Chương Chương 12 · ZENOBIA'S LEGEND

The illustrious Society of Blithedale, though it toiled in downright

earnest for the good of mankind, yet not unfrequently illuminated its

laborious life with an afternoon or evening of pastime. Picnics under

the trees were considerably in vogue; and, within doors, fragmentary

bits of theatrical performance, such as single acts of tragedy or

comedy, or dramatic proverbs and charades. Zenobia, besides, was fond

of giving us readings from Shakespeare, and often with a depth of

tragic power, or breadth of comic effect, that made one feel it an

intolerable wrong to the world that she did not at once go upon the

stage. Tableaux vivants were another of our occasional modes of

amusement, in which scarlet shawls, old silken robes, ruffs, velvets,

furs, and all kinds of miscellaneous trumpery converted our familiar

companions into the people of a pictorial world. We had been thus

engaged on the evening after the incident narrated in the last chapter.

Several splendid works of art--either arranged after engravings from

the old masters, or original illustrations of scenes in history or

romance--had been presented, and we were earnestly entreating Zenobia

for more.

She stood with a meditative air, holding a large piece of gauze, or

some such ethereal stuff, as if considering what picture should next

occupy the frame; while at her feet lay a heap of many-colored

garments, which her quick fancy and magic skill could so easily convert

into gorgeous draperies for heroes and princesses.

"I am getting weary of this," said she, after a moment's thought. "Our

own features, and our own figures and airs, show a little too

intrusively through all the characters we assume. We have so much

familiarity with one another's realities, that we cannot remove

ourselves, at pleasure, into an imaginary sphere. Let us have no more

pictures to-night; but, to make you what poor amends I can, how would

you like to have me trump up a wild, spectral legend, on the spur of

the moment?"

Zenobia had the gift of telling a fanciful little story, off-hand, in a

way that made it greatly more effective than it was usually found to be

when she afterwards elaborated the same production with her pen. Her

proposal, therefore, was greeted with acclamation.

"Oh, a story, a story, by all means!" cried the young girls. "No

matter how marvellous; we will believe it, every word. And let it be a

ghost story, if you please."

"No, not exactly a ghost story," answered Zenobia; "but something so

nearly like it that you shall hardly tell the difference. And,

Priscilla, stand you before me, where I may look at you, and get my

inspiration out of your eyes. They are very deep and dreamy to-night."

I know not whether the following version of her story will retain any

portion of its pristine character; but, as Zenobia told it wildly and

rapidly, hesitating at no extravagance, and dashing at absurdities

which I am too timorous to repeat,--giving it the varied emphasis of

her inimitable voice, and the pictorial illustration of her mobile

face, while through it all we caught the freshest aroma of the

thoughts, as they came bubbling out of her mind,--thus narrated, and

thus heard, the legend seemed quite a remarkable affair. I scarcely

knew, at the time, whether she intended us to laugh or be more

seriously impressed. From beginning to end, it was undeniable

nonsense, but not necessarily the worse for that.

THE SILVERY VEIL

You have heard, my dear friends, of the Veiled Lady, who grew suddenly

so very famous, a few months ago. And have you never thought how

remarkable it was that this marvellous creature should vanish, all at

once, while her renown was on the increase, before the public had grown

weary of her, and when the enigma of her character, instead of being

solved, presented itself more mystically at every exhibition? Her last

appearance, as you know, was before a crowded audience. The next

evening,--although the bills had announced her, at the corner of every

street, in red letters of a gigantic size,--there was no Veiled Lady to

be seen! Now, listen to my simple little tale, and you shall hear the

very latest incident in the known life--(if life it may be called,

which seemed to have no more reality than the candle-light image of

one's self which peeps at us outside of a dark windowpane)--the life of

this shadowy phenomenon.

A party of young gentlemen, you are to understand, were enjoying

themselves, one afternoon,--as young gentlemen are sometimes fond of

doing,--over a bottle or two of champagne; and, among other ladies less

mysterious, the subject of the Veiled Lady, as was very natural,

happened to come up before them for discussion. She rose, as it were,

with the sparkling effervescence of their wine, and appeared in a more

airy and fantastic light on account of the medium through which they

saw her. They repeated to one another, between jest and earnest, all

the wild stories that were in vogue; nor, I presume, did they hesitate

to add any small circumstance that the inventive whim of the moment

might suggest, to heighten the marvellousness of their theme.

"But what an audacious report was that," observed one, "which pretended

to assert the identity of this strange creature with a young

lady,"--and here he mentioned her name,--"the daughter of one of our

most distinguished families!"

"Ah, there is more in that story than can well be accounted for,"

remarked another. "I have it on good authority, that the young lady in

question is invariably out of sight, and not to be traced, even by her

own family, at the hours when the Veiled Lady is before the public; nor

can any satisfactory explanation be given of her disappearance. And

just look at the thing: Her brother is a young fellow of spirit. He

cannot but be aware of these rumors in reference to his sister. Why,

then, does he not come forward to defend her character, unless he is

conscious that an investigation would only make the matter worse?"

It is essential to the purposes of my legend to distinguish one of

these young gentlemen from his companions; so, for the sake of a soft

and pretty name (such as we of the literary sisterhood invariably

bestow upon our heroes), I deem it fit to call him Theodore.

"Pshaw!" exclaimed Theodore; "her brother is no such fool! Nobody,

unless his brain be as full of bubbles as this wine, can seriously

think of crediting that ridiculous rumor. Why, if my senses did not

play me false (which never was the case yet), I affirm that I saw that

very lady, last evening, at the exhibition, while this veiled

phenomenon was playing off her juggling tricks! What can you say to

that?"

"Oh, it was a spectral illusion that you saw!" replied his friends,

with a general laugh. "The Veiled Lady is quite up to such a thing."

However, as the above-mentioned fable could not hold its ground against

Theodore's downright refutation, they went on to speak of other stories

which the wild babble of the town had set afloat. Some upheld that the

veil covered the most beautiful countenance in the world; others,--and

certainly with more reason, considering the sex of the Veiled

Lady,--that the face was the most hideous and horrible, and that this

was her sole motive for hiding it. It was the face of a corpse; it was

the head of a skeleton; it was a monstrous visage, with snaky locks,

like Medusa's, and one great red eye in the centre of the forehead.

Again, it was affirmed that there was no single and unchangeable set of

features beneath the veil; but that whosoever should be bold enough to

lift it would behold the features of that person, in all the world, who

was destined to be his fate; perhaps he would be greeted by the tender

smile of the woman whom he loved, or, quite as probably, the deadly

scowl of his bitterest enemy would throw a blight over his life. They

quoted, moreover, this startling explanation of the whole affair: that

the magician who exhibited the Veiled Lady--and who, by the bye, was

the handsomest man in the whole world--had bartered his own soul for

seven years' possession of a familiar fiend, and that the last year of

the contract was wearing towards its close.

If it were worth our while, I could keep you till an hour beyond

midnight listening to a thousand such absurdities as these. But

finally our friend Theodore, who prided himself upon his common-sense,

found the matter getting quite beyond his patience.

"I offer any wager you like," cried he, setting down his glass so

forcibly as to break the stem of it, "that this very evening I find out

the mystery of the Veiled Lady!"

Young men, I am told, boggle at nothing over their wine; so, after a

little more talk, a wager of considerable amount was actually laid, the

money staked, and Theodore left to choose his own method of settling

the dispute.

How he managed it I know not, nor is it of any great importance to this

veracious legend. The most natural way, to be sure, was by bribing the

doorkeeper,--or possibly he preferred clambering in at the window.

But, at any rate, that very evening, while the exhibition was going

forward in the hall, Theodore contrived to gain admittance into the

private withdrawing-room whither the Veiled Lady was accustomed to

retire at the close of her performances. There he waited, listening, I

suppose, to the stifled hum of the great audience; and no doubt he

could distinguish the deep tones of the magician, causing the wonders

that he wrought to appear more dark and intricate, by his mystic

pretence of an explanation. Perhaps, too, in the intervals of the wild

breezy music which accompanied the exhibition, he might hear the low

voice of the Veiled Lady, conveying her sibylline responses. Firm as

Theodore's nerves might be, and much as he prided himself on his sturdy

perception of realities, I should not be surprised if his heart

throbbed at a little more than its ordinary rate.

Theodore concealed himself behind a screen. In due time the

performance was brought to a close, and whether the door was softly

opened, or whether her bodiless presence came through the wall, is more

than I can say, but, all at once, without the young man's knowing how

it happened, a veiled figure stood in the centre of the room. It was

one thing to be in presence of this mystery in the hall of exhibition,

where the warm, dense life of hundreds of other mortals kept up the

beholder's courage, and distributed her influence among so many; it was

another thing to be quite alone with her, and that, too, with a

hostile, or, at least, an unauthorized and unjustifiable purpose. I

further imagine that Theodore now began to be sensible of something

more serious in his enterprise than he had been quite aware of while he

sat with his boon-companions over their sparkling wine.

Very strange, it must be confessed, was the movement with which the

figure floated to and fro over the carpet, with the silvery veil

covering her from head to foot; so impalpable, so ethereal, so without

substance, as the texture seemed, yet hiding her every outline in an

impenetrability like that of midnight. Surely, she did not walk! She

floated, and flitted, and hovered about the room; no sound of a

footstep, no perceptible motion of a limb; it was as if a wandering

breeze wafted her before it, at its own wild and gentle pleasure. But,

by and by, a purpose began to be discernible, throughout the seeming

vagueness of her unrest. She was in quest of something. Could it be

that a subtile presentiment had informed her of the young man's

presence? And if so, did the Veiled Lady seek or did she shun him?

The doubt in Theodore's mind was speedily resolved; for, after a moment

or two of these erratic flutterings, she advanced more decidedly, and

stood motionless before the screen.

"Thou art here!" said a soft, low voice. "Come forth, Theodore!" Thus

summoned by his name, Theodore, as a man of courage, had no choice. He

emerged from his concealment, and presented himself before the Veiled

Lady, with the wine-flush, it may be, quite gone out of his cheeks.

"What wouldst thou with me?" she inquired, with the same gentle

composure that was in her former utterance.

"Mysterious creature," replied Theodore, "I would know who and what you

are!"

"My lips are forbidden to betray the secret," said the Veiled Lady.

"At whatever risk, I must discover it," rejoined Theodore.

"Then," said the Mystery, "there is no way save to lift my veil."

And Theodore, partly recovering his audacity, stept forward on the

instant, to do as the Veiled Lady had suggested. But she floated

backward to the opposite side of the room, as if the young man's breath

had possessed power enough to waft her away.

"Pause, one little instant," said the soft, low voice, "and learn the

conditions of what thou art so bold to undertake. Thou canst go hence,

and think of me no more; or, at thy option, thou canst lift this

mysterious veil, beneath which I am a sad and lonely prisoner, in a

bondage which is worse to me than death. But, before raising it, I

entreat thee, in all maiden modesty, to bend forward and impress a kiss

where my breath stirs the veil; and my virgin lips shall come forward

to meet thy lips; and from that instant, Theodore, thou shalt be mine,

and I thine, with never more a veil between us. And all the felicity

of earth and of the future world shall be thine and mine together. So

much may a maiden say behind the veil. If thou shrinkest from this,

there is yet another way." "And what is that?" asked Theodore. "Dost

thou hesitate," said the Veiled Lady, "to pledge thyself to me, by

meeting these lips of mine, while the veil yet hides my face? Has not

thy heart recognized me? Dost thou come hither, not in holy faith, nor

with a pure and generous purpose, but in scornful scepticism and idle

curiosity? Still, thou mayest lift the veil! But, from that instant,

Theodore, I am doomed to be thy evil fate; nor wilt thou ever taste

another breath of happiness!"

There was a shade of inexpressible sadness in the utterance of these

last words. But Theodore, whose natural tendency was towards

scepticism, felt himself almost injured and insulted by the Veiled

Lady's proposal that he should pledge himself, for life and eternity,

to so questionable a creature as herself; or even that she should

suggest an inconsequential kiss, taking into view the probability that

her face was none of the most bewitching. A delightful idea, truly,

that he should salute the lips of a dead girl, or the jaws of a

skeleton, or the grinning cavity of a monster's mouth! Even should she

prove a comely maiden enough in other respects, the odds were ten to

one that her teeth were defective; a terrible drawback on the

delectableness of a kiss.

"Excuse me, fair lady," said Theodore, and I think he nearly burst into

a laugh, "if I prefer to lift the veil first; and for this affair of

the kiss, we may decide upon it afterwards."

"Thou hast made thy choice," said the sweet, sad voice behind the veil;

and there seemed a tender but unresentful sense of wrong done to

womanhood by the young man's contemptuous interpretation of her offer.

"I must not counsel thee to pause, although thy fate is still in thine

own hand!"

Grasping at the veil, he flung it upward, and caught a glimpse of a

pale, lovely face beneath; just one momentary glimpse, and then the

apparition vanished, and the silvery veil fluttered slowly down and lay

upon the floor. Theodore was alone. Our legend leaves him there. His

retribution was, to pine forever and ever for another sight of that

dim, mournful face,--which might have been his life-long household

fireside joy,--to desire, and waste life in a feverish quest, and never

meet it more.

But what, in good sooth, had become of the Veiled Lady? Had all her

existence been comprehended within that mysterious veil, and was she

now annihilated? Or was she a spirit, with a heavenly essence, but

which might have been tamed down to human bliss, had Theodore been

brave and true enough to claim her? Hearken, my sweet friends,--and

hearken, dear Priscilla,--and you shall learn the little more that

Zenobia can tell you.

Just at the moment, so far as can be ascertained, when the Veiled Lady

vanished, a maiden, pale and shadowy, rose up amid a knot of visionary

people, who were seeking for the better life. She was so gentle and so

sad,--a nameless melancholy gave her such hold upon their

sympathies,--that they never thought of questioning whence she came.

She might have heretofore existed, or her thin substance might have

been moulded out of air at the very instant when they first beheld her.

It was all one to them; they took her to their hearts. Among them was a

lady to whom, more than to all the rest, this pale, mysterious girl

attached herself.

But one morning the lady was wandering in the woods, and there met her

a figure in an Oriental robe, with a dark beard, and holding in his

hand a silvery veil. He motioned her to stay. Being a woman of some

nerve, she did not shriek, nor run away, nor faint, as many ladies

would have been apt to do, but stood quietly, and bade him speak. The

truth was, she had seen his face before, but had never feared it,

although she knew him to be a terrible magician.

"Lady," said he, with a warning gesture, "you are in peril!" "Peril!"

she exclaimed. "And of what nature?"

"There is a certain maiden," replied the magician, "who has come out of

the realm of mystery, and made herself your most intimate companion.

Now, the fates have so ordained it, that, whether by her own will or

no, this stranger is your deadliest enemy. In love, in worldly

fortune, in all your pursuit of happiness, she is doomed to fling a

blight over your prospects. There is but one possibility of thwarting

her disastrous influence."

"Then tell me that one method," said the lady.

"Take this veil," he answered, holding forth the silvery texture. "It

is a spell; it is a powerful enchantment, which I wrought for her sake,

and beneath which she was once my prisoner. Throw it, at unawares,

over the head of this secret foe, stamp your foot, and cry, 'Arise,

Magician! Here is the Veiled Lady!' and immediately I will rise up

through the earth, and seize her; and from that moment you are safe!"

So the lady took the silvery veil, which was like woven air, or like

some substance airier than nothing, and that would float upward and be

lost among the clouds, were she once to let it go. Returning homeward,

she found the shadowy girl amid the knot of visionary

transcendentalists, who were still seeking for the better life. She

was joyous now, and had a rose-bloom in her cheeks, and was one of the

prettiest creatures, and seemed one of the happiest, that the world

could show. But the lady stole noiselessly behind her and threw the

veil over her head. As the slight, ethereal texture sank inevitably

down over her figure, the poor girl strove to raise it, and met her

dear friend's eyes with one glance of mortal terror, and deep, deep

reproach. It could not change her purpose.

"Arise, Magician!" she exclaimed, stamping her foot upon the earth.

"Here is the Veiled Lady!"

At the word, up rose the bearded man in the Oriental robes,--the

beautiful, the dark magician, who had bartered away his soul! He threw

his arms around the Veiled Lady, and she was his bond-slave for

evermore!

Zenobia, all this while, had been holding the piece of gauze, and so

managed it as greatly to increase the dramatic effect of the legend at

those points where the magic veil was to be described. Arriving at the

catastrophe, and uttering the fatal words, she flung the gauze over

Priscilla's head; and for an instant her auditors held their breath,

half expecting, I verily believe, that the magician would start up

through the floor, and carry off our poor little friend before our eyes.

As for Priscilla, she stood droopingly in the midst of us, making no

attempt to remove the veil.

"How do you find yourself, my love?" said Zenobia, lifting a corner of

the gauze, and peeping beneath it with a mischievous smile. "Ah, the

dear little soul! Why, she is really going to faint! Mr. Coverdale,

Mr. Coverdale, pray bring a glass of water!"

Her nerves being none of the strongest, Priscilla hardly recovered her

equanimity during the rest of the evening. This, to be sure, was a

great pity; but, nevertheless, we thought it a very bright idea of

Zenobia's to bring her legend to so effective a conclusion.

XIV.