 | XIII.
ZENOBIA'S LEGEND. The Blithedale romance |  |
13. XIII.
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
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.
“O, 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
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 window-pane) — the life of this shadowy
phenomenon.
A party of young gentlemen, you are to understand,
were enjoying themselves, one afternoon, — as young
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
upon our heroes), I deem if 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?”
“O, 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
explanation of the whole affair: that the magician who
exhibited the Veiled Lady — and who, by the by, 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 door-keeper,
— 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
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 rather 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
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
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
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 for ever 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
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,
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 rosebloom
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, uprose 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 forevermore!
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.
| XIII.
ZENOBIA'S LEGEND. The Blithedale romance | |