บทที่ บทที่ 21 · FAUNTLEROY

Five-and-twenty years ago, at the epoch of this story, there dwelt in

one of the Middle States a man whom we shall call Fauntleroy; a man of

wealth, and magnificent tastes, and prodigal expenditure. His home

might almost be styled a palace; his habits, in the ordinary sense,

princely. His whole being seemed to have crystallized itself into an

external splendor, wherewith he glittered in the eyes of the world, and

had no other life than upon this gaudy surface. He had married a

lovely woman, whose nature was deeper than his own. But his affection

for her, though it showed largely, was superficial, like all his other

manifestations and developments; he did not so truly keep this noble

creature in his heart, as wear her beauty for the most brilliant

ornament of his outward state. And there was born to him a child, a

beautiful daughter, whom he took from the beneficent hand of God with

no just sense of her immortal value, but as a man already rich in gems

would receive another jewel. If he loved her, it was because she shone.

After Fauntleroy had thus spent a few empty years, coruscating

continually an unnatural light, the source of it--which was merely his

gold--began to grow more shallow, and finally became exhausted. He saw

himself in imminent peril of losing all that had heretofore

distinguished him; and, conscious of no innate worth to fall back upon,

he recoiled from this calamity with the instinct of a soul shrinking

from annihilation. To avoid it,--wretched man!--or rather to defer it,

if but for a month, a day, or only to procure himself the life of a few

breaths more amid the false glitter which was now less his own than

ever,--he made himself guilty of a crime. It was just the sort of

crime, growing out of its artificial state, which society (unless it

should change its entire constitution for this man's unworthy sake)

neither could nor ought to pardon. More safely might it pardon murder.

Fauntleroy's guilt was discovered. He fled; his wife perished, by the

necessity of her innate nobleness, in its alliance with a being so

ignoble; and betwixt her mother's death and her father's ignominy, his

daughter was left worse than orphaned.

There was no pursuit after Fauntleroy. His family connections, who had

great wealth, made such arrangements with those whom he had attempted

to wrong as secured him from the retribution that would have overtaken

an unfriended criminal. The wreck of his estate was divided among his

creditors: His name, in a very brief space, was forgotten by the

multitude who had passed it so diligently from mouth to mouth. Seldom,

indeed, was it recalled, even by his closest former intimates. Nor

could it have been otherwise. The man had laid no real touch on any

mortal's heart. Being a mere image, an optical delusion, created by

the sunshine of prosperity, it was his law to vanish into the shadow of

the first intervening cloud. He seemed to leave no vacancy; a

phenomenon which, like many others that attended his brief career, went

far to prove the illusiveness of his existence.

Not, however, that the physical substance of Fauntleroy had literally

melted into vapor. He had fled northward to the New England

metropolis, and had taken up his abode, under another name, in a

squalid street or court of the older portion of the city. There he

dwelt among poverty-stricken wretches, sinners, and forlorn good

people, Irish, and whomsoever else were neediest. Many families were

clustered in each house together, above stairs and below, in the little

peaked garrets, and even in the dusky cellars. The house where

Fauntleroy paid weekly rent for a chamber and a closet had been a

stately habitation in its day. An old colonial governor had built it,

and lived there, long ago, and held his levees in a great room where

now slept twenty Irish bedfellows; and died in Fauntleroy's chamber,

which his embroidered and white-wigged ghost still haunted. Tattered

hangings, a marble hearth, traversed with many cracks and fissures, a

richly carved oaken mantelpiece, partly hacked away for kindling-stuff,

a stuccoed ceiling, defaced with great, unsightly patches of the naked

laths,--such was the chamber's aspect, as if, with its splinters and

rags of dirty splendor, it were a kind of practical gibe at this poor,

ruined man of show.

At first, and at irregular intervals, his relatives allowed Fauntleroy

a little pittance to sustain life; not from any love, perhaps, but lest

poverty should compel him, by new offences, to add more shame to that

with which he had already stained them. But he showed no tendency to

further guilt. His character appeared to have been radically changed

(as, indeed, from its shallowness, it well might) by his miserable

fate; or, it may be, the traits now seen in him were portions of the

same character, presenting itself in another phase. Instead of any

longer seeking to live in the sight of the world, his impulse was to

shrink into the nearest obscurity, and to be unseen of men, were it

possible, even while standing before their eyes. He had no pride; it

was all trodden in the dust. No ostentation; for how could it survive,

when there was nothing left of Fauntleroy, save penury and shame! His

very gait demonstrated that he would gladly have faded out of view, and

have crept about invisibly, for the sake of sheltering himself from the

irksomeness of a human glance. Hardly, it was averred, within the

memory of those who knew him now, had he the hardihood to show his full

front to the world. He skulked in corners, and crept about in a sort

of noonday twilight, making himself gray and misty, at all hours, with

his morbid intolerance of sunshine.

In his torpid despair, however, he had done an act which that condition

of the spirit seems to prompt almost as often as prosperity and hope.

Fauntleroy was again married. He had taken to wife a forlorn,

meek-spirited, feeble young woman, a seamstress, whom he found dwelling

with her mother in a contiguous chamber of the old gubernatorial

residence. This poor phantom--as the beautiful and noble companion of

his former life had done brought him a daughter. And sometimes, as from

one dream into another, Fauntleroy looked forth out of his present

grimy environment into that past magnificence, and wondered whether the

grandee of yesterday or the pauper of to-day were real. But, in my

mind, the one and the other were alike impalpable. In truth, it was

Fauntleroy's fatality to behold whatever he touched dissolve. After a

few years, his second wife (dim shadow that she had always been) faded

finally out of the world, and left Fauntleroy to deal as he might with

their pale and nervous child. And, by this time, among his distant

relatives,--with whom he had grown a weary thought, linked with

contagious infamy, and which they were only too willing to get rid

of,--he was himself supposed to be no more.

The younger child, like his elder one, might be considered as the true

offspring of both parents, and as the reflection of their state. She

was a tremulous little creature, shrinking involuntarily from all

mankind, but in timidity, and no sour repugnance. There was a lack of

human substance in her; it seemed as if, were she to stand up in a

sunbeam, it would pass right through her figure, and trace out the

cracked and dusty window-panes upon the naked floor. But,

nevertheless, the poor child had a heart; and from her mother's gentle

character she had inherited a profound and still capacity of affection.

And so her life was one of love. She bestowed it partly on her father,

but in greater part on an idea.

For Fauntleroy, as they sat by their cheerless fireside,--which was no

fireside, in truth, but only a rusty stove,--had often talked to the

little girl about his former wealth, the noble loveliness of his first

wife, and the beautiful child whom she had given him. Instead of the

fairy tales which other parents tell, he told Priscilla this. And, out

of the loneliness of her sad little existence, Priscilla's love grew,

and tended upward, and twined itself perseveringly around this unseen

sister; as a grapevine might strive to clamber out of a gloomy hollow

among the rocks, and embrace a young tree standing in the sunny warmth

above. It was almost like worship, both in its earnestness and its

humility; nor was it the less humble--though the more earnest--because

Priscilla could claim human kindred with the being whom she, so

devoutly loved. As with worship, too, it gave her soul the refreshment

of a purer atmosphere. Save for this singular, this melancholy, and

yet beautiful affection, the child could hardly have lived; or, had she

lived, with a heart shrunken for lack of any sentiment to fill it, she

must have yielded to the barren miseries of her position, and have

grown to womanhood characterless and worthless. But now, amid all the

sombre coarseness of her father's outward life, and of her own,

Priscilla had a higher and imaginative life within. Some faint gleam

thereof was often visible upon her face. It was as if, in her spiritual

visits to her brilliant sister, a portion of the latter's brightness

had permeated our dim Priscilla, and still lingered, shedding a faint

illumination through the cheerless chamber, after she came back.

As the child grew up, so pallid and so slender, and with much

unaccountable nervousness, and all the weaknesses of neglected infancy

still haunting her, the gross and simple neighbors whispered strange

things about Priscilla. The big, red, Irish matrons, whose innumerable

progeny swarmed out of the adjacent doors, used to mock at the pale

Western child. They fancied--or, at least, affirmed it, between jest

and earnest--that she was not so solid flesh and blood as other

children, but mixed largely with a thinner element. They called her

ghost-child, and said that she could indeed vanish when she pleased,

but could never, in her densest moments, make herself quite visible.

The sun at midday would shine through her; in the first gray of the

twilight, she lost all the distinctness of her outline; and, if you

followed the dim thing into a dark corner, behold! she was not there.

And it was true that Priscilla had strange ways; strange ways, and

stranger words, when she uttered any words at all. Never stirring out

of the old governor's dusky house, she sometimes talked of distant

places and splendid rooms, as if she had just left them. Hidden things

were visible to her (at least so the people inferred from obscure hints

escaping unawares out of her mouth), and silence was audible. And in

all the world there was nothing so difficult to be endured, by those

who had any dark secret to conceal, as the glance of Priscilla's timid

and melancholy eyes.

Her peculiarities were the theme of continual gossip among the other

inhabitants of the gubernatorial mansion. The rumor spread thence into

a wider circle. Those who knew old Moodie, as he was now called, used

often to jeer him, at the very street-corners, about his daughter's

gift of second-sight and prophecy. It was a period when science

(though mostly through its empirical professors) was bringing forward,

anew, a hoard of facts and imperfect theories, that had partially won

credence in elder times, but which modern scepticism had swept away as

rubbish. These things were now tossed up again, out of the surging

ocean of human thought and experience. The story of Priscilla's

preternatural manifestations, therefore, attracted a kind of notice of

which it would have been deemed wholly unworthy a few years earlier.

One day a gentleman ascended the creaking staircase, and inquired which

was old Moodie's chamber door. And, several times, he came again. He

was a marvellously handsome man,--still youthful, too, and fashionably

dressed. Except that Priscilla, in those days, had no beauty, and, in

the languor of her existence, had not yet blossomed into womanhood,

there would have been rich food for scandal in these visits; for the

girl was unquestionably their sole object, although her father was

supposed always to be present. But, it must likewise be added, there

was something about Priscilla that calumny could not meddle with; and

thus far was she privileged, either by the preponderance of what was

spiritual, or the thin and watery blood that left her cheek so pallid.

Yet, if the busy tongues of the neighborhood spared Priscilla in one

way, they made themselves amends by renewed and wilder babble on

another score. They averred that the strange gentleman was a wizard,

and that he had taken advantage of Priscilla's lack of earthly

substance to subject her to himself, as his familiar spirit, through

whose medium he gained cognizance of whatever happened, in regions near

or remote. The boundaries of his power were defined by the verge of

the pit of Tartarus on the one hand, and the third sphere of the

celestial world on the other. Again, they declared their suspicion

that the wizard, with all his show of manly beauty, was really an aged

and wizened figure, or else that his semblance of a human body was only

a necromantic, or perhaps a mechanical contrivance, in which a demon

walked about. In proof of it, however, they could merely instance a

gold band around his upper teeth, which had once been visible to

several old women, when he smiled at them from the top of the

governor's staircase. Of course this was all absurdity, or mostly so.

But, after every possible deduction, there remained certain very

mysterious points about the stranger's character, as well as the

connection that he established with Priscilla. Its nature at that

period was even less understood than now, when miracles of this kind

have grown so absolutely stale, that I would gladly, if the truth

allowed, dismiss the whole matter from my narrative.

We must now glance backward, in quest of the beautiful daughter of

Fauntleroy's prosperity. What had become of her? Fauntleroy's only

brother, a bachelor, and with no other relative so near, had adopted

the forsaken child. She grew up in affluence, with native graces

clustering luxuriantly about her. In her triumphant progress towards

womanhood, she was adorned with every variety of feminine

accomplishment. But she lacked a mother's care. With no adequate

control, on any hand (for a man, however stern, however wise, can never

sway and guide a female child), her character was left to shape itself.

There was good in it, and evil. Passionate, self-willed, and

imperious, she had a warm and generous nature; showing the richness of

the soil, however, chiefly by the weeds that flourished in it, and

choked up the herbs of grace. In her girlhood her uncle died. As

Fauntleroy was supposed to be likewise dead, and no other heir was

known to exist, his wealth devolved on her, although, dying suddenly,

the uncle left no will. After his death there were obscure passages in

Zenobia's history. There were whispers of an attachment, and even a

secret marriage, with a fascinating and accomplished but unprincipled

young man. The incidents and appearances, however, which led to this

surmise soon passed away, and were forgotten.

Nor was her reputation seriously affected by the report. In fact, so

great was her native power and influence, and such seemed the careless

purity of her nature, that whatever Zenobia did was generally

acknowledged as right for her to do. The world never criticised her so

harshly as it does most women who transcend its rules. It almost

yielded its assent, when it beheld her stepping out of the common path,

and asserting the more extensive privileges of her sex, both

theoretically and by her practice. The sphere of ordinary womanhood

was felt to be narrower than her development required.

A portion of Zenobia's more recent life is told in the foregoing pages.

Partly in earnest,--and, I imagine, as was her disposition, half in a

proud jest, or in a kind of recklessness that had grown upon her, out

of some hidden grief,--she had given her countenance, and promised

liberal pecuniary aid, to our experiment of a better social state. And

Priscilla followed her to Blithedale. The sole bliss of her life had

been a dream of this beautiful sister, who had never so much as known

of her existence. By this time, too, the poor girl was enthralled in

an intolerable bondage, from which she must either free herself or

perish. She deemed herself safest near Zenobia, into whose large heart

she hoped to nestle.

One evening, months after Priscilla's departure, when Moodie (or shall

we call him Fauntleroy?) was sitting alone in the state-chamber of the

old governor, there came footsteps up the staircase. There was a pause

on the landing-place. A lady's musical yet haughty accents were heard

making an inquiry from some denizen of the house, who had thrust a head

out of a contiguous chamber. There was then a knock at Moodie's door.

"Come in!" said he.

And Zenobia entered. The details of the interview that followed being

unknown to me,--while, notwithstanding, it would be a pity quite to

lose the picturesqueness of the situation,--I shall attempt to sketch

it, mainly from fancy, although with some general grounds of surmise in

regard to the old man's feelings.

She gazed wonderingly at the dismal chamber. Dismal to her, who beheld

it only for an instant; and how much more so to him, into whose brain

each bare spot on the ceiling, every tatter of the paper-hangings, and

all the splintered carvings of the mantelpiece, seen wearily through

long years, had worn their several prints! Inexpressibly miserable is

this familiarity with objects that have been from the first disgustful.

"I have received a strange message," said Zenobia, after a moment's

silence, "requesting, or rather enjoining it upon me, to come hither.

Rather from curiosity than any other motive,--and because, though a

woman, I have not all the timidity of one,--I have complied. Can it be

you, sir, who thus summoned me?"

"It was," answered Moodie.

"And what was your purpose?" she continued. "You require charity,

perhaps? In that case, the message might have been more fitly worded.

But you are old and poor, and age and poverty should be allowed their

privileges. Tell me, therefore, to what extent you need my aid."

"Put up your purse," said the supposed mendicant, with an inexplicable

smile. "Keep it,--keep all your wealth,--until I demand it all, or

none! My message had no such end in view. You are beautiful, they

tell me; and I desired to look at you."

He took the one lamp that showed the discomfort and sordidness of his

abode, and approaching Zenobia held it up, so as to gain the more

perfect view of her, from top to toe. So obscure was the chamber, that

you could see the reflection of her diamonds thrown upon the dingy

wall, and flickering with the rise and fall of Zenobia's breath. It was

the splendor of those jewels on her neck, like lamps that burn before

some fair temple, and the jewelled flower in her hair, more than the

murky, yellow light, that helped him to see her beauty. But he beheld

it, and grew proud at heart; his own figure, in spite of his mean

habiliments, assumed an air of state and grandeur.

"It is well," cried old Moodie. "Keep your wealth. You are right

worthy of it. Keep it, therefore, but with one condition only."

Zenobia thought the old man beside himself, and was moved with pity.

"Have you none to care for you?" asked she. "No daughter?--no

kind-hearted neighbor?--no means of procuring the attendance which you

need? Tell me once again, can I do nothing for you?"

"Nothing," he replied. "I have beheld what I wished. Now leave me.

Linger not a moment longer, or I may be tempted to say what would bring

a cloud over that queenly brow. Keep all your wealth, but with only

this one condition: Be kind--be no less kind than sisters are--to my

poor Priscilla!"

And, it may be, after Zenobia withdrew, Fauntleroy paced his gloomy

chamber, and communed with himself as follows,--or, at all events, it

is the only solution which I can offer of the enigma presented in his

character:--"I am unchanged,--the same man as of yore!" said he. "True,

my brother's wealth--he dying intestate--is legally my own. I know it;

yet of my own choice, I live a beggar, and go meanly clad, and hide

myself behind a forgotten ignominy. Looks this like ostentation? Ah!

but in Zenobia I live again! Beholding her, so beautiful,--so fit to

be adorned with all imaginable splendor of outward state,--the cursed

vanity, which, half a lifetime since, dropt off like tatters of once

gaudy apparel from my debased and ruined person, is all renewed for her

sake. Were I to reappear, my shame would go with me from darkness into

daylight. Zenobia has the splendor, and not the shame. Let the world

admire her, and be dazzled by her, the brilliant child of my

prosperity! It is Fauntleroy that still shines through her!" But

then, perhaps, another thought occurred to him.

"My poor Priscilla! And am I just to her, in surrendering all to this

beautiful Zenobia? Priscilla! I love her best,--I love her only!--but

with shame, not pride. So dim, so pallid, so shrinking,--the daughter

of my long calamity! Wealth were but a mockery in Priscilla's hands.

What is its use, except to fling a golden radiance around those who

grasp it? Yet let Zenobia take heed! Priscilla shall have no wrong!"

But, while the man of show thus meditated,--that very evening, so far

as I can adjust the dates of these strange incidents,--Priscilla poor,

pallid flower!--was either snatched from Zenobia's hand, or flung

wilfully away!

XXIII.