University of Virginia Library

11. XI.
THE WOOD-PATH.

Not long after the preceding incident, in order to get
the ache of too constant labor out of my bones, and to
relieve my spirit of the irksomeness of a settled routine,
I took a holiday. It was my purpose to spend it, all
alone, from breakfast-time till twilight, in the deepest
wood-seclusion that lay anywhere around us. Though
fond of society, I was so constituted as to need these
occasional retirements, even in a life like that of Blithedale,
which was itself characterized by a remoteness
from the world. Unless renewed by a yet further withdrawal
towards the inner circle of self-communion, I lost
the better part of my individuality. My thoughts became
of little worth, and my sensibilities grew as arid
as a tuft of moss (a thing whose life is in the shade, the
rain, or the noontide dew), crumbling in the sunshine,
after long expectance of a shower. So, with my heart
full of a drowsy pleasure, and cautious not to dissipate
my mood by previous intercourse with any one, I hurried
away, and was soon pacing a wood-path, arched over
head with boughs, and dusky-brown beneath my feet.

At first, I walked very swiftly, as if the heavy flood-tide
of social life were roaring at my heels, and would
outstrip and overwhelm me, without all the better diligence
in my escape. But, threading the more distant
windings of the track, I abated my pace, and looked

about me for some side-aisle, that should admit me into
the innermost sanctuary of this green cathedral, just as,
in human acquaintanceship, a casual opening sometimes
lets us, all of a sudden, into the long-sought intimacy of
a mysterious heart. So much was I absorbed in my
reflections, — or, rather, in my mood, the substance of
which was as yet too shapeless to be called thought, —
that footsteps rustled on the leaves, and a figure passed
me by, almost without impressing either the sound or
sight upon my consciousness.

A moment afterwards, I heard a voice at a little distance
behind me, speaking so sharply and impertinently
that it made a complete discord with my spiritual state,
and caused the latter to vanish as abruptly as when
you thrust a finger into a soap-bubble.

“Halloo, friend!” cried this most unseasonable voice.
“Stop a moment, I say! I must have a word with
you!”

I turned about, in a humor ludicrously irate. In the
first place, the interruption, at any rate, was a grievous
injury; then, the tone displeased me. And, finally,
unless there be real affection in his heart, a man cannot,
— such is the bad state to which the world has brought
itself, — cannot more effectually show his contempt for
a brother-mortal, nor more gallingly assume a position
of superiority, than by addressing him as “friend.”
Especially does the misapplication of this phrase bring
out that latent hostility which is sure to animate peculiar
sects, and those who, with however generous a purpose,
have sequestered themselves from the crowd; a feeling,
it is true, which may be hidden in some dog-kennel of
the heart, grumbling there in the darkness, but is never

quite extinct, until the dissenting party have gained
power and scope enough to treat the world generously.
For my part, I should have taken it as far less an insult
to be styled “fellow,” “clown,” or “bumpkin.” To
either of these appellations my rustic garb (it was a
linen blouse, with checked shirt and striped pantaloons,
a chip-hat on my head, and a rough hickory-stick in my
hand) very fairly entitled me. As the case stood, my
temper darted at once to the opposite pole; not friend,
but enemy!

“What do you want with me?” said I, facing about.

“Come a little nearer, friend,” said the stranger,
beckoning.

“No,” answered I. “If I can do anything for you,
without too much trouble to myself, say so. But
recollect, if you please, that you are not speaking to an
acquaintance, much less a friend!”

“Upon my word, I believe not!” retorted he, looking
at me with some curiosity; and, lifting his hat, he made
me a salute which had enough of sarcasm to be offensive,
and just enough of doubtful courtesy to render any
resentment of it absurd. “But I ask your pardon! I
recognize a little mistake. If I may take the liberty to
suppose it, you, sir, are probably one of the æsthetic —
or shall I rather say ecstatic? — laborers, who have
planted themselves hereabouts. This is your forest of
Arden; and you are either the banished Duke in person,
or one of the chief nobles in his train. The melancholy
Jacques, perhaps? Be it so. In that case, you can
probably do me a favor.”

I never, in my life, felt less inclined to confer a favor
on any man.

“I am busy,” said I.

So unexpectedly had the stranger made me sensible
of his presence, that he had almost the effect of an apparition;
and certainly a less appropriate one (taking
into view the dim woodland solitude about us) than if
the salvage man of antiquity, hirsute and cinctured with
a leafy girdle, had started out of a thicket. He was
still young, seemingly a little under thirty, of a tall and
well-developed figure, and as handsome a man as ever I
beheld. The style of his beauty, however, though a
masculine style, did not at all commend itself to my
taste. His countenance — I hardly know how to describe
the peculiarity — had an indecorum in it, a kind
of rudeness, a hard, coarse, forth-putting freedom of
expression, which no degree of external polish could
have abated one single jot. Not that it was vulgar.
But he had no fineness of nature; there was in his eyes
(although they might have artifice enough of another
sort) the naked exposure of something that ought not to
be left prominent. With these vague allusions to what
I have seen in other faces, as well as his, I leave the
quality to be comprehended best — because with an intuitive
repugnance — by those who possess least of it.

His hair, as well as his beard and mustache, was
coal-black; his eyes, too, were black and sparkling, and
his teeth remarkably brilliant. He was rather carelessly
but well and fashionably dressed, in a summer-morning
costume. There was a gold chain, exquisitely
wrought, across his vest. I never saw a smoother or
whiter gloss than that upon his shirt-bosom, which had
a pin in it, set with a gem that glimmered, in the leafy
shadow where he stood, like a living tip of fire. He

carried a stick with a wooden head, carved in vivid imitation
of that of a serpent. I hated him, partly, I do
believe, from a comparison of my own homely garb with
his well-ordered foppishness.

“Well, sir,” said I, a little ashamed of my first irritation,
but still with no waste of civility, “be pleased to
speak at once, as I have my own business in hand.”

“I regret that my mode of addressing you was a little
unfortunate,” said the stranger, smiling; for he seemed
a very acute sort of person, and saw, in some degree,
how I stood affected towards him. “I intended no
offence, and shall certainly comport myself with due ceremony
hereafter. I merely wish to make a few inquiries
respecting a lady, formerly of my acquaintance, who is
now resident in your Community, and, I believe, largely
concerned in your social enterprise. You call her, I
think, Zenobia.”

“That is her name in literature,” observed I; “a
name, too, which possibly she may permit her private
friends to know and address her by, — but not one which
they feel at liberty to recognize when used of her, personally,
by a stranger or casual acquaintance.”

“Indeed!” answered this disagreeable person; and
he turned aside his face for an instant with a brief laugh,
which struck me as a note-worthy expression of his
character. “Perhaps I might put forward a claim, on
your own grounds, to call the lady by a name so appropriate
to her splendid qualities. But I am willing to
know her by any cognomen that you may suggest.”

Heartily wishing that he would be either a little more
offensive, or a good deal less so, or break off our intercourse
altogether, I mentioned Zenobia's real name.

“True,” said he; “and, in general society, I have
never heard her called otherwise. And, after all, our
discussion of the point has been gratuitous. My object
is only to inquire when, where and how, this lady may
most conveniently be seen.”

“At her present residence, of course,” I replied.
“You have but to go thither and ask for her. This
very path will lead you within sight of the house; so I
wish you good-morning.”

“One moment, if you please,” said the stranger.
“The course you indicate would certainly be the proper
one, in an ordinary morning call. But my business is
private, personal, and somewhat peculiar. Now, in a
community like this, I should judge that any little occurrence
is likely to be discussed rather more minutely than
would quite suit my views. I refer solely to myself,
you understand, and without intimating that it would
be other than a matter of entire indifference to the lady.
In short, I especially desire to see her in private. If her
habits are such as I have known them, she is probably
often to be met with in the woods, or by the river-side;
and I think you could do me the favor to point out some
favorite walk where, about this hour, I might be fortunate
enough to gain an interview.”

I reflected that it would be quite a supererogatory piece
of Quixotism in me to undertake the guardianship of Zenobia,
who, for my pains, would only make me the butt of
endless ridicule, should the fact ever come to her knowledge.
I therefore described a spot which, as often as
any other, was Zenobia's resort at this period of the
day; nor was it so remote from the farm-house as to

leave her in much peril, whatever might be the stranger's
character.

“A single word more,” said he; and his black eyes
sparkled at me, whether with fun or malice I knew not,
but certainly as if the devil were peeping out of them.
“Among your fraternity, I understand, there is a certain
holy and benevolent blacksmith; a man of iron, in more
senses than one; a rough, cross-grained, well-meaning
individual, rather boorish in his manners, as might be
expected, and by no means of the highest intellectual
cultivation. He is a philanthropical lecturer, with two
or three disciples, and a scheme of his own, the preliminary
step in which involves a large purchase of land, and
the erection of a spacious edifice, at an expense considerably
beyond his means; inasmuch as these are to be
reckoned in copper or old iron much more conveniently
than in gold or silver. He hammers away upon his one
topic as lustily as ever he did upon a horse-shoe! Do
you know such a person?”

I shook my head, and was turning away.

“Our friend,” he continued, “is described to me as a
brawny, shaggy, grim and ill-favored personage, not particularly
well calculated, one would say, to insinuate
himself with the softer sex. Yet, so far has this honest
fellow succeeded with one lady whom we wot of, that he
anticipates, from her abundant resources, the necessary
funds for realizing his plan in brick and mortar!”

Here the stranger seemed to be so much amused with
his sketch of Hollingsworth's character and purposes,
that he burst into a fit of merriment, of the same nature
as the brief, metallic laugh, already alluded to,
but immensely prolonged and enlarged. In the excess

of his delight, he opened his mouth wide, and disclosed
a gold band around the upper part of his teeth, thereby
making it apparent that every one of his brilliant grinders
and incisors was a sham. This discovery affected
me very oddly. I felt as if the whole man were a moral
and physical humbug; his wonderful beauty of face, for
aught I knew, might be removable like a mask; and,
tall and comely as his figure looked, he was perhaps but
a wizened little elf, gray and decrepit, with nothing genuine
about him, save the wicked expression of his grin.
The fantasy of his spectral character so wrought upon
me, together with the contagion of his strange mirth on
my sympathies, that I soon began to laugh as loudly as
himself.

By and by, he paused all at once; so suddenly,
indeed, that my own cachinnation lasted a moment
longer.

“Ah, excuse me!” said he. “Our interview seems to
proceed more merrily than it began.”

“It ends here,” answered I. “And I take shame to
myself, that my folly has lost me the right of resenting
your ridicule of a friend.”

“Pray allow me,” said the stranger, approaching a step
nearer, and laying his gloved hand on my sleeve. “One
other favor I must ask of you. You have a young person,
here at Blithedale, of whom I have heard, — whom, perhaps,
I have known, — and in whom, at all events, I take a
peculiar interest. She is one of those delicate, nervous
young creatures, not uncommon in New England, and
whom I suppose to have become what we find them by
the gradual refining away of the physical system
among your women. Some philosophers choose to glorify

this habit of body by terming it spiritual; but, in my
opinion, it is rather the effect of unwholesome food, bad
air, lack of out-door exercise, and neglect of bathing, on
the part of these damsels and their female progenitors,
all resulting in a kind of hereditary dyspepsia. Zenobia,
even with her uncomfortable surplus of vitality, is far
the better model of womanhood. But — to revert again
to this young person — she goes among you by the name
of Priscilla. Could you possibly afford me the means of
speaking with her?”

“You have made so many inquiries of me,” I observed,
“that I may at least trouble you with one. What is
your name?”

He offered me a card, with “Professor Westervelt”
engraved on it. At the same time, as if to vindicate his
claim to the professorial dignity, so often assumed on
very questionable grounds, he put on a pair of spectacles,
which so altered the character of his face that I hardly
knew him again. But I liked the present aspect no
better than the former one.

“I must decline any further connection with your
affairs,” said I, drawing back. “I have told you where
to find Zenobia. As for Priscilla, she has closer friends
than myself, through whom, if they see fit, you can gain
access to her.”

“In that case,” returned the Professor, ceremoniously
raising his hat, “good-morning to you.”

He took his departure, and was soon out of sight
among the windings of the wood-path. But, after a
little reflection, I could not help regretting that I had so
peremptorily broken off the interview, while the stranger
seemed inclined to continue it. His evident knowledge

of matters affecting my three friends might have led to
disclosures, or inferences, that would perhaps have been
serviceable. I was particularly struck with the fact that,
ever since the appearance of Priscilla, it had been the
tendency of events to suggest and establish a connection
between Zenobia and her. She had come, in the first
instance, as if with the sole purpose of claiming Zenobia's
protection. Old Moodie's visit, it appeared, was
chiefly to ascertain whether this object had been accomplished.
And here, to-day, was the questionable Professor,
linking one with the other in his inquiries, and
seeking communication with both.

Meanwhile, my inclination for a ramble having been
balked, I lingered in the vicinity of the farm, with perhaps
a vague idea that some new event would grow out
of Westervelt's proposed interview with Zenobia. My
own part in these transactions was singularly subordinate.
It resembled that of the Chorus in a classic play,
which seems to be set aloof from the possibility of personal
concernment, and bestows the whole measure of its
hope or fear, its exultation or sorrow, on the fortunes of
others, between whom and itself this sympathy is the
only bond. Destiny, it may be, — the most skilful of
stage-managers, — seldom chooses to arrange its scenes,
and carry forward its drama, without securing the presence
of at least one calm observer. It is his office to
give applause when due, and sometimes an inevitable
tear, to detect the final fitness of incident to character,
and distil in his long-brooding thought the whole morality
of the performance.

Not to be out of the way, in case there were need of
me in my vocation, and, at the same time, to avoid

thrusting myself where neither destiny nor mortals
might desire my presence, I remained pretty near the
verge of the woodlands. My position was off the track
of Zenobia's customary walk, yet not so remote but that
a recognized occasion might speedily have brought me
thither.