Chương Chương 20 · AN OLD ACQUAINTANCE

Thus excluded from everybody's confidence, and attaining no further, by

my most earnest study, than to an uncertain sense of something hidden

from me, it would appear reasonable that I should have flung off all

these alien perplexities. Obviously, my best course was to betake

myself to new scenes. Here I was only an intruder. Elsewhere there

might be circumstances in which I could establish a personal interest,

and people who would respond, with a portion of their sympathies, for

so much as I should bestow of mine.

Nevertheless, there occurred to me one other thing to be done.

Remembering old Moodie, and his relationship with Priscilla, I

determined to seek an interview, for the purpose of ascertaining

whether the knot of affairs was as inextricable on that side as I found

it on all others. Being tolerably well acquainted with the old man's

haunts, I went, the next day, to the saloon of a certain establishment

about which he often lurked. It was a reputable place enough,

affording good entertainment in the way of meat, drink, and fumigation;

and there, in my young and idle days and nights, when I was neither

nice nor wise, I had often amused myself with watching the staid humors

and sober jollities of the thirsty souls around me.

At my first entrance, old Moodie was not there. The more patiently to

await him, I lighted a cigar, and establishing myself in a corner, took

a quiet, and, by sympathy, a boozy kind of pleasure in the customary

life that was going forward. The saloon was fitted up with a good deal

of taste. There were pictures on the walls, and among them an

oil-painting of a beefsteak, with such an admirable show of juicy

tenderness, that the beholder sighed to think it merely visionary, and

incapable of ever being put upon a gridiron. Another work of high art

was the lifelike representation of a noble sirloin; another, the

hindquarters of a deer, retaining the hoofs and tawny fur; another, the

head and shoulders of a salmon; and, still more exquisitely finished, a

brace of canvasback ducks, in which the mottled feathers were depicted

with the accuracy of a daguerreotype. Some very hungry painter, I

suppose, had wrought these subjects of still-life, heightening his

imagination with his appetite, and earning, it is to be hoped, the

privilege of a daily dinner off whichever of his pictorial viands he

liked best.

Then there was a fine old cheese, in which you could almost discern the

mites; and some sardines, on a small plate, very richly done, and

looking as if oozy with the oil in which they had been smothered. All

these things were so perfectly imitated, that you seemed to have the

genuine article before you, and yet with an indescribable, ideal charm;

it took away the grossness from what was fleshiest and fattest, and

thus helped the life of man, even in its earthliest relations, to

appear rich and noble, as well as warm, cheerful, and substantial.

There were pictures, too, of gallant revellers, those of the old time,

Flemish, apparently, with doublets and slashed sleeves, drinking their

wine out of fantastic, long-stemmed glasses; quaffing joyously,

quaffing forever, with inaudible laughter and song; while the champagne

bubbled immortally against their moustaches, or the purple tide of

Burgundy ran inexhaustibly down their throats.

But, in an obscure corner of the saloon, there was a little Picture

excellently done, moreover of a ragged, bloated, New England toper,

stretched out on a bench, in the heavy, apoplectic sleep of

drunkenness. The death-in-life was too well portrayed. You smelt the

fumy liquor that had brought on this syncope. Your only comfort lay in

the forced reflection, that, real as he looked, the poor caitiff was

but imaginary, a bit of painted canvass, whom no delirium tremens, nor

so much as a retributive headache, awaited, on the morrow.

By this time, it being past eleven o'clock, the two bar-keepers of the

saloon were in pretty constant activity. One of these young men had a

rare faculty in the concoction of gin-cocktails. It was a spectacle to

behold, how, with a tumbler in each hand, he tossed the contents from

one to the other. Never conveying it awry, nor spilling the least

drop, he compelled the frothy liquor, as it seemed to me, to spout

forth from one glass and descend into the other, in a great parabolic

curve, as well-defined and calculable as a planet's orbit. He had a

good forehead, with a particularly large development just above the

eyebrows; fine intellectual gifts, no doubt, which he had educated to

this profitable end; being famous for nothing but gin-cocktails, and

commanding a fair salary by his one accomplishment. These cocktails,

and other artificial combinations of liquor, (of which there were at

least a score, though mostly, I suspect, fantastic in their

differences,) were much in favor with the younger class of customers,

who, at farthest, had only reached the second stage of potatory life.

The staunch, old soakers, on the other hand men who, if put on tap,

would have yielded a red alcoholic liquor, by way of blood usually

confined themselves to plain brandy-and-water, gin, or West India rum;

and, oftentimes, they prefaced their dram with some medicinal remark as

to the wholesomeness and stomachic qualities of that particular drink.

Two or three appeared to have bottles of their own behind the counter;

and, winking one red eye to the bar-keeper, he forthwith produced these

choicest and peculiar cordials, which it was a matter of great interest

and favor, among their acquaintances, to obtain a sip of.

Agreeably to the Yankee habit, under whatever circumstances, the

deportment of all these good fellows, old or young, was decorous and

thoroughly correct. They grew only the more sober in their cups; there

was no confused babble nor boisterous laughter. They sucked in the

joyous fire of the decanters and kept it smouldering in their inmost

recesses, with a bliss known only to the heart which it warmed and

comforted. Their eyes twinkled a little, to be sure; they hemmed

vigorously after each glass, and laid a hand upon the pit of the

stomach, as if the pleasant titillation there was what constituted the

tangible part of their enjoyment. In that spot, unquestionably, and

not in the brain, was the acme of the whole affair. But the true

purpose of their drinking--and one that will induce men to drink, or do

something equivalent, as long as this weary world shall endure--was the

renewed youth and vigor, the brisk, cheerful sense of things present

and to come, with which, for about a quarter of an hour, the dram

permeated their systems. And when such quarters of an hour can be

obtained in some mode less baneful to the great sum of a man's

life,--but, nevertheless, with a little spice of impropriety, to give

it a wild flavor,--we temperance people may ring out our bells for

victory!

The prettiest object in the saloon was a tiny fountain, which threw up

its feathery jet through the counter, and sparkled down again into an

oval basin, or lakelet, containing several goldfishes. There was a bed

of bright sand at the bottom, strewn with coral and rock-work; and the

fishes went gleaming about, now turning up the sheen of a golden side,

and now vanishing into the shadows of the water, like the fanciful

thoughts that coquet with a poet in his dream. Never before, I

imagine, did a company of water-drinkers remain so entirely

uncontaminated by the bad example around them; nor could I help

wondering that it had not occurred to any freakish inebriate to empty a

glass of liquor into their lakelet. What a delightful idea! Who would

not be a fish, if he could inhale jollity with the essential element of

his existence!

I had begun to despair of meeting old Moodie, when, all at once, I

recognized his hand and arm protruding from behind a screen that was

set up for the accommodation of bashful topers. As a matter of course,

he had one of Priscilla's little purses, and was quietly insinuating it

under the notice of a person who stood near. This was always old

Moodie's way. You hardly ever saw him advancing towards you, but

became aware of his proximity without being able to guess how he had

come thither. He glided about like a spirit, assuming visibility close

to your elbow, offering his petty trifles of merchandise, remaining

long enough for you to purchase, if so disposed, and then taking

himself off, between two breaths, while you happened to be thinking of

something else.

By a sort of sympathetic impulse that often controlled me in those more

impressible days of my life, I was induced to approach this old man in

a mode as undemonstrative as his own. Thus, when, according to his

custom, he was probably just about to vanish, he found me at his elbow.

"Ah!" said he, with more emphasis than was usual with him. "It is Mr.

Coverdale!"

"Yes, Mr. Moodie, your old acquaintance," answered I. "It is some time

now since we ate luncheon together at Blithedale, and a good deal

longer since our little talk together at the street corner."

"That was a good while ago," said the old man.

And he seemed inclined to say not a word more. His existence looked so

colorless and torpid,--so very faintly shadowed on the canvas of

reality,--that I was half afraid lest he should altogether disappear,

even while my eyes were fixed full upon his figure. He was certainly

the wretchedest old ghost in the world, with his crazy hat, the dingy

handkerchief about his throat, his suit of threadbare gray, and

especially that patch over his right eye, behind which he always seemed

to be hiding himself. There was one method, however, of bringing him

out into somewhat stronger relief. A glass of brandy would effect it.

Perhaps the gentler influence of a bottle of claret might do the same.

Nor could I think it a matter for the recording angel to write down

against me, if--with my painful consciousness of the frost in this old

man's blood, and the positive ice that had congealed about his heart--I

should thaw him out, were it only for an hour, with the summer warmth

of a little wine. What else could possibly be done for him? How else

could he be imbued with energy enough to hope for a happier state

hereafter? How else be inspired to say his prayers? For there are

states of our spiritual system when the throb of the soul's life is too

faint and weak to render us capable of religious aspiration.

"Mr. Moodie," said I, "shall we lunch together? And would you like to

drink a glass of wine?"

His one eye gleamed. He bowed; and it impressed me that he grew to be

more of a man at once, either in anticipation of the wine, or as a

grateful response to my good fellowship in offering it.

"With pleasure," he replied.

The bar-keeper, at my request, showed us into a private room, and soon

afterwards set some fried oysters and a bottle of claret on the table;

and I saw the old man glance curiously at the label of the bottle, as

if to learn the brand.

"It should be good wine," I remarked, "if it have any right to its

label."

"You cannot suppose, sir," said Moodie, with a sigh, "that a poor old

fellow like me knows any difference in wines."

And yet, in his way of handling the glass, in his preliminary snuff at

the aroma, in his first cautious sip of the wine, and the gustatory

skill with which he gave his palate the full advantage of it, it was

impossible not to recognize the connoisseur.

"I fancy, Mr. Moodie," said I, "you are a much better judge of wines

than I have yet learned to be. Tell me fairly,--did you never drink it

where the grape grows?"

"How should that have been, Mr. Coverdale?" answered old Moodie shyly;

but then he took courage, as it were, and uttered a feeble little

laugh. "The flavor of this wine," added he, "and its perfume still

more than its taste, makes me remember that I was once a young man."

"I wish, Mr. Moodie," suggested I,--not that I greatly cared about it,

however, but was only anxious to draw him into some talk about

Priscilla and Zenobia,--"I wish, while we sit over our wine, you would

favor me with a few of those youthful reminiscences."

"Ah," said he, shaking his head, "they might interest you more than you

suppose. But I had better be silent, Mr. Coverdale. If this good

wine,--though claret, I suppose, is not apt to play such a trick,--but

if it should make my tongue run too freely, I could never look you in

the face again."

"You never did look me in the face, Mr. Moodie," I replied, "until this

very moment."

"Ah!" sighed old Moodie.

It was wonderful, however, what an effect the mild grape-juice wrought

upon him. It was not in the wine, but in the associations which it

seemed to bring up. Instead of the mean, slouching, furtive, painfully

depressed air of an old city vagabond, more like a gray kennel-rat than

any other living thing, he began to take the aspect of a decayed

gentleman. Even his garments--especially after I had myself quaffed a

glass or two--looked less shabby than when we first sat down. There

was, by and by, a certain exuberance and elaborateness of gesture and

manner, oddly in contrast with all that I had hitherto seen of him.

Anon, with hardly any impulse from me, old Moodie began to talk. His

communications referred exclusively to a long-past and more fortunate

period of his life, with only a few unavoidable allusions to the

circumstances that had reduced him to his present state. But, having

once got the clew, my subsequent researches acquainted me with the main

facts of the following narrative; although, in writing it out, my pen

has perhaps allowed itself a trifle of romantic and legendary license,

worthier of a small poet than of a grave biographer.

XXII.