In my mind’s eye, Horatio.
Prue and I do not entertain much; our means forbid it. In truth,
other people entertain for us. We enjoy that hospitality of which
no account is made. We see the show, and hear the music, and smell
the flowers of great festivities, tasting as it were the drippings
from rich dishes. Our own dinner service is remarkably plain,
our dinners, even on state occasions, are strictly in keeping,
and almost our only guest is Titbottom. I buy a handful of roses
as I come up from the office, perhaps, and Prue arranges them so
prettily in a glass dish for the centre of the table that even when
I have hurried out to see Aurelia step into her carriage to go out
to dine, I have thought that the bouquet she carried was not more
beautiful because it was more costly. I grant that it was more
harmonious with her superb beauty and her rich attire. And I have
no doubt that if Aurelia knew the old man, whom she must have seen
so often watching her, and his wife, who ornaments her sex with as
much sweetness, although with less splendor, than Aurelia herself,
she would also acknowledge that the nosegay of roses was as fine
and fit upon their table as her own sumptuous bouquet is for
herself. I have that faith in the perception of that lovely lady.
It is at least my habit—I hope I may say, my nature, to believe the
best of people, rather than the worst. If I thought that all this
sparkling setting of beauty—this fine fashion—these blazing jewels
and lustrous silks and airy gauzes, embellished with gold-threaded
embroidery and wrought in a thousand exquisite elaborations, so
that I cannot see one of those lovely girls pass me by without
thanking God for the vision—if I thought that this was all, and
that underneath her lace flounces and diamond bracelets Aurelia was
a sullen, selfish woman, then I should turn sadly homewards, for I
should see that her jewels were flashing scorn upon the object they
adorned, and that her laces were of a more exquisite loveliness
than the woman whom they merely touched with a superficial grace.
It would be like a gaily decorated mausoleum—bright to see, but
silent and dark within.
“Great excellences, my dear Prue,” I sometimes allow myself to
say, “lie concealed in the depths of character, like pearls at
the bottom of the sea. Under the laughing, glancing surface, how
little they are suspected! Perhaps love is nothing else than the
sight of them by one person. Hence every man’s mistress is apt to
be an enigma to everybody else. I have no doubt that when Aurelia
is engaged, people will say that she is a most admirable girl,
certainly; but they cannot understand why any man should be in love
with her. As if it were at all necessary that they should! And
her lover, like a boy who finds a pearl in the public street, and
wonders as much that others did not see it as that he did, will
tremble until he knows his passion is returned; feeling, of course,
that the whole world must be in love with this paragon who cannot
possibly smile upon anything so unworthy as he.”
“I hope, therefore, my dear Mrs. Prue,” I continue to say to my
wife, who looks up from her work regarding me with pleased pride,
as if I were such an irresistible humorist, “you will allow me to
believe that the depth may be calm although the surface is dancing.
If you tell me that Aurelia is but a giddy girl, I shall believe
that you think so. But I shall know, all the while, what profound
dignity, and sweetness, and peace lie at the foundation of her
character.”
I say such things to Titbottom during the dull season at the
office. And I have known him sometimes to reply with a kind of dry,
sad humor, not as if he enjoyed the joke, but as if the joke must
be made, that he saw no reason why I should be dull because the
season was so.
“And what do I know of Aurelia or any other girl?” he says to
me with that abstracted air. “I, whose Aurelias were of another
century and another zone.”
Then he falls into a silence which it seems quite profane to
interrupt. But as we sit upon our high stools at the desk opposite
each other, I leaning upon my elbows and looking at him; he, with
sidelong face, glancing out of the window, as if it commanded a
boundless landscape, instead of a dim, dingy office court, I cannot
refrain from saying:
“Well!”
He turns slowly, and I go chatting on—a little too loquacious,
perhaps, about those young girls. But I know that Titbottom regards
such an excess as venial, for his sadness is so sweet that you
could believe it the reflection of a smile from long, long years
ago.
One day, after I had been talking for a long time, and we had put
up our books, and were preparing to leave, he stood for some time
by the window, gazing with a drooping intentness, as if he really
saw something more than the dark court, and said slowly:
“Perhaps you would have different impressions of things if you saw
them through my spectacles.”
There was no change in his expression. He still looked from the
window, and I said:
“Titbottom, I did not know that you used glasses. I have never seen
you wearing spectacles.”
“No, I don’t often wear them. I am not very fond of looking through
them. But sometimes an irresistible necessity compels me to put
them on, and I cannot help seeing.” Titbottom sighed.
“Is it so grievous a fate, to see?” inquired I.
“Yes; through my spectacles,” he said, turning slowly and looking
at me with wan solemnity.
It grew dark as we stood in the office talking, and taking our hats
we went out together. The narrow street of business was deserted.
The heavy iron shutters were gloomily closed over the windows. From
one or two offices struggled the dim gleam of an early candle, by
whose light some perplexed accountant sat belated, and hunting for
his error. A careless clerk passed, whistling. But the great tide
of life had ebbed. We heard its roar far away, and the sound stole
into that silent street like the murmur of the ocean into an inland
dell.
“You will come and dine with us, Titbottom?”
He assented by continuing to walk with me, and I think we were both
glad when we reached the house, and Prue came to meet us, saying:
“Do you know I hoped you would bring Mr. Titbottom to dine?”
Titbottom smiled gently, and answered:
“He might have brought his spectacles with him, and I have been a
happier man for it.”
Prue looked a little puzzled.
“My dear,” I said, “you must know that our friend, Mr. Titbottom,
is the happy possessor of a pair of wonderful spectacles. I have
never seen them, indeed; and, from what he says, I should be rather
afraid of being seen by them. Most short-sighted persons are very
glad to have the help of glasses; but Mr. Titbottom seems to find
very little pleasure in his.”
“It is because they make him too far-sighted, perhaps,” interrupted
Prue quietly, as she took the silver soup-ladle from the sideboard.
We sipped our wine after dinner, and Prue took her work. Can a man
be too far-sighted? I did not ask the question aloud. The very tone
in which Prue had spoken convinced me that he might.
“At least,” I said, “Mr. Titbottom will not refuse to tell us the
history of his mysterious spectacles. I have known plenty of magic
in eyes”—and I glanced at the tender blue eyes of Prue—“but I have
not heard of any enchanted glasses.”
“Yet you must have seen the glass in which your wife looks every
morning, and I take it that glass must be daily enchanted.” said
Titbottom, with a bow of quaint respect to my wife.
I do not think I have seen such a blush upon Prue’s cheek
since—well, since a great many years ago.
“I will gladly tell you the history of my spectacles,” began
Titbottom. “It is very simple; and I am not at all sure that a
great many other people have not a pair of the same kind. I have
never, indeed, heard of them by the gross, like those of our young
friend, Moses, the son of the Vicar of Wakefield. In fact, I think
a gross would be quite enough to supply the world. It is a kind
of article for which the demand does not increase with use. If we
should all wear spectacles like mine, we should never smile any
more. Oh—I am not quite sure—we should all be very happy.”
“A very important difference,” said Prue, counting her stitches.
“You know my grandfather Titbottom was a West Indian. A large
proprietor, and an easy man, he basked in the tropical sun,
leading his quiet, luxurious life. He lived much alone, and was
what people call eccentric, by which I understand that he was very
much himself, and, refusing the influence of other people, they
had their little revenges, and called him names. It is a habit
not exclusively tropical. I think I have seen the same thing even
in this city. But he was greatly beloved—my bland and bountiful
grandfather. He was so large-hearted and open-handed. He was so
friendly, and thoughtful, and genial, that even his jokes had the
air of graceful benedictions. He did not seem to grow old, and
he was one of those who never appear to have been very young. He
flourished in a perennial maturity, an immortal middle-age.
“My grandfather lived upon one of the small islands, St. Kit’s,
perhaps, and his domain extended to the sea. His house, a rambling
West Indian mansion, was surrounded with deep, spacious piazzas,
covered with luxurious lounges, among which one capacious chair
was his peculiar seat. They tell me he used sometimes to sit there
for the whole day, his great, soft, brown eyes fastened upon the
sea, watching the specks of sails that flashed upon the horizon,
while the evanescent expressions chased each other over his placid
face, as if it reflected the calm and changing sea before him. His
morning costume was an ample dressing-gown of gorgeously flowered
silk, and his morning was very apt to last all day.
“He rarely read, but he would pace the great piazza for hours, with
his hands sunken in the pockets of his dressing-gown, and an air of
sweet reverie, which any author might be very happy to produce.
“Society, of course, he saw little. There was some slight
apprehension that if he were bidden to social entertainments he
might forget his coat, or arrive without some other essential
part of his dress; and there is a sly tradition in the Titbottom
family that, having been invited to a ball in honor of the new
governor of the island, my grandfather Titbottom sauntered into
the hall towards midnight, wrapped in the gorgeous flowers of
his dressing-gown, and with his hands buried in the pockets,
as usual. There was great excitement, and immense deprecation
of gubernatorial ire. But it happened that the governor and my
grandfather were old friends, and there was no offense. But as
they were conversing together, one of the distressed managers cast
indignant glances at the brilliant costume of my grandfather, who
summoned him, and asked courteously:
“‘Did you invite me or my coat?’
“‘You, in a proper coat,’ replied the manager.
“The governor smiled approvingly, and looked at my grandfather.
“‘My friend,” said he to the manager, ‘I beg your pardon, I forgot.’
“The next day my grandfather was seen promenading in full ball
dress along the streets of the little town.
“‘They ought to know,’ said he, ‘that I have a proper coat, and
that not contempt nor poverty, but forgetfulness, sent me to a ball
in my dressing-gown.’
“He did not much frequent social festivals after this failure, but
he always told the story with satisfaction and a quiet smile.
“To a stranger, life upon those little islands is uniform even to
weariness. But the old native dons like my grandfather ripen in
the prolonged sunshine, like the turtle upon the Bahama banks, nor
know of existence more desirable. Life in the tropics I take to be
a placid torpidity. During the long, warm mornings of nearly half
a century, my grandfather Titbottom had sat in his dressing-gown
and gazed at the sea. But one calm June day, as he slowly paced the
piazza after breakfast, his dreamy glance was arrested by a little
vessel, evidently nearing the shore. He called for his spyglass,
and surveying the craft, saw that she came from the neighboring
island. She glided smoothly, slowly, over the summer sea. The warm
morning air was sweet with perfumes, and silent with heat. The
sea sparkled languidly, and the brilliant blue hung cloudlessly
over. Scores of little island vessels had my grandfather seen come
over the horizon, and cast anchor in the port. Hundreds of summer
mornings had the white sails flashed and faded, like vague faces
through forgotten dreams. But this time he laid down the spyglass,
and leaned against a column of the piazza, and watched the vessel
with an intentness that he could not explain. She came nearer and
nearer, a graceful spectre in the dazzling morning.
“‘Decidedly I must step down and see about that vessel,’ said my
grandfather Titbottom.
“He gathered his ample dressing-gown about him, and stepped from
the piazza with no other protection from the sun than the little
smoking cap upon his head. His face wore a calm, beaming smile, as
if he approved of all the world. He was not an old man, but there
was almost a patriarchal pathos in his expression as he sauntered
along in the sunshine towards the shore. A group of idle gazers was
collected to watch the arrival. The little vessel furled her sails
and drifted slowly landward, and as she was of very light draft,
she came close to the shelving shore. A long plank was put out from
her side, and the debarkation commenced. My grandfather Titbottom
stood looking on to see the passengers descend. There were but a
few of them, and mostly traders from the neighboring island. But
suddenly the face of a young girl appeared over the side of the
vessel, and she stepped upon the plank to descend. My grandfather
Titbottom instantly advanced, and moving briskly reached the top of
the plank at the same moment, and with the old tassel of his cap
flashing in the sun, and one hand in the pocket of his dressing
gown, with the other he handed the young lady carefully down the
plank. That young lady was afterwards my grandmother Titbottom.
“And so, over the gleaming sea which he had watched so long, and
which seemed thus to reward his patient gaze, came his bride that
sunny morning.
“‘Of course we are happy,’ he used to say: ‘For you are the gift
of the sun I have loved so long and so well.’ And my grandfather
Titbottom would lay his hand so tenderly upon the golden hair of
his young bride, that you could fancy him a devout Parsee caressing
sunbeams.
“There were endless festivities upon occasion of the marriage; and
my grandfather did not go to one of them in his dressing-gown.
The gentle sweetness of his wife melted every heart into love and
sympathy. He was much older than she, without doubt. But age, as he
used to say with a smile of immortal youth, is a matter of feeling,
not of years. And if, sometimes, as she sat by his side upon the
piazza, her fancy looked through her eyes upon that summer sea and
saw a younger lover, perhaps some one of those graceful and glowing
heroes who occupy the foreground of all young maidens’ visions by
the sea, yet she could not find one more generous and gracious, nor
fancy one more worthy and loving than my grandfather Titbottom.
And if in the moonlit midnight, while he lay calmly sleeping,
she leaned out of the window and sank into vague reveries of
sweet possibility, and watched the gleaming path of the moonlight
upon the water, until the dawn glided over it—it was only that
mood of nameless regret and longing, which underlies all human
happiness,—or it was the vision of that life of society, which she
had never seen, but of which she had often read, and which looked
very fair and alluring across the sea to a girlish imagination
which knew that it should never know that reality.
“These West Indian years were the great days of the family,” said
Titbottom, with an air of majestic and regal regret, pausing
and musing in our little parlor, like a late Stuart in exile,
remembering England. Prue raised her eyes from her work, and
looked at him with a subdued admiration; for I have observed that,
like the rest of her sex, she has a singular sympathy with the
representative of a reduced family. Perhaps it is their finer
perception which leads these tender-hearted women to recognize the
divine right of social superiority so much more readily than we;
and yet, much as Titbottom was enhanced in my wife’s admiration
by the discovery that his dusky sadness of nature and expression
was, as it were, the expiring gleam and late twilight of ancestral
splendors, I doubt if Mr. Bourne would have preferred him for
bookkeeper a moment sooner upon that account. In truth, I have
observed, down town, that the fact of your ancestors doing nothing
is not considered good proof that you can do anything. But Prue and
her sex regard sentiment more than action, and I understand easily
enough why she is never tired of hearing me read of Prince Charlie.
If Titbottom had been only a little younger, a little handsomer, a
little more gallantly dressed—in fact, a little more of the Prince
Charlie, I am sure her eyes would not have fallen again upon her
work so tranquilly, as he resumed his story.
“I can remember my grandfather Titbottom, although I was a very
young child, and he was a very old man. My young mother and
my young grandmother are very distinct figures in my memory,
ministering to the old gentleman, wrapped in his dressing-gown,
and seated upon the piazza. I remember his white hair and his calm
smile, and how, not long before he died, he called me to him, and
laying his hand upon my head, said to me:
“My child, the world is not this great sunny piazza, nor life the
fairy stories which the women tell you here as you sit in their
laps. I shall soon be gone, but I want to leave with you some
memento of my love for you, and I know nothing more valuable than
these spectacles, which your grandmother brought from her native
island, when she arrived here one fine summer morning, long ago. I
cannot quite tell whether, when you grow older, you will regard it
as a gift of the greatest value or as something that you had been
happier never to have possessed.’
“‘But grandpapa, I am not short-sighted.’
“‘My son, are you not human?’ said the old gentleman; and how shall
I ever forget the thoughtful sadness with which, at the same time
he handed me the spectacles.
“Instinctively I put them on, and looked at my grandfather. But
I saw no grandfather, no piazza, no flowered dressing-gown: I
saw only a luxuriant palm-tree, waving broadly over a tranquil
landscape. Pleasant homes clustered around it. Gardens teeming
with fruit and flowers; flocks quietly feeding; birds wheeling and
chirping. I heard children’s voices, and the low lullaby of happy
mothers. The sound of cheerful singing came wafted from distant
fields upon the light breeze. Golden harvests glistened out of
sight, and I caught their rustling whisper of prosperity. A warm,
mellow atmosphere bathed the whole. I have seen copies of the
landscapes of the Italian painter Claude which seemed to me faint
reminiscences of that calm and happy vision. But all this peace
and prosperity seemed to flow from the spreading palm as from a
fountain.
“I do not know how long I looked, but I had, apparently, no power,
as I had no will, to remove the spectacles. What a wonderful island
must Nevis be, thought I, if people carry such pictures in their
pockets, only by buying a pair of spectacles! What wonder that my
dear grandmother Titbottom has lived such a placid life, and has
blessed us all with her sunny temper, when she has lived surrounded
by such images of peace.
“My grandfather died. But still, in the warm morning sunshine upon
the piazza, I felt his placid presence, and as I crawled into his
great chair, and drifted on in reverie through the still, tropical
day, it was as if his soft, dreamy eye had passed into my soul.
My grandmother cherished his memory with tender regret. A violent
passion of grief for his loss was no more possible than for the
pensive decay of the year. We have no portrait of him, but I see
always, when I remember him, that peaceful and luxuriant palm. And
I think that to have known one good old man—one man who, through
the chances and rubs of a long life, has carried his heart in his
hand, like a palm branch, waving all discords into peace, helps
our faith in God, in ourselves, and in each other, more than many
sermons. I hardly know whether to be grateful to my grandfather for
the spectacles; and yet when I remember that it is to them I owe
the pleasant image of him which I cherish, I seem to myself sadly
ungrateful.
“Madam,” said Titbottom to Prue, solemnly, “my memory is a long and
gloomy gallery, and only remotely, at its further end, do I see the
glimmer of soft sunshine, and only there are the pleasant pictures
hung. They seem to me very happy along whose gallery the sunlight
streams to their very feet, striking all the pictured walls into
unfading splendor.”
Prue had laid her work in her lap, and as Titbottom paused a
moment, and I turned towards her, I found her mild eyes fastened
upon my face, and glistening with happy tears.
“Misfortunes of many kinds came heavily upon the family after the
head was gone. The great house was relinquished. My parents were
both dead, and my grandmother had entire charge of me. But from
the moment that I received the gift of the spectacles, I could not
resist their fascination, and I withdrew into myself, and became a
solitary boy. There were not many companions for me of my own age,
and they gradually left me, or, at least, had not a hearty sympathy
with me; for if they teased me I pulled out my spectacles and
surveyed them so seriously that they acquired a kind of awe of me,
and evidently regarded my grandfather’s gift as a concealed magical
weapon which might be dangerously drawn upon them at any moment.
Whenever, in our games, there were quarrels and high words, and I
began to feel about my dress and to wear a grave look, they all
took the alarm, and shouted, ‘Look out for Titbottom’s spectacles,’
and scattered like a flock of scared sheep.
“Nor could I wonder at it. For, at first, before they took the
alarm, I saw strange sights when I looked at them through the
glasses. If two were quarrelling about a marble or a ball, I had
only to go behind a tree where I was concealed and look at them
leisurely. Then the scene changed, and no longer a green meadow
with boys playing, but a spot which I did not recognize, and forms
that made me shudder or smile. It was not a big boy bullying a
little one, but a young wolf with glistening teeth and a lamb
cowering before him; or, it was a dog faithful and famishing—or
a star going slowly into eclipse—or a rainbow fading—or a flower
blooming—or a sun rising—or a waning moon. The revelations of the
spectacles determined my feeling for the boys, and for all whom
I saw through them. No shyness, nor awkwardness, nor silence,
could separate me from those who looked lovely as lilies to
my illuminated eyes. If I felt myself warmly drawn to any one
I struggled with the fierce desire of seeing him through the
spectacles. I longed to enjoy the luxury of ignorant feeling, to
love without knowing, to float like a leaf upon the eddies of
life, drifted now to a sunny point, now to a solemn shade—now over
glittering ripples, now over gleaming calms,—and not to determined
ports, a trim vessel with an inexorable rudder.
“But, sometimes, mastered after long struggles, I seized my
spectacles and sauntered into the little town. Putting them to my
eyes I peered into the houses and at the people who passed me. Here
sat a family at breakfast, and I stood at the window looking in. O
motley meal! fantastic vision! The good mother saw her lord sitting
opposite, a grave, respectable being, eating muffins. But I saw
only a bank-bill, more or less crumpled and tattered, marked with
a larger or lesser figure. If a sharp wind blew suddenly, I saw it
tremble and flutter; it was thin, flat, impalpable. I removed my
glasses, and looked with my eyes at the wife. I could have smiled
to see the humid tenderness with which she regarded her strange
_vis-à-vis_. Is life only a game of blind-man’s-buff? of droll
cross-purposes?
“Or I put them on again, and looked at the wife. How many stout
trees I saw,—how many tender flowers,—how many placid pools;
yes, and how many little streams winding out of sight, shrinking
before the large, hard, round eyes opposite, and slipping off
into solitude and shade, with a low, inner song for their own
solace. And in many houses I thought to see angels, nymphs, or at
least, women, and could only find broomsticks, mops, or kettles,
hurrying about, rattling, tinkling, in a state of shrill activity.
I made calls upon elegant ladies, and after I had enjoyed the
gloss of silk and the delicacy of lace, and the flash of jewels,
I slipped on my spectacles, and saw a peacock’s feather, flounced
and furbelowed and fluttering; or an iron rod, thin, sharp, and
hard; nor could I possibly mistake the movement of the drapery for
any flexibility of the thing draped,—or, mysteriously chilled, I
saw a statue of perfect form, or flowing movement, it might be
alabaster, or bronze, or marble,—but sadly often it was ice; and
I knew that after it had shone a little, and frozen a few eyes
with its despairing perfection, it could not be put away in the
niches of palaces for ornament and proud family tradition, like
the alabaster, or bronze, or marble statues, but would melt, and
shrink, and fall coldly away in colorless and useless water, be
absorbed in the earth and utterly forgotten.
“But the true sadness was rather in seeing those who, not having
the spectacles, thought that the iron rod was flexible, and the
ice statue warm. I saw many a gallant heart, which seemed to me
brave and loyal as the crusaders sent by genuine and noble faith to
Syria and the sepulchre, pursuing, through days and nights, and a
long life of devotion, the hope of lighting at least a smile in the
cold eyes, if not a fire in the icy heart. I watched the earnest,
enthusiastic sacrifice. I saw the pure resolve, the generous faith,
the fine scorn of doubt, the impatience of suspicion. I watched
the grace, the ardor, the glory of devotion. Through those strange
spectacles how often I saw the noblest heart renouncing all other
hope, all other ambition, all other life, than the possible love of
some one of those statues. Ah! me, it was terrible, but they had
not the love to give. The Parian face was so polished and smooth,
because there was no sorrow upon the heart,—and, drearily often,
no heart to be touched. I could not wonder that the noble heart of
devotion was broken, for it had dashed itself against a stone. I
wept, until my spectacles were dimmed for that hopeless sorrow; but
there was a pang beyond tears for those icy statues.
“Still a boy, I was thus too much a man in knowledge,—I did not
comprehend the sights I was compelled to see. I used to tear my
glasses away from my eyes, and, frightened at myself, run to escape
my own consciousness. Reaching the small house where we then lived,
I plunged into my grandmother’s room and, throwing myself upon
the floor, buried my face in her lap; and sobbed myself to sleep
with premature grief. But when I awakened, and felt her cool hand
upon my hot forehead, and heard the low, sweet song, or the gentle
story, or the tenderly told parable from the Bible, with which she
tried to soothe me, I could not resist the mystic fascination that
lured me, as I lay in her lap, to steal a glance at her through the
spectacles.
“Pictures of the Madonna have not her rare and pensive beauty. Upon
the tranquil little islands her life had been eventless, and all
the fine possibilities of her nature were like flowers that never
bloomed. Placid were all her years; yet I have read of no heroine,
of no woman great in sudden crises, that it did not seem to me she
might have been. The wife and widow of a man who loved his own home
better than the homes of others, I have yet heard of no queen,
no belle, no imperial beauty, whom in grace, and brilliancy, and
persuasive courtesy, she might not have surpassed.
“Madam,” said Titbottom to my wife, whose heart hung upon his
story; “your husband’s young friend, Aurelia, wears sometimes a
camelia in her hair, and no diamond in the ball-room seems so
costly as that perfect flower, which women envy, and for whose
least and withered petal men sigh; yet, in the tropical solitudes
of Brazil, how many a camelia bud drops from a bush that no eye
has ever seen, which, had it flowered and been noticed, would have
gilded all hearts with its memory.
“When I stole these furtive glances at my grandmother, half fearing
that they were wrong, I saw only a calm lake, whose shores were
low, and over which the sky hung unbroken, so that the least star
was clearly reflected. It had an atmosphere of solemn twilight
tranquillity, and so completely did its unruffled surface blend
with the cloudless, star-studded sky, that, when I looked through
my spectacles at my grandmother, the vision seemed to me all heaven
and stars. Yet, as I gazed and gazed, I felt what stately cities
might well have been built upon those shores, and have flashed
prosperity over the calm, like coruscations of pearls.
“I dreamed of gorgeous fleets, silken sailed and blown by perfumed
winds, drifting over those depthless waters and through those
spacious skies. I gazed upon the twilight, the inscrutable silence,
like a God-fearing discoverer upon a new, and vast, and dim sea,
bursting upon him through forest glooms, and in the fervor of whose
impassioned gaze, a millennial and poetic world arises, and man
need no longer die to be happy.
“My companions naturally deserted me, for I had grown wearily
grave and abstracted: and, unable to resist the allurement of
my spectacles, I was constantly lost in a world, of which those
companions were part, yet of which they knew nothing. I grew
cold and hard, almost morose; people seemed to me blind and
unreasonable. They did the wrong thing. They called green, yellow;
and black, white. Young men said of a girl, ‘What a lovely, simple
creature!’ I looked, and there was only a glistening wisp of
straw, dry and hollow. Or they said, ‘What a cold, proud beauty!’
I looked, and lo! a Madonna, whose heart held the world. Or they
said, ‘What a wild, giddy girl!’ and I saw a glancing, dancing
mountain stream, pure as the virgin snows whence it flowed, singing
through sun and shade, over pearls and gold dust, slipping along
unstained by weed, or rain, or heavy foot of cattle, touching the
flowers with a dewy kiss,—a beam of grace, a happy song, a line of
light, in the dim and troubled landscape.
“My grandmother sent me to school, but I looked at the master,
and saw that he was a smooth, round ferule—or an improper noun—or
a vulgar fraction, and refused to obey him. Or he was a piece of
string, a rag, a willow-wand, and I had a contemptuous pity. But
one was a well of cool, deep water, and looking suddenly in, one
day, I saw the stars. He gave me all my schooling. With him I used
to walk by the sea, and, as we strolled and the waves plunged in
long legions before us, I looked at him through the spectacles,
and as his eye dilated with the boundless view, and his chest
heaved with an impossible desire, I saw Xerxes and his army tossing
and glittering, rank upon rank, multitude upon multitude, out of
sight, but ever regularly advancing and with the confused roar of
ceaseless music, prostrating themselves in abject homage. Or, as
with arms outstretched and hair streaming on the wind, he chanted
full lines of the resounding Iliad, I saw Homer pacing the AEgean
sands in the Greek sunsets of forgotten times.
“My grandmother died, and I was thrown into the world without
resources, and with no capital but my spectacles. I tried to find
employment, but men were shy of me. There was a vague suspicion
that I was either a little crazed, or a good deal in league
with the Prince of Darkness. My companions who would persist in
calling a piece of painted muslin a fair and fragrant flower had
no difficulty; success waited for them around every corner, and
arrived in every ship. I tried to teach, for I loved children. But
if anything excited my suspicion, and, putting on my spectacles, I
saw that I was fondling a snake, or smelling at a bud with a worm
in it, I sprang up in horror and ran away; or, if it seemed to me
through the glasses that a cherub smiled upon me, or a rose was
blooming in my buttonhole, then I felt myself imperfect and impure,
not fit to be leading and training what was so essentially superior
in quality to myself, and I kissed the children and left them
weeping and wondering.
“In despair I went to a great merchant on the island, and asked him
to employ me.
“‘My young friend,’ said he, ‘I understand that you have some
singular secret, some charm, or spell, or gift, or something, I
don’t know what, of which people are afraid. Now, you know, my
dear,’ said the merchant, swelling up, and apparently prouder of
his great stomach than of his large fortune, ‘I am not of that
kind. I am not easily frightened. You may spare yourself the
pain of trying to impose upon me. People who propose to come to
time before I arrive, are accustomed to arise very early in the
morning,’ said he, thrusting his thumbs in the armholes of his
waistcoat, and spreading the fingers, like two fans, upon his
bosom. ‘I think I have heard something of your secret. You have a
pair of spectacles, I believe, that you value very much, because
your grandmother brought them as a marriage portion to your
grandfather. Now, if you think fit to sell me those spectacles, I
will pay you the largest market price for glasses. What do you say?’
“I told him that I had not the slightest idea of selling my
spectacles.
“‘My young friend means to eat them, I suppose,’ said he with a
contemptuous smile.
“I made no reply, but was turning to leave the office, when the
merchant called after me—
“‘My young friend, poor people should never suffer themselves to
get into pets. Anger is an expensive luxury, in which only men of a
certain income can indulge. A pair of spectacles and a hot temper
are not the most promising capital for success in life, Master
Titbottom.’
“I said nothing, but put my hand upon the door to go out, when the
merchant said more respectfully,—
“‘Well, you foolish boy, if you will not sell your spectacles,
perhaps you will agree to sell the use of them to me. That is, you
shall only put them on when I direct you, and for my purposes.
Hallo! you little fool!’ cried he impatiently, as he saw that I
intended to make no reply.
“But I had pulled out my spectacles, and put them on for my own
purpose, and against his direction and desire. I looked at him, and
saw a huge bald-headed wild boar, with gross chops and a leering
eye—only the more ridiculous for the high-arched, gold-bowed
spectacles, that straddled his nose. One of his fore hoofs was
thrust into the safe, where his bills payable were hived, and the
other into his pocket, among the loose change and bills there. His
ears were pricked forward with a brisk, sensitive smartness. In
a world where prize pork was the best excellence, he would have
carried off all the premiums.
“I stepped into the next office in the street, and a mild-faced,
genial man, also a large and opulent merchant, asked me my business
in such a tone, that I instantly looked through my spectacles,
and saw a land flowing with milk and honey. There I pitched my
tent, and stayed till the good man died, and his business was
discontinued.
“But while there,” said Titbottom, and his voice trembled away
into a sigh, “I first saw Preciosa. Spite of the spectacles, I
saw Preciosa. For days, for weeks, for months, I did not take
my spectacles with me. I ran away from them, I threw them up on
high shelves, I tried to make up my mind to throw them into the
sea, or down the well. I could not, I would not, I dared not look
at Preciosa through the spectacles. It was not possible for me
deliberately to destroy them; but I awoke in the night, and could
almost have cursed my dear old grandfather for his gift. I escaped
from the office, and sat for whole days with Preciosa. I told her
the strange things I had seen with my mystic glasses. The hours
were not enough for the wild romances which I raved in her ear.
She listened, astonished and appalled. Her blue eyes turned upon
me with a sweet deprecation. She clung to me, and then withdrew,
and fled fearfully from the room. But she could not stay away. She
could not resist my voice, in whose tones burned all the love that
filled my heart and brain. The very effort to resist the desire of
seeing her as I saw everybody else, gave a frenzy and an unnatural
tension to my feeling and my manner. I sat by her side, looking
into her eyes, smoothing her hair, folding her to my heart, which
was sunken and deep—why not forever?—in that dream of peace. I
ran from her presence, and shouted, and leaped with joy, and sat
the whole night through, thrilled into happiness by the thought
of her love and loveliness, like a wind-harp, tightly strung, and
answering the airiest sigh of the breeze with music. Then came
calmer days—the conviction of deep love settled upon our lives—as
after the hurrying, heaving days of spring, comes the bland and
benignant summer.
“‘It is no dream, then, after all, and we are happy,’ I said to
her, one day; and there came no answer, for happiness is speechless.
“We are happy then,” I said to myself, “there is no excitement now.
How glad I am that I can now look at her through my spectacles.”
“I feared lest some instinct should warn me to beware. I escaped
from her arms, and ran home and seized the glasses and bounded
back again to Preciosa. As I entered the room I was heated, my
head was swimming with confused apprehension, my eyes must have
glared. Preciosa was frightened, and rising from her seat, stood
with an inquiring glance of surprise in her eyes. But I was bent
with frenzy upon my purpose. I was merely aware that she was
in the room. I saw nothing else. I heard nothing. I cared for
nothing, but to see her through that magic glass, and feel at once,
all the fulness of blissful perfection which that would reveal.
Preciosa stood before the mirror, but alarmed at my wild and eager
movements, unable to distinguish what I had in my hands, and seeing
me raise them suddenly to my face, she shrieked with terror, and
fell fainting upon the floor, at the very moment that I placed the
glasses before my eyes, and beheld—myself, reflected in the mirror,
before which she had been standing.
“Dear madam,” cried Titbottom, to my wife, springing up and falling
back again in his chair, pale and trembling, while Prue ran to him
and took his hand, and I poured out a glass of water—“I saw myself.”
There was silence for many minutes. Prue laid her hand gently upon
the head of our guest, whose eyes were closed, and who breathed
softly, like an infant in sleeping. Perhaps, in all the long years
of anguish since that hour, no tender hand had touched his brow,
nor wiped away the damps of a bitter sorrow. Perhaps the tender,
maternal fingers of my wife soothed his weary head with the
conviction that he felt the hand of his mother playing with the
long hair of her boy in the soft West Indian morning. Perhaps it
was only the natural relief of expressing a pent-up sorrow. When
he spoke again, it was with the old, subdued tone, and the air of
quaint solemnity.
“These things were matters of long, long ago, and I came to this
country soon after. I brought with me, premature age, a past
of melancholy memories, and the magic spectacles. I had become
their slave. I had nothing more to fear. Having seen myself, I
was compelled to see others, properly to understand my relations
to them. The lights that cheer the future of other men had gone
out for me. My eyes were those of an exile turned backwards upon
the receding shore, and not forwards with hope upon the ocean. I
mingled with men, but with little pleasure. There are but many
varieties of a few types. I did not find those I came to clearer
sighted than those I had left behind. I heard men called shrewd and
wise, and report said they were highly intelligent and successful.
But when I looked at them through my glasses, I found no halo of
real manliness. My finest sense detected no aroma of purity and
principle; but I saw only a fungus that had fattened and spread in
a night. They all went to the theater to see actors upon the stage.
I went to see actors in the boxes, so consummately cunning, that
the others did not know they were acting, and they did not suspect
it themselves.
“Perhaps you wonder it did not make me misanthropical. My dear
friends, do not forget that I had seen myself. It made me
compassionate, not cynical. Of course I could not value highly
the ordinary standards of success and excellence. When I went to
church and saw a thin, blue, artificial flower, or a great sleepy
cushion expounding the beauty of holiness to pews full of eagles,
half-eagles, and threepences, however adroitly concealed in
broadcloth and boots: or saw an onion in an Easter bonnet weeping
over the sins of Magdalen, I did not feel as they felt who saw in
all this, not only propriety, but piety. Or when at public meetings
an eel stood up on end, and wriggled and squirmed lithely in every
direction, and declared that, for his part, he went in for rainbows
and hot water—how could I help seeing that he was still black and
loved a slimy pool?
“I could not grow misanthropical when I saw in the eyes of so
many who were called old, the gushing fountains of eternal youth,
and the light of an immortal dawn, or when I saw those who were
esteemed unsuccessful and aimless, ruling a fair realm of peace
and plenty, either in themselves, or more perfectly in another—a
realm and princely possession for which they had well renounced a
hopeless search and a belated triumph. I knew one man who had been
for years a by-word for having sought the philosopher’s stone. But
I looked at him through the spectacles and saw a satisfaction in
concentrated energies, and a tenacity arising from devotion to a
noble dream, which was not apparent in the youths who pitied him in
the aimless effeminacy of clubs, nor in the clever gentlemen who
cracked their thin jokes upon him over a gossiping dinner.
“And there was your neighbor over the way, who passes for a woman
who has failed in her career, because she is an old maid. People
wag solemn heads of pity, and say that she made so great a mistake
in not marrying the brilliant and famous man who was for long years
her suitor. It is clear that no orange flower will ever bloom
for her. The young people make tender romances about her as they
watch her, and think of her solitary hours of bitter regret, and
wasting longing, never to be satisfied. When I first came to town
I shared this sympathy, and pleased my imagination with fancying
her hard struggle with the conviction that she had lost all that
made life beautiful. I supposed that if I looked at her through
my spectacles, I should see that it was only her radiant temper
which so illuminated her dress, that we did not see it to be heavy
sables. But when, one day, I did raise my glasses and glanced at
her, I did not see the old maid whom we all pitied for a secret
sorrow, but a woman whose nature was a tropic, in which the sun
shone, and birds sang, and flowers bloomed forever. There were
no regrets, no doubts and half wishes, but a calm sweetness, a
transparent peace. I saw her blush when that old lover passed by,
or paused to speak to her, but it was only the sign of delicate
feminine consciousness. She knew his love, and honored it, although
she could not understand it nor return it. I looked closely at
her, and I saw that although all the world had exclaimed at her
indifference to such homage, and had declared it was astonishing
she should lose so fine a match, she would only say simply and
quietly—
“‘If Shakespeare loved me and I did not love him, how could I marry
him?’
“Could I be misanthropical when I saw such fidelity, and dignity,
and simplicity?
“You may believe that I was especially curious to look at that old
lover of hers, through my glasses. He was no longer young, you
know, when I came, and his fame and fortune were secure. Certainly
I have heard of few men more beloved, and of none more worthy
to be loved. He had the easy manner of a man of the world, the
sensitive grace of a poet, and the charitable judgment of a wide
traveller. He was accounted the most successful and most unspoiled
of men. Handsome, brilliant, wise, tender, graceful, accomplished,
rich, and famous, I looked at him, without the spectacles, in
surprise, and admiration, and wondered how your neighbor over the
way had been so entirely untouched by his homage. I watched their
intercourse in society, I saw her gay smile, her cordial greeting;
I marked his frank address, his lofty courtesy. Their manner
told no tales. The eager world was balked, and I pulled out my
spectacles.
“I had seen her, already, and now I saw him. He lived only in
memory, and his memory was a spacious and stately palace. But he
did not oftenest frequent the banqueting hall, where were endless
hospitality and feasting—nor did he loiter much in reception rooms,
where a throng of new visitors was forever swarming—nor did he
feed his vanity by haunting the apartment in which were stored
the trophies of his varied triumphs—nor dream much in the great
gallery hung with pictures of his travels. But from all these lofty
halls of memory he constantly escaped to a remote and solitary
chamber, into which no one had ever penetrated. But my fatal
eyes, behind the glasses, followed and entered with him, and saw
that the chamber was a chapel. It was dim, and silent, and sweet
with perpetual incense that burned upon an altar before a picture
forever veiled. There, whenever I chanced to look, I saw him kneel
and pray; and there, by day and by night, a funeral hymn was
chanted.
“I do not believe you will be surprised that I have been content
to remain deputy bookkeeper. My spectacles regulated my ambition,
and I early learned that there were better gods than Plutus. The
glasses have lost much of their fascination now, and I do not often
use them. Sometimes the desire is irresistible. Whenever I am
greatly interested, I am compelled to take them out and see what it
is that I admire.
“And yet—and yet,” said Titbottom, after a pause, “I am not sure
that I thank my grandfather.”
Prue had long since laid away her work, and had heard every word of
the story. I saw that the dear woman had yet one question to ask,
and had been earnestly hoping to hear something that would spare
her the necessity of asking. But Titbottom had resumed his usual
tone, after the momentary excitement, and made no further allusion
to himself. We all sat silently; Titbottom’s eyes fastened musingly
upon the carpet: Prue looking wistfully at him, and I regarding
both.
It was past midnight, and our guest arose to go. He shook hands
quietly, made his grave Spanish bow to Prue, and taking his hat,
went towards the front door. Prue and I accompanied him. I saw in
her eyes that she would ask her question. And as Titbottom opened
the door, I heard the low words:
“And Preciosa?”
Titbottom paused. He had just opened the door and the moonlight
streamed over him as he stood, turning back to us.
“I have seen her but once since. It was in church, and she was
kneeling with her eyes closed, so that she did not see me. But I
rubbed the glasses well, and looked at her, and saw a white lily,
whose stem was broken, but which was fresh; and luminous, and
fragrant, still.”
“That was a miracle,” interrupted Prue.
“Madam, it was a miracle,” replied Titbottom, “and for that one
sight I am devoutly grateful for my grandfather’s gift. I saw, that
although a flower may have lost its hold upon earthly moisture, it
may still bloom as sweetly, fed by the dews of heaven.”
The door closed, and he was gone. But as Prue put her arm in mine
and we went upstairs together, she whispered in my ear:
“How glad I am that you don’t wear spectacles.”