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Then his face darkened, as if the shadow of a cavern or a dungeon had come overit; there was no more light in its expression than might have come through theiron grates of a prison-window—still lessening, too, as if he weresinking farther into the depths. Phœbe (being of that quickness and activityof temperament that she seldom long refrained from taking a part, and generallya good one, in what was going forward) now felt herself moved to address thestranger. Mingled in his countenance with a dreamydelight, there was a troubled look of effort and unrest. He was seeking to makehimself more fully sensible of the scene around him; or, perhaps, dreading itto be a dream, or a play of imagination, was vexing the fair moment with astruggle for some added brilliancy and more durable illusion. The two relatives—the young maid and the old one—found time beforenightfall, in the intervals of trade, to make rapid advances towards affectionand confidence. A recluse, like Hepzibah, usually displays remarkablefrankness, and at least temporary affability, on being absolutely cornered, andbrought to the point of personal intercourse; like the angel whom Jacobwrestled with, she is ready to bless you when once overcome.
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Episode 73: The House of the Seven Gables, by Nathaniel Hawthorne - National Review
Episode 73: The House of the Seven Gables, by Nathaniel Hawthorne.
Posted: Tue, 05 Mar 2019 08:00:00 GMT [source]
At such a crisis, there is no death; forimmortality is revealed anew, and embraces everything in its hallowedatmosphere. The girl knew that her two relatives were capable of far greater oddities thanthat of shutting themselves up in their old house, as they appeared now to havedone. Nevertheless, with indistinct misgivings of something amiss, andapprehensions to which she could not give shape, she approached the door thatformed the customary communication between the house and garden. She knocked, however; andimmediately, as if the application had been expected, the door was drawn open,by a considerable exertion of some unseen person’s strength, not wide,but far enough to afford her a sidelong entrance.
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And then, while the yellow richness of the declining sunshine still fell intothe open space of the garden, Phœbe brought out a loaf of bread and a chinabowl of currants, freshly gathered from the bushes, and crushed with sugar.These, with water,—but not from the fountain of ill omen, close athand,—constituted all the entertainment. Meanwhile, Holgrave took somepains to establish an intercourse with Clifford, actuated, it might seem,entirely by an impulse of kindliness, in order that the present hour might becheerfuller than most which the poor recluse had spent, or was destined yet tospend. Nevertheless, in the artist’s deep, thoughtful, all-observanteyes, there was, now and then, an expression, not sinister, but questionable;as if he had some other interest in the scene than a stranger, a youthful andunconnected adventurer, might be supposed to have. With great mobility ofoutward mood, however, he applied himself to the task of enlivening the party;and with so much success, that even dark-hued Hepzibah threw off one tint ofmelancholy, and made what shift she could with the remaining portion.
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It would have been kept in check, however,and even converted into an accomplishment, and one of the thousand modes ofintellectual culture, had his more ethereal characteristics retained theirvigor. But as it existed now, the effect was painful and made Phœbe droop hereyes. When Phœbe was quite dressed, she peeped out of the window, and saw a rosebushin the garden. Being a very tall one, and of luxuriant growth, it had beenpropped up against the side of the house, and was literally covered with a rareand very beautiful species of white rose.
But, even as a ray of sunshine, fall intowhat dismal place it may, instantaneously creates for itself a propriety inbeing there, so did it seem altogether fit that the girl should be standing atthe threshold. It was no less evidently proper that the door should swing opento admit her. The maiden lady herself, sternly inhospitable in her firstpurposes, soon began to feel that the door ought to be shoved back, and therusty key be turned in the reluctant lock. By the spell of contrast, another portrait rose up before her, painted withmore daring flattery than any artist would have ventured upon, but yet sodelicately touched that the likeness remained perfect. Malbone’sminiature, though from the same original, was far inferior to Hepzibah’sair-drawn picture, at which affection and sorrowful remembrance wroughttogether.
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The artist, in a desultory manner, had imparted to Phœbe something of hishistory. Young as he was, and had his career terminated at the point alreadyattained, there had been enough of incident to fill, very creditably, anautobiographic volume. A romance on the plan of Gil Blas, adapted to Americansociety and manners, would cease to be a romance. The experience of manyindividuals among us, who think it hardly worth the telling, would equal thevicissitudes of the Spaniard’s earlier life; while their ultimatesuccess, or the point whither they tend, may be incomparably higher than anythat a novelist would imagine for his hero. Thoughnow but twenty-two years old (lacking some months, which are years in such alife), he had already been, first, a country schoolmaster; next, a salesman ina country store; and, either at the same time or afterwards, the politicaleditor of a country newspaper.
Holgrave also tells Phoebe he loves her, and she admits to loving him in return. Although the neighbors become suspicious, Hepzibah and Clifford return before the body is discovered. Clifford is not suspected in the Judge’s death, and it is rumored that the Judge himself framed Clifford for the crime for which he served thirty years in prison. News arrives that the Judge’s estranged son has died in Europe, so the Judge’s inheritance goes to Clifford. Clifford, Hepzibah, Phoebe, Holgrave, and Uncle Venner all move to the Judge’s country estate, leaving the house of the seven gables to continue rotting away.
They said to themselves, perhaps, that,before his hair was gray and the crow’s-feet tracked his temples, thisnow decaying man must have stamped the impress of his features on many awoman’s heart. Thus far the Judge’s countenance had expressed mildforbearance,—grave and almost gentle deprecation of his cousin’sunbecoming violence,—free and Christian-like forgiveness of the wronginflicted by her words. But when those words were irrevocably spoken, his lookassumed sternness, the sense of power, and immitigable resolve; and this withso natural and imperceptible a change, that it seemed as if the iron man hadstood there from the first, and the meek man not at all.
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On Sundays, after Phœbe had been at church,—for the girl had achurch-going conscience, and would hardly have been at ease had she missedeither prayer, singing, sermon, or benediction,—after church-time,therefore, there was, ordinarily, a sober little festival in the garden. Inaddition to Clifford, Hepzibah, and Phœbe, two guests made up the company. Onewas the artist Holgrave, who, in spite of his consociation with reformers, andhis other queer and questionable traits, continued to hold an elevated place inHepzibah’s regard. The other, we are almost ashamed to say, was thevenerable Uncle Venner, in a clean shirt, and a broadcloth coat, morerespectable than his ordinary wear, inasmuch as it was neatly patched on eachelbow, and might be called an entire garment, except for a slight inequality inthe length of its skirts.
A few blocks away on Hawthorne Boulevard towers a large statue of Nathaniel Hawthorne himself. Jaffrey visits the house and tells Clifford that he intends to have him committed. Clifford responds by asking Jaffrey to sign a document that clears Clifford's name. Deacon Arnold Foster (Miles Mander), who loaned Jaffrey the investment funds, arrives and demands the money back. Panicking, Jaffrey signs the document and tells Clifford that he can have the lost treasure so long as Clifford does not accuse him of murder. It's all been a trick on Jaffrey, played by Clifford and Matthew Maule.
Of course, Phœbe was far too sensible a girl to entertain this idea in anyother way than as matter for a smile. Possibly, also, could the two personageshave stood together before her eye, many points of difference would have beenperceptible, and perhaps only a general resemblance. The long lapse ofintervening years, in a climate so unlike that which had fostered the ancestralEnglishman, must inevitably have wrought important changes in the physicalsystem of his descendant. The Judge’s volume of muscle could hardly bethe same as the Colonel’s; there was undoubtedly less beef in him. Then theJudge’s face had lost the ruddy English hue that showed its warmththrough all the duskiness of the Colonel’s weather-beaten cheek, and hadtaken a sallow shade, the established complexion of his countrymen.
And if he have time, amid the press of more urgent matters, he must takemeasures for the renewal of Mrs. Pyncheon’s tombstone, which, the sextontells him, has fallen on its marble face, and is cracked quite in twain. Shewas a praiseworthy woman enough, thinks the Judge, in spite of her nervousness,and the tears that she was so oozy with, and her foolish behavior about thecoffee; and as she took her departure so seasonably, he will not grudge thesecond tombstone. Thenext item on his list was to give orders for some fruit-trees, of a rarevariety, to be deliverable at his country-seat in the ensuing autumn. Yes, buythem, by all means; and may the peaches be luscious in your mouth, JudgePyncheon! A committee of hispolitical party has besought him for a hundred or two of dollars, in additionto his previous disbursements, towards carrying on the fall campaign. The Judgeis a patriot; the fate of the country is staked on the November election; andbesides, as will be shadowed forth in another paragraph, he has no triflingstake of his own in the same great game.
The latter might probably have been won for him, had those onwhom the guardianship of his welfare had fallen deemed it advisable to exposeClifford to a miserable resuscitation of past ideas, when the condition ofwhatever comfort he might expect lay in the calm of forgetfulness. The pitiable mockery of it,which the world might have been ready enough to offer, coming so long after theagony had done its utmost work, would have been fit only to provoke bittererlaughter than poor Clifford was ever capable of. It is a truth (and it would bea very sad one but for the higher hopes which it suggests) that no greatmistake, whether acted or endured, in our mortal sphere, is ever really setright. Time, the continual vicissitude of circumstances, and the invariableinopportunity of death, render it impossible.
Support our mission to be a welcoming, thriving, historic site and community resource that engages people of all backgrounds in our inclusive American story. Horace Ingersoll, Susanna's adopted son, told Hawthorne a story of Acadian lovers that later inspired Henry Wadsworth Longfellow's 1847 poem Evangeline. A few years later, a kitchen lean-to and a new north kitchen ell to the rear of the house were added. By 1676, Turner had added a spacious south (front) extension with its own chimney, containing a parlor on the ground floor, with a large bed chamber above it. Ceilings in this new wing are higher than the very low ceilings in older parts of the house. The new wing featured double casement windows and an overhang with carved pendants; it was capped with a three-gabled garret.
For here,—and if we fail to impress it suitablyupon the reader, it is our own fault, not that of the theme, here is one of thetruest points of melancholy interest that occur in ordinary life. A lady—who had fedherself from childhood with the shadowy food of aristocratic reminiscences, andwhose religion it was that a lady’s hand soils itself irremediably bydoing aught for bread,—this born lady, after sixty years of narrowingmeans, is fain to step down from her pedestal of imaginary rank. Poverty,treading closely at her heels for a lifetime, has come up with her at last.
For the most remarkable aspect of the affair was, that, at thecessation of the music, everybody was petrified at once, from the mostextravagant life into a dead torpor. Neither was the cobbler’s shoefinished, nor the blacksmith’s iron shaped out; nor was there a drop lessof brandy in the toper’s bottle, nor a drop more of milk in themilkmaid’s pail, nor one additional coin in the miser’s strong-box,nor was the scholar a page deeper in his book. All were precisely in the samecondition as before they made themselves so ridiculous by their haste to toil,to enjoy, to accumulate gold, and to become wise.
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