Books: Hawthorne and His Circle
J >>
Julian Hawthorne >> Hawthorne and His Circle
Pages:
1 |
2 |
3 |
4 | 5 |
6 |
7 |
8 |
9 |
10 |
11 |
12 |
13 |
14 |
15 |
16 |
17 |
18 |
19 |
20 |
21 |
22
[MAGE: JAMES T. FIELDS]
But there is an important exception to this rule to be noted in the
matter of his fictitious narratives which were posthumously published.
These, as I have elsewhere said, are all concerned with a single
theme--the never-dying man. There are two complete versions of
Septimius, of about equal length, and many passages in the two are
identical. There is a short sketch on somewhat different lines, called
(by the editor) The Bloody Footstep; and there is still another, and a
much more elaborate attempt to embody the idea in the volume which I
have entitled Doctor Grimshawe's Secret. All these, in short, are
studies of one subject, and they were all unsatisfactory to the
author. The true vein of which he had been in search was finally
discovered in The Dolliver Romance, but the author's death prevented
its completion.
In this series of posthumous manuscripts there is a unique opportunity
for making a study of the esoteric qualities of my father's style and
methods, and on a future occasion I hope to present the result of my
investigations in this direction. There is, furthermore, in connection
with them, a mass of material of a yet more interesting and interior
character. While writing the Grimshawe, he was deeply perplexed by
certain details of the plot; the meaning of the Pensioner, and his
proper function in the story, was one of these stumbling-blocks. But
the prosperity of the tale depended directly upon the solution of this
problem. Constantly, therefore, in the midst of the composition, he
would break off and enter upon a wrestling-match with the difficulty.
These wrestling-matches are of an absorbing significance; they reveal
to us the very inmost movements of the author's mind. He tries, and
tries again, to get at the idea that continues to elude him; he forms
innumerable hypotheses; he sets forth on the widest excursions; he
gets out of patience with himself and with his Pensioner, and often
damns the latter in good set terms; but he will not give up the
struggle; his resolve to conquer is adamantine, and the conflict is
always renewed. And there it all stands in black and white; one of
the most instructive chapters in literary criticism in the world--the
battle of a great writer with himself. The final issue, after all,
was hardly decisive, for although a tolerable modus vivendi was
reached and a truce declared, it is evident that Hawthorne regarded
the entire scheme of the story as a mistake, and it is concluded in a
perfunctory and indifferent manner.
But it may be doubted whether anything of this sort ever took place in
the making of any of the other stories. These depend but in a
subordinate degree upon what is called technically plot interest. The
author's method was to take a natural, even a familiar incident, and
to transmute it into immortal gold by simply elucidating its inner
spiritual significance. The Scarlet Letter is a mere plain story of
love and jealousy; there is no serious attempt to hide the identity of
Roger Chillingworth or the guilt of the minister. The only surprise in
The House of the Seven Gables consists in the revelation of the fact
that Maule reappears after several generations in the person of his
modern descendant. The structure of The Blithedale Romance appears
more complicated; but that is mainly because, in a masterly manner,
the author keeps the structural lines out of sight and concentrates
attention upon the interplay of character. The scaffolding upon which
are hung the splendid draperies of The Marble Faun is, again, of the
simplest formation, though the nature of the materials is unfamiliar.
This is a digression; the present volume, as I have already stated, is
not designed to include--except incidentally-anything in the way of
literary criticism.
Blithedale having been finished and published, the question of where
to settle down permanently once more came up for an answer. Of course,
our sojourn at Mr. Mann's house had been a temporary expedient only;
and for that matter, the Manns, following the example of most
Americans before and since, had rented the place merely as a
stepping-stone to something else. My father's eyes again turned with
longing towards the sea-shore; but the fitting nook for him there
still failed to offer itself. People are naturally disposed to return
to places in which they have formerly lived, and Concord could not but
suggest itself to one who had passed some of the happiest years of his
life among its serene pastures and piney forests. This suggestion,
moreover, was supplemented by the urgent invitations of his old
friends there, and Mr. Emerson, who was a practical man as well as a
philosopher, substantiated his arguments by throwing into the scale a
concrete dwelling. It was an edifice which not even the most
imaginative and optimistic of house-agents would have found it easy to
picture as a sumptuous country-seat; it was just four wooden walls and
a roof, and they had been standing for a hundred years at least. The
occupants of this house had seen the British march past from Boston on
the l9th of April, 1775, and a few hours later they had seen them
return along the same dusty highway at a greatly accelerated pace and
under annoying circumstances. There was a legend that a man had once
lived there who had announced that death was not an indispensable
detail of life, and that he for his part intended never to die; but
after many years he had grown weary of the monotony of his success, or
had realized that it would take too long a time to prove himself in
the right, and rather than see the thing through he allowed himself to
depart. The old structure, in its original state, consisted of a big,
brick chimney surrounded by four rooms and an attic, with a kitchen
tacked on at the rear. It stood almost flush with the side-path along
the highway; behind it rose a steep hill-side to a height of about one
hundred feet; in front, on the other side of the road, stretched broad
meadows with a brook flowing through the midst of them. Such
conditions would not seem altogether to favor a man wedded to
seclusion.
But the thing was not at this juncture quite so bad as it had been.
Mr. Alcott, whose unselfish devotion to the welfare of the human race
made it incumbent upon his friends to supply him with the means of
earthly subsistence, had been recently domiciled in the house by Mr.
Emerson (how the latter came into possession of it I have forgotten,
if ever I knew), and he had at once proceeded to wreak upon it his
unique architectural talent. At any rate, either he himself or
somebody in his behalf had set up a small gable in the midst of the
front, thrown out a double bow-window, and added a room on the west
side. This interrupted the deadly, four-square uniformity, and
suggested further improvements. Mr. Alcott certainly built the
summer-house on the hill-side, and terraced the hill, which was also
planted with apple-trees. Another summer-house arose in the meadow
opposite, which went with the property, and rustic fences separated
the domain from the road. The dwelling was now fully as commodious as
the red house at Lenox, though it had no Monument Mountain and
Stockbridge Bowl to look out upon.
[IMAGE: THE WAYSIDE (Showing Nathaniel Hawthorne and his wife)]
The estate, comprising, I think, forty-two acres, all told, including
upward of twenty acres of second-growth woodland above the hill,
perfectly useless except for kindling-wood and for the sea-music which
the pine-trees made, was offered to my father at a reasonable enough
figure, to be his own and his heirs' forever. He came over and looked
at the place, thought "The Wayside" would be a good name for it, and
was perhaps helped to decide upon taking it by the felicity of this
appellation. It was close upon the highway, undeniably; but then the
highway was so little travelled that it might almost as well not have
been there. One might, also, plant a high hedge in place of the fence
and make shift to hide behind it. One could enlarge the house as need
demanded; an affluent vegetable garden could be laid out in the
meadow, and fruit and ornamental trees could be added to the slopes of
the hill-side. The village was removed to a distance of a trifle over
a mile, so that the roar of its traffic would not invade this retreat;
and Mr. Emerson sat radiating peace and wisdom between the village and
"The Wayside"; while Mr. Alcott shone with ancillary lustre only a
stone's-throw away. Thoreau and Ellery Channing were tramping about
in the neighborhood, and Judge Hoar and his beautiful sister dispensed
sweetness and light in the village itself. Walden Pond, still secluded
as when only the Indians had seen the sky and the trees reflected in
it, was within a two-mile walk, and the silent Musketaquid stole on
its level way beyond the hill on the other side. Surely, a man might
travel far and not find a spot better suited for work and meditation
and discreet society than Concord was.
But, of course, the necessity of settling down somewhere was a main
consideration. Concord, was inviting in itself, but it was also
recommended by the argument of exclusion; no other place so desirable
and at the same time so easy of attainment happened to present itself.
It did not lie within sound and sight of the ocean; but that was the
worst that could be urged against it. A man must choose, and Concord
was, finally, Hawthorne's choice.
At this epoch he had not contemplated, save in day-dreams, the
possibility of visiting the Old World. His friend, Franklin Pierce,
had just become President-elect, but that fact had not suggested to
his mind the change in his own fortunes which it was destined to bring
about. He was too modest a critic of his own abilities to think that
his work would ever bring him money enough for foreign travel, and,
therefore, in accepting Concord as his home, he believed that he was
fixing the boundaries of his future earthly experience. It was not his
ideal; no imaginative man can ever hope to find that; but as soon as
we have called a place our Home, it acquires a charm that has nothing
to do with material conditions. The best-known song in American poesy
has impressed that truth upon Americans--who are the most homeless
people in the world.
IV
A transfigured cattle-pen--Emerson the hub of Concord--His
incorrigible modesty--Grocery-store sages--To make common men feel
more like Emerson than he did--His personal appearance--His favorite
gesture--A glance like the reveille of a trumpet--The creaking
boots--"The muses are in the woods"--Emerson could not read
Hawthorne--Typical versus individual--Benefit from
child-prattle--Concord-grape Bull--Sounds of distant battle--Politics,
sociology, and grape-culture--The great white fence--Richard Henry
Stoddard--A country youth of genius--Whipple's Attic salt--An
unwritten romance--The consulship retires literature--Louisa's
tragedy--Hard hit--The spiritual sphere of good men--Nearer than in
the world--The return of the pilgrim.
My father's first look at "The Wayside" had been while snow was still
on the ground, and he had reported to his wife that it resembled a
cattle-pen.
But the family advent was effected in June, and although a heavy rain
had fallen while the domestic impedimenta were in transit, wetting the
mattresses and other exposed furniture, yet when the summer sun came
out things began to mend. My mother and Una came a day ahead of the
others, and with the help of carpenters and upholsterers, and a
neighboring Irishman and his wife for cleaning and moving purposes,
they soon got human order into the place of savage chaos. The new
carpet was down in the study, the walls had been already papered and
the wood-work grained, the pictures were hung in their places, and the
books placed on their shelves. By the time the father, the boy, the
baby, and the nurse drove up in the hot afternoon a home had been
created for their reception.
Mr. Emerson was, and he always remained, the hub round which the wheel
of Concord's fortunes slowly and contentedly revolved. He was at this
time between forty-five and fifty years old, in the prime of his
beneficent powers. He had fulfilled the promise of his unique
youth--obeyed the voice at eve, obeyed at prime. The sweet austerity
of his nature had been mellowed by human sorrows--the loss of his
brothers and of his eldest son; he had the breadth and poise that are
given by knowledge of foreign lands, and friendships with the best men
in them; he had the unstained and indomitable independence of a man
who has always avowed his belief, and never failed to be true to each
occasion for truth; he had the tranquillity of faith and insight, and
he was alert with that immortal curiosity for noble knowledge the
fruit of which enriches his writings. Upon his modestly deprecating
brows was already set the wreath of a world-wide fame, and yet every
village farmer and store-keeper, and every child, found in his
conversation the wisdom and companionship suited to his needs, and was
made to feel that his own companionship was a valued gift. Emerson
becomes more extraordinary the further we get away from him in years;
illustrating the truth which Landor puts into the mouth of Barrow in
one of his Imaginary Conversations, that "No very great man ever
reached the standard of his greatness in the crowd of his
contemporaries: this hath always been reserved for the secondary." The
wealth contained in his essays has only begun to be put in general
circulation, and the harvest of his poetry is still more remote; while
the sincere humility of the man himself, who was the best incarnate
example of many of his ideals, still puzzles those critics who believe
every one must needs be inferior to his professions.
"Though I am fond of writing and of public speaking," said Emerson, "I
am a very poor talker, and for the most part prefer silence"; and he
went on to compare himself in this respect with Alcott, "the prince of
conversers." Alcott was undoubtedly the prince of fluency, and Emerson
rarely, in private dialogue, ventured to string together many
consecutive sentences; but the things he did say, on small occasion or
great, always hit the gold. On being appealed to, or when his turn
came, he would hang a moment in the wind, and then pay off before the
breeze of thought with an accuracy and force that gave delight with
enlightenment. The form was often epigrammatic, but the air with which
it was said beautifully disclaimed any epigrammatic consciousness or
intention. It was, rather, "I am little qualified to speak adequately,
but this, at least, does seem to me to be true." In the end, therefore,
as the interlocutor thought it all over, he was perhaps surprised to
discover that, little in quantity as Emerson may have said during the
talk, he had yet said more than any one else in substance. But it may
be admitted that he was even better in listening than in speech; his
look, averted but attentive, with a smile which seemed to postpone
full development to the moment when his companion should have uttered
the expected apple of gold in the picture of silver, was subtly
stimulating to the latter's intellect, and prompted him to outdo
himself. His questions were often revelations, discovering truth which
the other only then perceived, and thus beguiling him into admiration
of his own supposed intelligence. In this, as in other things, he
acted upon the precept that it is more blessed to give than to receive
gratification; he never seemed to need any other happiness than that
of imparting it. And so selflessly and insensibly were the riches of
his mind and nature communicated to the community that innocent little
Concord could not quite help believing that its wealth and renown were
somehow a creation of its own. The loafers in Walcott & Holden's
grocery store were, in their own estimation, of heroic stature,
because of the unegoistic citizen who dwelt over yonder among the
pines. Emerson was a great man, no doubt; but then he was no more than
their own confessed equal, or inferior!
This will and power to secularize himself is perhaps Emerson's unique
attribute. It is comparatively easy to stand on mountain-tops and to
ride Pegasus; but how many of those competent to such feats could at
the same time sit cheek by jowl with hucksters and teamsters without a
trace of condescension, and while rubbing shoulders with the rabble of
the street in town-meeting, speak without arrogance the illuminating
and deciding word? This, at last, is the true democracy that levels up
instead of down. An Emerson who can make common men feel more like
Emerson than he himself did is the kind of man we need to bring
America up to her ideals.
Emerson was ungainly in build, with narrow, sloping shoulders, large
feet and hands, and a projecting carriage of the head, which enhanced
the eagle-like expression of his glance and features. His head was
small; it was covered (in 1852) with light brown hair, fine and
straight; he was cleanshaven save for a short whisker; the peaked ends
of an uncomfortable collar appeared above the folds of a high, black
silk stock. His long-skirted black coat was commonly buttoned up; he
wore, on different occasions, a soft felt hat or a high silk one, the
latter, from use, having become in a manner humanized. On the street
he kept his face up as he walked along, and perceived the approach of
an acquaintance afar off, and the wise, slow smile gleamed about his
mouth as he drew near. "How do you do?" was sometimes his greeting;
but more often, "Good-bye!" or "Good-night!"--an original and more
sensible greeting. Though ungainly in formation, he was not ungraceful
in bearing and action; there was a fitness and harmony in his
manifestations even on the physical plan. On the lecture platform he
stood erect and unadorned, his hands hanging folded in front, save
when he changed the leaf of his manuscript, or emphasized his words
with a gesture: his customary one, simple but effective, was to clinch
his right fist, knuckles upward, the arm bent at the elbow, then a
downward blow of the forearm, full of power bridled. It was
accompanied by such a glance of the eyes as no one ever saw except
from Emerson: a glance like the reveille of a trumpet. Yet his eyes
were not noticeably large, and their color was greenish-gray; but they
were well set and outlined in his head, and, more than is the case
with most men, they were the windows of his soul. Wendell Phillips had
an eloquent and intrepid eye, but it possessed nothing approaching the
eloquence and spiritual influence of Emerson's. In every Lyceum course
in Concord, Emerson lectured once or twice, and the hall was always
filled. One night he had the misfortune to wear a pair of abominably
creaking boots; every slightest change of posture would be followed by
an outcry from the sole-leather, and the audience soon became
nervously preoccupied in expecting them. The sublimest thoughts were
mingled with these base material accompaniments. But there was
nothing to be done, unless the lecturer would finish his lecture in
his stocking-feet, and we were fain to derive a fortuitous inspiration
from observing the unfaltering meekness with which our philosopher
accepted the predicament. I have forgotten the subject of the lecture
on that occasion, but the voice of the boots will always sound in my
memory.
In his own house Emerson shone with essential hospitality, and yet he
wonderfully effaced himself; any one but he might hold the centre of
the stage. You felt him everywhere, but if you would see him, you
must search the wings. He sat in his chair, bending forward, one leg
crossed over the other, his elbows often supported on his knee; his
legs were rather long and slender, and he had a way, after crossing
his leg, of hitching the instep of that foot under the calf of the
other leg, so that he seemed braided up. He seldom stood in a room, or
paced to and fro, as my father was fond of doing. But the two men were
almost equally addicted to outdoor walking, and both preferred to walk
alone. Emerson formed the habit of betaking himself to Walden woods,
which extended to within a mile or so of his door; thence would he
return with an exalted look, saying, "The muses are in the woods
to-day"; and no one who has read his Woodnotes can doubt that he found
them there. Occasionally Channing, Thoreau, or my father would be his
companion; Alcott preferred to busy himself about his rustic fences
and summer-houses, or to sit the centre of a circle and converse, as
he called it; meaning to soliloquize, looking round from face to face
with unalterable faith and complacency.
My father read Emerson with enjoyment; though more and more, as he
advanced in life, he was disposed to question the expediency of
stating truth in a disembodied form; he preferred it incarnate, as it
appears in life and in story. But he could not talk to Emerson; his
pleasure in his society did not express itself in that form. Emerson,
on the other hand, assiduously cultivated my father's company, and,
contrary to his general habit, talked to him continuously; but he
could not read his romances; he admitted that he had never been able
to finish one of them. He loved to observe him; to watch his silence,
which was full of a kind of speech which he was able to appreciate;
"Hawthorne rides well his horse of the night!" My father was Gothic;
Emerson was Roman and Greek. But each was profoundly original and
independent. My father was the shyer and more solitary of the two, and
yet persons in need of human sympathy were able to reach a more
interior region in him than they could in Emerson. For the latter's
thought was concerned with types and classes, while the former had the
individual touch. He distrusted rules, but had faith in exceptions and
idiosyncrasies. Emerson was nobly and magnanimously public; my father,
exquisitely and inevitably private; together they met the needs of
nearly all that is worthy in human nature.
Emerson rose upon us frequently during our early struggles with our
new abode, like a milder sun; the children of the two families became
acquainted, the surviving son, Edward, two years my elder, falling to
my share. But Emerson himself also became my companion, with a
humanity which to-day fills me with grateful wonder. I remember once
being taken by him on a long walk through the sacred pine woods, and
on another occasion he laid aside the poem or the essay he was writing
to entertain Una in his study, whither she had gone alone and of her
own initiative to make him a call! It is easy to compliment a friend
upon his children, but how many of us will allow themselves to be
caught and utilized by them in this fashion? But Emerson's mind was so
catholic, so humble, and so deep that I doubt not he derived benefit
even from child-prattle. His wife rivalled him in hospitality, though
her frail health disabled her from entering into the physical part of
social functions with the same fortitude; in these first months we
were invited to a party where we were fellow-guests with all the other
children of Concord. There they were, their mothers with them, and
everything in sight that a child at a party could require. My new
friend Edward mounted me on his pony, and his father was at hand to
catch me when I fell off. Such things sound incredible, but they are
true. A great man is great at all times, and all over.
Thoreau, Channing, and Alcott were also visible to us at this time,
but of none of them do I find any trace in my memory; though I know,
as a matter of fact, that Channing and my father once permitted me to
accompany them on a walk round the country roads, which inadvertently
prolonged itself to ten miles, and I knew what it was to feel
foot-weary. But another neighbor of ours, hardly less known to fame,
though in a widely different line of usefulness, makes a very distinct
picture in my mind; this was Ephraim Wales Bull, the inventor of the
Concord grape. He was as eccentric as his name; but he was a genuine
and substantive man, and my father took a great liking to him, which
was reciprocated. He was short and powerful, with long arms, and a big
head covered with bushy hair and a jungle beard, from which looked out
a pair of eyes singularly brilliant and penetrating. He had brains to
think with, as well as strong and skilful hands to work with; he
personally did three-fourths of the labor on his vineyard, and every
grape-vine had his separate care. He was married and had three
children, amiable but less interesting than himself. He had, also, a
tremendous temper, evidenced by his heavy and high-arched eyebrows,
and once in a while he let slip upon his helpers in the vineyard this
formidable wrath, which could easily be heard in our peaceful
precincts, like sounds of distant battle. He often came over and sat
with my father in the summer-house on the hill, and there talked about
politics, sociology (though under some other name, probably), morals,
and human nature, with an occasional lecture on grape-culture. He
permitted my sister and me to climb the fence and eat all the grapes
we could hold; it seems to me he could hardly have realized our
capacity. During our second summer he built a most elaborate fence
along the road-front of his estate; it must have been three hundred
yards long and it was as high as a man could reach; the palings,
instead of being upright, were criss-crossed over one another, leaving
small diamond-shaped interstices. The whole was painted brilliant
white, to match the liliputian cottage in which the Bull family
contrived (I know not how) to ensconce itself. When the fence was
built, Mr. Bull would every day come forth and pace slowly up and down
the road, contemplating it with the pride of a parent; indeed, it was
no puny achievement, and when I revisited Concord, thirty years later,
the great white fence was still there, with a few gaps in it, but
still effective. But the builder, and the grapes--where were they?
Where are Cheops, and the hanging gardens of Babylon?
Pages:
1 |
2 |
3 |
4 | 5 |
6 |
7 |
8 |
9 |
10 |
11 |
12 |
13 |
14 |
15 |
16 |
17 |
18 |
19 |
20 |
21 |
22