been valuable while new. And she seemed
ready to fling it away as uncalculatingly as Priscilla herself. I
could not but suspect that, if merely at play with Hollingsworth, she
was sporting with a power which she did not fully estimate. Or if in
earnest, it might chance, between Zenobia's passionate force and his
dark, self-delusive egotism, to turn out such earnest as would
develop itself in some sufficiently tragic catastrophe, though the
dagger and the bowl should go for nothing in it.
Meantime, the gossip of the Community set them down as a pair of
lovers. They took walks together, and were not seldom encountered in
the wood-paths: Hollingsworth deeply discoursing, in tones solemn and
sternly pathetic; Zenobia, with a rich glow on her cheeks, and her
eyes softened from their ordinary brightness, looked so beautiful,
that had her companion been ten times a philanthropist, it seemed
impossible but that one glance should melt him back into a man.
Oftener than anywhere else, they went to a certain point on the slope
of a pasture, commanding nearly the whole of our own domain, besides
a view of the river, and an airy prospect of many distant hills. The
bond of our Community was such, that the members had the privilege of
building cottages for their own residence within our precincts, thus
laying a hearthstone and fencing in a home private and peculiar to
all desirable extent, while yet the inhabitants should continue to
share the advantages of an associated life. It was inferred that
Hollingsworth and Zenobia intended to rear their dwelling on this
favorite spot.
I mentioned those rumors to Hollingsworth in a playful way.
"Had you consulted me," I went on to observe, "I should have
recommended a site farther to the left, just a little withdrawn into
the wood, with two or three peeps at the prospect among the trees.
You will be in the shady vale of years long before you can raise any
better kind of shade around your cottage, if you build it on this
bare slope."
"But I offer my edifice as a spectacle to the world," said
Hollingsworth, "that it may take example and build many another like
it. Therefore, I mean to set it on the open hillside."
Twist these words how I might, they offered no very satisfactory
import. It seemed hardly probable that Hollingsworth should care
about educating the public taste in the department of cottage
architecture, desirable as such improvement certainly was. _