Zenobia bade us welcome, in a fine, frank, mellow voice, and gave each of us her hand, which was very soft and warm.She had something appropriate, I recollect, to say to every individual; and what she said to myself was this :--"I have long wished to know you, Mr.Coverdale, and to thank you for your beautiful poetry, some of which I have learned by heart; or rather it has stolen into my memory, without my exercising any choice or volition about the matter.Of course--permit me to say you do not think of relinquishing an occupation in which you have done yourself so much credit.I would almost rather give you up as an associate, than that the world should lose one of its true poets!""Ah, no; there will not be the slightest danger of that, especially after this inestimable praise from Zenobia," said I, smiling, and blushing, no doubt, with excess of pleasure."I hope, on the contrary, now to produce something that shall really deserve to be called poetry,--true, strong, natural, and sweet, as is the life which we are going to lead,--something that shall have the notes of wild birds twittering through it, or a strain like the wind anthems in the woods, as the case may be.""Is it irksome to you to hear your own verses sung?" asked Zenobia, with a gracious smile."If so, I am very sorry, for you will certainly hear me singing them sometimes, in the summer evenings.""Of all things," answered I, "that is what will delight me most."While this passed, and while she spoke to my companions, I was taking note of Zenobia's aspect; and it impressed itself on me so distinctly, that I can now summon her up, like a ghost, a little wanner than the life but otherwise identical with it.She was dressed as simply as possible, in an American print (I think the dry-goods people call it so), but with a silken kerchief, between which and her gown there was one glimpse of a white shoulder.It struck me as a great piece of good fortune that there should be just that glimpse.Her hair, which was dark, glossy, and of singular abundance, was put up rather soberly and primly--without curls, or other ornament, except a single flower.It was an exotic of rare beauty, and as fresh as if the hothouse gardener had just clipt it from the stem.That flower has struck deep root into my memory.I can both see it and smell it, at this moment.So brilliant, so rare, so costly as it must have been, and yet enduring only for a day, it was more indicative of the pride and pomp which had a luxuriant growth in Zenobia's character than if a great diamond had sparkled among her hair.
Her hand, though very soft, was larger than most women would like to have, or than they could afford to have, though not a whit too large in proportion with the spacious plan of Zenobia's entire development.It did one good to see a fine intellect (as hers really was, although its natural tendency lay in another direction than towards literature) so fitly cased.She was, indeed, an admirable figure of a woman, just on the hither verge of her richest maturity, with a combination of features which it is safe to call remarkably beautiful, even if some fastidious persons might pronounce them a little deficient in softness and delicacy.
But we find enough of those attributes everywhere.Preferable--by way of variety, at least--was Zenobia's bloom, health, and vigor, which she possessed in such overflow that a man might well have fallen in love with her for their sake only.In her quiet moods, she seemed rather indolent;but when really in earnest, particularly if there were a spice of bitter feeling, she grew all alive to her finger-tips.
"I am the first comer," Zenobia went on to say, while her smile beamed warmth upon us all; "so I take the part of hostess for to-day, and welcome you as if to my own fireside.You shall be my guests, too, at supper.Tomorrow, if you please, we will be brethren and sisters, and begin our new life from daybreak.""Have we our various parts assigned?" asked some one.
"Oh, we of the softer ***," responded Zenobia, with her mellow, almost broad laugh,--most delectable to hear, but not in the least like an ordinary woman's laugh,--"we women (there are four of us here already)will take the domestic and indoor part of the business, as a matter of course.To bake, to boil, to roast, to fry, to stew,--to wash, and iron, and scrub, and sweep,--and, at our idler intervals, to repose ourselves on knitting and sewing,--these, I suppose, must be feminine occupations, for the present.By and by, perhaps, when our individual adaptations begin to develop themselves, it may be that some of us who wear the petticoat will go afield, and leave the weaker brethren to take our places in the kitchen.""What a pity," I remarked, "that the kitchen, and the housework generally, cannot be left out of our system altogether! It is odd enough that the kind of labor which falls to the lot of women is just that which chiefly distinguishes artificial life--the life of degenerated mortals--from the life of Paradise.Eve had no dinner-pot, and no clothes to mend, and no washing-day.""I am afraid," said Zenobia, with mirth gleaming out of her eyes, "we shall find some difficulty in adopting the paradisiacal system for at least a month to come.Look at that snowdrift sweeping past the window!
Are there any figs ripe, do you think? Have the pineapples been gathered to-day? Would you like a bread-fruit, or a cocoanut? Shall I run out and pluck you some roses? No, no, Mr.Coverdale; the only flower hereabouts is the one in my hair, which I got out of a greenhouse this morning.As for the garb of Eden," added she, shivering playfully, "Ishall not assume it till after May-day!"
