X A VISITOR FROM TOWN

The Blithedale Romance

by Nathaniel Hawthorne

X A VISITOR FROM TOWN, THE BLITHEDALE ROMANCE by Nathaniel Hawthorne

Hollingsworth and I--we had been hoeing potatoes, that forenoon, while
the rest of the fraternity were engaged in a distant quarter of the
farm--sat under a clump of maples, eating our eleven o'clock lunch, when
we saw a stranger approaching along the edge of the field. He had
admitted himself from the roadside through a turnstile, and seemed to
have a purpose of speaking with us.

And, by the bye, we were favored with many visits at Blithedale,
especially from people who sympathized with our theories, and perhaps
held themselves ready to unite in our actual experiment as soon as there
should appear a reliable promise of its success. It was rather ludicrous,
indeed (to me, at least, whose enthusiasm had insensibly been exhaled
together with the perspiration of many a hard day's toil), it was
absolutely funny, therefore, to observe what a glory was shed about our
life and labors, in the imaginations of these longing proselytes. In
their view, we were as poetical as Arcadians, besides being as practical
as the hardest-fisted husbandmen in Massachusetts. We did not, it is
true, spend much time in piping to our sheep, or warbling our innocent
loves to the sisterhood. But they gave us credit for imbuing the
ordinary rustic occupations with a kind of religious poetry, insomuch
that our very cowyards and pigsties were as delightfully fragrant as a
flower garden. Nothing used to please me more than to see one of these
lay enthusiasts snatch up a hoe, as they were very prone to do, and set
to work with a vigor that perhaps carried him through about a dozen
ill-directed strokes. Men are wonderfully soon satisfied, in this day of
shameful bodily enervation, when, from one end of life to the other, such
multitudes never taste the sweet weariness that follows accustomed toil.
I seldom saw the new enthusiasm that did not grow as flimsy and flaccid
as the proselyte's moistened shirt-collar, with a quarter of an hour's
active labor under a July sun.

But the person now at hand had not at all the air of one of these amiable
visionaries. He was an elderly man, dressed rather shabbily, yet
decently enough, in a gray frock-coat, faded towards a brown hue, and
wore a broad-brimmed white hat, of the fashion of several years gone by.
His hair was perfect silver, without a dark thread in the whole of it;
his nose, though it had a scarlet tip, by no means indicated the jollity
of which a red nose is the generally admitted symbol. He was a subdued,
undemonstrative old man, who would doubtless drink a glass of liquor, now
and then, and probably more than was good for him,--not, however, with a
purpose of undue exhilaration, but in the hope of bringing his spirits up
to the ordinary level of the world's cheerfulness. Drawing nearer, there
was a shy look about him, as if he were ashamed of his poverty, or, at
any rate, for some reason or other, would rather have us glance at him
sidelong than take a full front view. He had a queer appearance of
hiding himself behind the patch on his left eye.

"I know this old gentleman," said I to Hollingsworth, as we sat observing
him; "that is, I have met him a hundred times in town, and have often
amused my fancy with wondering what he was before he came to be what he
is. He haunts restaurants and such places, and has an odd way of lurking
in corners or getting behind a door whenever practicable, and holding out
his hand with some little article in it which he wishes you to buy. The
eye of the world seems to trouble him, although he necessarily lives so
much in it. I never expected to see him in an open field."

"Have you learned anything of his history?" asked Hollingsworth.

"Not a circumstance," I answered; "but there must be something curious in
it. I take him to be a harmless sort of a person, and a tolerably honest
one; but his manners, being so furtive, remind me of those of a rat,--a
rat without the mischief, the fierce eye, the teeth to bite with, or the
desire to bite. See, now! He means to skulk along that fringe of bushes,
and approach us on the other side of our clump of maples."

We soon heard the old man's velvet tread on the grass, indicating that he
had arrived within a few feet of where we Sat.

"Good-morning, Mr. Moodie," said Hollingsworth, addressing the stranger
as an acquaintance; "you must have had a hot and tiresome walk from the
city. Sit down, and take a morsel of our bread and cheese."

The visitor made a grateful little murmur of acquiescence, and sat down
in a spot somewhat removed; so that, glancing round, I could see his gray
pantaloons and dusty shoes, while his upper part was mostly hidden behind
the shrubbery. Nor did he come forth from this retirement during the
whole of the interview that followed. We handed him such food as we had,
together with a brown jug of molasses and water (would that it had been
brandy, or some thing better, for the sake of his chill old heart!), like
priests offering dainty sacrifice to an enshrined and invisible idol. I
have no idea that he really lacked sustenance; but it was quite touching,
nevertheless, to hear him nibbling away at our crusts.

"Mr. Moodie," said I, "do you remember selling me one of those very
pretty little silk purses, of which you seem to have a monopoly in the
market? I keep it to this day, I can assure you."

"Ah, thank you," said our guest. "Yes, Mr. Coverdale, I used to sell a
good many of those little purses."

He spoke languidly, and only those few words, like a watch with an
inelastic spring, that just ticks a moment or two and stops again. He
seemed a very forlorn old man. In the wantonness of youth, strength, and
comfortable condition,--making my prey of people's individualities, as my
custom was,--I tried to identify my mind with the old fellow's, and take
his view of the world, as if looking through a smoke-blackened glass at
the sun. It robbed the landscape of all its life. Those pleasantly
swelling slopes of our farm, descending towards the wide meadows, through
which sluggishly circled the brimful tide of the Charles, bathing the
long sedges on its hither and farther shores; the broad, sunny gleam over
the winding water; that peculiar picturesqueness of the scene where capes
and headlands put themselves boldly forth upon the perfect level of the
meadow, as into a green lake, with inlets between the promontories; the
shadowy woodland, with twinkling showers of light falling into its depths;
the sultry heat-vapor, which rose everywhere like incense, and in which
my soul delighted, as indicating so rich a fervor in the passionate day,
and in the earth that was burning with its love,--I beheld all these
things as through old Moodie's eyes. When my eyes are dimmer than they
have yet come to be, I will go thither again, and see if I did not catch
the tone of his mind aright, and if the cold and lifeless tint of his
perceptions be not then repeated in my own.

Yet it was unaccountable to myself, the interest that I felt in him.

"Have you any objection," said I, "to telling me who made those little
purses?"

"Gentlemen have often asked me that," said Moodie slowly; "but I shake my
head, and say little or nothing, and creep out of the way as well as I
can. I am a man of few words; and if gentlemen were to be told one thing,
they would be very apt, I suppose, to ask me another. But it happens
just now, Mr. Coverdale, that you can tell me more about the maker of
those little purses than I can tell you."

"Why do you trouble him with needless questions, Coverdale?" interrupted
Hollingsworth. "You must have known, long ago, that it was Priscilla.
And so, my good friend, you have come to see her? Well, I am glad of it.
You will find her altered very much for the better, since that winter
evening when you put her into my charge. Why, Priscilla has a bloom in
her cheeks, now!"

"Has my pale little girl a bloom?" repeated Moodie with a kind of slow
wonder. "Priscilla with a bloom in her cheeks! Ah, I am afraid I shall
not know my little girl. And is she happy?"

"Just as happy as a bird," answered Hollingsworth.

"Then, gentlemen," said our guest apprehensively," I don't think it well
for me to go any farther. I crept hitherward only to ask about Priscilla;
and now that you have told me such good news, perhaps I can do no better
than to creep back again. If she were to see this old face of mine, the
child would remember some very sad times which we have spent together.
Some very sad times, indeed! She has forgotten them, I know,--them and
me,--else she could not be so happy, nor have a bloom in her cheeks.
Yes--yes--yes," continued he, still with the same torpid utterance; "with
many thanks to you, Mr. Hollingsworth, I will creep back to town again."

"You shall do no such thing, Mr. Moodie," said Hollingsworth bluffly.
"Priscilla often speaks of you; and if there lacks anything to make her
cheeks bloom like two damask roses, I'll venture to say it is just the
sight of your face. Come,--we will go and find her."

"Mr. Hollingsworth!" said the old man in his hesitating way.

"Well," answered Hollingsworth.

"Has there been any call for Priscilla?" asked Moodie; and though his
face was hidden from us, his tone gave a sure indication of the
mysterious nod and wink with which he put the question. "You know, I
think, sir, what I mean."

"I have not the remotest suspicion what you mean, Mr. Moodie," replied
Hollingsworth; "nobody, to my knowledge, has called for Priscilla, except
yourself. But come; we are losing time, and I have several things to say
to you by the way."

"And, Mr. Hollingsworth!" repeated Moodie.

"Well, again!" cried my friend rather impatiently. "What now?"

"There is a lady here," said the old man; and his voice lost some of its
wearisome hesitation. "You will account it a very strange matter for me
to talk about; but I chanced to know this lady when she was but a little
child. If I am rightly informed, she has grown to be a very fine woman,
and makes a brilliant figure in the world, with her beauty, and her
talents, and her noble way of spending her riches. I should recognize
this lady, so people tell me, by a magnificent flower in her hair."

"What a rich tinge it gives to his colorless ideas, when he speaks of
Zenobia!" I whispered to Hollingsworth. "But how can there possibly be
any interest or connecting link between him and her?"

"The old man, for years past," whispered Hollingsworth, "has been a
little out of his right mind, as you probably see."

"What I would inquire," resumed Moodie, "is whether this beautiful lady
is kind to my poor Priscilla."

"Very kind," said Hollingsworth.

"Does she love her?" asked Moodie.

"It should seem so," answered my friend. "They are always together."

"Like a gentlewoman and her maid-servant, I fancy?" suggested the old
man.

There was something so singular in his way of saying this, that I could
not resist the impulse to turn quite round, so as to catch a glimpse of
his face, almost imagining that I should see another person than old
Moodie. But there he sat, with the patched side of his face towards me.

"Like an elder and younger sister, rather," replied Hollingsworth.

"Ah!" said Moodie more complacently, for his latter tones had harshness
and acidity in them,--" it would gladden my old heart to witness that.
If one thing would make me happier than another, Mr. Hollingsworth, it
would be to see that beautiful lady holding my little girl by the hand."

"Come along," said Hollingsworth, "and perhaps you may."

After a little more delay on the part of our freakish visitor, they set
forth together, old Moodie keeping a step or two behind Hollingsworth, so
that the latter could not very conveniently look him in the face. I
remained under the tuft of maples, doing my utmost to draw an inference
from the scene that had just passed. In spite of Hollingsworth's
off-hand explanation, it did not strike me that our strange guest was
really beside himself, but only that his mind needed screwing up, like an
instrument long out of tune, the strings of which have ceased to vibrate
smartly and sharply. Methought it would be profitable for us, projectors
of a happy life, to welcome this old gray shadow, and cherish him as one
of us, and let him creep about our domain, in order that he might be a
little merrier for our sakes, and we, sometimes, a little sadder for his.
Human destinies look ominous without some perceptible intermixture of
the sable or the gray. And then, too, should any of our fraternity grow
feverish with an over-exulting sense of prosperity, it would be a sort of
cooling regimen to slink off into the woods, and spend an hour, or a day,
or as many days as might be requisite to the cure, in uninterrupted
communion with this deplorable old Moodie!

Going homeward to dinner, I had a glimpse of him, behind the trunk of a
tree, gazing earnestly towards a particular window of the farmhouse; and
by and by Priscilla appeared at this window, playfully drawing along
Zenobia, who looked as bright as the very day that was blazing down upon
us, only not, by many degrees, so well advanced towards her noon. I was
convinced that this pretty sight must have been purposely arranged by
Priscilla for the old man to see. But either the girl held her too long,
or her fondness was resented as too great a freedom; for Zenobia suddenly
put Priscilla decidedly away, and gave her a haughty look, as from a
mistress to a dependant. Old Moodie shook his head; and again and again
I saw him shake it, as he withdrew along the road; and at the last point
whence the farmhouse was visible, he turned and shook his uplifted staff.