บทที่ บทที่ 8 · HOLLINGSWORTH, ZENOBIA, PRISCILLA

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.

X.