Twice Told Tales

by Nathaniel Hawthorne

  THE WEDDING-KNELL.

  There is a certain church, in the city of New York which I have alwaysregarded with peculiar interest on account of a marriage theresolemnized under very singular circumstances in my grandmother'sgirlhood. That venerable lady chanced to be a spectator of the scene,and ever after made it her favorite narrative. Whether the edifice nowstanding on the same site be the identical one to which she referred Iam not antiquarian enough to know, nor would it be worth while tocorrect myself, perhaps, of an agreeable error by reading the date ofits erection on the tablet over the door. It is a stately churchsurrounded by an enclosure of the loveliest green, within which appearurns, pillars, obelisks, and other forms of monumental marble, thetributes of private affection or more splendid memorials of historicdust. With such a place, though the tumult of the city rolls beneathits tower, one would be willing to connect some legendary interest.

  The marriage might be considered as the result of an early engagement,though there had been two intermediate weddings on the lady's part andforty years of celibacy on that of the gentleman. At sixty-five Mr.Ellenwood was a shy but not quite a secluded man; selfish, like allmen who brood over their own hearts, yet manifesting on rare occasionsa vein of generous sentiment; a scholar throughout life, though alwaysan indolent one, because his studies had no definite object either ofpublic advantage or personal ambition; a gentleman, high-bred andfastidiously delicate, yet sometimes requiring a considerablerelaxation in his behalf of the common rules of society. In truth,there were so many anomalies in his character, and, though shrinkingwith diseased sensibility from public notice, it had been his fatalityso often to become the topic of the day by some wild eccentricity ofconduct, that people searched his lineage for a hereditary taint ofinsanity. But there was no need of this. His caprices had their originin a mind that lacked the support of an engrossing purpose, and infeelings that preyed upon themselves for want of other food. If hewere mad, it was the consequence, and not the cause, of an aimless andabortive life.

  The widow was as complete a contrast to her third bridegroom ineverything but age as can well be conceived. Compelled to relinquishher first engagement, she had been united to a man of twice her ownyears, to whom she became an exemplary wife, and by whose death shewas left in possession of a splendid fortune. A Southern gentlemanconsiderably younger than herself succeeded to her hand and carriedher to Charleston, where after many uncomfortable years she foundherself again a widow. It would have been singular if any uncommondelicacy of feeling had survived through such a life as Mrs. Dabney's;it could not but be crushed and killed by her early disappointment,the cold duty of her first marriage, the dislocation of the heart'sprinciples consequent on a second union, and the unkindness of herSouthern husband, which had inevitably driven her to connect the ideaof his death with that of her comfort. To be brief, she was thatwisest but unloveliest variety of woman, a philosopher, bearingtroubles of the heart with equanimity, dispensing with all that shouldhave been her happiness and making the best of what remained. Sage inmost matters, the widow was perhaps the more amiable for the onefrailty that made her ridiculous. Being childless, she could notremain beautiful by proxy in the person of a daughter; she thereforerefused to grow old and ugly on any consideration; she struggled withTime, and held fast her roses in spite of him, till the venerablethief appeared to have relinquished the spoil as not worth the troubleof acquiring it.

  The approaching marriage of this woman of the world with such anunworldly man as Mr. Ellenwood was announced soon after Mrs. Dabney'sreturn to her native city. Superficial observers, and deeper ones,seemed to concur in supposing that the lady must have borne noinactive part in arranging the affair; there were considerations ofexpediency which she would be far more likely to appreciate than Mr.Ellenwood, and there was just the specious phantom of sentiment andromance in this late union of two early lovers which sometimes makes afool of a woman who has lost her true feelings among the accidents oflife. All the wonder was how the gentleman, with his lack of worldlywisdom and agonizing consciousness of ridicule, could have beeninduced to take a measure at once so prudent and so laughable. Butwhile people talked the wedding-day arrived. The ceremony was to besolemnized according to the Episcopalian forms and in open church,with a degree of publicity that attracted many spectators, whooccupied the front seats of the galleries and the pews near the altarand along the broad aisle. It had been arranged, or possibly it wasthe custom of the day, that the parties should proceed separately tochurch. By some accident the bridegroom was a little less punctualthan the widow and her bridal attendants, with whose arrival, afterthis tedious but necessary preface, the action of our tale may be saidto commence.

  The clumsy wheels of several old-fashioned coaches were heard, and thegentlemen and ladies composing the bridal-party came through thechurch door with the sudden and gladsome effect of a burst ofsunshine. The whole group, except the principal figure, was made up ofyouth and gayety. As they streamed up the broad aisle, while the pewsand pillars seemed to brighten on either side, their steps were asbuoyant as if they mistook the church for a ball-room and were readyto dance hand in hand to the altar. So brilliant was the spectaclethat few took notice of a singular phenomenon that had marked itsentrance. At the moment when the bride's foot touched the thresholdthe bell swung heavily in the tower above her and sent forth itsdeepest knell. The vibrations died away, and returned with prolongedsolemnity as she entered the body of the church.

  "Good heavens! What an omen!" whispered a young lady to her lover.

  "On my honor," replied the gentleman, "I believe the bell has the goodtaste to toll of its own accord. What has she to do with weddings? Ifyou, dearest Julia, were approaching the altar, the bell would ringout its merriest peal. It has only a funeral-knell for her."

  The bride and most of her company had been too much occupied with thebustle of entrance to hear the first boding stroke of the bell--or, atleast, to reflect on the singularity of such a welcome to the altar.They therefore continued to advance with undiminished gayety. Thegorgeous dresses of the time--the crimson velvet coats, the gold-lacedhats, the hoop-petticoats, the silk, satin, brocade and embroidery,the buckles, canes and swords, all displayed to the best advantage onpersons suited to such finery--made the group appear more like abright-colored picture than anything real. But by what perversity oftaste had the artist represented his principal figure as so wrinkledand decayed, while yet he had decked her out in the brightest splendorof attire, as if the loveliest maiden had suddenly withered into ageand become a moral to the beautiful around her? On they went, however,and had glittered along about a third of the aisle, when anotherstroke of the bell seemed to fill the church with a visible gloom,dimming and obscuring the bright-pageant till it shone forth again asfrom a mist.

  This time the party wavered, stopped and huddled closer together,while a slight scream was heard from some of the ladies and a confusedwhispering among the gentlemen. Thus tossing to and fro, they mighthave been fancifully compared to a splendid bunch of flowers suddenlyshaken by a puff of wind which threatened to scatter the leaves of anold brown, withered rose on the same stalk with two dewy buds, suchbeing the emblem of the widow between her fair young bridemaids. Buther heroism was admirable. She had started with an irrepressibleshudder, as if the stroke of the bell had fallen directly on herheart; then, recovering herself, while her attendants were yet indismay, she took the lead and paced calmly up the aisle. The bellcontinued to swing, strike and vibrate with the same dolefulregularity as when a corpse is on its way to the tomb.

  "My young friends here have their nerves a little shaken," said thewidow, with a smile, to the clergyman at the altar. "But so manyweddings have been ushered in with the merriest peal of the bells, andyet turned out unhappily, that I shall hope for better fortune undersuch different auspices."

  "Madam," answered the rector, in great perplexity, "this strangeoccurrence brings to my mind a marriage-sermon of the famous BishopTaylor wherein he mingles so many thoughts of mortality
and future woethat, to speak somewhat after his own rich style, he seems to hang thebridal-chamber in black and cut the wedding-garment out of acoffin-pall. And it has been the custom of divers nations to infusesomething of sadness into their marriage ceremonies, so to keep deathin mind while contracting that engagement which is life's chiefestbusiness. Thus we may draw a sad but profitable moral from thisfuneral-knell."

  But, though the clergyman might have given his moral even a keenerpoint, he did not fail to despatch an attendant to inquire into themystery and stop those sounds so dismally appropriate to such amarriage. A brief space elapsed, during which the silence was brokenonly by whispers and a few suppressed titterings among thewedding-party and the spectators, who after the first shock weredisposed to draw an ill-natured merriment from the affair. The younghave less charity for aged follies than the old for those of youth.The widow's glance was observed to wander for an instant toward awindow of the church, as if searching for the time-worn marble thatshe had dedicated to her first husband; then her eyelids dropped overtheir faded orbs and her thoughts were drawn irresistibly to anothergrave. Two buried men with a voice at her ear and a cry afar off werecalling her to lie down beside them. Perhaps, with momentary truth offeeling, she thought how much happier had been her fate if, afteryears of bliss, the bell were now tolling for her funeral and she werefollowed to the grave by the old affection of her earliest lover, longher husband. But why had she returned to him when their cold heartsshrank from each other's embrace?

  Still the death-bell tolled so mournfully that the sunshine seemed tofade in the air. A whisper, communicated from those who stood nearestthe windows, now spread through the church: a hearse with a train ofseveral coaches was creeping along the street, conveying some dead manto the churchyard, while the bride awaited a living one at the altar.Immediately after, the footsteps of the bridegroom and his friendswere heard at the door. The widow looked down the aisle and clenchedthe arm of one of her bridemaids in her bony hand with suchunconscious violence that the fair girl trembled.

  "You frighten me, my dear madam," cried she. "For heaven's sake, whatis the matter?"

  "Nothing, my dear--nothing," said the widow; then, whispering close toher ear, "There is a foolish fancy that I cannot get rid of. I amexpecting my bridegroom to come into the church with my two firsthusbands for groomsmen."

  "Look! look!" screamed the bridemaid. "What is here? The funeral!"

  As she spoke a dark procession paced into the church. First came anold man and woman, like chief mourners at a funeral, attired from headto foot in the deepest black, all but their pale features and hoaryhair, he leaning on a staff and supporting her decrepit form with hisnerveless arm. Behind appeared another and another pair, as aged, asblack and mournful as the first. As they drew near the widowrecognized in every face some trait of former friends long forgotten,but now returning as if from their old graves to warn her to prepare ashroud, or, with purpose almost as unwelcome, to exhibit theirwrinkles and infirmity and claim her as their companion by the tokensof her own decay. Many a merry night had she danced with them inyouth, and now in joyless age she felt that some withered partnershould request her hand and all unite in a dance of death to the musicof the funeral-bell.

  While these aged mourners were passing up the aisle it was observedthat from pew to pew the spectators shuddered with irrepressible aweas some object hitherto concealed by the intervening figures came fullin sight. Many turned away their faces; others kept a fixed and rigidstare, and a young girl giggled hysterically and fainted with thelaughter on her lips. When the spectral procession approached thealtar, each couple separated and slowly diverged, till in the centreappeared a form that had been worthily ushered in with all this gloomypomp, the death-knell and the funeral. It was the bridegroom in hisshroud.

  No garb but that of the grave could have befitted such a death-likeaspect. The eyes, indeed, had the wild gleam of a sepulchral lamp; allelse was fixed in the stern calmness which old men wear in the coffin.The corpse stood motionless, but addressed the widow in accents thatseemed to melt into the clang of the bell, which fell heavily on theair while he spoke.

  "Come, my bride!" said those pale lips. "The hearse is ready; thesexton stands waiting for us at the door of the tomb. Let us bemarried, and then to our coffins!"

  How shall the widow's horror be represented? It gave her theghastliness of a dead man's bride. Her youthful friends stood apart,shuddering at the mourners, the shrouded bridegroom and herself; thewhole scene expressed by the strongest imagery the vain struggle ofthe gilded vanities of this world when opposed to age, infirmity,sorrow and death.

  The awestruck silence was first broken by the clergyman.

  "Mr. Ellenwood," said he, soothingly, yet with somewhat of authority,"you are not well. Your mind has been agitated by the unusualcircumstances in which you are placed. The ceremony must be deferred.As an old friend, let me entreat you to return home."

  "Home--yes; but not without my bride," answered he, in the same hollowaccents. "You deem this mockery--perhaps madness. Had I bedizened myaged and broken frame with scarlet and embroidery, had I forced mywithered lips to smile at my dead heart, that might have been mockeryor madness; but now let young and old declare which of us has comehither without a wedding-garment--the bridegroom or the bride."

  He stepped forward at a ghostly pace and stood beside the widow,contrasting the awful simplicity of his shroud with the glare andglitter in which she had arrayed herself for this unhappy scene. Nonethat beheld them could deny the terrible strength of the moral whichhis disordered intellect had contrived to draw.

  "Cruel! cruel!" groaned the heartstricken bride.

  "Cruel?" repeated he; then, losing his deathlike composure in a wildbitterness, "Heaven judge which of us has been cruel to the other! Inyouth you deprived me of my happiness, my hopes, my aims; you tookaway all the substance of my life and made it a dream without realityenough even to grieve at--with only a pervading gloom, through which Iwalked wearily and cared not whither. But after forty years, when Ihave built my tomb and would not give up the thought of restingthere--no, not for such a life as we once pictured--you call me to thealtar. At your summons I am here. But other husbands have enjoyed youryouth, your beauty, your warmth of heart and all that could be termedyour life. What is there for me but your decay and death? Andtherefore I have bidden these funeral-friends, and bespoken thesexton's deepest knell, and am come in my shroud to wed you as with aburial-service, that we may join our hands at the door of thesepulchre and enter it together."

  It was not frenzy, it was not merely the drunkenness of strong emotionin a heart unused to it, that now wrought upon the bride. The sternlesson of the day had done its work; her worldliness was gone. Sheseized the bridegroom's hand.

  "Yes!" cried she; "let us wed even at the door of the sepulchre. Mylife is gone in vanity and emptiness, but at its close there is onetrue feeling. It has made me what I was in youth: it makes me worthyof you. Time is no more for both of us. Let us wed for eternity."

  With a long and deep regard the bridegroom looked into her eyes, whilea tear was gathering in his own. How strange that gush of humanfeeling from the frozen bosom of a corpse! He wiped away the tear,even with his shroud.

  "Beloved of my youth," said he, "I have been wild. The despair of mywhole lifetime had returned at once and maddened me. Forgive and beforgiven. Yes; it is evening with us now, and we have realized none ofour morning dreams of happiness. But let us join our hands before thealtar as lovers whom adverse circumstances have separated throughlife, yet who meet again as they are leaving it and find their earthlyaffection changed into something holy as religion. And what is time tothe married of eternity?"

  Amid the tears of many and a swell of exalted sentiment in those whofelt aright was solemnized the union of two immortal souls. The trainof withered mourners, the hoary bridegroom in his shroud, the palefeatures of the aged bride and the death-bell tolling through thewhole till its deep voice overpowered the marriage-words,
--all markedthe funeral of earthly hopes. But as the ceremony proceeded, theorgan, as if stirred by the sympathies of this impressive scene,poured forth an anthem, first mingling with the dismal knell, thenrising to a loftier strain, till the soul looked down upon its woe.And when the awful rite was finished and with cold hand in cold handthe married of eternity withdrew, the organ's peal of solemn triumphdrowned the wedding-knell.