NATHANIEL HAWTHORNE
(1804-1864)
Introduction
The Old Maid in the Winding Sheet
The modern
concept of ghosts being clothed in sheets can be traced back to “The Old Maid
in the Winding Sheet.” The story also furthers the perpetuation of the pale and
gliding (or hovering) ghost.
“The Old Maid
in the Winding Sheet” was widely reprinted as were most of Hawthorne’s short
stories and novels. The story was first published in the July 1835 edition of
the New England Magazine along with
“The White Old Maid.” Hawthorne subsequently included it in his 1837 collection
Twice-Told Tales. I included it in the annotated collection Phantasmal: Best Ghost Short Stories 1800-1849.
Edgar Allan Poe felt national
pride in the collection as he pointed out a number of times, the last of which
was published in Works of 1850. “Of
Mr. Hawthorne’s Tales we would say, emphatically, that they belong to the
highest region of Art — an Art subservient to genius of a very lofty order. We
had supposed, with good reason for so supposing, that he had been thrust into
his present position by one of the impudent cliques which beset our literature,
and whose pretensions it is our full purpose to expose at the earliest
opportunity; but we have been most agreeably mistaken. We know of few
compositions which the critic can more honestly commend then these ‘Twice-Told
Tales.’ As Americans, we feel proud of the book.”
The Old English
turns of phrase are an annoyance in “The Old Maid in the Winding Sheet,” and at
times make a person feel they are reading The
King James Bible. Still, this is the finest example of Nathaniel
Hawthorne’s literary prowess in the supernatural realm.
His power of
suggestion throughout is surpassed only by his creepy story “The Minister’s
Black Veil” that was included in 6a66le: The Best Horror Short Stories 1800-1849.
Andrew Barger
The Old Maid in the
Winding Sheet
(1835)
The
moon-beams came through two deep and narrow windows, and showed a
spacious chamber, richly furnished in an antique fashion. From one lattice, the
shadow of the diamond panes was thrown upon the floor; the ghostly light
through the other slept upon a bed, falling between the heavy silken curtains,
and illuminating the face of a young man. But, how quietly the slumberer lay;
how pale his features; and how like a shroud the sheet was wound about his
frame! Yes, it was a corpse in its burial clothes.
Suddenly, the
fixed features seemed to move with dark emotion. Strange fantasy! It was but
the shadow of the fringed curtain, waving betwixt the dead face and the
moonlight, as the door of the chamber opened, and a girl stole softly to the
bedside. Was there delusion in the moonbeams, or did her gesture and her eye
betray a gleam of triumph, as she bent over the pale corpse—pale as itself—and
pressed her living lips to the cold ones of the dead? As she drew back from
that long kiss, her features writhed as if a proud heart were fighting with its
anguish. Again it seemed that the features of the corpse had moved, responsive
to her own. Still an illusion! The silken curtain had waved, a second time,
betwixt the dead face and the moonlight, as another fair young girl unclosed
the door, and glided ghost-like to the bedside. There the two maidens stood,
both beautiful, with the pale beauty of the dead between them. But she who had
first entered was proud and stately, and the other a soft and fragile thing.
“Away!” cried
the lofty one. “Thou hadst him living! The dead is mine!”
“Thine!”
returned the other, shuddering. “Well hast thou spoken! The dead is thine!”
The proud girl
started, and stared into her face with a ghastly look. But a wild and
mournful expression passed across the features of the gentle one; and, weak and
helpless, she sank down on the bed, her head pillowed beside that of the
corpse, and her hair mingling with his dark locks. A creature of hope and joy,
the first draught of sorrow had bewildered her.
“Patience!”
cried her rival.
Patience
groaned, as with a sudden compression of the heart; and removing her cheek from
the dead youth’s pillow, she stood upright, fearfully encountering the eyes of
the lofty girl.
“Wilt thou
betray me?” said the latter calmly.
“Till the dead
bid me speak, I will be silent,” answered Patience. “Leave us alone together!
Go, and live many years, and then return and tell me of thy life. He, too, will
be here! Then, if thou tellest of sufferings more than death, we will both
forgive thee!”
“And what shall
be the token?” asked the proud girl, as if her heart acknowledged a meaning in
these wild words.
“This lock of
hair,” said Patience, lifting one of the dark clustering curls that lay heavily
on the dead man’s brow.
The two maidens
joined their hands over the bosom of the corpse, and appointed a day and hour,
far, far in time to come, for their next meeting in that chamber. The statelier
girl gave one deep look at the motionless countenance, and departed—yet turned
again and trembled, ere she closed the door, almost believing that her dead
lover frowned upon her. And Patience, too! Was not her white form fading into
the moonlight? Scorning her own weakness, she went forth and perceived that a
negro slave was waiting in the passage with a wax-light, which he held between
her face and his own, and regarded her, as she thought, with an ugly expression
of merriment. Lifting his torch on high, the slave lighted her down the
staircase, and undid the portal of the mansion. The young clergyman of the town
had just ascended the steps, and bowing to the lady, passed in without a word.
Years, many
years rolled on; the world seemed new again, so much older was it grown, since
the night when those pale girls had clasped their hands across the bosom of the
corpse. In the interval, a lonely woman had passed from youth to extreme age,
and was known by all the town, as the “Old Maid in the Winding Sheet.” A taint
of insanity had affected her whole life, but so quiet, sad, and gentle, so
utterly free from violence, that she was suffered to pursue her harmless
fantasies, unmolested by the world, with whose business or pleasures she had
nought to do.
She dwelt
alone, and never came into the daylight, except to follow funerals. Whenever a
corpse was borne along the street, in sunshine, rain, or snow, whether a
pompous train of the rich and proud thronged after it, or few and humble were
the mourners, behind them came the lonely woman, in a long white garment, which
the people called her shroud. She took no place among the kindred or the
friends, but stood at the door to hear the funeral prayer, and walked in the
rear of the procession, as one whose earthly charge it was to haunt the house
of mourning, and be the shadow of affliction, and see that the dead were duly
buried. So long had this been her custom, that the inhabitants of the town
deemed her a part of every funeral, as much as the coffin-pall, or the very corpse itself, and augured ill of the sinner’s destiny, unless the
“Old Maid in the Winding Sheet” came gliding, like a ghost, behind. Once, it is
said, she affrighted a bridal party with her pale presence, appearing suddenly
in the illuminated hall, just as the priest was uniting a false maid to a
wealthy man, before her lover had been dead a year. Evil was the omen to that
marriage! Sometimes she stole forth by moonlight, and visited the graves of
venerable integrity, and wedded love, and virgin innocence, and every spot
where the ashes of a kind and faithful heart were mouldering.
Over the
hillocks of those favoured dead would she stretch out her arms, with a gesture,
as if she were scattering seeds; and many believed that she sought them from
the garden of Paradise; for the graves which she had visited were green beneath
the snow, and covered with sweet flowers from April to November. Her blessing
was better than a holy verse upon the tomb-stone. Thus wore away her long, sad,
peaceful, and fantastic life, till few were so old as she, and the people of
later generations wondered how the dead had ever been buried, or mourners had
endured their grief, without the “Old Maid in the Winding Sheet.”
Still, years
went on, and still she followed funerals, and was not yet summoned to her own
festival of death. One afternoon, the great street of the town was all alive
with business and bustle, though the sun now gilded only the upper half of the
church-spire, having left the house-tops and loftiest trees in shadow. The
scene was cheerful and animated, in spite of the sombre shade between the high
brick buildings. Here were pompous merchants, in white wigs and laced velvet;
the bronzed faces of sea-captains; the foreign garb and air of Spanish creoles;
and the disdainful port of natives of Old England; all contrasted with the rough
aspect of one or two backsettlers, negotiating sales of timber, from forests
where axe had never sounded. Sometimes a lady passed, swelling roundly forth in
an embroidered petticoat, balancing her steps in high-heeled shoes, and
courtesying, with lofty grace, to the punctilious obeisances of the gentlemen.
The life of the
town seemed to have its very centre not far from an old mansion, that stood
somewhat back from the pavement, surrounded by neglected grass, with a strange
air of loneliness, rather deepened than dispelled by the throng so near it. Its
site would have been suitably occupied by a magnificent exchange, or a
brick-block, lettered all over with various signs; or the large house itself
might have made a noble tavern, with the “King’s Arms” swinging before it; and
guests in every chamber, instead of the present solitude. But, owing to some
dispute about the right of inheritance, the mansion had been long without a
tenant, decaying from year to year, and throwing the stately gloom of its
shadow over the busiest part of the town. Such was the scene, and such the
time, when a figure, unlike any that have been described, was observed at a
distance down the street.
“I espy a
strange sail, yonder,” remarked a Liverpool captain; “that woman in the long white
garment!”
The sailor
seemed much struck by the object, as were several others, who at the same
moment caught a glimpse of the figure that had attracted his notice. Almost
immediately, the various topics of conversation gave place to speculations, in an
under tone, on this unwonted occurrence.
“Can there be a
funeral so late this afternoon?” inquired some.
They looked for
the signs of death at every door—the sexton, the hearse, the assemblage of black-clad relatives—all that makes up the woeful
pomp of funerals. They raised their eyes, also, to the sun-gilt spire of the
church, and wondered that no clang proceeded from its bell, which had always
tolled till now, when this figure appeared in the light of day. But none had
heard that a corpse was to be borne to its home that afternoon, nor was there
any token of a funeral, except the apparition of the “Old Maid in the Winding Sheet.”
“What may this
portend?” asked each man of his neighbour.
All smiled as
they put the question, yet with a certain trouble in their eyes, as if
pestilence, or some other wide calamity, were prognosticated by the untimely
intrusion, among the living, of one whose presence had always been associated
with death and woe. What a comet is to the earth, was that sad woman to the town.
Still she moved on, while the hum of surprise was hushed at her approach, and
the proud and the humble stood aside that her white garment might not wave
against them. It was a long, loose robe, of spotless purity. Its wearer
appeared very old, pale, emaciated, and feeble, yet glided onward, without the
unsteady pace of extreme age.
At one point of
her course, a little rosy boy burst forth from a door, and ran, with open arms,
towards the ghostly woman, seeming to expect a kiss from her bloodless lips.
She made a slight pause, fixing her eye upon him with an expression of no
earthly sweetness, so that the child shivered and stood awe-struck, rather than
affrighted, while the Old Maid passed on. Perhaps her garment might have been
polluted, even by an infant’s touch; perhaps her kiss would have been death to
the sweet boy, within the year.
“She is but a
shadow!” whispered the superstitious. “The child put forth his arms, and could
not grasp her robe!”
The wonder was
increased, when the Old Maid passed beneath the porch of the deserted mansion,
ascended the moss-covered steps, lifted the iron knocker, and gave three raps.
The people could only conjecture, that some old remembrance, troubling her
bewildered brain, had impelled the poor woman hither to visit the friends of
her youth; all gone from their home, long since and for ever, unless their
ghosts still haunted it—fit company for the “Old Maid in the Winding Sheet.” An
elderly man approached the steps, and reverently uncovering his gray locks,
essayed to explain the matter.
“None, Madam,”
said he, “have dwelt in this house these fifteen years agone—no, not since the
death of old Colonel Fenwicke, whose funeral you may have remembered to have
followed.—His heirs, being ill agreed among themselves, have let the
mansion-house go to ruin.”
The Old Maid
looked slowly round, with a slight gesture of one hand, and a finger of
the other upon her lip, appeared more shadow-like than ever, in the obscurity
of the porch. But, again she lifted the hammer, and gave, this time, a single
rap. Could it be, that a foot-step was now heard, coming down the staircase of
the old mansion, which all conceived to have been so long untenanted? Slowly,
feebly, yet heavily, like the pace of an aged and infirm person, the step
approached, more distinct on every downward stair, till it reached the portal.
The bar fell on the inside; the door was opened. One upward glance, towards the
church-spire, whence the sunshine had just faded, was the last the people saw
of the “Old Maid in the Winding Sheet.”
“Who undid the
door?” asked many.
This question,
owing to the depth of shadow beneath the porch, no one could satisfactorily
answer. Two or three aged men, while protesting against an inference which
might be drawn, affirmed that the person within was a negro, and bore a
singular resemblance to old Caesar, formerly a slave in the house, but freed by
death some thirty years before.
“Her summons
has waked up a servant of the old family,” said one, half seriously.
“Let us wait
here,” replied another. “More guests will knock at the door anon. But the gate
of the grave-yard should be thrown open!”
Twilight had
overspread the town, before the crowd began to separate, or the comments on
this incident were exhausted. One after another was wending his way homeward,
when a coach—no common spectacle in those days—drove slowly into the street. It
was an old-fashioned equipage, hanging close to the ground, with arms on the
pannels, a footman behind, and a grave, corpulent coachman, seated high in front, the whole giving an idea of solemn state and
dignity. There was something awful in the heavy rumbling of the wheels. The
coach rolled down the street, till, coming to the gateway of the deserted
mansion, it drew up, and the footman sprang to the ground.
“Whose grand
coach is this?” asked a very inquisitive body.
The footman
made no reply, but ascended the steps of the old house, gave three raps with
the iron hammer, and returned to open the coach-door. An old man, possessed of
the heraldic lore so
common in that day, examined the shield of arms on the pannel.
“Azure, lion’s
head erased, between three flower de luces,” said he; then whispered the name
of the family to whom these bearings belonged. The last inheritor of its
honours was recently dead, after a long residence amid the splendour of the
British court, where his birth and wealth had given him no mean station. “He
left no child,” continued the herald, “and these arms, being in a lozenge,
betoken that the coach appertains to his widow.”
Further
disclosures, perhaps, might have been made, had not the speaker suddenly been
struck dumb, by the stern eye of an ancient lady, who thrust forth her head
from the coach, preparing to descend. As she emerged, the people saw that her
dress was magnificent, and her figure dignified, in spite of age and
infirmity—a stately ruin, but with a look, at once, of pride and wretchedness.
Her strong and rigid features had an awe about them, unlike that of the white
Old Maid, but as of something evil.
She passed up
the steps, leaning on a gold-headed cane; the door swung open, as she
ascended—and the light of a torch glittered on the embroidery of her dress, and
gleamed on the pillars of the porch. After a momentary pause—a glance
backwards—and then a desperate effort—she went in. The decypherer of the coat
of arms had ventured up the lowest step, and shrinking back immediately, pale
and tremulous, affirmed that the torch was held by the very image of old
Caesar.
“But, such a
hideous grin,” added he, “was never seen on the face of mortal man, black or
white! It will haunt me till my dying day.”
Meantime the
coach had wheeled round, with a prodigious clatter on the pavement, and rumbled
up the street, disappearing in the twilight, while the ear still tracked its
course. Scarcely was it gone, when the people began to question, whether the
coach and attendants, the ancient lady, the spectre of old Caesar, and the Old
Maid herself, were not all a strangely combined delusion with some dark purport
in its mystery.
The whole town
was astir, so that, instead of dispersing, the crowd continually increased, and
stood gazing up at the windows of the mansion, now silvered by the brightening
moon. The elders, glad to indulge the narrative propensity of age, told of the
long faded splendour of the family, the entertainments they had given, and the
guests, the greatest of the land, and even titled and noble ones from abroad,
who had passed beneath that portal.
These graphic
reminiscences seemed to call up the ghosts of those to whom they referred. So
strong was the impression, on some of the more imaginative hearers, that two or
three were seized with trembling fits, at one and the same moment, protesting
that they had distinctly heard three other raps of the iron knocker.
“Impossible!”
exclaimed others. “See! The moon shines beneath the porch, and shows every part
of it, except in the narrow shade of that pillar. There is no one there!” “Did
not the door open?” whispered one of these fanciful persons. “Didst thou see
it, too?” said his companion, in a startled tone. But the general sentiment was
opposed to the idea, that a third visitant had made application at the door of
the deserted house. A few, however, adhered to this new marvel, and even
declared that a red gleam, like that of a torch, had shone through the great
front window, as if the negro were lighting a guest up the staircase. This,
too, was pronounced a mere fantasy. But, at once, the whole multitude started,
and each man beheld his own terror painted in the faces of all the rest. ‘‘What
an awful thing is this!” cried they.
A shriek, too
fearfully distinct for doubt, had been heard within the mansion, breaking forth
suddenly, and succeeded by a deep stillness, as if a heart had burst in giving
it utterance. The people knew not whether to fly from the very sight of the
house, or to rush trembling in, and search out the strange mystery. Amid their
confusion and affright, they were somewhat reassured by the appearance of their
clergyman, a venerable patriarch, and equally a saint, who had taught them and
their fathers the way to heaven, for more than the space of an ordinary
lifetime.
He was a
reverend figure, with long, white hair upon his shoulders, a white beard upon
his breast, and a back so bent over his staff, that ho seemed to be looking
downward, continually, as if to choose a proper grave for his weary frame. It
was sometime before the good old man, being deaf and of impaired intellect,
could be made to comprehend such portions of the affair as were comprehensible
at all. But, when possessed of the facts, his energies assumed unexpected
vigour.
“Verily,” said
the old gentleman, “it will be fitting that I enter the mansion house of the
worthy Colonel Fenwicke, lest any harm should have befallen that true Christian
woman, whom ye call the ‘Old Maid in the Winding Sheet.’”
Behold, then,
the venerable clergyman ascended the steps of the mansion, with a torch-bearer
behind him. It was the elderly man who had spoken to the Old Maid, and the same
who had afterwards explained the shield of arms, and recognised the features of
the negro. Like their predecessors, they gave three raps with the iron hammer.
“Old Caesar cometh not,” observed the priest. “Well I wot, he no longer doth
service in this mansion.”
“Assuredly,
then, it was something worse, in old Caesar’s likeness!” said the other
adventurer.
“Be it as God
wills,” answered the clergyman. “See! my strength, though it be much decayed,
hath sufficient to open this heavy door. Let us enter, and pass up the
staircase.”
Here occurred a
singular exemplification of the dreamy state of a very old man’s mind. As they
ascended the wide flight of stairs, the aged clergyman appeared to move with
caution, occasionally standing aside and oftener bending his head as it were in
salutation, thus practising all the gestures of one who makes his way through a
throng. Reaching the head of the staircase, he looked around with sad and
solemn benignity, laid aside his staff, bared his hoary locks, and was evidently on the point of commencing a prayer.
“Reverend sir,”
said his attendant, who conceived this a very suitable prelude to their further search, “would
it not be well that the people join with us in prayer?”
“Well-a-day!”
cried the old gentleman, staring strangely around him. “Art thou here with me,
and none other? Verily, past times were present to me, and I deemed that I was
to make a funeral prayer, as many a time heretofore, from the head of this
staircase. Of a truth, I saw the shades of many that are gone. Yea, I have
prayed at their burials, one after another, and the ‘Old Maid in the Winding
Sheet’ hath seen them to their graves!”
Being now more
thoroughly awake to their present purpose, he took his staff, and struck
forcibly on the floor, till there came an echo from each deserted chamber, but
no menial, to answer their summons. They therefore walked along the passage,
and again paused, opposite to the great front window, through which was seen
the crowd, in the shadow and partial moonlight of the street beneath. On their
right was the open door of a chamber, and a closed one on their left. The
clergyman pointed his cane to the carved oak pannel of the latter.
“Within that
chamber,” observed he, “a whole lifetime since, did I sit by the death-bed of a
goodly young man, who, being now at the last gasp”—
Apparently,
there was some powerful excitement in the ideas which had now flashed across
his mind. He snatched the torch from his companion’s hand, and threw open the
door with such sudden violence, that the flame was extinguished, leaving them
no other light than the moonbeams which fell through two windows into the
spacious chamber. It was sufficient to discover all that could be known.
In a
high-backed, oaken arm chair, upright, with her hands clasped across her
breast, and her head thrown back, sat the “Old Maid in the Winding Sheet.” The
stately dame had fallen on her knees, with her forehead on the holy knees of
the Old Maid, one hand upon the floor, and the other pressed convulsively
against her heart. It clutched a lock of hair, once sable, now discoloured with a greenish mould. As the priest and layman advanced into
the chamber, the Old Maid’s features assumed such a semblance of shifting
expression, that they trusted to hear the whole mystery explained by a single
word. But it was only the shadow of a tattered curtain, waving betwixt the dead
face and the moonlight.
“Both dead!” said the venerable man. “Then who
shall divulge the secret? Methinks it glimmers to-and-fro in my mind, like the
light and shadow across the Old Maid’s face. And now, ‘tis gone!”
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