The House of the Seven Gables
gestures, was hardly bigger than an ordinary partridge; his two wives
were about the size of quails; and as for the one chicken, it looked
small enough to be still in the egg, and, at the same time,
sufficiently old, withered, wizened, and experienced, to have been
founder of the antiquated race. Instead of being the youngest of the
family, it rather seemed to have aggregated into itself the ages, not
only of these living specimens of the breed, but of all its forefathers
and foremothers, whose united excellences and oddities were squeezed
into its little body. Its mother evidently regarded it as the one
chicken of the world, and as necessary, in fact, to the world’s
continuance, or, at any rate, to the equilibrium of the present system
of affairs, whether in church or state. No lesser sense of the infant
fowl’s importance could have justified, even in a mother’s eyes, the
perseverance with which she watched over its safety, ruffling her small
person to twice its proper size, and flying in everybody’s face that so
much as looked towards her hopeful progeny. No lower estimate could
have vindicated the indefatigable zeal with which she scratched, and
her unscrupulousness in digging up the choicest flower or vegetable,
for the sake of the fat earthworm at its root. Her nervous cluck, when
the chicken happened to be hidden in the long grass or under the
squash-leaves; her gentle croak of satisfaction, while sure of it
beneath her wing; her note of ill-concealed fear and obstreperous
defiance, when she saw her arch-enemy, a neighbor’s cat, on the top of
the high fence,—one or other of these sounds was to be heard at almost
every moment of the day. By degrees, the observer came to feel nearly
as much interest in this chicken of illustrious race as the mother-hen
did.
Phœbe, after getting well acquainted with the old hen, was sometimes
permitted to take the chicken in her hand, which was quite capable of
grasping its cubic inch or two of body. While she curiously examined
its hereditary marks,—the peculiar speckle of its plumage, the funny
tuft on its head, and a knob on each of its legs,—the little biped, as
she insisted, kept giving her a sagacious wink. The daguerreotypist
once whispered her that these marks betokened the oddities of the
Pyncheon family, and that the chicken itself was a symbol of the life
of the old house, embodying its interpretation, likewise, although an
unintelligible one, as such clews generally are. It was a feathered
riddle; a mystery hatched out of an egg, and just as mysterious as if
the egg had been addle!
The second of Chanticleer’s two wives, ever since Phœbe’s arrival, had
been in a state of heavy despondency, caused, as it afterwards
appeared, by her inability to lay an egg. One day, however, by her
self-important gait, the sideways turn of her head, and the cock of her
eye, as she pried into one and another nook of the garden,—croaking to
herself, all the while, with inexpressible complacency,—it was made
evident that this identical hen, much as mankind undervalued her,
carried something about her person the worth of which was not to be
estimated either in gold or precious stones. Shortly after, there was a
prodigious cackling and gratulation of Chanticleer and all his family,
including the wizened chicken, who appeared to understand the matter
quite as well as did his sire, his mother, or his aunt. That afternoon
Phœbe found a diminutive egg,—not in the regular nest, it was far too
precious to be trusted there,—but cunningly hidden under the
currant-bushes, on some dry stalks of last year’s grass. Hepzibah, on
learning the fact, took possession of the egg and appropriated it to
Clifford’s breakfast, on account of a certain delicacy of flavor, for
which, as she affirmed, these eggs had always been famous. Thus
unscrupulously did the old gentlewoman sacrifice the continuance,
perhaps, of an ancient feathered race, with no better end than to
supply her brother with a dainty that hardly filled the bowl of a
tea-spoon! It must have been in reference to this outrage that
Chanticleer, the next day, accompanied by the bereaved mother of the
egg, took his post in front of Phœbe and Clifford, and delivered
himself of a harangue that might have proved as long as his own
pedigree, but for a fit of merriment on Phœbe’s part. Hereupon, the
offended fowl stalked away on his long stilts, and utterly withdrew his
notice from Phœbe and the rest of human nature, until she made her
peace with an offering of spice-cake, which, next to snails, was the
delicacy most in favor with his aristocratic taste.
We linger too long, no doubt, beside this paltry rivulet of life that
flowed through the garden of the Pyncheon House. But we deem it
pardonable to record these mean incidents and poor delights, because
they proved so greatly to Clifford’s benefit. They had the earth-smell
in them, and contributed to give him health and substance. Some of his
occupations wrought less desirably upon him. He had a singular
propensity, for example, to hang over Maule’s well, and look at the
constantly shifting phantasmagoria of figures produced by the agitation
of the water over the mosaic-work of colored pebbles at the bottom. He
said that faces looked upward to him there,—beautiful faces, arrayed in
bewitching smiles,—each momentary face so fair and rosy, and every
smile so sunny, that he felt wronged at its departure, until the same
flitting witchcraft made a new one. But sometimes he would suddenly cry
out, “The dark face gazes at me!” and be miserable the whole day
afterwards. Phœbe, when she hung over the fountain by Clifford’s side,
could see nothing of all this,—neither the beauty nor the ugliness,—but
only the colored pebbles, looking as if the gush of the waters shook
and disarranged them. And the dark face, that so troubled Clifford, was
no more than the shadow thrown from a branch of one of the
damson-trees, and breaking the inner light of Maule’s well. The truth
was, however, that his fancy—reviving faster than his will and
judgment, and always stronger than they—created shapes of loveliness
that were symbolic of his native character, and now and then a stern
and dreadful shape that typified his fate.
On Sundays, after Phœbe had been at church,—for the girl had a
church-going conscience, and would hardly have been at ease had she
missed either prayer, singing, sermon, or benediction,—after
church-time, therefore, there was, ordinarily, a sober little festival
in the garden. In addition to Clifford, Hepzibah, and Phœbe, two guests
made up the company. One was the artist Holgrave, who, in spite of his
consociation with reformers, and his other queer and questionable
traits, continued to hold an elevated place in Hepzibah’s regard. The
other, we are almost ashamed to say, was the venerable Uncle Venner, in
a clean shirt, and a broadcloth coat, more respectable than his
ordinary wear, inasmuch as it was neatly patched on each elbow, and
might be called an entire garment, except for a slight inequality in
the length of its skirts. Clifford, on several occasions, had seemed to
enjoy the old man’s intercourse, for the sake of his mellow, cheerful
vein, which was like the sweet flavor of a frost-bitten apple, such as
one picks up under the tree in December. A man at the very lowest point
of the social scale was easier and more agreeable for the fallen
gentleman to encounter than a person at any of the intermediate
degrees; and, moreover, as Clifford’s young manhood had been lost, he
was fond of feeling himself comparatively youthful, now, in apposition
with the patriarchal age of Uncle Venner. In fact, it was sometimes
observable that Clifford half wilfully hid from himself the
consciousness of being stricken in years, and cherished visions of an
earthly future still before him; visions, however, too indistinctly
drawn to be followed by disappointment—though, doubtless, by
depression—when any casual incident or recollection made him sensible
of the withered leaf.
So this oddly composed little social party used to assemble under the
ruinous arbor. Hepzibah—stately as ever at heart, and yielding not an
inch of her old gentility, but resting upon it so much the more, as
justifying a princess-like condescension—exhibited a not ungraceful
hospitality. She talked kindly to the vagrant artist, and took sage
counsel—lady as she was—with the wood-sawyer, the messenger of
everybody’s petty errands, the patched philosopher. And Uncle Venner,
who had studied the world at street-corners, and other posts equally
well adapted for just observation, was as ready to give out his wisdom
as a town-pump to give water.
“Miss Hepzibah, ma’am,” said he once, after they had all been cheerful
together, “I really enjoy these quiet little meetings of a Sabbath
afternoon. They are very much like what I expect to have after I retire
to my farm!”
“Uncle Venner” observed Clifford in a drowsy, inward tone, “is always
talking about his farm. But I have a better scheme for him, by and by.
We shall see!”
“Ah, Mr. Clifford Pyncheon!” said the man of patches, “you may scheme
for me as much as you please; but I’m not going to give up this one
scheme of my own, even if I never bring it really to pass. It does seem
to me that men make a wonderful mistake in trying to heap up property
upon property. If I had done so, I should feel as if Providence was not
bound to take care of me; and, at all events, the city wouldn’t be! I’m
one of those people who think that infinity is big enough for us
all—and eternity long enough.”
“Why, so they are, Uncle Venner,” remarked Phœbe after a pause; for she
had been trying to fathom the profundity and appositeness of this
concluding apothegm. “But for this short life of ours, one would like a
house and a moderate garden-spot of one’s own.”
“It appears to me,” said the daguerreotypist, smiling, “that Uncle
Venner has the principles of Fourier at the bottom of his wisdom; only
they have not quite so much distinctness in his mind as in that of the
systematizing Frenchman.”
“Come, Phœbe,” said Hepzibah, “it is time to bring the currants.”
And then, while the yellow richness of the declining sunshine still
fell into the open space of the garden, Phœbe brought out a loaf of
bread and a china bowl of currants, freshly gathered from the bushes,
and crushed with sugar. These, with water,—but not from the fountain of
ill omen, close at hand,—constituted all the entertainment. Meanwhile,
Holgrave took some pains to establish an intercourse with Clifford,
actuated, it might seem, entirely by an impulse of kindliness, in order
that the present hour might be cheerfuller than most which the poor
recluse had spent, or was destined yet to spend. Nevertheless, in the
artist’s deep, thoughtful, all-observant eyes, 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 and unconnected
adventurer, might be supposed to have. With great mobility of outward
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 of melancholy, and made what shift she could with the remaining
portion. Phœbe said to herself,—“How pleasant he can be!” As for Uncle
Venner, as a mark of friendship and approbation, he readily consented
to afford the young man his countenance in the way of his
profession,—not metaphorically, be it understood, but literally, by
allowing a daguerreotype of his face, so familiar to the town, to be
exhibited at the entrance of Holgrave’s studio.
Clifford, as the company partook of their little banquet, grew to be
the gayest of them all. Either it was one of those up-quivering flashes