Julian Hawthorne - Idolatry

J >> Julian Hawthorne >> Idolatry

Pages:
1 | 2 | 3 | 4 | 5 | 6 | 7 | 8 | 9 | 10 | 11 | 12 | 13 | 14 | 15 | 16 | 17 | 18

IDOLATRY:

_A ROMANCE_.

by

JULIAN HAWTHORNE.

BOSTON:
JAMES R. OSGOOD AND COMPANY,
LATE TICKNOR & FIELDS, AND FIELDS, OSGOOD, & CO.
1874.

University Press: Welch, Bigelow, & Co.,
Cambridge.

CONTENTS

Dedication

I. The Enchanted Ring

II. Out of Egypt

III. A May Morning

IV. A Brahman

V. A New Man with an old Face

VI. The Vagaries of Helwyse

VII. A Quarrel

VIII. A Collision Imminent

IX. The Voice of Darkness

X. Helwyse Resists the Devil

XI. A Dead Weight

XII. More Vagaries

XIII. Through a Glass

XIV. The Tower of Babel

XV. Charon's Ferry

XVI. Legend and Chronicle

XVII. Face to Face

XVIII. The Hoopoe and the Crocodile

XIX. Before Sundown

XX. Between Waking and Sleeping

XXI. We Pick Up Another Thread

XXII. Heart and Head

XXIII. Balder Tells an Untruth

XXIV. Uncle Hiero at Last

XXV. The Happiness of Man

XXVI. Music and Madness

XXVII. Peace and Good-will

XXVIII. Betrothal

XXIX. A Chamber of the Heart

XXX. Dandelions

XXXI. Married

XXXII. Shut In

XXXIII. The Black Cloud

DEDICATION

To ROBERT CARTER, ESQ.

Not the intrinsic merits of this story embolden me to inscribe it to
you, my dear friend, but the fact that you, more than any other man,
are responsible for its writing. Your advice and encouragement first
led me to book-making; so it is only fair that you should partake of
whatever obloquy (or honor) the practice may bring upon me.

The ensuing pages may incline you to suspect their author of a
repugnance to unvarnished truth; but,--without prejudice to
Othello,--since varnish brings out in wood veins of beauty invisible
before the application, why not also in the sober facts of life? When
the transparent artifice has been penetrated, the familiar substance
underneath will be greeted none the less kindly; nay, the observer
will perhaps regard the disguise as an oblique compliment to his
powers of insight, and his attention may thus be better secured than
had the subject worn its every-day dress. Seriously, the most
matter-of-fact life has moods when the light of romance seems to gild
its earthen chimney-pots into fairy minarets; and, were the
story-teller but sure of laying his hands upon the true gold, perhaps
the more his story had of it, the better.

Here, however, comes in the grand difficulty; fact nor fancy is often
reproduced in true colors; and while attempting justly to combine
life's elements, the writer has to beware that they be not mere cheap
imitations thereof. Not seldom does it happen that what he proffers as
genuine arcana of imagination and philosophy affects the reader as a
dose of Hieroglyphics and Balderdash. Nevertheless, the first duty of
the fiction-monger--no less than of the photographic artist doomed to
produce successful portraits of children-in-arms--is, to be amusing;
to shrink at no shifts which shall beguile the patient into
procrastinating escape until the moment be gone by. The gentle reader
will not too sternly set his face against such artifices, but, so they
go not the length of fantastically presenting phenomena inexplicable
upon any common-sense hypothesis, he will rather lend himself to his
own beguilement. The performance once over, let him, if so inclined,
strip the feathers from the flights of imagination, and wash the color
from the incidents; if aught save the driest and most ordinary matters
of fact reward his researches, then let him be offended!

_De te fabula_ does not apply here, my dear friend; for you will show
me more indulgence than I have skill to demand. And should you find
matter of interest in this book, yours, rather than the author's, will
be the merit. As the beauty of nature is from the eye that looks upon
her, so would the story be dull and barren, save for the life and
color of the reader's sympathy.

Yours most sincerely,

JULIAN HAWTHORNE.

IDOLATRY

I.

THE ENCHANTED RING.

One of the most imposing buildings in Boston twenty years ago was a
granite hotel, whose western windows looked upon a graveyard. Passing
up a flight of steps, and beneath a portico of dignified granite
columns, and so through an embarrassing pair of swinging-doors to the
roomy vestibule,--you would there pause a moment to spit upon the
black-and-white tessellated pavement. Having thus asserted your title
to Puritan ancestry, and to the best accommodations the house
afforded, you would approach the desk and write your name in the hotel
register. This done, you would be apt to run your eye over the last
dozen arrivals, on the chance of lighting upon the autograph of some
acquaintance, to be shunned or sought according to circumstances.

Let us suppose, for the story's sake, that such was the gentle
reader's behavior on a certain night during the latter part of May,
in the year eighteen hundred and fifty-three. If now he will turn to
the ninety-ninth page of the register above mentioned, he will remark
that the last name thereon written is, "Doctor Hiero Glyphic. Room
27." The natural inference is that, unless so odd a name be an assumed
one, Doctor Glyphic occupies that room. Passing on to page one
hundred, he will find the first entry reads as follows "Balder
Helwyse, Cosmopolis. Room 29."

In no trifling mood do we call attention to these two names, and,
above all, to their relative position in the book. Had they both
appeared upon the same page, this romance might never have been
written. On such seemingly frail pegs hang consequences the most
weighty. Because Doctor Glyphic preferred the humble foot of the
ninety-ninth page to the trouble of turning to a leading position on
the one hundredth; because Mr. Helwyse, having begun the one hundredth
page, was too incurious to find out who was his next-door neighbor on
the ninety-ninth, ensued unparalleled adventures, and this account of
them.

Our present purpose, by the reader's leave, and in his company, is to
violate Doctor Hiero Glyphic's retirement, as he lies asleep in bed.
Nor shall we stop at his bedside; we mean to penetrate deep into the
darksome caves of his memory, and to drag forth thence sundry
odd-looking secrets, which shall blink and look strangely in the
light of discovery;--little thought their keeper that our eyes should
ever behold them! Yet will he not resent our, intrusion; it is twenty
years ago,--and he lies asleep.

Two o'clock sounds from the neighboring steeple of the Old South
Church, as we noiselessly enter the chamber,--noiselessly, for the
hush of the past is about us. We scarcely distinguish anything at
first; the moon has set on the other side of the hotel, and perhaps,
too, some of the dimness of those twenty intervening years affects our
eyesight. By degrees, however, objects begin to define themselves; the
bed shows doubtfully white, and that dark blot upon the pillow must be
the face of our sleeping man. It is turned towards the window; the
mouth is open; probably the good Doctor is snoring, albeit, across
this distance of time, the sound fails to reach us.

The room is as bare, square, and characterless as other hotel rooms;
nevertheless, its occupant may have left a hint or two of himself
about, which would be of use to us. There are no trunks or other
luggage; evidently he will be on his way again to-morrow. The window
is shut, although the night is warm and clear. The door is carefully
locked. The Doctor's garments, which appear to be of rather a jaunty
and knowing cut, are lying disorderly about, on chair, table, or
floor. He carries no watch; but under his pillow we see protruding
the corner of a great leathern pocket-book, which might contain a
fortune in bank-notes.

A couple of chairs are drawn up to the bedside, upon one of which
stands a blown-out candle; the other supports an oblong, coffin-shaped
box, narrower at one end than at the other, and painted black. Too
small for a coffin, however; no human corpse, at least, is contained
in it. But the frame that lies so quiet and motionless here, thrills,
when awaked to life, with a soul only less marvellous than man's. In
short, the coffin is a violin-case, and the mysterious frame the
violin. The Doctor must have been fiddling overnight, after getting
into bed; to the dissatisfaction, perhaps, of his neighbor on the
other side of the partition.

Little else in the room is worthy notice, unless it be the pocket-comb
which has escaped from the Doctor's waistcoat, and the shaving
materials (also pocketable) upon the wash-stand. Apparently our friend
does not stand upon much toilet ceremony. The room has nothing more of
significance to say to us; so now we come to the room's occupant. Our
eyes have got enough accustomed to the imperfect light to discern what
manner of man he may be.

Barely middle-aged; or, at a second glance, he might be fifteen to
twenty-five years older. His face retains the form of youth, yet wears
a subtile shadow which we feel might be consistent even with extreme
old age. The forehead is wide and low, supported by regular eyebrows;
the face beneath long and narrow, of a dark and dry complexion. In
sleep, open-mouthed, the expression is rather inane; though we can
readily imagine the waking face to be not devoid of a certain
intensity and comeliness of aspect, marred, however, by an air of
guarded anxiety which is apparent even now.

We prattle of the dead past, and use to fancy that peace must dwell
there, if nothing else. Only in the past, say we, is security from
jostle, danger, and disturbance; who would live at his ease must
number his days backwards; no charm so potent as the years, if read
from right to left. Living in the past, prophecy and memory are at
one; care for the future can harass no man. Throw overboard that
Jonah, Time, and the winds of fortune shall cease to buffet us. And
more to the same effect.

And yet it is not so. The past, if more real than the future, is no
less so than the present; the pain of a broken heart or head is never
annihilated, but becomes part and parcel of eternity. This uneasy
snorer here, for instance: his earthly troubles have been over years
ago, yet, as our fancy sees him, he is none the calmer or the happier
for that. Observe him, how he mumbles inarticulately, and makes
strengthless clutchings at the blanket with his long, slender fingers.

But we delay too long over the external man, seeing that our avowed
business is with the internal. A sleeping man is truly a helpless
creature. They say that, if you take his hand in yours and ask him
questions, he has no other choice than to answer--or to awake. The
Doctor--as we know by virtue of the prophetic advantages just remarked
upon--will stay asleep for some hours yet. Or, if you are clairvoyant,
you have but to fall in a trance, and lay a hand on his forehead, and
you may read off his thoughts,--provided he does his thinking in his
head. But the world is growing too wise, nowadays, to put faith in old
woman's nonsense like this. Again, there is--or used to be--an odd
theory that all matter is a sort of photographic plate, whereon is
registered, had we but eyes to read it, the complete history of
itself. What an invaluable pair of eyes were that! In vain, arraigned
before them, would the criminal deny his guilt, the lover the soft
impeachment. The whole scene would stand forth, photographed in fatal
minuteness and indelibility upon face, hands, coat-sleeve,
shirt-bosom. Mankind would be its own book of life, written in the
primal hieroglyphic character,--the language understood by all. Vocal
conversation would become obsolete, unless among a few superior
persons able to discuss abstract ideas.

We speak of these things only to smile at them; far be it from us to
insult the reader's understanding by asking him to regard them
seriously. But story-tellers labor under one disadvantage which is
peculiar to their profession,--the necessity of omniscience. This
tends to make them top arbitrary, leads them to disregard the modesty
of nature and the harmonies of reason in their methods. They will
pretend to know things which they never could have seen or heard of,
and for the truth of which they bring forward no evidence; thus
forcing the reader to reject, as lacking proper confirmation, what he
would else, from its inherent grace or sprightliness, be happy to
accept.

That we shall be free from this reproach is rather our good fortune
than our merit. It is by favor of our stars, not by virtue of our own,
that we turn not aside from the plain path of truth to the by-ways of
supernaturalism and improbability. Yet we refrain with difficulty from
a breath of self-praise; there is a proud and solid satisfaction in
holding an unassailable position could we but catch the world's eye,
we would meet it calmly!

Let us hasten to introduce our talisman. You may see it at this very
moment, encircling the third finger of Doctor Glyphic's left hand; in
fact, it is neither more nor less than a quaint diamond ring. The
stone, though not surprisingly large, is surpassingly pure and
brilliant; as its keen, delicate ray sparkles on the eye, one marvels
whence, in the dead of night, it got together so much celestial fire.
Observe the setting; the design is unique. Two fairy serpents--one
golden, the other fashioned from black meteoric iron--are intertwined
along their entire length, forming the hoop of the ring. Their heads
approach the diamond from opposite sides, and each makes a mighty bite
at it with his tiny jaws, studded with sharp little teeth. Thus their
contest holds the stone firmly in place. The whole forms a pretty
symbol of the human soul, battled for by the good and the evil
principles. But the diamond seems, in its entirety, to be an awkward
mouthful for either. The snakes are wrought with marvellous dexterity
and finish; each separate scale is distinguishable upon their
glistening bodies, the wrinkling of the skin in the coils, the
sparkling points of eyes, and the minute nostrils. Such works of art
are not made nowadays; the ring is an antique,--a relic of an age when
skill was out of all proportion to liberty,--a very distant time
indeed. To deserve such a setting, the stone must have exceptional
qualities. Let us take a closer look at it.

Fortunately, its own lustre makes it visible in every part; the
minuteness of our scrutiny need be limited only by our power of eye.
It is cut with many facets,--twenty-seven, if you choose to count
them; perhaps (though we little credit such fantasies) some mystic
significance may be intended in this number. Concentrating now our
attention upon any single facet, we see--either inscribed upon its
surface, or showing through from the interior of the stone--a sort of
monogram, or intricately designed character, not unlike the mysterious
Chinese letters on tea-chests. Every facet has a similar figure,
though no two are identical. But the central, the twenty-seventh
facet, which is larger than the others, has an important peculiarity.
Looking upon it, we find therein, concentrated and commingled, the
other twenty-six characters; which, separately unintelligible, form,
when thus united, a simple and consistent narrative, equivalent in
extent to many hundred printed pages, and having for subject nothing
less than the complete history of the ring itself.

Some small portion of this narrative--that, namely, which relates more
particularly to the present wearer of the ring--we will glance at; the
rest must be silence, although, going back as it does to the earliest
records of the human race, many an interesting page must be skipped
perforce.

The advantages to a historian of a medium such as this are too patent
to need pointing out. Pretension and conjecture will be avoided,
because unnecessary. The most trifling thought or deed of any person
connected with the history of the ring is laid open to direct
inspection. Were there more such talismans as this, the profession of
authorship would become no less easy than delightful, and criticism
would sting itself to death, in despair of better prey. So far as is
known, however, the enchanted ring is unique of its kind, and, such as
it is, is not likely to become common property.

II.

OUT OF EGYPT.

But the small hours of the morning are slipping away; we must construe
our hieroglyphics without further palaver. The sleeper lies upon his
side, his left hand resting near his face upon the pillow. Were he to
move it ever so little during our examination, the history of years
might be thrown into confusion. Nevertheless, we shall hope to touch
upon all the more important points, and in some cases to go into
details.

Concentrating our attention upon the central facet, its clear ray
strikes the imagination, and forthwith transports us to a distant age
and climate. The air is full of lazy warmth. A full-fed river,
glassing the hot blue sky, slides in long curves through a low-lying,
illimitable plain. The rich earth, green with mighty crops, everywhere
exhales upward the quivering heat of her breath. An indolent,
dark-skinned race, turbaned and scantly clothed, move through the
meadows, splash in the river, and rest beneath the palm-trees, which
meet in graceful clusters here and there, as if striving to get
beneath one another's shadow. Dirty villages swarm and babble on the
river's brink.

Were there leisure to listen, the diamond could readily relate the
whole history of this famous valley. For the stone was fashioned to
its present shape while the thought that formed the Pyramids was yet
unborn, and while the limestone and granite whereof they are built lay
in their silent beds, dreaming, perchance, of airy days before the
deluge, long ere the heated vapors stiffened into stone. Some great
patriarch of early days, founder of a race called by his name, picked
up this diamond in the southern desert, and gave it its present form;
perhaps, also, breathed into it the marvellous historical gift which
it retains to this day. Who was that primal man? how sounded his
voice? were his eyes terrible, or mild? Seems, as we speak, we glimpse
his majestic figure, and the grandeur of his face and cloudy beard.

He passed away, but the enchanted stone remained, and has sparkled
along the splendid march of successive dynasties, and has reflected
men and cities which to us are nameless, or but a half-deciphered
name. It has seen the mystic ceremonies of Egyptian priests, and
counts their boasted wisdom as a twice-told tale. It has watched the
unceasing toil of innumerable slaves, piling up through many ardent
years the idle tombs of kings. It has beheld vast winding lengths of
processions darken and glitter across the plain, slowly devoured by
the shining city, or issuing from her gates like a monstrous birth.

But whither wander we? Standing in this hotel of modern Boston, we
must confine our inquiries to a far later epoch than the Pharaohs'.
Step aside, and let the old history sweep past, like the turbid and
eddying current of the mysterious Nile; forbearing to launch our skiff
earlier than at the beginning of the present century.

The middle of June, eighteen hundred and sixteen: the river is just
beginning to rise, and the thirsty land spreads wide her lap to
receive him. Some miles to the north slumbers Cairo in white heat, its
outline jagged with minarets and bulbous domes. Southward, the shaded
Pyramids print their everlasting outlines against the tremulous
distance; old as they are, it seems as though a puff of the Khamsin
might dissolve them away. Near at hand is a noisy, naked crowd of men
and boys, plunging and swimming in the water, or sitting and standing
along the bank. They are watching and discussing the slow approach up
stream of a large boat with a broad lateen-sail, and a strange flag
fluttering from the mast-head. Rumor says that this boat contains a
company of strangers from beyond the sea; men who do not wear turbans,
whose dress is close-fitting, and covers them from head to
foot,--even the legs. They come to learn wisdom and civilization from
the Pyramids, and among the ruins of Memphis.

A hundred yards below this shouting, curious crowd, stands, waist-deep
in the Nile, a slender-limbed boy, about ten years old. He belongs to
a superior caste, and holds himself above the common rabble. Being
perfectly naked, a careless eye might, however, rank him with the
rest, were it not for the talisman which he wears suspended to a fine
gold chain round his neck; a curiously designed diamond ring, the
inheritance of a long line of priestly ancestors. The boy's face is
certainly full of intelligence, and the features are finely moulded
for so young a lad.

He also is watching the upward progress of the lateen-sail; has heard,
moreover, the report concerning those on board. He wonders where is
the country from which they come. Is it the land the storks fly to, of
which mother (before the plague carried both her and father to a
stranger land still) used to tell such wonderful stories? Does the
world really extend far beyond the valley? Is the world all valley and
river, with now and then some hills, like those away up beyond
Memphis? Are there other cities beside Cairo, and that one which he
has heard of but never seen,--Alexandria? Wonders why the strangers
dress in tight-fitting clothes, with leg-coverings, and without
turbans! Would like to find out about all these things,--about all
things knowable beside these, if any there be. Would like to go back
with the strangers to their country, when they return, and so become
the wisest and most powerful of his race; wiser even than those
fabulously learned priestly instructors of his, who are so strict with
him. Perhaps he might find all his forefathers there, and his kind
mother, who used to tell him stories.

Bah! how the sun blisters down on head and shoulders: will take a dive
and a swim,--a short swim only, not far from shore; for was not the
priest telling of a boy caught by a great crocodile, only, a few days
ago, and never seen since? But there is no crocodile near to-day; and,
besides, will not his precious talisman keep him from all harm?

The subtile Nile catches him softly in his cool arms, dandles him,
kisses Him, flatters him, wooes him imperceptibly onwards. Now he is
far from shore, and the multitudinous feet of the current are hurrying
him away. The slow-moving boat is much nearer than it was a minute
ago,--seems to be rasping towards him, in spite of the laziness of the
impelling breeze. The boy, as yet unconscious of his peril, now
glances shorewards, and sees the banks wheel past. The crowd of
bathers is already far beyond hearing yet, frightened and tired, he
wastes his remaining strength in fruitless shouts. Now the deceitful
eddies, once so soft and friendly, whirl him down in ruthless
exultation. He will never reach the shore, good swimmer though he be!

Hark! what plunged from the bank,--what black thing moves towards him
across the water? The crocodile! coming with tears in his eyes, and a
long grin of serried teeth. Coming!--the ugly scaly head is always
nearer and nearer. The boy screams; but who should hear him? He feels
whether the talisman be yet round his neck. He screams again, calling,
in half-delirium, upon his dead mother. Meanwhile the scaly snout is
close upon him.

A many-voiced shout, close at hand; a splashing of poles in the water;
a rippling of eddies against a boat's bows! As the boy drifts by, a
blue-eyed, yellow-bearded viking swings himself from the halyard,
catches him, pulls him aboard with a jerk and a shout, safe! The long
grin snaps emptily together behind him. The boy lies on the deck, a
vision of people with leg-coverings and other oddities of costume
swimming in his eyes; one of them supports his head on his knee, and
bends over him a round, good-natured, spectacled face. Above, a
beautiful flag, striped and starred with white, blue, and red, flaps
indolently against the mast.--

Precisely at this point the sleeper stirs his hand slightly, but
enough to throw the record of several succeeding years into
uncertainty and confusion. Here and there, however, we catch imperfect
glimpses of the Egyptian lad, steadily growing up to be a tall young
man. He is dressed in European clothes, and lives and moves amid
civilized surroundings: Egypt, with her pyramids, palms, and river, we
see no more. The priest's son seems now to be immersed in studies; he
shows a genius for music and painting, and is diligently storing his
mind with other than Egyptian lore. With him, or never far away, we
meet a man considerably older than the student,--good-natured,
whimsical, round of head and face and insignificant of feature.
Towards him does the student observe the profoundest deference, bowing
before him, and addressing him as "Master Hiero," or "Master Glyphic."
Master Hiero, for his part, calls the Egyptian "Manetho"; from which
we might infer his descent from the celebrated historian of that name,
but will not insist upon this genealogy. As for the studies, from
certain signs we fancy them tending towards theology; the descendant
of Egyptian priests is to become a Christian clergyman! Nevertheless,
he still wears his talismanic ring. Does he believe it saved him from
the crocodile? Does his Christian enlightenment not set him free from
such superstition?

Pages:
1 | 2 | 3 | 4 | 5 | 6 | 7 | 8 | 9 | 10 | 11 | 12 | 13 | 14 | 15 | 16 | 17 | 18