Of the four last years of Hawthorne’s life there is not much to tell that I have not already told. He returned to America in the summer of 1860, and took up his abode1 in the house he had bought at Concord2 before going to Europe, and of which his occupancy had as yet been brief. He was to occupy it only four years. I have insisted upon the fact of his being an intense American, and of his looking at all things, during his residence in Europe, from the standpoint of that little clod of western earth which he carried about with him as the good Mohammedan carries the strip of carpet on which he kneels down to face towards Mecca. But it does not appear, nevertheless, that he found himself treading with any great exhilaration the larger section of his native soil upon which, on his return, he disembarked. Indeed, the closing part of his life was a period of dejection, the more acute that it followed directly upon seven years of the happiest opportunities he was to have known. And his European residence had been brightest at the last; he had broken almost completely with those habits of extreme seclusion3 into which he was to relapse on his return to Concord. “You would be stricken dumb,” he wrote from London, shortly before leaving it for the last time, “to see how quietly I accept a whole string of invitations, and, what is more, perform my engagements without a murmur4. . . . The stir of this London life, somehow or other,” he adds in the same letter, “has done me a wonderful deal of good, and I feel better than for months past. This is strange, for if I had my choice I should leave undone5 almost all the things I do.” “When he found himself once more on the old ground,” writes Mr. Lathrop, “with the old struggle for subsistence staring him in the face again, it is not difficult to conceive how a certain degree of depression would follow.” There is indeed not a little sadness in the thought of Hawthorne’s literary gift, light, delicate, exquisite6, capricious, never too abundant, being charged with the heavy burden of the maintenance of a family. We feel that it was not intended for such grossness, and that in a world ideally constituted he would have enjoyed a liberal pension, an assured subsistence, and have been able to produce his charming prose only when the fancy took him.
The brightness of the outlook at home was not made greater by the explosion of the Civil War in the spring of 1861. These months, and the three years that followed them, were not a cheerful time for any persons but army-contractors; but over Hawthorne the war-cloud appears to have dropped a permanent shadow. The whole affair was a bitter disappointment to him, and a fatal blow to that happy faith in the uninterruptedness of American prosperity which I have spoken of as the religion of the old-fashioned American in general, and the old-fashioned Democrat7 in particular. It was not a propitious8 time for cultivating the Muse9; when history herself is so hard at work, fiction has little left to say. To fiction, directly, Hawthorne did not address himself; he composed first, chiefly during the year 1862, the chapters of which our Our Old Home was afterwards made up. I have said that, though this work has less value than his purely10 imaginative things, the writing is singularly good, and it is well to remember, to its greater honour, that it was produced at a time when it was painfully hard for a man of Hawthorne’s cast of mind to fix his attention. The air was full of battle-smoke, and the poet’s vision was not easily clear. Hawthorne was irritated, too, by the sense of being to a certain extent, politically considered, in a false position. A large section of the Democratic party was not in good odour at the North; its loyalty11 was not perceived to be of that clear strain which public opinion required. To this wing of the party Franklin Pierce had, with reason or without, the credit of belonging; and our author was conscious of some sharpness of responsibility in defending the illustrious friend of whom he had already made himself the advocate. He defended him manfully, without a grain of concession12, and described the ex-President to the public (and to himself), if not as he was, then as he ought to be. Our Old Home is dedicated13 to him, and about this dedication14 there was some little difficulty. It was represented to Hawthorne that as General Pierce was rather out of fashion, it might injure the success, and, in plain terms, the sale of his book. His answer (to his publisher), was much to the point.
“I find that it would be a piece of poltroonery15 in me to withdraw either the dedication or the dedicatory letter. My long and intimate personal relations with Pierce render the dedication altogether proper, especially as regards this book, which would have had no existence without his kindness; and if he is so exceedingly unpopular that his name ought to sink the volume, there is so much the more need that an old friend should stand by him. I cannot, merely on account of pecuniary17 profit or literary reputation, go back from what I have deliberately18 felt and thought it right to do; and if I were to tear out the dedication I should never look at the volume again without remorse19 and shame. As for the literary public, it must accept my book precisely20 as I think fit to give it, or let it alone. Nevertheless I have no fancy for making myself a martyr21 when it is honourably22 and conscientiously23 possible to avoid it; and I always measure out heroism24 very accurately25 according to the exigencies26 of the occasion, and should be the last man in the world to throw away a bit of it needlessly. So I have looked over the concluding paragraph and have amended27 it in such a way that, while doing what I know to be justice to my friend, it contains not a word that ought to be objectionable to any set of readers. If the public of the North see fit to ostracise me for this, I can only say that I would gladly sacrifice a thousand or two dollars, rather than retain the goodwill28 of such a herd29 of dolts30 and mean-spirited scoundrels.”
The dedication was published, the book was eminently31 successful, and Hawthorne was not ostracised. The paragraph under discussion stands as follows:—“Only this let me say, that, with the record of your life in my memory, and with a sense of your character in my deeper consciousness, as among the few things that time has left as it found them, I need no assurance that you continue faithful for ever to that grand idea of an irrevocable Union which, as you once told me, was the earliest that your brave father taught you. For other men there may be a choice of paths — for you but one; and it rests among my certainties that no man’s loyalty is more steadfast32, no man’s hopes or apprehensions33 on behalf of our national existence more deeply heartfelt, or more closely intertwined with his possibilities of personal happiness, than those of Franklin Pierce.” I know not how well the ex-President liked these lines, but the public thought them admirable, for they served as a kind of formal profession of faith, on the question of the hour, by a loved and honoured writer. That some of his friends thought such a profession needed is apparent from the numerous editorial ejaculations and protests appended to an article describing a visit he had just paid to Washington, which Hawthorne contributed to the Atlantic Monthly for July, 1862, and which, singularly enough, has not been reprinted. The article has all the usual merit of such sketches34 on Hawthorne’s part — the merit of delicate, sportive feeling, expressed with consummate36 grace — but the editor of the periodical appears to have thought that he must give the antidote37 with the poison, and the paper is accompanied with several little notes disclaiming38 all sympathy with the writer’s political heresies39. The heresies strike the reader of today as extremely mild, and what excites his emotion, rather, is the questionable40 taste of the editorial commentary, with which it is strange that Hawthorne should have allowed his article to be encumbered41. He had not been an Abolitionist before the War, and that he should not pretend to be one at the eleventh hour, was, for instance, surely a piece of consistency42 that might have been allowed to pass. “I shall not pretend to be an admirer of old John Brown,” he says, in a page worth quoting, “any further than sympathy with Whittier’s excellent ballad43 about him may go; nor did I expect ever to shrink so unutterably from any apophthegm of a sage44 whose happy lips have uttered a hundred golden sentences”— the allusion45 here, I suppose, is to Mr. Emerson —“as from that saying (perhaps falsely attributed to so honoured a name), that the death of this blood-stained fanatic46 has ‘made the Gallows47 as venerable as the Cross!’ Nobody was ever more justly hanged. He won his martyrdom fairly, and took it fairly. He himself, I am persuaded (such was his natural integrity), would have acknowledged that Virginia had a right to take the life which he had staked and lost; although it would have been better for her, in the hour that is fast coming, if she could generously have forgotten the criminality of his attempt in its enormous folly48. On the other hand, any common-sensible man, looking at the matter unsentimentally, must have felt a certain intellectual satisfaction in seeing him hanged, if it were only in requital49 of his preposterous50 miscalculation of possibilities.” Now that the heat of that great conflict has passed away, this is a capital expression of the saner51 estimate, in the United States, of the dauntless and deluded52 old man who proposed to solve a complex political problem by stirring up a servile insurrection. There is much of the same sound sense, interfused with light, just appreciable53 irony54, in such a passage as the following:—
“I tried to imagine how very disagreeable the presence of a Southern army would be in a sober town of Massachusetts; and the thought considerably55 lessened56 my wonder at the cold and shy regards that are cast upon our troops, the gloom, the sullen57 demeanour, the declared, or scarcely hidden, sympathy with rebellion, which are so frequent here. It is a strange thing in human life that the greatest errors both of men and women often spring from their sweetest and most generous qualities; and so, undoubtedly58, thousands of warmhearted, generous, and impulsive59 persons have joined the Rebels, not from any real zeal60 for the cause, but because, between two conflicting loyalties61, they chose that which necessarily lay nearest the heart. There never existed any other Government against which treason was so easy, and could defend itself by such plausible62 arguments, as against that of the United States. The anomaly of two allegiances, (of which that of the State comes nearest home to a man’s feelings, and includes the altar and the hearth63, while the General Government claims his devotion only to an airy mode of law, and has no symbol but a flag,) is exceedingly mischievous64 in this point of view; for it has converted crowds of honest people into traitors65, who seem to themselves not merely innocent but patriotic66, and who die for a bad cause with a quiet conscience as if it were the best. In the vast extent of our country — too vast by far to be taken into one small human heart — we inevitably67 limit to our own State, or at farthest, to our own little section, that sentiment of physical love for the soil which renders an Englishman, for example, so intensely sensitive to the dignity and well-being68 of his little island, that one hostile foot, treading anywhere upon it, would make a bruise69 on each individual breast. If a man loves his own State, therefore, and is content to be ruined with her, let us shoot him, if we can, but allow him an honourable70 burial in the soil he fights for.”
To this paragraph a line of deprecation from the editor is attached; and indeed from the point of view of a vigorous prosecution71 of the war it was doubtless not particularly pertinent72. But it is interesting as an example of the way an imaginative man judges current events — trying to see the other side as well as his own, to feel what his adversary73 feels, and present his view of the case.
But he had other occupations for his imagination than putting himself into the shoes of unappreciative Southerners. He began at this time two novels, neither of which he lived to finish, but both of which were published, as fragments, after his death. The shorter of these fragments, to which he had given the name of The Dolliver Romance, is so very brief that little can be said of it. The author strikes, with all his usual sweetness, the opening notes of a story of New England life, and the few pages which have been given to the world contain a charming picture of an old man and a child.
The other rough sketch35 — it is hardly more — is in a manner complete; it was unfortunately deemed complete enough to be brought out in a magazine as a serial74 novel. This was to do it a great wrong, and I do not go too far in saying that poor Hawthorne would probably not have enjoyed the very bright light that has been projected upon this essentially75 crude piece of work. I am at a loss to know how to speak of Septimius Felton, or the Elixir76 of Life; I have purposely reserved but a small space for doing so, for the part of discretion77 seems to be to pass it by lightly. I differ therefore widely from the author’s biographer and son-inlaw in thinking it a work of the greatest weight and value, offering striking analogies with Goethe’s Faust; and still more widely from a critic whom Mr. Lathrop quotes, who regards a certain portion of it as “one of the very greatest triumphs in all literature.” It seems to me almost cruel to pitch in this exalted78 key one’s estimate of the rough first draught79 of a tale in regard to which the author’s premature80 death operates, virtually, as a complete renunciation of pretensions82. It is plain to any reader that Septimius Felton, as it stands, with its roughness, its gaps, its mere16 allusiveness83 and slightness of treatment, gives us but a very partial measure of Hawthorne’s full intention; and it is equally easy to believe that this intention was much finer than anything we find in the book. Even if we possessed84 the novel in its complete form, however, I incline to think that we should regard it as very much the weakest of Hawthorne’s productions. The idea itself seems a failure, and the best that might have come of it would have been very much below The Scarlet85 Letter or The House of the Seven Gables. The appeal to our interest is not felicitously86 made, and the fancy of a potion, to assure eternity87 of existence, being made from the flowers which spring from the grave of a man whom the distiller of the potion has deprived of life, though it might figure with advantage in a short story of the pattern of the Twice–Told Tales, appears too slender to carry the weight of a novel. Indeed, this whole matter of elixirs88 and potions belongs to the fairy-tale period of taste, and the idea of a young man enabling himself to live forever by concocting89 and imbibing90 a magic draught, has the misfortune of not appealing to our sense of reality or even to our sympathy. The weakness of Septimius Felton is that the reader cannot take the hero seriously — a fact of which there can be no better proof than the element of the ridiculous which inevitably mingles91 itself in the scene in which he entertains his lady-love with a prophetic sketch of his occupations during the successive centuries of his earthly immortality92. I suppose the answer to my criticism is that this is allegorical, symbolic93, ideal; but we feel that it symbolises nothing substantial, and that the truth — whatever it may be — that it illustrates94, is as moonshiny, to use Hawthorne’s own expression, as the allegory itself. Another fault of the story is that a great historical event — the war of the Revolution — is introduced in the first few pages, in order to supply the hero with a pretext95 for killing96 the young man from whose grave the flower of immortality is to sprout97, and then drops out of the narrative98 altogether, not even forming a background to the sequel. It seems to me that Hawthorne should either have invented some other occasion for the death of his young officer, or else, having struck the note of the great public agitation99 which overhung his little group of characters, have been careful to sound it through the rest of his tale. I do wrong, however, to insist upon these things, for I fall thereby100 into the error of treating the work as if it had been cast into its ultimate form and acknowledged by the author. To avoid this error I shall make no other criticism of details, but content myself with saying that the idea and intention of the book appear, relatively101 speaking, feeble, and that even had it been finished it would have occupied a very different place in the public esteem102 from the writer’s masterpieces.
The year 1864 brought with it for Hawthorne a sense of weakness and depression from which he had little relief during the four or five months that were left him of life. He had his engagement to produce The Dolliver Romance, which had been promised to the subscribers of the Atlantic Monthly (it was the first time he had undertaken to publish a work of fiction in monthly parts), but he was unable to write, and his consciousness of an unperformed task weighed upon him, and did little to dissipate his physical inertness103. “I have not yet had courage to read the Dolliver proof-sheet,” he wrote to his publisher in December, 1863; “but will set about it soon, though with terrible reluctance104, such as I never felt before. I am most grateful to you,” he went on, “for protecting me from that visitation of the elephant and his cub105. If you happen to see Mr.——, of L——, a young man who was here last summer, pray tell him anything that your conscience will let you, to induce him to spare me another visit, which I know he intended. I really am not well, and cannot be disturbed by strangers, without more suffering than it is worth while to endure.” A month later he was obliged to ask for a further postponement106. “I am not quite up to writing yet, but shall make an effort as soon as I see any hope of success. You ought to be thankful that (like most other broken-down authors) I do not pester107 you with decrepit108 pages, and insist upon your accepting them as full of the old spirit and vigour109. That trouble perhaps still awaits you, after I shall have reached a further stage of decay. Seriously, my mind has, for the time, lost its temper and its fine edge, and I have an instinct that I had better keep quiet. Perhaps I shall have a new spirit of vigour if I wait quietly for it; perhaps not.” The winter passed away, but the “new spirit of vigour” remained absent, and at the end of February he wrote to Mr. Fields that his novel had simply broken down, and that he should never finish it. “I hardly know what to say to the public about this abortive110 romance, though I know pretty well what the case will be. I shall never finish it. Yet it is not quite pleasant for an author to announce himself, or to be announced, as finally broken down as to his literary faculty111. . . . I cannot finish it unless a great change comes over me; and if I make too great an effort to do so, it will be my death; not that I should care much for that, if I could fight the battle through and win it, thus ending a life of much smoulder and a scanty112 fire, in a blaze of glory. But I should smother113 myself in mud of my own making. . . . I am not low-spirited, nor fanciful, nor freakish, but look what seem to me realities in the face, and am ready to take whatever may come. If I could but go to England now, I think that the sea-voyage and the ‘old Home’ might set me all right.”
But he was not to go to England; he started three months later upon a briefer journey, from which he never returned. His health was seriously disordered, and in April, according to a letter from Mrs. Hawthorne, printed by Mr. Fields, he had been “miserably ill.” His feebleness was complete; he appears to have had no definite malady114, but he was, according to the common phrase, failing. General Pierce proposed to him that they should make a little tour together among the mountains of New Hampshire, and Hawthorne consented, in the hope of getting some profit from the change of air. The northern New England spring is not the most genial115 season in the world, and this was an indifferent substitute for the resource for which his wife had, on his behalf, expressed a wish — a visit to “some island in the Gulf116 Stream.” He was not to go far; he only reached a little place called Plymouth, one of the stations of approach to the beautiful mountain scenery of New Hampshire, when, on the 18th of May, 1864, death overtook him. His companion, General Pierce, going into his room in the early morning, found that he had breathed his last during the night — had passed away, tranquilly117, comfortably, without a sign or a sound, in his sleep. This happened at the hotel of the place — a vast white edifice118, adjacent to the railway station, and entitled the Pemigiwasset House. He was buried at Concord, and many of the most distinguished119 men in the country stood by his grave.
He was a beautiful, natural, original genius, and his life had been singularly exempt120 from worldly preoccupations and vulgar efforts. It had been as pure, as simple, as unsophisticated, as his work. He had lived primarily in his domestic affections, which were of the tenderest kind; and then — without eagerness, without pretension81, but with a great deal of quiet devotion — in his charming art. His work will remain; it is too original and exquisite to pass away; among the men of imagination he will always have his niche121. No one has had just that vision of life, and no one has had a literary form that more successfully expressed his vision. He was not a moralist, and he was not simply a poet. The moralists are weightier, denser122, richer, in a sense; the poets are more purely inconclusive and irresponsible. He combined in a singular degree the spontaneity of the imagination with a haunting care for moral problems. Man’s conscience was his theme, but he saw it in the light of a creative fancy which added, out of its own substance, an interest, and, I may almost say, an importance.
The End
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abode
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concord
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seclusion
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| n.隐遁，隔离 | |
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murmur
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| n.低语，低声的怨言；v.低语，低声而言 | |
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undone
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exquisite
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| adj.精美的；敏锐的；剧烈的，感觉强烈的 | |
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democrat
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propitious
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| adj.吉利的；顺利的 | |
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muse
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purely
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loyalty
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concession
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dedicated
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| adj.一心一意的；献身的；热诚的 | |
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dedication
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poltroonery
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mere
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pecuniary
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deliberately
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remorse
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precisely
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| adv.恰好，正好，精确地，细致地 | |
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martyr
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honourably
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conscientiously
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heroism
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accurately
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exigencies
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Amended
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goodwill
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herd
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dolts
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eminently
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steadfast
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apprehensions
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sketches
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sketch
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consummate
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antidote
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disclaiming
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heresies
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questionable
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encumbered
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consistency
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ballad
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| n.歌谣，民谣，流行爱情歌曲 | |
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sage
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allusion
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fanatic
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gallows
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folly
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requital
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| n.酬劳；报复 | |
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preposterous
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| adj.荒谬的，可笑的 | |
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saner
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| adj.心智健全的( sane的比较级 )；神志正常的；明智的；稳健的 | |
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deluded
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| v.欺骗，哄骗( delude的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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53
appreciable
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| adj.明显的，可见的，可估量的，可觉察的 | |
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54
irony
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| n.反语，冷嘲；具有讽刺意味的事，嘲弄 | |
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55
considerably
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| adv.极大地；相当大地；在很大程度上 | |
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56
lessened
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| 减少的，减弱的 | |
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57
sullen
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| adj.愠怒的，闷闷不乐的，(天气等)阴沉的 | |
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undoubtedly
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| adv.确实地，无疑地 | |
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impulsive
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| adj.冲动的，刺激的；有推动力的 | |
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zeal
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| n.热心，热情，热忱 | |
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61
loyalties
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| n.忠诚( loyalty的名词复数 )；忠心；忠于…感情；要忠于…的强烈感情 | |
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plausible
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| adj.似真实的，似乎有理的，似乎可信的 | |
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hearth
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| n.壁炉炉床，壁炉地面 | |
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64
mischievous
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| adj.调皮的，恶作剧的，有害的，伤人的 | |
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traitors
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| 卖国贼( traitor的名词复数 )； 叛徒； 背叛者； 背信弃义的人 | |
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patriotic
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| adj.爱国的，有爱国心的 | |
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67
inevitably
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| adv.不可避免地；必然发生地 | |
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68
well-being
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| n.安康，安乐，幸福 | |
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bruise
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| n.青肿，挫伤；伤痕；vt.打青；挫伤 | |
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honourable
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| adj.可敬的；荣誉的，光荣的 | |
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prosecution
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| n.起诉，告发，检举，执行，经营 | |
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pertinent
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| adj.恰当的；贴切的；中肯的；有关的；相干的 | |
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adversary
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| adj.敌手，对手 | |
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serial
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| n.连本影片，连本电视节目；adj.连续的 | |
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essentially
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| adv.本质上，实质上，基本上 | |
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elixir
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| n.长生不老药，万能药 | |
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discretion
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| n.谨慎；随意处理 | |
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exalted
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| adj.(地位等)高的，崇高的；尊贵的，高尚的 | |
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draught
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| n.拉，牵引，拖；一网（饮，吸，阵)；顿服药量，通风；v.起草，设计 | |
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premature
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| adj.比预期时间早的；不成熟的，仓促的 | |
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pretension
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| n.要求；自命，自称；自负 | |
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pretensions
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| 自称( pretension的名词复数 )； 自命不凡； 要求； 权力 | |
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83
allusiveness
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possessed
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| adj.疯狂的；拥有的，占有的 | |
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85
scarlet
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| n.深红色，绯红色，红衣；adj.绯红色的 | |
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felicitously
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| adv.恰当地，适切地 | |
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eternity
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| n.不朽，来世；永恒，无穷 | |
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elixirs
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| n.炼金药，长生不老药( elixir的名词复数 )；酏剂 | |
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concocting
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| v.将（尤指通常不相配合的）成分混合成某物( concoct的现在分词 )；调制；编造；捏造 | |
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imbibing
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| v.吸收( imbibe的现在分词 )；喝；吸取；吸气 | |
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mingles
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| 混合，混入( mingle的第三人称单数 )； 混进，与…交往[联系] | |
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immortality
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| n.不死，不朽 | |
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symbolic
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| adj.象征性的，符号的，象征主义的 | |
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illustrates
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| 给…加插图( illustrate的第三人称单数 )； 说明； 表明； （用示例、图画等）说明 | |
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pretext
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| n.借口，托词 | |
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96
killing
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| n.巨额利润；突然赚大钱，发大财 | |
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sprout
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| n.芽，萌芽；vt.使发芽，摘去芽；vi.长芽，抽条 | |
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narrative
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| n.叙述，故事；adj.叙事的，故事体的 | |
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99
agitation
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| n.搅动；搅拌；鼓动，煽动 | |
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100
thereby
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| adv.因此，从而 | |
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101
relatively
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| adv.比较...地，相对地 | |
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102
esteem
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| n.尊敬，尊重；vt.尊重，敬重；把…看作 | |
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103
inertness
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| n.不活泼，没有生气；惰性；惯量 | |
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104
reluctance
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| n.厌恶，讨厌，勉强，不情愿 | |
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105
cub
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| n.幼兽，年轻无经验的人 | |
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106
postponement
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| n.推迟 | |
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107
pester
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| v.纠缠，强求 | |
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108
decrepit
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| adj.衰老的，破旧的 | |
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109
vigour
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| （=vigor）n.智力，体力，精力 | |
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abortive
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| adj.不成功的，发育不全的 | |
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111
faculty
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| n.才能；学院，系；(学院或系的)全体教学人员 | |
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112
scanty
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| adj.缺乏的，仅有的，节省的，狭小的，不够的 | |
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113
smother
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| vt./vi.使窒息；抑制；闷死；n.浓烟；窒息 | |
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114
malady
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| n.病，疾病(通常做比喻) | |
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115
genial
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| adj.亲切的，和蔼的，愉快的，脾气好的 | |
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116
gulf
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| n.海湾；深渊，鸿沟；分歧，隔阂 | |
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117
tranquilly
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| adv. 宁静地 | |
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118
edifice
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| n.宏伟的建筑物(如宫殿，教室) | |
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119
distinguished
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| adj.卓越的，杰出的，著名的 | |
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120
exempt
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| adj.免除的；v.使免除；n.免税者，被免除义务者 | |
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121
niche
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| n.壁龛；合适的职务(环境、位置等) | |
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122
denser
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| adj. 不易看透的, 密集的, 浓厚的, 愚钝的 | |
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