first visit to new england-第12章
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through the bird…haunted gloom of woodland roads; in the freshness of the
summer morning? By a blessed chance I found that there was such a stage
in 1860; and I took it from my hotel; instead of going back to Boston and
up to Concord as I must have had to do by train。 The journey gave me the
intimacy of the New England country as I could have had it in no other
fashion; and for the first time I saw it in all the summer sweetness
which I have often steeped my soul in since。 The meadows were newly
mown; and the air was fragrant with the grass; stretching in long winrows
among the brown bowlders; or capped with canvas in the little haycocks it
had been gathered into the day before。 I was fresh from the affluent
farms of the Western Reserve; and this care of the grass touched me with
a rude pity; which I also bestowed on the meagre fields of corn and
wheat; but still the land was lovelier than any I had ever seen; with its
old farmhouses; and brambled gray stone walls; its stony hillsides; its
staggering orchards; its wooded tops; and its thick…brackened valleys。
From West to East the difference was as great as I afterwards found it
from America to Europe; and my impression of something quaint and strange
was no keener when I saw Old England the next year than when I saw New
England now。 I had imagined the landscape bare of trees; and I was
astonished to find it almost as full of them as at home; though they all
looked very little; as they well might to eyes used to the primeval
forests of Ohio。 The road ran through them from time to time; and took
their coolness on its smooth hard reaches; and then issued again in the
glisten of the open fields。
I made phrases to myself about the scenery as we drove along; and yes; I
suppose I made phrases about the young girl who was one of the inside
passengers; and who; when the common strangeness had somewhat worn off;
began to sing; and sang most of the way to Concord。 Perhaps she was not
very sage; and I am sure she was not of the caste of Vere de Vere; but
she was pretty enough; and she had a voice of a bird…like tunableness;
so that I would not have her out of the memory of that pleasant journey
if I could。 She was long ago an elderly woman; if she lives; and I
suppose she would not now point out her fellow…passenger if he strolled
in the evening by the house where she had dismounted; upon her arrival in
Concord; and laugh and pull another girl away from the window; in the
high excitement of the prodigious adventure。
XV。
Her fellow…passenger was in far other excitement; he was to see
Hawthorne; and in a manner to meet Priscilla and Zenobia; and Hester
Prynne and little Pearl; and Miriam and Hilda; and Hollingsworth and
Coverdale; and Chillingworth and Dimmesdale; and Donatello and Kenyon;
and he had no heart for any such poor little reality as that; who could
not have been got into any story that one could respect; and must have
been difficult even in a Heinesque poem。
I wasted that whole evening and the next morning in fond delaying; and it
was not until after the indifferent dinner I got at the tavern where I
stopped; that I found courage to go and present Lowell's letter to
Hawthorne。 I would almost have foregone meeting the weird genius only to
have kept that letter; for it said certain infinitely precious things of
me with such a sweetness; such a grace; as Lowell alone could give his
praise。 Years afterwards; when Hawthorne was dead; I met Mrs。 Hawthorne;
and told her of the pang I had in parting with it; and she sent it me;
doubly enriched by Hawthorne's keeping。 But now if I were to see him at
all I must give up my letter; and I carried it in my hand to the door of
the cottage he called The Wayside。 It was never otherwise than a very
modest place; but the modesty was greater then than to…day; and there was
already some preliminary carpentry at one end of the cottage; which I saw
was to result in an addition to it。 I recall pleasant fields across the
road before it; behind rose a hill wooded with low pines; such as is made
in Septimius Felton the scene of the involuntary duel between Septimius
and the young British officer。 I have a sense of the woods coming quite
down to the house; but if this was so I do not know what to do with a
grassy slope which seems to have stretched part way up the hill。 As I
approached; I looked for the tower which the author was fabled to climb
into at sight of the coming guest; and pull the ladder up after him; and
I wondered whether he would fly before me in that sort; or imagine some
easier means of escaping me。
The door was opened to my ring by a tall handsome boy whom I suppose to
have been Mr。 Julian Hawthorne; and the next moment I found myself in the
presence of the romancer; who entered from some room beyond。 He advanced
carrying his head with a heavy forward droop; and with a pace for which I
decided that the word would be pondering。 It was the pace of a bulky man
of fifty; and his head was that beautiful head we all know from the many
pictures of it。 But Hawthorne's look was different from that of any
picture of him that I have seen。 It was sombre and brooding; as the look
of such a poet should have been; it was the look of a man who had dealt
faithfully and therefore sorrowfully with that problem of evil which
forever attracted; forever evaded Hawthorne。 It was by no means
troubled; it was full of a dark repose。 Others who knew him better and
saw him oftener were familiar with other aspects; and I remember that one
night at Longfellow's table; when one of the guests happened to speak of
the photograph of Hawthorne which hung in a corner of the room; Lowell
said; after a glance at it; 〃Yes; it's good; but it hasn't his fine
'accipitral' 'pertaining to the look of a bird of prey; hawklike。 D。W。'
look。〃
In the face that confronted me; however; there was nothing of keen
alertness; but only a sort of quiet; patient intelligence; for which I
seek the right word in vain。 It was a very regular face; with beautiful
eyes; the mustache; still entirely dark; was dense over the fine mouth。
Hawthorne was dressed in black; and he had a certain effect which I
remember; of seeming to have on a black cravat with no visible collar。
He was such a man that if I had ignorantly met him anywhere I should have
instantly felt him to be a personage。
I must have given him the letter myself; for I have no recollection of
parting with it before; but I only remember his offering me his hand; and
making me shyly and tentatively welcome。 After a few moments of the
demoralization which followed his hospitable attempts in me; he asked if
I would not like to go up on his hill with him and sit there; where he
smoked in the afternoon。 He offered me a cigar; and when I said that I
did not smoke; he lighted it for himself; and we climbed the hill
together。 At the top; where there was an outlook in the pines over the
Concord meadows; we found a log; and he invited me to a place on it
beside him; and at intervals of a minute or so he talked while he smoked。
Heaven preserved me from the folly of trying to tell him how much his
books had been to me; and though we got on rapidly at no time; I think we
got on better for this interposition。 He asked me about Lowell; I dare
say; for I told him of my joy in meeting him and Doctor Holmes; and this
seemed greatly to interest him。 Perhaps because he was so lately from
Europe; where our great men are always seen through the wrong end of the
telescope; he appeared surprised at my devotion; and asked me whether I
cared as much for meeting them as I should care for meeting the famous
English authors。 I professed that I cared much more; though whether this
was true; I now have my doubts; and I think Hawthorne doubted it at the
time。 But he said nothing in comment; and went on to speak generally of
Europe and America。 He was curious about the West; which be seemed to
fancy much more purely American; and said he would like to see some part
of the country on which the shadow (or; if I must be precise; the damned
shadow) of Europe had not fallen。 I told him I thought the West must
finally be c