"Hawthorne, Nathaniel - Lady Eleanores Mantle" - читать интересную книгу автора (Hawthorne Nathaniel)

one of the stately mirrors has not preserved a picture of the scene,
which, by the very traits that were so transitory, might have taught
us much that would be worth knowing and remembering!

Would, at least, that either painter or mirror could convey to us
some faint idea of a garment, already noticed in this legend- the Lady
Eleanore's embroidered mantle- which the gossips whispered was
invested with magic properties, so as to lend a new and untried
grace to her figure each time that she put it on! Idle fancy as it is,
this mysterious mantle has thrown an awe around my image of her,
partly from its fabled virtues, and partly because it was the
handiwork of a dying woman, and, perchance, owed the fantastic grace
of its conception to the delirium of approaching death.

After the ceremonial greetings had been paid, Lady Eleanore
Rochcliffe stood apart from the mob of guests, insulating herself
within a small and distinguished circle, to whom she accorded a more
cordial favor than to the general throng. The waxen torches threw
their radiance vividly over the scene, bringing out its brilliant
points in strong relief; but she gazed carelessly, and with now and
then an expression of weariness or scorn, tempered with such
feminine grace that her auditors scarcely perceived the moral
deformity of which it was the utterance. She beheld the spectacle
not with vulgar ridicule, as disdaining to be pleased with the
provincial mockery of a court festival, but with the deeper scorn of
one whose spirit held itself too high to participate in the
enjoyment of other human souls. Whether or no the recollections of
those who saw her that evening were influenced by the strange events
with which she was subsequently connected, so it was that her figure
ever after recurred to them as marked by something wild and unnatural-
although, at the time, the general whisper was of her exceeding
beauty, and of the indescribable charm which her mantle threw around
her. Some close observers, indeed, detected a feverish flush and
alternate paleness of countenance, with a corresponding flow and
revulsion of spirits, and once or twice a painful and helpless
betrayal of lassitude, as if she were on the point of sinking to the
ground. Then, with a nervous shudder, she seemed to arouse her
energies and threw some bright and playful yet half-wicked sarcasm
into the conversation. There was so strange a characteristic in her
manners and sentiments that it astonished every right-minded listener;
till looking in her face, a lurking and incomprehensible glance and
smile perplexed them with doubts both as to her seriousness and
sanity. Gradually, Lady Eleanore Rochcliffe's circle grew smaller,
till only four gentlemen remained in it. These were Captain
Langford, the English officer before mentioned; a Virginian planter,
who had come to Massachusetts on some political errand; a young
Episcopal clergyman, the grandson of a British earl; and, lastly,
the private secretary of Governor Shute, whose obsequiousness had
won a sort of tolerance from Lady Eleanore.