Beneath an Umbrella (From Twice Told Tales)

  Produced by David Widger. HTML version by Al Haines.

  TWICE TOLD TALES

  NIGHT SKETCHES

  BENEATH AN UMBRELLA

  By Nathaniel Hawthorne

  Pleasant is a rainy winter's day, within doors! The best study forsuch a day, or the best amusement,--call it which you will,--is abook of travels, describing scenes the most unlike that sombre one,which is mistily presented through the windows. I have experienced,that fancy is then most successful in imparting distinct shapes andvivid colors to the objects which the author has spread upon hispage, and that his words become magic spells to summon up a thousandvaried pictures. Strange landscapes glimmer through the familiarwalls of the room, and outlandish figures thrust themselves almostwithin the sacred precincts of the hearth. Small as my chamber is, ithas space enough to contain the ocean-like circumference of anArabian desert, its parched sands tracked by the long line of acaravan, with the camels patiently journeying through the heavysunshine. Though my ceiling be not lofty, yet I can pile up themountains of Central Asia beneath it, till their summits shine farabove the clouds of the middle atmosphere. And, with my humblemeans, a wealth that is not taxable, I can transport hither themagnificent merchandise of an Oriental bazaar, and call a crowd ofpurchasers from distant countries, to pay a fair profit for theprecious articles which are displayed on all sides. True it is,however, that amid the bustle of traffic, or whatever else may seem tobe going on around me, the rain-drops will occasionally be heard topatter against my window-panes, which look forth upon one of thequietest streets in a New England town. After a time, too, thevisions vanish, and will not appear again at my bidding. Then, itbeing nightfall, a gloomy sense of unreality depresses my spirits, andimpels me to venture out, before the clock shall strike bedtime, tosatisfy myself that the world is not entirely made up of such shadowymaterials, as have busied me throughout the day. A dreamer may dwellso long among fantasies, that the things without him will seem asunreal as those within.

  When eve has fairly set in, therefore, I sally forth, tightlybuttoning my shaggy overcoat, and hoisting my umbrella, the silkendome of which immediately resounds with the heavy drumming of theinvisible rain-drops. Pausing on the lowest doorstep, I contrast thewarmth and cheerfulness of my deserted fireside with the drearobscurity and chill discomfort into which I am about to plunge. Nowcome fearful auguries, innumerable as the drops of rain. Did not mymanhood cry shame upon me, I should turn back within doors, resume myelbow-chair, my slippers, and my book, pass such an evening ofsluggish enjoyment as the day has been, and go to bed inglorious. Thesame shivering reluctance, no doubt, has quelled, for a moment, theadventurous spirit of many a traveller, when his feet, which weredestined to measure the earth around, were leaving their last tracksin the home-paths.

  In my own case, poor human nature may be allowed a few misgivings. Ilook upward, and discern no sky, not even an unfathomable void, butonly a black, impenetrable nothingness, as though heaven and all itslights were blotted from the system of the universe. It is as ifnature were dead, and the world had put on black, and the clouds wereweeping for her. With their tears upon my cheek, I turn my eyesearthward, but find little consolation here below. A lamp is burningdimly at the distant corner, and throws just enough of light along thestreet, to show, and exaggerate by so faintly showing, the perils anddifficulties which beset my path. Yonder dingily white remnant of ahuge snow-bank,--which will yet cumber the sidewalk till the latterdays of March,--over or through that wintry waste must I strideonward. Beyond, lies a certain Slough of Despond, a concoction of mudand liquid filth, ankle-deep, leg-deep, neck-deep,--in a word, ofunknown bottom, on which the lamplight does not even glimmer, but whichI have occasionally watched, in the gradual growth of its horrors,from morn till nightfall. Should I flounder into its depths, farewellto upper earth! And hark! how roughly resounds the roaring of astream, the turbulent career of which is partially reddened by thegleam of the lamp, but elsewhere brawls noisily through the densestgloom. O, should I be swept away in fording that impetuous andunclean torrent, the coroner will have a job with an unfortunategentleman, who would fain end his troubles anywhere but in a mud-puddle!

  Pshaw! I will linger not another instant at arm's length from thesedim terrors, which grow more obscurely formidable, the longer I delayto grapple with them. Now for the onset! And to! with little damage,save a dash of rain in the fact and breast, a splash of mud high upthe pantaloons, and the left boot full of ice-cold water, behold me atthe corner of the street. The lamp throws down a circle of red lightaround me; and twinkling onward from corner to corner, I discern otherbeacons marshalling my way to a brighter scene. But this is alonesome and dreary spot. The tall edifices bid gloomy defiance to thestorm, with their blinds all closed, even as a man winks when he facesa spattering gust. How loudly tinkles the collected rain down the tinspouts! The puffs of wind are boisterous, and seem to assail me fromvarious quarters at once. I have often observed that this corner is ahaunt and loitering-place for those winds which have no work to doupon the deep, dashing ships against our iron-bound shores; nor in theforest, tearing up the sylvan giants with half a rood of soil at theirvast roots. Here they amuse themselves with lesser freaks ofmischief. See, at this moment, how they assail yonder poor woman, whois passing just within the verge of the lamplight! One blaststruggles for her umbrella, and turns it wrong side outward; anotherwhisks the cape of her cloak across her eyes; while a third takes mostunwarrantable liberties with the lower part of her attire. Happily,the good dame is no gossamer, but a figure of rotundity and fleshlysubstance; else would these aerial tormentors whirl her aloft, like awitch upon a broomstick, and set her down, doubtless, in the filthiestkennel hereabout.

  From hence I tread upon firm pavements into the centre of the town.Here there is almost as brilliant an illumination as when some greatvictory has been won, either on the battle-field or at the polls. Tworows of shops, with windows down nearly to the ground, cast a glowfrom side to side, while the black night hangs overhead like a canopy,and thus keeps the splendor from diffusing itself away. The wetsidewalks gleam with a broad sheet of red light. The rain-dropsglitter, as if the sky were pouring down rubies. The spouts gush withfire. Methinks the scene is an emblem of the deceptive glare, whichmortals throw around their footsteps in the moral world, thusbedazzling themselves, till they forget the impenetrable obscuritythat hems them in, and that can be dispelled only by radiance fromabove. And after all, it is a cheerless scene, and cheerless are thewanderers in it. Here comes one who has so long been familiar withtempestuous weather that he takes the bluster of the storm for afriendly greeting, as if it should say, "How fare ye, brother?"He is a retired sea-captain, wrapped in some nameless garment of thepea-jacket order, and is now laying his course towards the MarineInsurance Office, there to spin yarns of gale and shipwreck, with acrew of old seadogs like himself. The blast will put in its wordamong their hoarse voices, and be understood by all of them. Next Imeet an unhappy slipshod gentleman, with a cloak flung hastily overhis shoulders, running a race with boisterous winds, and striving toglide between the drops of rain. Some domestic emergency or other hasblown this miserable man from his warm fireside in quest of a doctor!See that little vagabond,--how carelessly he has taken his stand rightunderneath a spout, while staring at some object of curiosity in ashop-window! Surely the rain is his native element; he must havefallen with it from the clouds, as frogs are supposed to do.

  Here is a picture, and a pretty one. A young man and a girl, bothenveloped in cloaks, and huddled beneath the
scanty protection of acotton umbrella. She wears rubber overshoes; but he is in hisdancing-pumps; and they are on their way, no doubt, to soniccotillon-party, or subscription-ball at a dollar a head, refreshmentsincluded. Thus they struggle against the gloomy tempest, lured onwardby a vision of festal splendor. But, ah! a most lamentable disaster.Bewildered by the red, blue, and yellow meteors, in an apothecary'swindow, they have stepped upon a slippery remnant of ice, and areprecipitated into a confluence of swollen floods, at the corner of twostreets. Luckless lovers! Were it my nature to be other than alooker-on in life, I would attempt your rescue. Since that may notbe, I vow, should you be drowned, to weave such a pathetic story ofyour fate, as shall call forth tears enough to drown you both anew.Do ye touch bottom, my young friends? Yes; they emerge like awater-nymph and a river deity, and paddle hand in hand out of the depthsof the dark pool. They hurry homeward, dripping, disconsolate, abashed,but with love too warm to be chilled by the cold water. They havestood a test which proves too strong for many. Faithful, though overhead and ears in trouble!

  Onward I go, deriving a sympathetic joy or sorrow from the variedaspect of mortal affairs, even as my figure catches a gleam from thelighted windows, or is blackened by an interval of darkness. Not thatmine is altogether a chameleon spirit, with no hue of its own. Now Ipass into a more retired street, where the dwellings of wealth andpoverty are intermingled, presenting a range of strongly contrastedpictures. Here, too, may be found the golden mean. Through yondercasement I discern a family circle,--the grandmother, the parents, andthe children,--all flickering, shadow-like, in the glow of a wood-fire.Bluster, fierce blast, and beat, thou wintry rain, against thewindow-panes! Ye cannot damp the enjoyment of that fireside. Surelymy fate is hard, that I should be wandering homeless here, taking tomy bosom night, and storm, and solitude, instead of wife and children.Peace, murmurer! Doubt not that darker guests are sitting round thehearth, though the warm blaze hides all but blissful images. Well;here is still a brighter scene. A stately mansion, illuminated for aball, with cut-glass chandeliers and alabaster lamps in every room,and sunny landscapes hanging round the walls. See! a coach hasstopped, whence emerges a slender beauty, who, canopied by twoumbrellas, glides within the portal, and vanishes amid lightsomethrills of music. Will she ever feel the night-wind and the rain?Perhaps,--perhaps! And will Death and Sorrow ever enter that proudmansion? As surely as the dancers will be gay within its hallsto-night. Such thoughts sadden, yet satisfy my heart; for they teach methat the poor man, in his mean, weather-beaten hovel, without a fireto cheer him, may call the rich his brother, brethren by Sorrow, whomust be an inmate of both their households,--brethren by Death, whowill lead them, both to other homes.

  Onward, still onward, I plunge into the night. Now have I reached theutmost limits of the town, where the last lamp struggles feebly withthe darkness, like the farthest star that stands sentinel on theborders of uncreated space. It is strange what sensations ofsublimity may spring from a very humble source. Such are suggested bythis hollow roar of a subterranean cataract, where the mighty streamof a kennel precipitates itself beneath an iron grate, and is seen nomore on earth. Listen awhile to its voice of mystery; and fancy willmagnify it, till you start and smile at the illusion. And now anothersound,--the rumbling of wheels,--as the mail-coach, outward bound,rolls heavily off the pavements, and splashes through the mud andwater of the road. All night long, the poor passengers will be tossedto and fro between drowsy watch and troubled sleep, and will dream oftheir own quiet beds, and awake to find themselves still joltingonward. Happier my lot, who will straightway hie me to my familiarroom, and toast myself comfortably before the fire, musing, andfitfully dozing, and fancying a strangeness in such sights as all maysee. But first let me gaze at this solitary figure, who comeshitherward with a tin lantern, which throws the circular pattern ofits punched holes on the ground about him. He passes fearlessly intothe unknown gloom, whither I will not follow him.

  This figure shall supply me with a moral, wherewith, for lack of amore appropriate one, I may wind up my sketch. He fears not to treadthe dreary path before him, because his lantern, which was kindled atthe fireside of his home, will light him back to that same firesideagain. And thus we, night-wanderers through a stormy and dismalworld, if we bear the lamp of Faith, enkindled at a celestial fire, itwill surely lead us home to that Heaven whence its radiance wasborrowed.