University of Virginia Library

22. XXII.
FAUNTLEROY.

Five-and-twenty years ago, at the epoch of this story,
there dwelt in one of the Middle States a man whom
we shall call Fauntleroy; a man of wealth, and magnificent
tastes, and prodigal expenditure. His home might
almost be styled a palace; his habits, in the ordinary
sense, princely. His whole being seemed to have crystallized
itself into an external splendor, wherewith he
glittered in the eyes of the world, and had no other life
than upon this gaudy surface. He had married a lovely
woman, whose nature was deeper than his own. But
his affection for her, though it showed largely, was
superficial, like all his other manifestations and developments;
he did not so truly keep this noble creature in
his heart, as wear her beauty for the most brilliant ornament
of his outward state. And there was born to him
a child, a beautiful daughter, whom he took from the
beneficent hand of God with no just sense of her immortal
value, but as a man already rich in gems would
receive another jewel. If he loved her, it was because
she shone.

After Fauntleroy had thus spent a few empty years,
corruscating continually an unnatural light, the source
of it — which was merely his gold — began to grow
more shallow, and finally became exhausted. He saw
himself in imminent peril of losing all that had heretofore

distinguished him; and, conscious of no innate
worth to fall back upon, he recoiled from this calamity,
with the instinct of a soul shrinking from annihilation.
To avoid it — wretched man! — or, rather to defer it, if
but for a month, a day, or only to procure himself the
life of a few breaths more amid the false glitter which
was now less his own than ever, — he made himself
guilty of a crime. It was just the sort of crime, growing
out of its artificial state, which society (unless it should
change its entire constitution for this man's unworthy
sake) neither could nor ought to pardon. More safely
might it pardon murder. Fauntleroy's guilt was discovered.
He fled; his wife perished, by the necessity
of her innate nobleness, in its alliance with a being so
ignoble; and betwixt her mother's death and her father's
ignominy, his daughter was left worse than orphaned.

There was no pursuit after Fauntleroy. His family
connections, who had great wealth, made such arrangements
with those whom he had attempted to wrong as
secured him from the retribution that would have overtaken
an unfriended criminal. The wreck of his estate
was divided among his creditors. His name, in a very
brief space, was forgotten by the multitude who had
passed it so diligently from mouth to mouth. Seldom,
indeed, was it recalled, even by his closest former intimates.
Nor could it have been otherwise. The man
had laid no real touch on any mortal's heart. Being a
mere image, an optical delusion, created by the sunshine
of prosperity, it was his law to vanish into the shadow
of the first intervening cloud. He seemed to leave no
vacancy; a phenomenon which, like many others that

attended his brief career, went far to prove the illusiveness
of his existence.

Not, however, that the physical substance of Fauntleroy
had literally melted into vapor. He had fled northward
to the New England metropolis, and had taken
up his abode, under another name, in a squalid street or
court of the older portion of the city. There he dwelt
among poverty-stricken wretches, sinners, and forlorn
good people, Irish, and whomsoever else were neediest.
Many families were clustered in each house together,
above stairs and below, in the little peaked garrets, and
even in the dusky cellars. The house where Fauntleroy
paid weekly rent for a chamber and a closet had
been a stately habitation in its day. An old colonial
governor had built it, and lived there, long ago, and held
his levees in a great room where now slept twenty Irish
bedfellows; and died in Fauntleroy's chamber, which his
embroidered and white-wigged ghost still haunted. Tattered
hangings, a marble hearth, traversed with many
cracks and fissures, a richly-carved oaken mantel-piece,
partly hacked away for kindling-stuff, a stuccoed ceiling,
defaced with great, unsightly patches of the naked
laths, — such was the chamber's aspect, as if, with its
splinters and rags of dirty splendor, it were a kind of
practical gibe at this poor, ruined man of show.

At first, and at irregular intervals, his relatives
allowed Fauntleroy a little pittance to sustain life; not
from any love, perhaps, but lest poverty should compel
him, by new offences, to add more shame to that with
which he had already stained them. But he showed no
tendency to further guilt. His character appeared to
have been radically changed (as, indeed, from its shallowness,

it well might) by his miserable fate; or, it may be,
the traits now seen in him were portions of the same
character, presenting itself in another phase. Instead
of any longer seeking to live in the sight of the world,
his impulse was to shrink into the nearest obscurity, and
to be unseen of men, were it possible, even while standing
before their eyes. He had no pride; it was all trodden
in the dust. No ostentation; for how could it survive,
when there was nothing left of Fauntleroy, save
penury and shame! His very gait demonstrated that
he would gladly have faded out of view, and have crept
about invisibly, for the sake of sheltering himself from
the irksomeness of a human glance. Hardly, it was
averred, within the memory of those who knew him
now, had he the hardihood to show his full front to the
world. He skulked in corners, and crept about in a
sort of noon-day twilight, making himself gray and
misty, at all hours, with his morbid intolerance of sunshine.

In his torpid despair, however, he had done an act
which that condition of the spirit seems to prompt
almost as often as prosperity and hope. Fauntleroy
was again married. He had taken to wife a forlorn,
meek-spirited, feeble young woman, a seamstress, whom
he found dwelling with her mother in a contiguous
chamber of the old gubernatorial residence. This poor
phantom — as the beautiful and noble companion of his
former life had done — brought him a daughter. And
sometimes, as from one dream into another, Fauntleroy
looked forth out of his present grimy environment into
that past magnificence, and wondered whether the
grandee of yesterday or the pauper of to-day were real.

But, in my mind, the one and the other were alike
impalpable. In truth, it was Fauntleroy's fatality to
behold whatever he touched dissolve. After a few
years, his second wife (dim shadow that she had always
been) faded finally out of the world, and left Fauntleroy
to deal as he might with their pale and nervous child.
And, by this time, among his distant relatives — with
whom he had grown a weary thought, linked with
contagious infamy, and which they were only too
willing to get rid of — he was himself supposed to be no
more.

The younger child, like his elder one, might be considered
as the true offspring of both parents, and as the
reflection of their state. She was a tremulous little
creature, shrinking involuntarily from all mankind, but
in timidity, and no sour repugnance. There was a
lack of human substance in her; it seemed as if, were
she to stand up in a sunbeam, it would pass right
through her figure, and trace out the cracked and
dusty window-panes upon the naked floor. But, nevertheless,
the poor child had a heart; and from her
mother's gentle character she had inherited a profound
and still capacity of affection. And so her life was one
of love. She bestowed it partly on her father, but in
greater part on an idea.

For Fauntleroy, as they sat by their cheerless fireside,
— which was no fireside, in truth, but only a rusty
stove, — had often talked to the little girl about his
former wealth, the noble loveliness of his first wife, and
the beautiful child whom she had given him. Instead
of the fairy tales which other parents tell, he told Priscilla
this. And, out of the loneliness of her sad little

existence, Priscilla's love grew, and tended upward, and
twined itself perseveringly around this unseen sister; as
a grape-vine might strive to clamber out of a gloomy
hollow among the rocks, and embrace a young tree
standing in the sunny warmth above. It was almost
like worship, both in its earnestness and its humility;
nor was it the less humble,— though the more earnest,—
because Priscilla could claim human kindred with the
being whom she so devoutly loved. As with worship, too,
it gave her soul the refreshment of a purer atmosphere.
Save for this singular, this melancholy, and yet beautiful
affection, the child could hardly have lived; or, had
she lived, with a heart shrunken for lack of any sentiment
to fill it, she must have yielded to the barren
miseries of her position, and have grown to womanhood
characterless and worthless. But now, amid all the
sombre coarseness of her father's outward life, and of her
own, Priscilla had a higher and imaginative life within.
Some faint gleam thereof was often visible upon her
face. It was as if, in her spiritual visits to her brilliant
sister, a portion of the latter's brightness had permeated
our dim Priscilla, and still lingered, shedding a faint
illumination through the cheerless chamber, after she
came back.

As the child grew up, so pallid and so slender, and
with much unaccountable nervousness, and all the
weaknesses of neglected infancy still haunting her, the
gross and simple neighbors whispered strange things
about Priscilla. The big, red, Irish matrons, whose
innumerable progeny swarmed out of the adjacent doors,
used to mock at the pale, western child. They fancied
— or, at least, affirmed it, between jest and earnest —

that she was not so solid flesh and blood as other children,
but mixed largely with a thinner element. They
called her ghost-child, and said that she could indeed
vanish when she pleased, but could never, in her
densest moments, make herself quite visible. The sun,
at mid-day, would shine through her; in the first gray
of the twilight, she lost all the distinctness of her outline;
and, if you followed the dim thing into a dark
corner, behold! she was not there. And it was true
that Priscilla had strange ways; strange ways, and
stranger words, when she uttered any words at all.
Never stirring out of the old governor's dusky house, she
sometimes talked of distant places and splendid rooms,
as if she had just left them. Hidden things were visible
to her (at least, so the people inferred from obscure
hints escaping unawares out of her mouth), and silence
was audible. And in all the world there was nothing
so difficult to be endured, by those who had any dark
secret to conceal, as the glance of Priscilla's timid and
melancholy eyes.

Her peculiarities were the theme of continual gossip
among the other inhabitants of the gubernatorial mansion.
The rumor spread thence into a wider circle. Those
who knew old Moodie, as he was now called, used often
to jeer him, at the very street corners, about his daughter's
gift of second sight and prophecy. It was a period
when science (though mostly through its empirical professors)
was bringing forward, anew, a hoard of facts
and imperfect theories, that had partially won credence
in elder times, but which modern scepticism had swept
away as rubbish. These things were now tossed up
again, out of the surging ocean of human thought and

experience. The story of Priscilla's preternatural manifestations,
therefore, attracted a kind of notice of which
it would have been deemed wholly unworthy a few
years earlier. One day, a gentleman ascended the
creaking staircase, and inquired which was old Moodie's
chamber-door. And, several times, he came again. He
was a marvellously handsome man, — still youthful, too,
and fashionably dressed. Except that Priscilla, in those
days, had no beauty, and, in the languor of her existence,
had not yet blossomed into womanhood, there
would have been rich food for scandal in these visits;
for the girl was unquestionably their sole object, although
her father was supposed always to be present. But, it
must likewise be added, there was something about
Priscilla that calumny could not meddle with; and thus
far was she privileged, either by the preponderance of
what was spiritual, or the thin and watery blood that
left her cheek so pallid.

Yet, if the busy tongues of the neighborhood spared
Priscilla in one way, they made themselves amends by
renewed and wilder babble on another score. They
averred that the strange gentleman was a wizard, and
that he had taken advantage of Priscilla's lack of
earthly substance to subject her to himself, as his familiar
spirit, through whose medium he gained cognizance
of whatever happened, in regions near or remote. The
boundaries of his power were defined by the verge of the
pit of Tartarus on the one hand, and the third sphere of
the celestial world on the other. Again, they declared
their suspicion that the wizard, with all his show of
manly beauty, was really an aged and wizened figure, or
else that his semblance of a human body was only a

necromantic, or perhaps a mechanical contrivance, in
which a demon walked about. In proof of it, however,
they could merely instance a gold band around his
upper teeth, which had once been visible to several old
women, when he smiled at them from the top of the governor's
staircase. Of course, this was all absurdity, or
mostly so. But, after every possible deduction, there
remained certain very mysterious points about the
stranger's character, as well as the connection that he
established with Priscilla. Its nature at that period was
even less understood than now, when miracles of this
kind have grown so absolutely stale, that I would gladly,
if the truth allowed, dismiss the whole matter from my
narrative.

We must now glance backward, in quest of the beautiful
daughter of Fauntleroy's prosperity. What had
become of her? Fauntleroy's only brother, a bachelor,
and with no other relative so near, had adopted the forsaken
child. She grew up in affluence, with native
graces clustering luxuriantly about her. In her triumphant
progress towards womanhood, she was adorned with
every variety of feminine accomplishment. But she
lacked a mother's care. With no adequate control, on
any hand (for a man, however stern, however wise, can
never sway and guide a female child), her character was
left to shape itself. There was good in it, and evil. Passionate,
self-willed and imperious, she had a warm and
generous nature; showing the richness of the soil, however,
chiefly by the weeds that flourished in it, and choked
up the herbs of grace. In her girlhood her uncle died.
As Fauntleroy was supposed to be likewise dead, and no
other heir was known to exist, his wealth devolved on

her, although, dying suddenly, the uncle left no will.
After his death, there were obscure passages in Zenobia's
history. There were whispers of an attachment, and
even a secret marriage, with a fascinating and accomplished
but unprincipled young man. The incidents and
appearances, however, which led to this surmise, soon
passed away, and were forgotten.

Nor was her reputation seriously affected by the report.
In fact, so great was her native power and influence, and
such seemed the careless purity of her nature, that whatever
Zenobia did was generally acknowledged as right
for her to do. The world never criticized her so harshly
as it does most women who transcend its rules. It
almost yielded its assent, when it beheld her stepping out
of the common path, and asserting the more extensive
privileges of her sex, both theoretically and by her practice.
The sphere of ordinary womanhood was felt to
be narrower than her development required.

A portion of Zenobia's more recent life is told in the
foregoing pages. Partly in earnest — and, I imagine, as
was her disposition, half in a proud jest, or in a kind of
recklessness that had grown upon her, out of some
hidden grief, — she had given her countenance, and
promised liberal pecuniary aid, to our experiment of a
better social state. And Priscilla followed her to Blithedale.
The sole bliss of her life had been a dream of
this beautiful sister, who had never so much as known
of her existence. By this time, too, the poor girl was
enthralled in an intolerable bondage, from which she
must either free herself or perish. She deemed herself
safest near Zenobia, into whose large heart she hoped to
nestle.

One evening, months after Priscilla's departure, when
Moodie (or shall we call him Fauntleroy?) was sitting
alone in the state-chamber of the old governor, there
came footsteps up the staircase. There was a pause on
the landing-place. A lady's musical yet haughty accents
were heard making an inquiry from some denizen
of the house, who had thrust a head out of a contiguous
chamber. There was then a knock at Moodie's door.

“Come in!” said he.

And Zenobia entered. The details of the interview
that followed being unknown to me, — while, notwithstanding,
it would be a pity quite to lose the picturesqueness
of the situation, — I shall attempt to sketch it,
mainly from fancy, although with some general grounds
of surmise in regard to the old man's feelings.

She gazed wonderingly at the dismal chamber. Dismal
to her, who beheld it only for an instant; and how
much more so to him, into whose brain each bare spot
on the ceiling, every tatter of the paper-hangings, and
all the splintered carvings of the mantel-piece, seen
wearily through long years, had worn their several
prints! Inexpressibly miserable is this familiarity with
objects that have been from the first disgustful.

“I have received a strange message,” said Zenobia,
after a moment's silence, “requesting, or rather enjoining
it upon me, to come hither. Rather from curiosity than
any other motive, — and because, though a woman, I
have not all the timidity of one, — I have complied.
Can it be you, sir, who thus summoned me?”

“It was,” answered Moodie.

“And what was your purpose?” she continued.
“You require charity, perhaps? In that case, the message

might have been more fitly worded. But you are
old and poor, and age and poverty should be allowed
their privileges. Tell me, therefore, to what extent you
need my aid.”

“Put up your purse,” said the supposed mendicant,
with an inexplicable smile. “Keep it, — keep all your
wealth, — until I demand it all, or none! My message
had no such end in view. You are beautiful, they tell
me; and I desired to look at you.”

He took the one lamp that showed the discomfort and
sordidness of his abode, and approaching Zenobia, held
it up, so as to gain the more perfect view of her, from
top to toe. So obscure was the chamber, that you
could see the reflection of her diamonds thrown upon
the dingy wall, and flickering with the rise and fall of
Zenobia's breath. It was the splendor of those jewels
on her neck, like lamps that burn before some fair temple,
and the jewelled flower in her hair, more than the
murky, yellow light, that helped him to see her beauty.
But he beheld it, and grew proud at heart; his own
figure, in spite of his mean habiliments, assumed an air
of state and grandeur.

“It is well,” cried old Moodie. “Keep your wealth.
You are right worthy of it. Keep it, therefore; but
with one condition only.”

Zenobia thought the old man beside himself, and was
moved with pity.

“Have you none to care for you?” asked she. “No
daughter? — no kind-hearted neighbor? — no means of
procuring the attendance which you need? Tell me,
once again, can I do nothing for you?”

“Nothing,” he replied. “I have beheld what I

wished. Now leave me. Linger not a moment longer,
or I may be tempted to say what would bring a cloud
over that queenly brow. Keep all your wealth, but with
only this one condition: Be kind — be no less kind
than sisters are — to my poor Priscilla!”

And, it may be, after Zenobia withdrew, Fauntleroy
paced his gloomy chamber, and communed with himself
as follows; — or, at all events, it is the only solution
which I can offer of the enigma presented in his character:

“I am unchanged, — the same man as of yore!”
said he. “True, my brother's wealth — he dying intestate
— is legally my own. I know it; yet, of my own
choice, I live a beggar, and go meanly clad, and hide
myself behind a forgotten ignominy. Looks this like
ostentation? Ah! but in Zenobia I live again! Beholding
her, so beautiful, — so fit to be adorned with all
imaginable splendor of outward state, — the cursed
vanity, which, half a lifetime since, dropt off like tatters
of once gaudy apparel from my debased and ruined person,
is all renewed for her sake. Were I to reäppear,
my shame would go with me from darkness into daylight.
Zenobia has the splendor, and not the shame.
Let the world admire her, and be dazzled by her, the
brilliant child of my prosperity! It is Fauntleroy that
still shines through her!”

But then, perhaps, another thought occurred to him.

“My poor Priscilla! And am I just to her, in surrendering
all to this beautiful Zenobia? Priscilla! I
love her best, — I love her only! — but with shame, not
pride. So dim, so pallid, so shrinking, — the daughter
of my long calamity! Wealth were but a mockery in

Priscilla's hands. What is its use, except to fling a
golden radiance around those who grasp it? Yet let
Zenobia take heed! Priscilla shall have no wrong!”

But, while the man of show thus meditated, — that
very evening, so far as I can adjust the dates of these
strange incidents, — Priscilla — poor, pallid flower! —
was either snatched from Zenobia's hand, or flung wilfully
away!