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CHAPTER II The Little Shop-Window
IT still lacked half an hour of sunrise, when Miss Hepzibah Pyncheon--we will not
say awoke, it being doubtful whether the poor lady had so much as closed her eyes
during the brief night of midsummer--but,
at all events, arose from her solitary pillow, and began what it would be mockery
to term the adornment of her person.
Far from us be the indecorum of assisting, even in imagination, at a maiden lady's
toilet!
Our story must therefore await Miss Hepzibah at the threshold of her chamber;
only presuming, meanwhile, to note some of the heavy sighs that labored from her
***, with little restraint as to their
lugubrious depth and volume of sound, inasmuch as they could be audible to nobody
save a disembodied listener like ourself. The Old Maid was alone in the old house.
Alone, except for a certain respectable and orderly young man, an artist in the
daguerreotype line, who, for about three months back, had been a lodger in a remote
gable,--quite a house by itself, indeed,--
with locks, bolts, and oaken bars on all the intervening doors.
Inaudible, consequently, were poor Miss Hepzibah's gusty sighs.
Inaudible the creaking joints of her stiffened knees, as she knelt down by the
bedside.
And inaudible, too, by mortal ear, but heard with all-comprehending love and pity
in the farthest heaven, that almost agony of prayer--now whispered, now a groan, now
a struggling silence--wherewith she
besought the Divine assistance through the day!
Evidently, this is to be a day of more than ordinary trial to Miss Hepzibah, who, for
above a quarter of a century gone by, has dwelt in strict seclusion, taking no part
in the business of life, and just as little in its intercourse and pleasures.
Not with such fervor prays the torpid recluse, looking forward to the cold,
sunless, stagnant calm of a day that is to be like innumerable yesterdays.
The maiden lady's devotions are concluded.
Will she now issue forth over the threshold of our story?
Not yet, by many moments.
First, every drawer in the tall, old- fashioned bureau is to be opened, with
difficulty, and with a succession of spasmodic jerks then, all must close again,
with the same fidgety reluctance.
There is a rustling of stiff silks; a tread of backward and forward footsteps to and
fro across the chamber.
We suspect Miss Hepzibah, moreover, of taking a step upward into a chair, in order
to give heedful regard to her appearance on all sides, and at full length, in the oval,
dingy-framed toilet-glass, that hangs above her table.
Truly! well, indeed! who would have thought it!
Is all this precious time to be lavished on the matutinal repair and beautifying of an
elderly person, who never goes abroad, whom nobody ever visits, and from whom, when she
shall have done her utmost, it were the
best charity to turn one's eyes another way?
Now she is almost ready.
Let us pardon her one other pause; for it is given to the sole sentiment, or, we
might better say,--heightened and rendered intense, as it has been, by sorrow and
seclusion,--to the strong passion of her life.
We heard the turning of a key in a small lock; she has opened a secret drawer of an
escritoire, and is probably looking at a certain miniature, done in Malbone's most
perfect style, and representing a face worthy of no less delicate a pencil.
It was once our good fortune to see this picture.
It is a likeness of a young man, in a silken dressing-gown of an old fashion, the
soft richness of which is well adapted to the countenance of reverie, with its full,
tender lips, and beautiful eyes, that seem
to indicate not so much capacity of thought, as gentle and voluptuous emotion.
Of the possessor of such features we shall have a right to ask nothing, except that he
would take the rude world easily, and make himself happy in it.
Can it have been an early lover of Miss Hepzibah?
No; she never had a lover--poor thing, how could she?--nor ever knew, by her own
experience, what love technically means.
And yet, her undying faith and trust, her fresh remembrance, and continual
devotedness towards the original of that miniature, have been the only substance for
her heart to feed upon.
She seems to have put aside the miniature, and is standing again before the toilet-
glass. There are tears to be wiped off.
A few more footsteps to and fro; and here, at last,--with another pitiful sigh, like a
gust of chill, damp wind out of a long- closed vault, the door of which has
accidentally been set, ajar--here comes Miss Hepzibah Pyncheon!
Forth she steps into the dusky, time- darkened passage; a tall figure, clad in
black silk, with a long and shrunken waist, feeling her way towards the stairs like a
near-sighted person, as in truth she is.
The sun, meanwhile, if not already above the horizon, was ascending nearer and
nearer to its verge.
A few clouds, floating high upward, caught some of the earliest light, and threw down
its golden gleam on the windows of all the houses in the street, not forgetting the
House of the Seven Gables, which--many such
sunrises as it had witnessed--looked cheerfully at the present one.
The reflected radiance served to show, pretty distinctly, the aspect and
arrangement of the room which Hepzibah entered, after descending the stairs.
It was a low-studded room, with a beam across the ceiling, panelled with dark
wood, and having a large chimney-piece, set round with pictured tiles, but now closed
by an iron fire-board, through which ran the funnel of a modern stove.
There was a carpet on the floor, originally of rich texture, but so worn and faded in
these latter years that its once brilliant figure had quite vanished into one
indistinguishable hue.
In the way of furniture, there were two tables: one, constructed with perplexing
intricacy and exhibiting as many feet as a centipede; the other, most delicately
wrought, with four long and slender legs,
so apparently frail that it was almost incredible what a length of time the
ancient tea-table had stood upon them.
Half a dozen chairs stood about the room, straight and stiff, and so ingeniously
contrived for the discomfort of the human person that they were irksome even to
sight, and conveyed the ugliest possible
idea of the state of society to which they could have been adapted.
One exception there was, however, in a very antique elbow-chair, with a high back,
carved elaborately in oak, and a roomy depth within its arms, that made up, by its
spacious comprehensiveness, for the lack of
any of those artistic curves which abound in a modern chair.
As for ornamental articles of furniture, we recollect but two, if such they may be
called.
One was a map of the Pyncheon territory at the eastward, not engraved, but the
handiwork of some skilful old draughtsman, and grotesquely illuminated with pictures
of Indians and wild beasts, among which was
seen a lion; the natural history of the region being as little known as its
geography, which was put down most fantastically awry.
The other adornment was the portrait of old Colonel Pyncheon, at two thirds length,
representing the stern features of a Puritanic-looking personage, in a skull-
cap, with a laced band and a grizzly beard;
holding a Bible with one hand, and in the other uplifting an iron sword-hilt.
The latter object, being more successfully depicted by the artist, stood out in far
greater prominence than the sacred volume.
Face to face with this picture, on entering the apartment, Miss Hepzibah Pyncheon came
to a pause; regarding it with a singular scowl, a strange contortion of the brow,
which, by people who did not know her,
would probably have been interpreted as an expression of bitter anger and ill-will.
But it was no such thing.
She, in fact, felt a reverence for the pictured visage, of which only a far-
descended and time-stricken *** could be susceptible; and this forbidding scowl was
the innocent result of her near-
sightedness, and an effort so to concentrate her powers of vision as to
substitute a firm outline of the object instead of a vague one.
We must linger a moment on this unfortunate expression of poor Hepzibah's brow.
Her scowl,--as the world, or such part of it as sometimes caught a transitory glimpse
of her at the window, wickedly persisted in calling it,--her scowl had done Miss
Hepzibah a very ill office, in establishing
her character as an ill-tempered old maid; nor does it appear improbable that, by
often gazing at herself in a dim looking- glass, and perpetually encountering her own
frown with its ghostly sphere, she had been
led to interpret the expression almost as unjustly as the world did.
"How miserably cross I look!" she must often have whispered to herself; and
ultimately have fancied herself so, by a sense of inevitable doom.
But her heart never frowned.
It was naturally tender, sensitive, and full of little tremors and palpitations;
all of which weaknesses it retained, while her visage was growing so perversely stern,
and even fierce.
Nor had Hepzibah ever any hardihood, except what came from the very warmest nook in her
affections.
All this time, however, we are loitering faintheartedly on the threshold of our
story.
In very truth, we have an invincible reluctance to disclose what Miss Hepzibah
Pyncheon was about to do.
It has already been observed, that, in the basement story of the gable fronting on the
street, an unworthy ancestor, nearly a century ago, had fitted up a shop.
Ever since the old gentleman retired from trade, and fell asleep under his coffin-
lid, not only the shop-door, but the inner arrangements, had been suffered to remain
unchanged; while the dust of ages gathered
inch-deep over the shelves and counter, and partly filled an old pair of scales, as if
it were of value enough to be weighed.
It treasured itself up, too, in the half- open till, where there still lingered a
base sixpence, worth neither more nor less than the hereditary pride which had here
been put to shame.
Such had been the state and condition of the little shop in old Hepzibah's
childhood, when she and her brother used to play at hide-and-seek in its forsaken
precincts.
So it had remained, until within a few days past.
But now, though the shop-window was still closely curtained from the public gaze, a
remarkable change had taken place in its interior.
The rich and heavy festoons of cobweb, which it had cost a long ancestral
succession of spiders their life's labor to spin and weave, had been carefully brushed
away from the ceiling.
The counter, shelves, and floor had all been scoured, and the latter was overstrewn
with fresh blue sand.
The brown scales, too, had evidently undergone rigid discipline, in an
unavailing effort to rub off the rust, which, alas! had eaten through and through
their substance.
Neither was the little old shop any longer empty of merchantable goods.
A curious eye, privileged to take an account of stock and investigate behind the
counter, would have discovered a barrel, yea, two or three barrels and half ditto,--
one containing flour, another apples, and a third, perhaps, Indian meal.
There was likewise a square box of pine- wood, full of soap in bars; also, another
of the same size, in which were tallow candles, ten to the pound.
A small stock of brown sugar, some white beans and split peas, and a few other
commodities of low price, and such as are constantly in demand, made up the bulkier
portion of the merchandise.
It might have been taken for a ghostly or phantasmagoric reflection of the old shop-
keeper Pyncheon's shabbily provided shelves, save that some of the articles
were of a description and outward form
which could hardly have been known in his day.
For instance, there was a glass pickle-jar, filled with fragments of Gibraltar rock;
not, indeed, splinters of the veritable stone foundation of the famous fortress,
but bits of delectable candy, neatly done up in white paper.
Jim Crow, moreover, was seen executing his world-renowned dance, in gingerbread.
A party of leaden dragoons were galloping along one of the shelves, in equipments and
uniform of modern cut; and there were some sugar figures, with no strong resemblance
to the humanity of any epoch, but less
unsatisfactorily representing our own fashions than those of a hundred years ago.
Another phenomenon, still more strikingly modern, was a package of lucifer matches,
which, in old times, would have been thought actually to borrow their
instantaneous flame from the nether fires of Tophet.
In short, to bring the matter at once to a point, it was incontrovertibly evident that
somebody had taken the shop and fixtures of the long-retired and forgotten Mr.
Pyncheon, and was about to renew the
enterprise of that departed worthy, with a different set of customers.
Who could this bold adventurer be?
And, of all places in the world, why had he chosen the House of the Seven Gables as the
scene of his commercial speculations? We return to the elderly maiden.
She at length withdrew her eyes from the dark countenance of the Colonel's portrait,
heaved a sigh,--indeed, her breast was a very cave of Aolus that morning,--and stept
across the room on tiptoe, as is the customary gait of elderly women.
Passing through an intervening passage, she opened a door that communicated with the
shop, just now so elaborately described.
Owing to the projection of the upper story- -and still more to the thick shadow of the
Pyncheon Elm, which stood almost directly in front of the gable--the twilight, here,
was still as much akin to night as morning.
Another heavy sigh from Miss Hepzibah!
After a moment's pause on the threshold, peering towards the window with her near-
sighted scowl, as if frowning down some bitter enemy, she suddenly projected
herself into the shop.
The haste, and, as it were, the galvanic impulse of the movement, were really quite
startling.
Nervously--in a sort of frenzy, we might almost say--she began to busy herself in
arranging some children's playthings, and other little wares, on the shelves and at
the shop-window.
In the aspect of this dark-arrayed, pale- faced, ladylike old figure there was a
deeply tragic character that contrasted irreconcilably with the ludicrous pettiness
of her employment.
It seemed a *** anomaly, that so gaunt and dismal a personage should take a toy in
hand; a miracle, that the toy did not vanish in her grasp; a miserably absurd
idea, that she should go on perplexing her
stiff and sombre intellect with the question how to tempt little boys into her
premises! Yet such is undoubtedly her object.
Now she places a gingerbread elephant against the window, but with so tremulous a
touch that it tumbles upon the floor, with the dismemberment of three legs and its
trunk; it has ceased to be an elephant, and has become a few bits of musty gingerbread.
There, again, she has upset a tumbler of marbles, all of which roll different ways,
and each individual marble, devil-directed, into the most difficult obscurity that it
can find.
Heaven help our poor old Hepzibah, and forgive us for taking a ludicrous view of
her position!
As her rigid and rusty frame goes down upon its hands and knees, in quest of the
absconding marbles, we positively feel so much the more inclined to shed tears of
sympathy, from the very fact that we must needs turn aside and laugh at her.
For here,--and if we fail to impress it suitably upon the reader, it is our own
fault, not that of the theme, here is one of the truest points of melancholy interest
that occur in ordinary life.
It was the final throe of what called itself old gentility.
A lady--who had fed herself from childhood with the shadowy food of aristocratic
reminiscences, and whose religion it was that a lady's hand soils itself
irremediably by doing aught for bread,--
this born lady, after sixty years of narrowing means, 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.
She must earn her own food, or starve! And we have stolen upon Miss Hepzibah
Pyncheon, too irreverently, at the instant of time when the patrician lady is to be
transformed into the plebeian woman.
In this republican country, amid the fluctuating waves of our social life,
somebody is always at the drowning-point.
The tragedy is enacted with as continual a repetition as that of a popular drama on a
holiday, and, nevertheless, is felt as deeply, perhaps, as when an hereditary
noble sinks below his order.
More deeply; since, with us, rank is the grosser substance of wealth and a splendid
establishment, and has no spiritual existence after the death of these, but
dies hopelessly along with them.
And, therefore, since we have been unfortunate enough to introduce our heroine
at so inauspicious a juncture, we would entreat for a mood of due solemnity in the
spectators of her fate.
Let us behold, in poor Hepzibah, the immemorial, lady--two hundred years old, on
this side of the water, and thrice as many on the other,--with her antique portraits,
pedigrees, coats of arms, records and
traditions, and her claim, as joint heiress, to that princely territory at the
eastward, no longer a wilderness, but a populous fertility,--born, too, in Pyncheon
Street, under the Pyncheon Elm, and in the
Pyncheon House, where she has spent all her days,--reduced.
Now, in that very house, to be the hucksteress of a cent-shop.
This business of setting up a petty shop is almost the only resource of women, in
circumstances at all similar to those of our unfortunate recluse.
With her near-sightedness, and those tremulous fingers of hers, at once
inflexible and delicate, she could not be a seamstress; although her sampler, of fifty
years gone by, exhibited some of the most
recondite specimens of ornamental needlework.
A school for little children had been often in her thoughts; and, at one time, she had
begun a review of her early studies in the New England Primer, with a view to prepare
herself for the office of instructress.
But the love of children had never been quickened in Hepzibah's heart, and was now
torpid, if not extinct; she watched the little people of the neighborhood from her
chamber-window, and doubted whether she
could tolerate a more intimate acquaintance with them.
Besides, in our day, the very ABC has become a science greatly too abstruse to be
any longer taught by pointing a pin from letter to letter.
A modern child could teach old Hepzibah more than old Hepzibah could teach the
child.
So--with many a cold, deep heart-quake at the idea of at last coming into sordid
contact with the world, from which she had so long kept aloof, while every added day
of seclusion had rolled another stone
against the cavern door of her hermitage-- the poor thing bethought herself of the
ancient shop-window, the rusty scales, and dusty till.
She might have held back a little longer; but another circumstance, not yet hinted
at, had somewhat hastened her decision.
Her humble preparations, therefore, were duly made, and the enterprise was now to be
commenced.
Nor was she entitled to complain of any remarkable singularity in her fate; for, in
the town of her nativity, we might point to several little shops of a similar
description, some of them in houses as
ancient as that of the Seven Gables; and one or two, it may be, where a decayed
gentlewoman stands behind the counter, as grim an image of family pride as Miss
Hepzibah Pyncheon herself.
It was overpoweringly ridiculous,--we must honestly confess it,--the deportment of the
maiden lady while setting her shop in order for the public eye.
She stole on tiptoe to the window, as cautiously as if she conceived some bloody-
minded villain to be watching behind the elm-tree, with intent to take her life.
Stretching out her long, lank arm, she put a paper of pearl-buttons, a jew's-harp, or
whatever the small article might be, in its destined place, and straightway vanished
back into the dusk, as if the world need never hope for another glimpse of her.
It might have been fancied, indeed, that she expected to minister to the wants of
the community unseen, like a disembodied divinity or enchantress, holding forth her
bargains to the reverential and awe- stricken purchaser in an invisible hand.
But Hepzibah had no such flattering dream.
She was well aware that she must ultimately come forward, and stand revealed in her
proper individuality; but, like other sensitive persons, she could not bear to be
observed in the gradual process, and chose
rather to flash forth on the world's astonished gaze at once.
The inevitable moment was not much longer to be delayed.
The sunshine might now be seen stealing down the front of the opposite house, from
the windows of which came a reflected gleam, struggling through the boughs of the
elm-tree, and enlightening the interior of the shop more distinctly than heretofore.
The town appeared to be waking up.
A baker's cart had already rattled through the street, chasing away the latest vestige
of night's sanctity with the jingle-jangle of its dissonant bells.
A milkman was distributing the contents of his cans from door to door; and the harsh
peal of a fisherman's conch shell was heard far off, around the corner.
None of these tokens escaped Hepzibah's notice.
The moment had arrived. To delay longer would be only to lengthen
out her misery.
Nothing remained, except to take down the bar from the shop-door, leaving the
entrance free--more than free--welcome, as if all were household friends--to every
passer-by, whose eyes might be attracted by the commodities at the window.
This last act Hepzibah now performed, letting the bar fall with what smote upon
her excited nerves as a most astounding clatter.
Then--as if the only barrier betwixt herself and the world had been thrown down,
and a flood of evil consequences would come tumbling through the gap--she fled into the
inner parlor, threw herself into the ancestral elbow-chair, and wept.
Our miserable old Hepzibah!
It is a heavy annoyance to a writer, who endeavors to represent nature, its various
attitudes and circumstances, in a reasonably correct outline and true
coloring, that so much of the mean and
ludicrous should be hopelessly mixed up with the purest pathos which life anywhere
supplies to him. What tragic dignity, for example, can be
wrought into a scene like this!
How can we elevate our history of retribution for the sin of long ago, when,
as one of our most prominent figures, we are compelled to introduce--not a young and
lovely woman, nor even the stately remains
of beauty, storm-shattered by affliction-- but a gaunt, sallow, rusty-jointed maiden,
in a long-waisted silk gown, and with the strange horror of a turban on her head!
Her visage is not even ugly.
It is redeemed from insignificance only by the contraction of her eyebrows into a
near-sighted scowl.
And, finally, her great life-trial seems to be, that, after sixty years of idleness,
she finds it convenient to earn comfortable bread by setting up a shop in a small way.
Nevertheless, if we look through all the heroic fortunes of mankind, we shall find
this same entanglement of something mean and trivial with whatever is noblest in joy
or sorrow.
Life is made up of marble and mud.
And, without all the deeper trust in a comprehensive sympathy above us, we might
hence be led to suspect the insult of a sneer, as well as an immitigable frown, on
the iron countenance of fate.
What is called poetic insight is the gift of discerning, in this sphere of strangely
mingled elements, the beauty and the majesty which are compelled to assume a
garb so sordid.