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Title: The Scarlet Letter
Author: Nathaniel Hawthorne
Posting Date: December 18, 2011 [EBook #33] Release Date: February, 1992
Last Updated: June 2, 2017
Language: English
*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE SCARLET
LETTER ***
Produced by Dartmouth College

THE SCARLET LETTER

by Nathaniel Hawthorne
EDITOR’S NOTE

Nathaniel Hawthorne was already a man of forty-six, and a tale writer of

some twenty-four years’ standing, when “The Scarlet Letter” appeared. He
was born at Salem, Mass., on July 4th, 1804, son of a sea-captain. He led
there a shy and rather sombre life; of few artistic encouragements, yet not
wholly uncongenial, his moody, intensely meditative temperament being
considered. Its colours and shadows are marvelously reflected in his “Twice-
Told Tales” and other short stories, the product of his first literary period.
Even his college days at Bowdoin did not quite break through his acquired
and inherited reserve; but beneath it all, his faculty of divining men and
women was exercised with almost uncanny prescience and subtlety. “The
Scarlet Letter,” which explains as much of this unique imaginative art, as is to
be gathered from reading his highest single achievement, yet needs to be
ranged with his other writings, early and late, to have its last effect. In the
year that saw it published, he began “The House of the Seven Gables,” a later
romance or prose-tragedy of the Puritan-American community as he had
himself known it— defrauded of art and the joy of life, “starving for
symbols” as Emerson has it. Nathaniel Hawthorne died at Plymouth, New
Hampshire, on May 18th, 1864.
The following is the table of his romances, stories, and other works:
Fanshawe, published anonymously, 1826; Twice-Told Tales, 1st
Series, 1837; 2nd Series, 1842; Grandfather’s Chair, a history
for youth, 1845: Famous Old People (Grandfather’s Chair), 1841
Liberty Tree: with the last words of Grandfather’s Chair, 1842;
Biographical Stories for Children, 1842; Mosses from an Old
Manse, 1846; The Scarlet Letter, 1850; The House of the Seven
Gables, 1851: True Stories from History and Biography (the whole
History of Grandfather’s Chair), 1851 A Wonder Book for Girls and
Boys, 1851; The Snow Image and other Tales, 1851: The Blithedale
Romance, 1852; Life of Franklin Pierce, 1852; Tanglewood Tales
(2nd Series of the Wonder Book), 1853; A Rill from the Town-Pump,
with remarks, by Telba, 1857; The Marble Faun; or, The Romance of
Monte Beni (4 EDITOR’S NOTE) (published in England under the
title of “Transformation”), 1860, Our Old Home, 1863; Dolliver
Romance (1st Part in “Atlantic Monthly”), 1864; in 3 Parts, 1876;
Pansie, a fragment, Hawthorne’ last literary effort, 1864;
American Note-Books, 1868; English Note Books, edited by Sophia
Hawthorne, 1870; French and Italian Note Books, 1871; Septimius
Felton; or, the Elixir of Life (from the “Atlantic Monthly”),
1872; Doctor Grimshawe’s Secret, with Preface and Notes by
Julian Hawthorne, 1882.
Tales of the White Hills, Legends of New England, Legends of the
Province House, 1877, contain tales which had already been
printed in book form in “Twice-Told Tales” and the “Mosses”
“Sketched and Studies,” 1883.
Hawthorne’s contributions to magazines were numerous, and most of his tales
appeared first in periodicals, chiefly in “The Token,” 1831-1838, “New
England Magazine,” 1834,1835; “Knickerbocker,” 1837-1839; “Democratic
Review,” 1838-1846; “Atlantic Monthly,” 1860-1872 (scenes from the
Dolliver Romance, Septimius Felton, and passages from Hawthorne’s Note-
Books).
Works: in 24 volumes, 1879; in 12 volumes, with introductory notes by
Lathrop, Riverside Edition, 1883.
Biography, etc.; A. H. Japp (pseud. H. A. Page), Memoir of N. Hawthorne,
1872; J. T. Field’s “Yesterdays with Authors,” 1873 G. P. Lathrop, “A Study
of Hawthorne,” 1876; Henry James English Men of Letters, 1879; Julian
Hawthorne, “Nathaniel Hawthorne and his wife,” 1885; Moncure D. Conway,
Life of Nathaniel Hawthorne, 1891; Analytical Index of Hawthorne’s Works,
by E. M. O’Connor 1882.

CONTENTS

INTRODUCTORY. THE CUSTOM-HOUSE

CHAPTER I. THE PRISON-DOOR

CHAPTER II. THE MARKET-PLACE

CHAPTER III. THE RECOGNITION

CHAPTER IV. THE INTERVIEW

CHAPTER V. HESTER AT HER NEEDLE

CHAPTER VI. PEARL

CHAPTER VII. THE GOVERNOR’S HALL

CHAPTER VIII. THE ELF-CHILD AND THE MINISTER

CHAPTER IX. THE LEECH

CHAPTER X. THE LEECH AND HIS PATIENT

CHAPTER XI. THE INTERIOR OF A HEART

CHAPTER XII. THE MINISTER’S VIGIL

CHAPTER XIII. ANOTHER VIEW OF HESTER

CHAPTER XIV. HESTER AND THE PHYSICIAN

CHAPTER XV. HESTER AND PEARL

CHAPTER XVI. A FOREST WALK

CHAPTER XVII. THE PASTOR AND HIS PARISHIONER

CHAPTER XVIII. A FLOOD OF SUNSHINE

CHAPTER XIX. THE CHILD AT THE BROOK-SIDE

CHAPTER XX. THE MINISTER IN A MAZE

CHAPTER XXI. THE NEW ENGLAND HOLIDAY

CHAPTER XXII. THE PROCESSION

CHAPTER XXIII. THE REVELATION OF THE SCARLET LETTER

CHAPTER XXIV. CONCLUSION

THE CUSTOM-HOUSE
INTRODUCTORY TO “THE SCARLET LETTER”

It is a little remarkable, that—though disinclined to talk overmuch of myself

and my affairs at the fireside, and to my personal friends—an
autobiographical impulse should twice in my life have taken possession of
me, in addressing the public. The first time was three or four years since,
when I favoured the reader—inexcusably, and for no earthly reason that either
the indulgent reader or the intrusive author could imagine—with a description
of my way of life in the deep quietude of an Old Manse. And now—because,
beyond my deserts, I was happy enough to find a listener or two on the former
occasion—I again seize the public by the button, and talk of my three years’
experience in a Custom-House. The example of the famous “P. P., Clerk of
this Parish,” was never more faithfully followed. The truth seems to be,
however, that when he casts his leaves forth upon the wind, the author
addresses, not the many who will fling aside his volume, or never take it up,
but the few who will understand him better than most of his schoolmates or
lifemates. Some authors, indeed, do far more than this, and indulge
themselves in such confidential depths of revelation as could fittingly be
addressed only and exclusively to the one heart and mind of perfect
sympathy; as if the printed book, thrown at large on the wide world, were
certain to find out the divided segment of the writer’s own nature, and
complete his circle of existence by bringing him into communion with it. It is
scarcely decorous, however, to speak all, even where we speak impersonally.
But, as thoughts are frozen and utterance benumbed, unless the speaker stand
in some true relation with his audience, it may be pardonable to imagine that a
friend, a kind and apprehensive, though not the closest friend, is listening to
our talk; and then, a native reserve being thawed by this genial consciousness,
we may prate of the circumstances that lie around us, and even of ourself, but
still keep the inmost Me behind its veil. To this extent, and within these limits,
an author, methinks, may be autobiographical, without violating either the
reader’s rights or his own.
It will be seen, likewise, that this Custom-House sketch has a certain
propriety, of a kind always recognised in literature, as explaining how a large
portion of the following pages came into my possession, and as offering
proofs of the authenticity of a narrative therein contained. This, in fact—a
desire to put myself in my true position as editor, or very little more, of the
most prolix among the tales that make up my volume—this, and no other, is
my true reason for assuming a personal relation with the public. In
accomplishing the main purpose, it has appeared allowable, by a few extra
touches, to give a faint representation of a mode of life not heretofore
described, together with some of the characters that move in it, among whom
the author happened to make one.
In my native town of Salem, at the head of what, half a century ago, in the
days of old King Derby, was a bustling wharf—but which is now burdened
with decayed wooden warehouses, and exhibits few or no symptoms of
commercial life; except, perhaps, a bark or brig, half-way down its
melancholy length, discharging hides; or, nearer at hand, a Nova Scotia
schooner, pitching out her cargo of firewood—at the head, I say, of this
dilapidated wharf, which the tide often overflows, and along which, at the
base and in the rear of the row of buildings, the track of many languid years is
seen in a border of unthrifty grass—here, with a view from its front windows
adown this not very enlivening prospect, and thence across the harbour,
stands a spacious edifice of brick. From the loftiest point of its roof, during
precisely three and a half hours of each forenoon, floats or droops, in breeze
or calm, the banner of the republic; but with the thirteen stripes turned
vertically, instead of horizontally, and thus indicating that a civil, and not a
military, post of Uncle Sam’s government is here established. Its front is
ornamented with a portico of half-a-dozen wooden pillars, supporting a
balcony, beneath which a flight of wide granite steps descends towards the
street. Over the entrance hovers an enormous specimen of the American
eagle, with outspread wings, a shield before her breast, and, if I recollect
aright, a bunch of intermingled thunderbolts and barbed arrows in each claw.
With the customary infirmity of temper that characterizes this unhappy fowl,
she appears by the fierceness of her beak and eye, and the general truculency
of her attitude, to threaten mischief to the inoffensive community; and
especially to warn all citizens careful of their safety against intruding on the
premises which she overshadows with her wings. Nevertheless, vixenly as she
looks, many people are seeking at this very moment to shelter themselves
under the wing of the federal eagle; imagining, I presume, that her bosom has
all the softness and snugness of an eiderdown pillow. But she has no great
tenderness even in her best of moods, and, sooner or later—oftener soon than
late—is apt to fling off her nestlings with a scratch of her claw, a dab of her
beak, or a rankling wound from her barbed arrows.
The pavement round about the above-described edifice—which we may as
well name at once as the Custom-House of the port—has grass enough
growing in its chinks to show that it has not, of late days, been worn by any
multitudinous resort of business. In some months of the year, however, there
often chances a forenoon when affairs move onward with a livelier tread.
Such occasions might remind the elderly citizen of that period, before the last
war with England, when Salem was a port by itself; not scorned, as she is
now, by her own merchants and ship-owners, who permit her wharves to
crumble to ruin while their ventures go to swell, needlessly and imperceptibly,
the mighty flood of commerce at New York or Boston. On some such
morning, when three or four vessels happen to have arrived at once usually
from Africa or South America—or to be on the verge of their departure
thitherward, there is a sound of frequent feet passing briskly up and down the
granite steps. Here, before his own wife has greeted him, you may greet the
sea-flushed ship-master, just in port, with his vessel’s papers under his arm in
a tarnished tin box. Here, too, comes his owner, cheerful, sombre, gracious or
in the sulks, accordingly as his scheme of the now accomplished voyage has
been realized in merchandise that will readily be turned to gold, or has buried
him under a bulk of incommodities such as nobody will care to rid him of.
Here, likewise—the germ of the wrinkle-browed, grizzly-bearded, careworn
merchant—we have the smart young clerk, who gets the taste of traffic as a
wolf-cub does of blood, and already sends adventures in his master’s ships,
when he had better be sailing mimic boats upon a mill-pond. Another figure
in the scene is the outward-bound sailor, in quest of a protection; or the
recently arrived one, pale and feeble, seeking a passport to the hospital. Nor
must we forget the captains of the rusty little schooners that bring firewood
from the British provinces; a rough-looking set of tarpaulins, without the
alertness of the Yankee aspect, but contributing an item of no slight
importance to our decaying trade.
Cluster all these individuals together, as they sometimes were, with other
miscellaneous ones to diversify the group, and, for the time being, it made the
Custom-House a stirring scene. More frequently, however, on ascending the
steps, you would discern— in the entry if it were summer time, or in their
appropriate rooms if wintry or inclement weathers—a row of venerable
figures, sitting in old-fashioned chairs, which were tipped on their hind legs
back against the wall. Oftentimes they were asleep, but occasionally might be
heard talking together, in voices between a speech and a snore, and with that
lack of energy that distinguishes the occupants of alms-houses, and all other
human beings who depend for subsistence on charity, on monopolized labour,
or anything else but their own independent exertions. These old gentlemen—
seated, like Matthew at the receipt of custom, but not very liable to be
summoned thence, like him, for apostolic errands—were Custom-House
officers.
Furthermore, on the left hand as you enter the front door, is a certain room or
office, about fifteen feet square, and of a lofty height, with two of its arched
windows commanding a view of the aforesaid dilapidated wharf, and the third
looking across a narrow lane, and along a portion of Derby Street. All three
give glimpses of the shops of grocers, block-makers, slop-sellers, and ship-
chandlers, around the doors of which are generally to be seen, laughing and
gossiping, clusters of old salts, and such other wharf-rats as haunt the
Wapping of a seaport. The room itself is cobwebbed, and dingy with old
paint; its floor is strewn with grey sand, in a fashion that has elsewhere fallen
into long disuse; and it is easy to conclude, from the general slovenliness of
the place, that this is a sanctuary into which womankind, with her tools of
magic, the broom and mop, has very infrequent access. In the way of
furniture, there is a stove with a voluminous funnel; an old pine desk with a
three-legged stool beside it; two or three wooden-bottom chairs, exceedingly
decrepit and infirm; and—not to forget the library—on some shelves, a score
or two of volumes of the Acts of Congress, and a bulky Digest of the Revenue
laws. A tin pipe ascends through the ceiling, and forms a medium of vocal
communication with other parts of the edifice. And here, some six months
ago—pacing from corner to corner, or lounging on the long-legged stool, with
his elbow on the desk, and his eyes wandering up and down the columns of
the morning newspaper—you might have recognised, honoured reader, the
same individual who welcomed you into his cheery little study, where the
sunshine glimmered so pleasantly through the willow branches on the western
side of the Old Manse. But now, should you go thither to seek him, you would
inquire in vain for the Locofoco Surveyor. The besom of reform hath swept
him out of office, and a worthier successor wears his dignity and pockets his
emoluments.
This old town of Salem—my native place, though I have dwelt much away
from it both in boyhood and maturer years—possesses, or did possess, a hold
on my affection, the force of which I have never realized during my seasons
of actual residence here. Indeed, so far as its physical aspect is concerned,
with its flat, unvaried surface, covered chiefly with wooden houses, few or
none of which pretend to architectural beauty—its irregularity, which is
neither picturesque nor quaint, but only tame—its long and lazy street,
lounging wearisomely through the whole extent of the peninsula, with
Gallows Hill and New Guinea at one end, and a view of the alms-house at the
other—such being the features of my native town, it would be quite as
reasonable to form a sentimental attachment to a disarranged checker-board.
And yet, though invariably happiest elsewhere, there is within me a feeling
for Old Salem, which, in lack of a better phrase, I must be content to call
affection. The sentiment is probably assignable to the deep and aged roots
which my family has stuck into the soil. It is now nearly two centuries and a
quarter since the original Briton, the earliest emigrant of my name, made his
appearance in the wild and forest-bordered settlement which has since
become a city. And here his descendants have been born and died, and have
mingled their earthly substance with the soil, until no small portion of it must
necessarily be akin to the mortal frame wherewith, for a little while, I walk
the streets. In part, therefore, the attachment which I speak of is the mere
sensuous sympathy of dust for dust. Few of my countrymen can know what it
is; nor, as frequent transplantation is perhaps better for the stock, need they
consider it desirable to know.
But the sentiment has likewise its moral quality. The figure of that first
ancestor, invested by family tradition with a dim and dusky grandeur, was
present to my boyish imagination as far back as I can remember. It still haunts
me, and induces a sort of home-feeling with the past, which I scarcely claim
in reference to the present phase of the town. I seem to have a stronger claim
to a residence here on account of this grave, bearded, sable-cloaked, and
steeple-crowned progenitor—who came so early, with his Bible and his
sword, and trode the unworn street with such a stately port, and made so large
a figure, as a man of war and peace—a stronger claim than for myself, whose
name is seldom heard and my face hardly known. He was a soldier, legislator,
judge; he was a ruler in the Church; he had all the Puritanic traits, both good
and evil. He was likewise a bitter persecutor; as witness the Quakers, who
have remembered him in their histories, and relate an incident of his hard
severity towards a woman of their sect, which will last longer, it is to be
feared, than any record of his better deeds, although these were many. His
son, too, inherited the persecuting spirit, and made himself so conspicuous in
the martyrdom of the witches, that their blood may fairly be said to have left a
stain upon him. So deep a stain, indeed, that his dry old bones, in the Charter-
street burial-ground, must still retain it, if they have not crumbled utterly to
dust! I know not whether these ancestors of mine bethought themselves to
repent, and ask pardon of Heaven for their cruelties; or whether they are now
groaning under the heavy consequences of them in another state of being. At
all events, I, the present writer, as their representative, hereby take shame
upon myself for their sakes, and pray that any curse incurred by them—as I
have heard, and as the dreary and unprosperous condition of the race, for
many a long year back, would argue to exist—may be now and henceforth
removed.
Doubtless, however, either of these stern and black-browed Puritans would
have thought it quite a sufficient retribution for his sins that, after so long a
lapse of years, the old trunk of the family tree, with so much venerable moss
upon it, should have borne, as its topmost bough, an idler like myself. No aim
that I have ever cherished would they recognise as laudable; no success of
mine—if my life, beyond its domestic scope, had ever been brightened by
success—would they deem otherwise than worthless, if not positively
disgraceful. “What is he?” murmurs one grey shadow of my forefathers to the
other. “A writer of story books! What kind of business in life—what mode of
glorifying God, or being serviceable to mankind in his day and generation—
may that be? Why, the degenerate fellow might as well have been a fiddler!”
Such are the compliments bandied between my great grandsires and myself,
across the gulf of time! And yet, let them scorn me as they will, strong traits
of their nature have intertwined themselves with mine.
Planted deep, in the town’s earliest infancy and childhood, by these two
earnest and energetic men, the race has ever since subsisted here; always, too,
in respectability; never, so far as I have known, disgraced by a single
unworthy member; but seldom or never, on the other hand, after the first two
generations, performing any memorable deed, or so much as putting forward
a claim to public notice. Gradually, they have sunk almost out of sight; as old
houses, here and there about the streets, get covered half-way to the eaves by
the accumulation of new soil. From father to son, for above a hundred years,
they followed the sea; a grey-headed shipmaster, in each generation, retiring
from the quarter-deck to the homestead, while a boy of fourteen took the
hereditary place before the mast, confronting the salt spray and the gale which
had blustered against his sire and grandsire. The boy, also in due time, passed
from the forecastle to the cabin, spent a tempestuous manhood, and returned
from his world-wanderings, to grow old, and die, and mingle his dust with the
natal earth. This long connexion of a family with one spot, as its place of birth
and burial, creates a kindred between the human being and the locality, quite
independent of any charm in the scenery or moral circumstances that surround
him. It is not love but instinct. The new inhabitant—who came himself from a
foreign land, or whose father or grandfather came—has little claim to be
called a Salemite; he has no conception of the oyster-like tenacity with which
an old settler, over whom his third century is creeping, clings to the spot
where his successive generations have been embedded. It is no matter that the
place is joyless for him; that he is weary of the old wooden houses, the mud
and dust, the dead level of site and sentiment, the chill east wind, and the
chillest of social atmospheres;—all these, and whatever faults besides he may
see or imagine, are nothing to the purpose. The spell survives, and just as
powerfully as if the natal spot were an earthly paradise. So has it been in my
case. I felt it almost as a destiny to make Salem my home; so that the mould
of features and cast of character which had all along been familiar here—ever,
as one representative of the race lay down in the grave, another assuming, as
it were, his sentry-march along the main street—might still in my little day be
seen and recognised in the old town. Nevertheless, this very sentiment is an
evidence that the connexion, which has become an unhealthy one, should at
last be severed. Human nature will not flourish, any more than a potato, if it
be planted and re-planted, for too long a series of generations, in the same
worn-out soil. My children have had other birth-places, and, so far as their
fortunes may be within my control, shall strike their roots into unaccustomed
earth.
On emerging from the Old Manse, it was chiefly this strange, indolent,
unjoyous attachment for my native town that brought me to fill a place in
Uncle Sam’s brick edifice, when I might as well, or better, have gone
somewhere else. My doom was on me. It was not the first time, nor the
second, that I had gone away—as it seemed, permanently—but yet returned,
like the bad halfpenny, or as if Salem were for me the inevitable centre of the
universe. So, one fine morning I ascended the flight of granite steps, with the
President’s commission in my pocket, and was introduced to the corps of
gentlemen who were to aid me in my weighty responsibility as chief
executive officer of the Custom-House.
I doubt greatly—or, rather, I do not doubt at all—whether any public
functionary of the United States, either in the civil or military line, has ever
had such a patriarchal body of veterans under his orders as myself. The
whereabouts of the Oldest Inhabitant was at once settled when I looked at
them. For upwards of twenty years before this epoch, the independent
position of the Collector had kept the Salem Custom-House out of the
whirlpool of political vicissitude, which makes the tenure of office generally
so fragile. A soldier—New England’s most distinguished soldier—he stood
firmly on the pedestal of his gallant services; and, himself secure in the wise
liberality of the successive administrations through which he had held office,
he had been the safety of his subordinates in many an hour of danger and
heart-quake. General Miller was radically conservative; a man over whose
kindly nature habit had no slight influence; attaching himself strongly to
familiar faces, and with difficulty moved to change, even when change might
have brought unquestionable improvement. Thus, on taking charge of my
department, I found few but aged men. They were ancient sea-captains, for
the most part, who, after being tossed on every sea, and standing up sturdily
against life’s tempestuous blast, had finally drifted into this quiet nook,
where, with little to disturb them, except the periodical terrors of a
Presidential election, they one and all acquired a new lease of existence.
Though by no means less liable than their fellow-men to age and infirmity,
they had evidently some talisman or other that kept death at bay. Two or three
of their number, as I was assured, being gouty and rheumatic, or perhaps bed-
ridden, never dreamed of making their appearance at the Custom-House
during a large part of the year; but, after a torpid winter, would creep out into
the warm sunshine of May or June, go lazily about what they termed duty,
and, at their own leisure and convenience, betake themselves to bed again. I
must plead guilty to the charge of abbreviating the official breath of more
than one of these venerable servants of the republic. They were allowed, on
my representation, to rest from their arduous labours, and soon afterwards—
as if their sole principle of life had been zeal for their country’s service—as I
verily believe it was—withdrew to a better world. It is a pious consolation to
me that, through my interference, a sufficient space was allowed them for
repentance of the evil and corrupt practices into which, as a matter of course,
every Custom-House officer must be supposed to fall. Neither the front nor
the back entrance of the Custom-House opens on the road to Paradise.
The greater part of my officers were Whigs. It was well for their venerable
brotherhood that the new Surveyor was not a politician, and though a faithful
Democrat in principle, neither received nor held his office with any reference
to political services. Had it been otherwise—had an active politician been put
into this influential post, to assume the easy task of making head against a
Whig Collector, whose infirmities withheld him from the personal
administration of his office—hardly a man of the old corps would have drawn
the breath of official life within a month after the exterminating angel had
come up the Custom-House steps. According to the received code in such
matters, it would have been nothing short of duty, in a politician, to bring
every one of those white heads under the axe of the guillotine. It was plain
enough to discern that the old fellows dreaded some such discourtesy at my
hands. It pained, and at the same time amused me, to behold the terrors that
attended my advent, to see a furrowed cheek, weather-beaten by half a
century of storm, turn ashy pale at the glance of so harmless an individual as
myself; to detect, as one or another addressed me, the tremor of a voice
which, in long-past days, had been wont to bellow through a speaking-
trumpet, hoarsely enough to frighten Boreas himself to silence. They knew,
these excellent old persons, that, by all established rule—and, as regarded
some of them, weighed by their own lack of efficiency for business—they
ought to have given place to younger men, more orthodox in politics, and
altogether fitter than themselves to serve our common Uncle. I knew it, too,
but could never quite find in my heart to act upon the knowledge. Much and
deservedly to my own discredit, therefore, and considerably to the detriment
of my official conscience, they continued, during my incumbency, to creep
about the wharves, and loiter up and down the Custom-House steps. They
spent a good deal of time, also, asleep in their accustomed corners, with their
chairs tilted back against the walls; awaking, however, once or twice in the
forenoon, to bore one another with the several thousandth repetition of old
sea-stories and mouldy jokes, that had grown to be passwords and
countersigns among them.
The discovery was soon made, I imagine, that the new Surveyor had no great
harm in him. So, with lightsome hearts and the happy consciousness of being
usefully employed—in their own behalf at least, if not for our beloved
country—these good old gentlemen went through the various formalities of
office. Sagaciously under their spectacles, did they peep into the holds of
vessels. Mighty was their fuss about little matters, and marvellous,
sometimes, the obtuseness that allowed greater ones to slip between their
fingers Whenever such a mischance occurred—when a waggon-load of
valuable merchandise had been smuggled ashore, at noonday, perhaps, and
directly beneath their unsuspicious noses—nothing could exceed the vigilance
and alacrity with which they proceeded to lock, and double-lock, and secure
with tape and sealing-wax, all the avenues of the delinquent vessel. Instead of
a reprimand for their previous negligence, the case seemed rather to require
an eulogium on their praiseworthy caution after the mischief had happened; a
grateful recognition of the promptitude of their zeal the moment that there
was no longer any remedy.
Unless people are more than commonly disagreeable, it is my foolish habit to
contract a kindness for them. The better part of my companion’s character, if
it have a better part, is that which usually comes uppermost in my regard, and
forms the type whereby I recognise the man. As most of these old Custom-
House officers had good traits, and as my position in reference to them, being
paternal and protective, was favourable to the growth of friendly sentiments, I
soon grew to like them all. It was pleasant in the summer forenoons—when
the fervent heat, that almost liquefied the rest of the human family, merely
communicated a genial warmth to their half torpid systems—it was pleasant
to hear them chatting in the back entry, a row of them all tipped against the
wall, as usual; while the frozen witticisms of past generations were thawed
out, and came bubbling with laughter from their lips. Externally, the jollity of
aged men has much in common with the mirth of children; the intellect, any
more than a deep sense of humour, has little to do with the matter; it is, with
both, a gleam that plays upon the surface, and imparts a sunny and cheery
aspect alike to the green branch and grey, mouldering trunk. In one case,
however, it is real sunshine; in the other, it more resembles the
phosphorescent glow of decaying wood.
It would be sad injustice, the reader must understand, to represent all my
excellent old friends as in their dotage. In the first place, my coadjutors were
not invariably old; there were men among them in their strength and prime, of
marked ability and energy, and altogether superior to the sluggish and
dependent mode of life on which their evil stars had cast them. Then,
moreover, the white locks of age were sometimes found to be the thatch of an
intellectual tenement in good repair. But, as respects the majority of my corps
of veterans, there will be no wrong done if I characterize them generally as a
set of wearisome old souls, who had gathered nothing worth preservation
from their varied experience of life. They seemed to have flung away all the
golden grain of practical wisdom, which they had enjoyed so many
opportunities of harvesting, and most carefully to have stored their memory
with the husks. They spoke with far more interest and unction of their
morning’s breakfast, or yesterday’s, to-day’s, or tomorrow’s dinner, than of
the shipwreck of forty or fifty years ago, and all the world’s wonders which
they had witnessed with their youthful eyes.
The father of the Custom-House—the patriarch, not only of this little squad of
officials, but, I am bold to say, of the respectable body of tide-waiters all over
the United States—was a certain permanent Inspector. He might truly be
termed a legitimate son of the revenue system, dyed in the wool, or rather
born in the purple; since his sire, a Revolutionary colonel, and formerly
collector of the port, had created an office for him, and appointed him to fill
it, at a period of the early ages which few living men can now remember. This
Inspector, when I first knew him, was a man of fourscore years, or
thereabouts, and certainly one of the most wonderful specimens of winter-
green that you would be likely to discover in a lifetime’s search. With his
florid cheek, his compact figure smartly arrayed in a bright-buttoned blue
coat, his brisk and vigorous step, and his hale and hearty aspect, altogether he
seemed—not young, indeed—but a kind of new contrivance of Mother Nature
in the shape of man, whom age and infirmity had no business to touch. His
voice and laugh, which perpetually re-echoed through the Custom-House, had
nothing of the tremulous quaver and cackle of an old man’s utterance; they
came strutting out of his lungs, like the crow of a cock, or the blast of a
clarion. Looking at him merely as an animal—and there was very little else to
look at—he was a most satisfactory object, from the thorough healthfulness
and wholesomeness of his system, and his capacity, at that extreme age, to
enjoy all, or nearly all, the delights which he had ever aimed at or conceived
of. The careless security of his life in the Custom-House, on a regular income,
and with but slight and infrequent apprehensions of removal, had no doubt
contributed to make time pass lightly over him. The original and more potent
causes, however, lay in the rare perfection of his animal nature, the moderate
proportion of intellect, and the very trifling admixture of moral and spiritual
ingredients; these latter qualities, indeed, being in barely enough measure to
keep the old gentleman from walking on all-fours. He possessed no power of
thought, no depth of feeling, no troublesome sensibilities: nothing, in short,
but a few commonplace instincts, which, aided by the cheerful temper which
grew inevitably out of his physical well-being, did duty very respectably, and
to general acceptance, in lieu of a heart. He had been the husband of three
wives, all long since dead; the father of twenty children, most of whom, at
every age of childhood or maturity, had likewise returned to dust. Here, one
would suppose, might have been sorrow enough to imbue the sunniest
disposition through and through with a sable tinge. Not so with our old
Inspector. One brief sigh sufficed to carry off the entire burden of these
dismal reminiscences. The next moment he was as ready for sport as any
unbreeched infant: far readier than the Collector’s junior clerk, who at
nineteen years was much the elder and graver man of the two.
I used to watch and study this patriarchal personage with, I think, livelier
curiosity than any other form of humanity there presented to my notice. He
was, in truth, a rare phenomenon; so perfect, in one point of view; so shallow,
so delusive, so impalpable such an absolute nonentity, in every other. My
conclusion was that he had no soul, no heart, no mind; nothing, as I have
already said, but instincts; and yet, withal, so cunningly had the few materials
of his character been put together that there was no painful perception of
deficiency, but, on my part, an entire contentment with what I found in him. It
might be difficult—and it was so—to conceive how he should exist hereafter,
so earthly and sensuous did he seem; but surely his existence here, admitting
that it was to terminate with his last breath, had been not unkindly given; with
no higher moral responsibilities than the beasts of the field, but with a larger
scope of enjoyment than theirs, and with all their blessed immunity from the
dreariness and duskiness of age.
One point in which he had vastly the advantage over his four-footed brethren
was his ability to recollect the good dinners which it had made no small
portion of the happiness of his life to eat. His gourmandism was a highly
agreeable trait; and to hear him talk of roast meat was as appetizing as a
pickle or an oyster. As he possessed no higher attribute, and neither sacrificed
nor vitiated any spiritual endowment by devoting all his energies and
ingenuities to subserve the delight and profit of his maw, it always pleased
and satisfied me to hear him expatiate on fish, poultry, and butcher’s meat,
and the most eligible methods of preparing them for the table. His
reminiscences of good cheer, however ancient the date of the actual banquet,
seemed to bring the savour of pig or turkey under one’s very nostrils. There
were flavours on his palate that had lingered there not less than sixty or
seventy years, and were still apparently as fresh as that of the mutton chop
which he had just devoured for his breakfast. I have heard him smack his lips
over dinners, every guest at which, except himself, had long been food for
worms. It was marvellous to observe how the ghosts of bygone meals were
continually rising up before him—not in anger or retribution, but as if grateful
for his former appreciation, and seeking to reduplicate an endless series of
enjoyment, at once shadowy and sensual: a tenderloin of beef, a hind-quarter
of veal, a spare-rib of pork, a particular chicken, or a remarkably praiseworthy
turkey, which had perhaps adorned his board in the days of the elder Adams,
would be remembered; while all the subsequent experience of our race, and
all the events that brightened or darkened his individual career, had gone over
him with as little permanent effect as the passing breeze. The chief tragic
event of the old man’s life, so far as I could judge, was his mishap with a
certain goose, which lived and died some twenty or forty years ago: a goose
of most promising figure, but which, at table, proved so inveterately tough,
that the carving-knife would make no impression on its carcase, and it could
only be divided with an axe and handsaw.
But it is time to quit this sketch; on which, however, I should be glad to dwell
at considerably more length, because of all men whom I have ever known,
this individual was fittest to be a Custom-House officer. Most persons, owing
to causes which I may not have space to hint at, suffer moral detriment from
this peculiar mode of life. The old Inspector was incapable of it; and, were he
to continue in office to the end of time, would be just as good as he was then,
and sit down to dinner with just as good an appetite.
There is one likeness, without which my gallery of Custom-House portraits
would be strangely incomplete, but which my comparatively few
opportunities for observation enable me to sketch only in the merest outline. It
is that of the Collector, our gallant old General, who, after his brilliant
military service, subsequently to which he had ruled over a wild Western
territory, had come hither, twenty years before, to spend the decline of his
varied and honourable life.
The brave soldier had already numbered, nearly or quite, his three-score years
and ten, and was pursuing the remainder of his earthly march, burdened with
infirmities which even the martial music of his own spirit-stirring
recollections could do little towards lightening. The step was palsied now, that
had been foremost in the charge. It was only with the assistance of a servant,
and by leaning his hand heavily on the iron balustrade, that he could slowly
and painfully ascend the Custom-House steps, and, with a toilsome progress
across the floor, attain his customary chair beside the fireplace. There he used
to sit, gazing with a somewhat dim serenity of aspect at the figures that came
and went, amid the rustle of papers, the administering of oaths, the discussion
of business, and the casual talk of the office; all which sounds and
circumstances seemed but indistinctly to impress his senses, and hardly to
make their way into his inner sphere of contemplation. His countenance, in
this repose, was mild and kindly. If his notice was sought, an expression of
courtesy and interest gleamed out upon his features, proving that there was
light within him, and that it was only the outward medium of the intellectual
lamp that obstructed the rays in their passage. The closer you penetrated to
the substance of his mind, the sounder it appeared. When no longer called
upon to speak or listen—either of which operations cost him an evident effort
—his face would briefly subside into its former not uncheerful quietude. It
was not painful to behold this look; for, though dim, it had not the imbecility
of decaying age. The framework of his nature, originally strong and massive,
was not yet crumpled into ruin.
To observe and define his character, however, under such disadvantages, was
as difficult a task as to trace out and build up anew, in imagination, an old
fortress, like Ticonderoga, from a view of its grey and broken ruins. Here and
there, perchance, the walls may remain almost complete; but elsewhere may
be only a shapeless mound, cumbrous with its very strength, and overgrown,
through long years of peace and neglect, with grass and alien weeds.
Nevertheless, looking at the old warrior with affection—for, slight as was the
communication between us, my feeling towards him, like that of all bipeds
and quadrupeds who knew him, might not improperly be termed so,—I could
discern the main points of his portrait. It was marked with the noble and
heroic qualities which showed it to be not a mere accident, but of good right,
that he had won a distinguished name. His spirit could never, I conceive, have
been characterized by an uneasy activity; it must, at any period of his life,
have required an impulse to set him in motion; but once stirred up, with
obstacles to overcome, and an adequate object to be attained, it was not in the
man to give out or fail. The heat that had formerly pervaded his nature, and
which was not yet extinct, was never of the kind that flashes and flickers in a
blaze; but rather a deep red glow, as of iron in a furnace. Weight, solidity,
firmness—this was the expression of his repose, even in such decay as had
crept untimely over him at the period of which I speak. But I could imagine,
even then, that, under some excitement which should go deeply into his
consciousness—roused by a trumpet’s peal, loud enough to awaken all of his
energies that were not dead, but only slumbering—he was yet capable of
flinging off his infirmities like a sick man’s gown, dropping the staff of age to
seize a battle-sword, and starting up once more a warrior. And, in so intense a
moment his demeanour would have still been calm. Such an exhibition,
however, was but to be pictured in fancy; not to be anticipated, nor desired.
What I saw in him—as evidently as the indestructible ramparts of Old
Ticonderoga, already cited as the most appropriate simile—was the features
of stubborn and ponderous endurance, which might well have amounted to
obstinacy in his earlier days; of integrity, that, like most of his other
endowments, lay in a somewhat heavy mass, and was just as unmalleable or
unmanageable as a ton of iron ore; and of benevolence which, fiercely as he
led the bayonets on at Chippewa or Fort Erie, I take to be of quite as genuine
a stamp as what actuates any or all the polemical philanthropists of the age.
He had slain men with his own hand, for aught I know—certainly, they had
fallen like blades of grass at the sweep of the scythe before the charge to
which his spirit imparted its triumphant energy—but, be that as it might, there
was never in his heart so much cruelty as would have brushed the down off a
butterfly’s wing. I have not known the man to whose innate kindliness I
would more confidently make an appeal.
Many characteristics—and those, too, which contribute not the least forcibly
to impart resemblance in a sketch—must have vanished, or been obscured,
before I met the General. All merely graceful attributes are usually the most
evanescent; nor does nature adorn the human ruin with blossoms of new
beauty, that have their roots and proper nutriment only in the chinks and
crevices of decay, as she sows wall-flowers over the ruined fortress of
Ticonderoga. Still, even in respect of grace and beauty, there were points well
worth noting. A ray of humour, now and then, would make its way through
the veil of dim obstruction, and glimmer pleasantly upon our faces. A trait of
native elegance, seldom seen in the masculine character after childhood or
early youth, was shown in the General’s fondness for the sight and fragrance
of flowers. An old soldier might be supposed to prize only the bloody laurel
on his brow; but here was one who seemed to have a young girl’s appreciation
of the floral tribe.
There, beside the fireplace, the brave old General used to sit; while the
Surveyor—though seldom, when it could be avoided, taking upon himself the
difficult task of engaging him in conversation—was fond of standing at a
distance, and watching his quiet and almost slumberous countenance. He
seemed away from us, although we saw him but a few yards off; remote,
though we passed close beside his chair; unattainable, though we might have
stretched forth our hands and touched his own. It might be that he lived a
more real life within his thoughts than amid the unappropriate environment of
the Collector’s office. The evolutions of the parade; the tumult of the battle;
the flourish of old heroic music, heard thirty years before—such scenes and
sounds, perhaps, were all alive before his intellectual sense. Meanwhile, the
merchants and ship-masters, the spruce clerks and uncouth sailors, entered
and departed; the bustle of his commercial and Custom-House life kept up its
little murmur round about him; and neither with the men nor their affairs did
the General appear to sustain the most distant relation. He was as much out of
place as an old sword—now rusty, but which had flashed once in the battle’s
front, and showed still a bright gleam along its blade—would have been
among the inkstands, paper-folders, and mahogany rulers on the Deputy
Collector’s desk.
There was one thing that much aided me in renewing and re-creating the
stalwart soldier of the Niagara frontier—the man of true and simple energy. It
was the recollection of those memorable words of his—“I’ll try, Sir”—spoken
on the very verge of a desperate and heroic enterprise, and breathing the soul
and spirit of New England hardihood, comprehending all perils, and
encountering all. If, in our country, valour were rewarded by heraldic honour,
this phrase—which it seems so easy to speak, but which only he, with such a
task of danger and glory before him, has ever spoken—would be the best and
fittest of all mottoes for the General’s shield of arms.
It contributes greatly towards a man’s moral and intellectual health to be
brought into habits of companionship with individuals unlike himself, who
care little for his pursuits, and whose sphere and abilities he must go out of
himself to appreciate. The accidents of my life have often afforded me this
advantage, but never with more fulness and variety than during my
continuance in office. There was one man, especially, the observation of
whose character gave me a new idea of talent. His gifts were emphatically
those of a man of business; prompt, acute, clear-minded; with an eye that saw
through all perplexities, and a faculty of arrangement that made them vanish
as by the waving of an enchanter’s wand. Bred up from boyhood in the
Custom-House, it was his proper field of activity; and the many intricacies of
business, so harassing to the interloper, presented themselves before him with
the regularity of a perfectly comprehended system. In my contemplation, he
stood as the ideal of his class. He was, indeed, the Custom-House in himself;
or, at all events, the mainspring that kept its variously revolving wheels in
motion; for, in an institution like this, where its officers are appointed to
subserve their own profit and convenience, and seldom with a leading
reference to their fitness for the duty to be performed, they must perforce seek
elsewhere the dexterity which is not in them. Thus, by an inevitable necessity,
as a magnet attracts steel-filings, so did our man of business draw to himself
the difficulties which everybody met with. With an easy condescension, and
kind forbearance towards our stupidity—which, to his order of mind, must
have seemed little short of crime—would he forth-with, by the merest touch
of his finger, make the incomprehensible as clear as daylight. The merchants
valued him not less than we, his esoteric friends. His integrity was perfect; it
was a law of nature with him, rather than a choice or a principle; nor can it be
otherwise than the main condition of an intellect so remarkably clear and
accurate as his to be honest and regular in the administration of affairs. A
stain on his conscience, as to anything that came within the range of his
vocation, would trouble such a man very much in the same way, though to a
far greater degree, than an error in the balance of an account, or an ink-blot on
the fair page of a book of record. Here, in a word—and it is a rare instance in
my life—I had met with a person thoroughly adapted to the situation which he
held.
Such were some of the people with whom I now found myself connected. I
took it in good part, at the hands of Providence, that I was thrown into a
position so little akin to my past habits; and set myself seriously to gather
from it whatever profit was to be had. After my fellowship of toil and
impracticable schemes with the dreamy brethren of Brook Farm; after living
for three years within the subtle influence of an intellect like Emerson’s; after
those wild, free days on the Assabeth, indulging fantastic speculations, beside
our fire of fallen boughs, with Ellery Channing; after talking with Thoreau
about pine-trees and Indian relics in his hermitage at Walden; after growing
fastidious by sympathy with the classic refinement of Hillard’s culture; after
becoming imbued with poetic sentiment at Longfellow’s hearthstone—it was
time, at length, that I should exercise other faculties of my nature, and nourish
myself with food for which I had hitherto had little appetite. Even the old
Inspector was desirable, as a change of diet, to a man who had known Alcott.
I looked upon it as an evidence, in some measure, of a system naturally well
balanced, and lacking no essential part of a thorough organization, that, with
such associates to remember, I could mingle at once with men of altogether
different qualities, and never murmur at the change.
Literature, its exertions and objects, were now of little moment in my regard.
I cared not at this period for books; they were apart from me. Nature—except
it were human nature—the nature that is developed in earth and sky, was, in
one sense, hidden from me; and all the imaginative delight wherewith it had
been spiritualized passed away out of my mind. A gift, a faculty, if it had not
been departed, was suspended and inanimate within me. There would have
been something sad, unutterably dreary, in all this, had I not been conscious
that it lay at my own option to recall whatever was valuable in the past. It
might be true, indeed, that this was a life which could not, with impunity, be
lived too long; else, it might make me permanently other than I had been,
without transforming me into any shape which it would be worth my while to
take. But I never considered it as other than a transitory life. There was
always a prophetic instinct, a low whisper in my ear, that within no long
period, and whenever a new change of custom should be essential to my
good, change would come.
Meanwhile, there I was, a Surveyor of the Revenue and, so far as I have been
able to understand, as good a Surveyor as need be. A man of thought, fancy,
and sensibility (had he ten times the Surveyor’s proportion of those qualities),
may, at any time, be a man of affairs, if he will only choose to give himself
the trouble. My fellow-officers, and the merchants and sea-captains with
whom my official duties brought me into any manner of connection, viewed
me in no other light, and probably knew me in no other character. None of
them, I presume, had ever read a page of my inditing, or would have cared a
fig the more for me if they had read them all; nor would it have mended the
matter, in the least, had those same unprofitable pages been written with a pen
like that of Burns or of Chaucer, each of whom was a Custom-House officer
in his day, as well as I. It is a good lesson—though it may often be a hard one
—for a man who has dreamed of literary fame, and of making for himself a
rank among the world’s dignitaries by such means, to step aside out of the
narrow circle in which his claims are recognized and to find how utterly
devoid of significance, beyond that circle, is all that he achieves, and all he
aims at. I know not that I especially needed the lesson, either in the way of
warning or rebuke; but at any rate, I learned it thoroughly: nor, it gives me
pleasure to reflect, did the truth, as it came home to my perception, ever cost
me a pang, or require to be thrown off in a sigh. In the way of literary talk, it
is true, the Naval Officer—an excellent fellow, who came into the office with
me, and went out only a little later—would often engage me in a discussion
about one or the other of his favourite topics, Napoleon or Shakespeare. The
Collector’s junior clerk, too a young gentleman who, it was whispered
occasionally covered a sheet of Uncle Sam’s letter paper with what (at the
distance of a few yards) looked very much like poetry—used now and then to
speak to me of books, as matters with which I might possibly be conversant.
This was my all of lettered intercourse; and it was quite sufficient for my
necessities.
No longer seeking nor caring that my name should be blasoned abroad on
title-pages, I smiled to think that it had now another kind of vogue. The
Custom-House marker imprinted it, with a stencil and black paint, on pepper-
bags, and baskets of anatto, and cigar-boxes, and bales of all kinds of dutiable
merchandise, in testimony that these commodities had paid the impost, and
gone regularly through the office. Borne on such queer vehicle of fame, a
knowledge of my existence, so far as a name conveys it, was carried where it
had never been before, and, I hope, will never go again.
But the past was not dead. Once in a great while, the thoughts that had
seemed so vital and so active, yet had been put to rest so quietly, revived
again. One of the most remarkable occasions, when the habit of bygone days
awoke in me, was that which brings it within the law of literary propriety to
offer the public the sketch which I am now writing.
In the second storey of the Custom-House there is a large room, in which the
brick-work and naked rafters have never been covered with panelling and
plaster. The edifice—originally projected on a scale adapted to the old
commercial enterprise of the port, and with an idea of subsequent prosperity
destined never to be realized—contains far more space than its occupants
know what to do with. This airy hall, therefore, over the Collector’s
apartments, remains unfinished to this day, and, in spite of the aged cobwebs
that festoon its dusky beams, appears still to await the labour of the carpenter
and mason. At one end of the room, in a recess, were a number of barrels
piled one upon another, containing bundles of official documents. Large
quantities of similar rubbish lay lumbering the floor. It was sorrowful to think
how many days, and weeks, and months, and years of toil had been wasted on
these musty papers, which were now only an encumbrance on earth, and were
hidden away in this forgotten corner, never more to be glanced at by human
eyes. But then, what reams of other manuscripts—filled, not with the dulness
of official formalities, but with the thought of inventive brains and the rich
effusion of deep hearts—had gone equally to oblivion; and that, moreover,
without serving a purpose in their day, as these heaped-up papers had, and—
saddest of all—without purchasing for their writers the comfortable livelihood
which the clerks of the Custom-House had gained by these worthless
scratchings of the pen. Yet not altogether worthless, perhaps, as materials of
local history. Here, no doubt, statistics of the former commerce of Salem
might be discovered, and memorials of her princely merchants—old King
Derby—old Billy Gray—old Simon Forrester—and many another magnate in
his day, whose powdered head, however, was scarcely in the tomb before his
mountain pile of wealth began to dwindle. The founders of the greater part of
the families which now compose the aristocracy of Salem might here be
traced, from the petty and obscure beginnings of their traffic, at periods
generally much posterior to the Revolution, upward to what their children
look upon as long-established rank.
Prior to the Revolution there is a dearth of records; the earlier documents and
archives of the Custom-House having, probably, been carried off to Halifax,
when all the king’s officials accompanied the British army in its flight from
Boston. It has often been a matter of regret with me; for, going back, perhaps,
to the days of the Protectorate, those papers must have contained many
references to forgotten or remembered men, and to antique customs, which
would have affected me with the same pleasure as when I used to pick up
Indian arrow-heads in the field near the Old Manse.
But, one idle and rainy day, it was my fortune to make a discovery of some
little interest. Poking and burrowing into the heaped-up rubbish in the corner,
unfolding one and another document, and reading the names of vessels that
had long ago foundered at sea or rotted at the wharves, and those of
merchants never heard of now on ‘Change, nor very readily decipherable on
their mossy tombstones; glancing at such matters with the saddened, weary,
half-reluctant interest which we bestow on the corpse of dead activity—and
exerting my fancy, sluggish with little use, to raise up from these dry bones an
image of the old town’s brighter aspect, when India was a new region, and
only Salem knew the way thither—I chanced to lay my hand on a small
package, carefully done up in a piece of ancient yellow parchment. This
envelope had the air of an official record of some period long past, when
clerks engrossed their stiff and formal chirography on more substantial
materials than at present. There was something about it that quickened an
instinctive curiosity, and made me undo the faded red tape that tied up the
package, with the sense that a treasure would here be brought to light.
Unbending the rigid folds of the parchment cover, I found it to be a
commission, under the hand and seal of Governor Shirley, in favour of one
Jonathan Pue, as Surveyor of His Majesty’s Customs for the Port of Salem, in
the Province of Massachusetts Bay. I remembered to have read (probably in
Felt’s “Annals”) a notice of the decease of Mr. Surveyor Pue, about fourscore
years ago; and likewise, in a newspaper of recent times, an account of the
digging up of his remains in the little graveyard of St. Peter’s Church, during
the renewal of that edifice. Nothing, if I rightly call to mind, was left of my
respected predecessor, save an imperfect skeleton, and some fragments of
apparel, and a wig of majestic frizzle, which, unlike the head that it once
adorned, was in very satisfactory preservation. But, on examining the papers
which the parchment commission served to envelop, I found more traces of
Mr. Pue’s mental part, and the internal operations of his head, than the
frizzled wig had contained of the venerable skull itself.
They were documents, in short, not official, but of a private nature, or, at
least, written in his private capacity, and apparently with his own hand. I
could account for their being included in the heap of Custom-House lumber
only by the fact that Mr. Pue’s death had happened suddenly, and that these
papers, which he probably kept in his official desk, had never come to the
knowledge of his heirs, or were supposed to relate to the business of the
revenue. On the transfer of the archives to Halifax, this package, proving to
be of no public concern, was left behind, and had remained ever since
unopened.
The ancient Surveyor—being little molested, I suppose, at that early day with
business pertaining to his office—seems to have devoted some of his many
leisure hours to researches as a local antiquarian, and other inquisitions of a
similar nature. These supplied material for petty activity to a mind that would
otherwise have been eaten up with rust.
A portion of his facts, by-the-by, did me good service in the preparation of the
article entitled “MAIN STREET,” included in the present volume. The
remainder may perhaps be applied to purposes equally valuable hereafter, or
not impossibly may be worked up, so far as they go, into a regular history of
Salem, should my veneration for the natal soil ever impel me to so pious a
task. Meanwhile, they shall be at the command of any gentleman, inclined
and competent, to take the unprofitable labour off my hands. As a final
disposition I contemplate depositing them with the Essex Historical Society.
But the object that most drew my attention to the mysterious package was a
certain affair of fine red cloth, much worn and faded, There were traces about
it of gold embroidery, which, however, was greatly frayed and defaced, so
that none, or very little, of the glitter was left. It had been wrought, as was
easy to perceive, with wonderful skill of needlework; and the stitch (as I am
assured by ladies conversant with such mysteries) gives evidence of a now
forgotten art, not to be discovered even by the process of picking out the
threads. This rag of scarlet cloth—for time, and wear, and a sacrilegious moth
had reduced it to little other than a rag—on careful examination, assumed the
shape of a letter.
It was the capital letter A. By an accurate measurement, each limb proved to
be precisely three inches and a quarter in length. It had been intended, there
could be no doubt, as an ornamental article of dress; but how it was to be
worn, or what rank, honour, and dignity, in by-past times, were signified by it,
was a riddle which (so evanescent are the fashions of the world in these
particulars) I saw little hope of solving. And yet it strangely interested me.
My eyes fastened themselves upon the old scarlet letter, and would not be
turned aside. Certainly there was some deep meaning in it most worthy of
interpretation, and which, as it were, streamed forth from the mystic symbol,
subtly communicating itself to my sensibilities, but evading the analysis of
my mind.
When thus perplexed—and cogitating, among other hypotheses, whether the
letter might not have been one of those decorations which the white men used
to contrive in order to take the eyes of Indians—I happened to place it on my
breast. It seemed to me—the reader may smile, but must not doubt my word
—it seemed to me, then, that I experienced a sensation not altogether
physical, yet almost so, as of burning heat, and as if the letter were not of red
cloth, but red-hot iron. I shuddered, and involuntarily let it fall upon the floor.
In the absorbing contemplation of the scarlet letter, I had hitherto neglected to
examine a small roll of dingy paper, around which it had been twisted. This I
now opened, and had the satisfaction to find recorded by the old Surveyor’s
pen, a reasonably complete explanation of the whole affair. There were
several foolscap sheets, containing many particulars respecting the life and
conversation of one Hester Prynne, who appeared to have been rather a
noteworthy personage in the view of our ancestors. She had flourished during
the period between the early days of Massachusetts and the close of the
seventeenth century. Aged persons, alive in the time of Mr. Surveyor Pue, and
from whose oral testimony he had made up his narrative, remembered her, in
their youth, as a very old, but not decrepit woman, of a stately and solemn
aspect. It had been her habit, from an almost immemorial date, to go about the
country as a kind of voluntary nurse, and doing whatever miscellaneous good
she might; taking upon herself, likewise, to give advice in all matters,
especially those of the heart, by which means—as a person of such
propensities inevitably must—she gained from many people the reverence
due to an angel, but, I should imagine, was looked upon by others as an
intruder and a nuisance. Prying further into the manuscript, I found the record
of other doings and sufferings of this singular woman, for most of which the
reader is referred to the story entitled “THE SCARLET LETTER”; and it
should be borne carefully in mind that the main facts of that story are
authorized and authenticated by the document of Mr. Surveyor Pue. The
original papers, together with the scarlet letter itself—a most curious relic—
are still in my possession, and shall be freely exhibited to whomsoever,
induced by the great interest of the narrative, may desire a sight of them. I
must not be understood affirming that, in the dressing up of the tale, and
imagining the motives and modes of passion that influenced the characters
who figure in it, I have invariably confined myself within the limits of the old
Surveyor’s half-a-dozen sheets of foolscap. On the contrary, I have allowed
myself, as to such points, nearly, or altogether, as much license as if the facts
had been entirely of my own invention. What I contend for is the authenticity
of the outline.
This incident recalled my mind, in some degree, to its old track. There
seemed to be here the groundwork of a tale. It impressed me as if the ancient
Surveyor, in his garb of a hundred years gone by, and wearing his immortal
wig—which was buried with him, but did not perish in the grave—had met
me in the deserted chamber of the Custom-House. In his port was the dignity
of one who had borne His Majesty’s commission, and who was therefore
illuminated by a ray of the splendour that shone so dazzlingly about the
throne. How unlike alas the hangdog look of a republican official, who, as the
servant of the people, feels himself less than the least, and below the lowest of
his masters. With his own ghostly hand, the obscurely seen, but majestic,
figure had imparted to me the scarlet symbol and the little roll of explanatory
manuscript. With his own ghostly voice he had exhorted me, on the sacred
consideration of my filial duty and reverence towards him—who might
reasonably regard himself as my official ancestor—to bring his mouldy and
moth-eaten lucubrations before the public. “Do this,” said the ghost of Mr.
Surveyor Pue, emphatically nodding the head that looked so imposing within
its memorable wig; “do this, and the profit shall be all your own. You will
shortly need it; for it is not in your days as it was in mine, when a man’s
office was a life-lease, and oftentimes an heirloom. But I charge you, in this
matter of old Mistress Prynne, give to your predecessor’s memory the credit
which will be rightfully due” And I said to the ghost of Mr. Surveyor Pue—“I
will”.
On Hester Prynne’s story, therefore, I bestowed much thought. It was the
subject of my meditations for many an hour, while pacing to and fro across
my room, or traversing, with a hundredfold repetition, the long extent from
the front door of the Custom-House to the side entrance, and back again.
Great were the weariness and annoyance of the old Inspector and the
Weighers and Gaugers, whose slumbers were disturbed by the unmercifully
lengthened tramp of my passing and returning footsteps. Remembering their
own former habits, they used to say that the Surveyor was walking the
quarter-deck. They probably fancied that my sole object—and, indeed, the
sole object for which a sane man could ever put himself into voluntary motion
—was to get an appetite for dinner. And, to say the truth, an appetite,
sharpened by the east wind that generally blew along the passage, was the
only valuable result of so much indefatigable exercise. So little adapted is the
atmosphere of a Custom-house to the delicate harvest of fancy and sensibility,
that, had I remained there through ten Presidencies yet to come, I doubt
whether the tale of “The Scarlet Letter” would ever have been brought before
the public eye. My imagination was a tarnished mirror. It would not reflect, or
only with miserable dimness, the figures with which I did my best to people
it. The characters of the narrative would not be warmed and rendered
malleable by any heat that I could kindle at my intellectual forge. They would
take neither the glow of passion nor the tenderness of sentiment, but retained
all the rigidity of dead corpses, and stared me in the face with a fixed and
ghastly grin of contemptuous defiance. “What have you to do with us?” that
expression seemed to say. “The little power you might have once possessed
over the tribe of unrealities is gone! You have bartered it for a pittance of the
public gold. Go then, and earn your wages!” In short, the almost torpid
creatures of my own fancy twitted me with imbecility, and not without fair
occasion.
It was not merely during the three hours and a half which Uncle Sam claimed
as his share of my daily life that this wretched numbness held possession of
me. It went with me on my sea-shore walks and rambles into the country,
whenever—which was seldom and reluctantly—I bestirred myself to seek that
invigorating charm of Nature which used to give me such freshness and
activity of thought, the moment that I stepped across the threshold of the Old
Manse. The same torpor, as regarded the capacity for intellectual effort,
accompanied me home, and weighed upon me in the chamber which I most
absurdly termed my study. Nor did it quit me when, late at night, I sat in the
deserted parlour, lighted only by the glimmering coal-fire and the moon,
striving to picture forth imaginary scenes, which, the next day, might flow out
on the brightening page in many-hued description.
If the imaginative faculty refused to act at such an hour, it might well be
deemed a hopeless case. Moonlight, in a familiar room, falling so white upon
the carpet, and showing all its figures so distinctly—making every object so
minutely visible, yet so unlike a morning or noontide visibility—is a medium
the most suitable for a romance-writer to get acquainted with his illusive
guests. There is the little domestic scenery of the well-known apartment; the
chairs, with each its separate individuality; the centre-table, sustaining a
work-basket, a volume or two, and an extinguished lamp; the sofa; the book-
case; the picture on the wall—all these details, so completely seen, are so
spiritualised by the unusual light, that they seem to lose their actual substance,
and become things of intellect. Nothing is too small or too trifling to undergo
this change, and acquire dignity thereby. A child’s shoe; the doll, seated in her
little wicker carriage; the hobby-horse—whatever, in a word, has been used or
played with during the day is now invested with a quality of strangeness and
remoteness, though still almost as vividly present as by daylight. Thus,
therefore, the floor of our familiar room has become a neutral territory,
somewhere between the real world and fairy-land, where the Actual and the
Imaginary may meet, and each imbue itself with the nature of the other.
Ghosts might enter here without affrighting us. It would be too much in
keeping with the scene to excite surprise, were we to look about us and
discover a form, beloved, but gone hence, now sitting quietly in a streak of
this magic moonshine, with an aspect that would make us doubt whether it
had returned from afar, or had never once stirred from our fireside.
The somewhat dim coal fire has an essential Influence in producing the effect
which I would describe. It throws its unobtrusive tinge throughout the room,
with a faint ruddiness upon the walls and ceiling, and a reflected gleam upon
the polish of the furniture. This warmer light mingles itself with the cold
spirituality of the moon-beams, and communicates, as it were, a heart and
sensibilities of human tenderness to the forms which fancy summons up. It
converts them from snow-images into men and women. Glancing at the
looking-glass, we behold—deep within its haunted verge—the smouldering
glow of the half-extinguished anthracite, the white moon-beams on the floor,
and a repetition of all the gleam and shadow of the picture, with one remove
further from the actual, and nearer to the imaginative. Then, at such an hour,
and with this scene before him, if a man, sitting all alone, cannot dream
strange things, and make them look like truth, he need never try to write
romances.
But, for myself, during the whole of my Custom-House experience,
moonlight and sunshine, and the glow of firelight, were just alike in my
regard; and neither of them was of one whit more avail than the twinkle of a
tallow-candle. An entire class of susceptibilities, and a gift connected with
them—of no great richness or value, but the best I had—was gone from me.
It is my belief, however, that had I attempted a different order of composition,
my faculties would not have been found so pointless and inefficacious. I
might, for instance, have contented myself with writing out the narratives of a
veteran shipmaster, one of the Inspectors, whom I should be most ungrateful
not to mention, since scarcely a day passed that he did not stir me to laughter
and admiration by his marvelous gifts as a story-teller. Could I have preserved
the picturesque force of his style, and the humourous colouring which nature
taught him how to throw over his descriptions, the result, I honestly believe,
would have been something new in literature. Or I might readily have found a
more serious task. It was a folly, with the materiality of this daily life pressing
so intrusively upon me, to attempt to fling myself back into another age, or to
insist on creating the semblance of a world out of airy matter, when, at every
moment, the impalpable beauty of my soap-bubble was broken by the rude
contact of some actual circumstance. The wiser effort would have been to
diffuse thought and imagination through the opaque substance of to-day, and
thus to make it a bright transparency; to spiritualise the burden that began to
weigh so heavily; to seek, resolutely, the true and indestructible value that lay
hidden in the petty and wearisome incidents, and ordinary characters with
which I was now conversant. The fault was mine. The page of life that was
spread out before me seemed dull and commonplace only because I had not
fathomed its deeper import. A better book than I shall ever write was there;
leaf after leaf presenting itself to me, just as it was written out by the reality of
the flitting hour, and vanishing as fast as written, only because my brain
wanted the insight, and my hand the cunning, to transcribe it. At some future
day, it may be, I shall remember a few scattered fragments and broken
paragraphs, and write them down, and find the letters turn to gold upon the
page.
These perceptions had come too late. At the Instant, I was only conscious that
what would have been a pleasure once was now a hopeless toil. There was no
occasion to make much moan about this state of affairs. I had ceased to be a
writer of tolerably poor tales and essays, and had become a tolerably good
Surveyor of the Customs. That was all. But, nevertheless, it is anything but
agreeable to be haunted by a suspicion that one’s intellect is dwindling away,
or exhaling, without your consciousness, like ether out of a phial; so that, at
every glance, you find a smaller and less volatile residuum. Of the fact there
could be no doubt and, examining myself and others, I was led to conclusions,
in reference to the effect of public office on the character, not very favourable
to the mode of life in question. In some other form, perhaps, I may hereafter
develop these effects. Suffice it here to say that a Custom-House officer of
long continuance can hardly be a very praiseworthy or respectable personage,
for many reasons; one of them, the tenure by which he holds his situation, and
another, the very nature of his business, which—though, I trust, an honest one
—is of such a sort that he does not share in the united effort of mankind.
An effect—which I believe to be observable, more or less, in every individual
who has occupied the position—is, that while he leans on the mighty arm of
the Republic, his own proper strength departs from him. He loses, in an extent
proportioned to the weakness or force of his original nature, the capability of
self-support. If he possesses an unusual share of native energy, or the
enervating magic of place do not operate too long upon him, his forfeited
powers may be redeemable. The ejected officer—fortunate in the unkindly
shove that sends him forth betimes, to struggle amid a struggling world—may
return to himself, and become all that he has ever been. But this seldom
happens. He usually keeps his ground just long enough for his own ruin, and
is then thrust out, with sinews all unstrung, to totter along the difficult
footpath of life as he best may. Conscious of his own infirmity—that his
tempered steel and elasticity are lost—he for ever afterwards looks wistfully
about him in quest of support external to himself. His pervading and continual
hope—a hallucination, which, in the face of all discouragement, and making
light of impossibilities, haunts him while he lives, and, I fancy, like the
convulsive throes of the cholera, torments him for a brief space after death—
is, that finally, and in no long time, by some happy coincidence of
circumstances, he shall be restored to office. This faith, more than anything
else, steals the pith and availability out of whatever enterprise he may dream
of undertaking. Why should he toil and moil, and be at so much trouble to
pick himself up out of the mud, when, in a little while hence, the strong arm
of his Uncle will raise and support him? Why should he work for his living
here, or go to dig gold in California, when he is so soon to be made happy, at
monthly intervals, with a little pile of glittering coin out of his Uncle’s
pocket? It is sadly curious to observe how slight a taste of office suffices to
infect a poor fellow with this singular disease. Uncle Sam’s gold—meaning
no disrespect to the worthy old gentleman—has, in this respect, a quality of
enchantment like that of the devil’s wages. Whoever touches it should look
well to himself, or he may find the bargain to go hard against him, involving,
if not his soul, yet many of its better attributes; its sturdy force, its courage
and constancy, its truth, its self-reliance, and all that gives the emphasis to
manly character.
Here was a fine prospect in the distance. Not that the Surveyor brought the
lesson home to himself, or admitted that he could be so utterly undone, either
by continuance in office or ejectment. Yet my reflections were not the most
comfortable. I began to grow melancholy and restless; continually prying into
my mind, to discover which of its poor properties were gone, and what degree
of detriment had already accrued to the remainder. I endeavoured to calculate
how much longer I could stay in the Custom-House, and yet go forth a man.
To confess the truth, it was my greatest apprehension—as it would never be a
measure of policy to turn out so quiet an individual as myself; and it being
hardly in the nature of a public officer to resign—it was my chief trouble,
therefore, that I was likely to grow grey and decrepit in the Surveyorship, and
become much such another animal as the old Inspector. Might it not, in the
tedious lapse of official life that lay before me, finally be with me as it was
with this venerable friend—to make the dinner-hour the nucleus of the day,
and to spend the rest of it, as an old dog spends it, asleep in the sunshine or in
the shade? A dreary look-forward, this, for a man who felt it to be the best
definition of happiness to live throughout the whole range of his faculties and
sensibilities. But, all this while, I was giving myself very unnecessary alarm.
Providence had meditated better things for me than I could possibly imagine
for myself.
A remarkable event of the third year of my Surveyorship—to adopt the tone
of “P. P. “—was the election of General Taylor to the Presidency. It is
essential, in order to form a complete estimate of the advantages of official
life, to view the incumbent at the in-coming of a hostile administration. His
position is then one of the most singularly irksome, and, in every contingency,
disagreeable, that a wretched mortal can possibly occupy; with seldom an
alternative of good on either hand, although what presents itself to him as the
worst event may very probably be the best. But it is a strange experience, to a
man of pride and sensibility, to know that his interests are within the control
of individuals who neither love nor understand him, and by whom, since one
or the other must needs happen, he would rather be injured than obliged.
Strange, too, for one who has kept his calmness throughout the contest, to
observe the bloodthirstiness that is developed in the hour of triumph, and to
be conscious that he is himself among its objects! There are few uglier traits
of human nature than this tendency—which I now witnessed in men no worse
than their neighbours—to grow cruel, merely because they possessed the
power of inflicting harm. If the guillotine, as applied to office-holders, were a
literal fact, instead of one of the most apt of metaphors, it is my sincere belief
that the active members of the victorious party were sufficiently excited to
have chopped off all our heads, and have thanked Heaven for the opportunity!
It appears to me—who have been a calm and curious observer, as well in
victory as defeat—that this fierce and bitter spirit of malice and revenge has
never distinguished the many triumphs of my own party as it now did that of
the Whigs. The Democrats take the offices, as a general rule, because they
need them, and because the practice of many years has made it the law of
political warfare, which unless a different system be proclaimed, it was
weakness and cowardice to murmur at. But the long habit of victory has made
them generous. They know how to spare when they see occasion; and when
they strike, the axe may be sharp indeed, but its edge is seldom poisoned with
ill-will; nor is it their custom ignominiously to kick the head which they have
just struck off.
In short, unpleasant as was my predicament, at best, I saw much reason to
congratulate myself that I was on the losing side rather than the triumphant
one. If, heretofore, I had been none of the warmest of partisans I began now,
at this season of peril and adversity, to be pretty acutely sensible with which
party my predilections lay; nor was it without something like regret and
shame that, according to a reasonable calculation of chances, I saw my own
prospect of retaining office to be better than those of my democratic brethren.
But who can see an inch into futurity beyond his nose? My own head was the
first that fell.
The moment when a man’s head drops off is seldom or never, I am inclined to
think, precisely the most agreeable of his life. Nevertheless, like the greater
part of our misfortunes, even so serious a contingency brings its remedy and
consolation with it, if the sufferer will but make the best rather than the worst,
of the accident which has befallen him. In my particular case the consolatory
topics were close at hand, and, indeed, had suggested themselves to my
meditations a considerable time before it was requisite to use them. In view of
my previous weariness of office, and vague thoughts of resignation, my
fortune somewhat resembled that of a person who should entertain an idea of
committing suicide, and although beyond his hopes, meet with the good hap
to be murdered. In the Custom-House, as before in the Old Manse, I had spent
three years—a term long enough to rest a weary brain: long enough to break
off old intellectual habits, and make room for new ones: long enough, and too
long, to have lived in an unnatural state, doing what was really of no
advantage nor delight to any human being, and withholding myself from toil
that would, at least, have stilled an unquiet impulse in me. Then, moreover, as
regarded his unceremonious ejectment, the late Surveyor was not altogether
ill-pleased to be recognised by the Whigs as an enemy; since his inactivity in
political affairs—his tendency to roam, at will, in that broad and quiet field
where all mankind may meet, rather than confine himself to those narrow
paths where brethren of the same household must diverge from one another—
had sometimes made it questionable with his brother Democrats whether he
was a friend. Now, after he had won the crown of martyrdom (though with no
longer a head to wear it on), the point might be looked upon as settled.
Finally, little heroic as he was, it seemed more decorous to be overthrown in
the downfall of the party with which he had been content to stand than to
remain a forlorn survivor, when so many worthier men were falling: and at
last, after subsisting for four years on the mercy of a hostile administration, to
be compelled then to define his position anew, and claim the yet more
humiliating mercy of a friendly one.
Meanwhile, the press had taken up my affair, and kept me for a week or two
careering through the public prints, in my decapitated state, like Irving’s
Headless Horseman, ghastly and grim, and longing to be buried, as a political
dead man ought. So much for my figurative self. The real human being all
this time, with his head safely on his shoulders, had brought himself to the
comfortable conclusion that everything was for the best; and making an
investment in ink, paper, and steel pens, had opened his long-disused writing
desk, and was again a literary man.
Now it was that the lucubrations of my ancient predecessor, Mr. Surveyor
Pue, came into play. Rusty through long idleness, some little space was
requisite before my intellectual machinery could be brought to work upon the
tale with an effect in any degree satisfactory. Even yet, though my thoughts
were ultimately much absorbed in the task, it wears, to my eye, a stern and
sombre aspect: too much ungladdened by genial sunshine; too little relieved
by the tender and familiar influences which soften almost every scene of
nature and real life, and undoubtedly should soften every picture of them.
This uncaptivating effect is perhaps due to the period of hardly accomplished
revolution, and still seething turmoil, in which the story shaped itself. It is no
indication, however, of a lack of cheerfulness in the writer’s mind: for he was
happier while straying through the gloom of these sunless fantasies than at
any time since he had quitted the Old Manse. Some of the briefer articles,
which contribute to make up the volume, have likewise been written since my
involuntary withdrawal from the toils and honours of public life, and the
remainder are gleaned from annuals and magazines, of such antique date, that
they have gone round the circle, and come back to novelty again. Keeping up
the metaphor of the political guillotine, the whole may be considered as the
POSTHUMOUS PAPERS OF A DECAPITATED SURVEYOR: and the
sketch which I am now bringing to a close, if too autobiographical for a
modest person to publish in his lifetime, will readily be excused in a
gentleman who writes from beyond the grave. Peace be with all the world!
My blessing on my friends! My forgiveness to my enemies! For I am in the
realm of quiet!
The life of the Custom-House lies like a dream behind me. The old Inspector
—who, by-the-bye, I regret to say, was overthrown and killed by a horse
some time ago, else he would certainly have lived for ever—he, and all those
other venerable personages who sat with him at the receipt of custom, are but
shadows in my view: white-headed and wrinkled images, which my fancy
used to sport with, and has now flung aside for ever. The merchants—Pingree,
Phillips, Shepard, Upton, Kimball, Bertram, Hunt—these and many other
names, which had such classic familiarity for my ear six months ago,—these
men of traffic, who seemed to occupy so important a position in the world—
how little time has it required to disconnect me from them all, not merely in
act, but recollection! It is with an effort that I recall the figures and
appellations of these few. Soon, likewise, my old native town will loom upon
me through the haze of memory, a mist brooding over and around it; as if it
were no portion of the real earth, but an overgrown village in cloud-land, with
only imaginary inhabitants to people its wooden houses and walk its homely
lanes, and the unpicturesque prolixity of its main street. Henceforth it ceases
to be a reality of my life; I am a citizen of somewhere else. My good
townspeople will not much regret me, for—though it has been as dear an
object as any, in my literary efforts, to be of some importance in their eyes,
and to win myself a pleasant memory in this abode and burial-place of so
many of my forefathers—there has never been, for me, the genial atmosphere
which a literary man requires in order to ripen the best harvest of his mind. I
shall do better amongst other faces; and these familiar ones, it need hardly be
said, will do just as well without me.
It may be, however—oh, transporting and triumphant thought—that the great-
grandchildren of the present race may sometimes think kindly of the scribbler
of bygone days, when the antiquary of days to come, among the sites
memorable in the town’s history, shall point out the locality of THE TOWN
PUMP.
THE SCARLET LETTER
I. THE PRISON DOOR

A throng of bearded men, in sad-coloured garments and grey steeple-crowned

hats, inter-mixed with women, some wearing hoods, and others bareheaded,
was assembled in front of a wooden edifice, the door of which was heavily
timbered with oak, and studded with iron spikes.
The founders of a new colony, whatever Utopia of human virtue and
happiness they might originally project, have invariably recognised it among
their earliest practical necessities to allot a portion of the virgin soil as a
cemetery, and another portion as the site of a prison. In accordance with this
rule it may safely be assumed that the forefathers of Boston had built the first
prison-house somewhere in the Vicinity of Cornhill, almost as seasonably as
they marked out the first burial-ground, on Isaac Johnson’s lot, and round
about his grave, which subsequently became the nucleus of all the
congregated sepulchres in the old churchyard of King’s Chapel. Certain it is
that, some fifteen or twenty years after the settlement of the town, the wooden
jail was already marked with weather-stains and other indications of age,
which gave a yet darker aspect to its beetle-browed and gloomy front. The
rust on the ponderous iron-work of its oaken door looked more antique than
anything else in the New World. Like all that pertains to crime, it seemed
never to have known a youthful era. Before this ugly edifice, and between it
and the wheel-track of the street, was a grass-plot, much overgrown with
burdock, pig-weed, apple-pern, and such unsightly vegetation, which
evidently found something congenial in the soil that had so early borne the
black flower of civilised society, a prison. But on one side of the portal, and
rooted almost at the threshold, was a wild rose-bush, covered, in this month of
June, with its delicate gems, which might be imagined to offer their fragrance
and fragile beauty to the prisoner as he went in, and to the condemned
criminal as he came forth to his doom, in token that the deep heart of Nature
could pity and be kind to him.
This rose-bush, by a strange chance, has been kept alive in history; but
whether it had merely survived out of the stern old wilderness, so long after
the fall of the gigantic pines and oaks that originally overshadowed it, or
whether, as there is fair authority for believing, it had sprung up under the
footsteps of the sainted Ann Hutchinson as she entered the prison-door, we
shall not take upon us to determine. Finding it so directly on the threshold of
our narrative, which is now about to issue from that inauspicious portal, we
could hardly do otherwise than pluck one of its flowers, and present it to the
reader. It may serve, let us hope, to symbolise some sweet moral blossom that
may be found along the track, or relieve the darkening close of a tale of
human frailty and sorrow.

II. THE MARKET-PLACE

The grass-plot before the jail, in Prison Lane, on a certain summer morning,
not less than two centuries ago, was occupied by a pretty large number of the
inhabitants of Boston, all with their eyes intently fastened on the iron-
clamped oaken door. Amongst any other population, or at a later period in the
history of New England, the grim rigidity that petrified the bearded
physiognomies of these good people would have augured some awful
business in hand. It could have betokened nothing short of the anticipated
execution of some noted culprit, on whom the sentence of a legal tribunal had
but confirmed the verdict of public sentiment. But, in that early severity of the
Puritan character, an inference of this kind could not so indubitably be drawn.
It might be that a sluggish bond-servant, or an undutiful child, whom his
parents had given over to the civil authority, was to be corrected at the
whipping-post. It might be that an Antinomian, a Quaker, or other heterodox
religionist, was to be scourged out of the town, or an idle or vagrant Indian,
whom the white man’s firewater had made riotous about the streets, was to be
driven with stripes into the shadow of the forest. It might be, too, that a witch,
like old Mistress Hibbins, the bitter-tempered widow of the magistrate, was to
die upon the gallows. In either case, there was very much the same solemnity
of demeanour on the part of the spectators, as befitted a people among whom
religion and law were almost identical, and in whose character both were so
thoroughly interfused, that the mildest and severest acts of public discipline
were alike made venerable and awful. Meagre, indeed, and cold, was the
sympathy that a transgressor might look for, from such bystanders, at the
scaffold. On the other hand, a penalty which, in our days, would infer a
degree of mocking infamy and ridicule, might then be invested with almost as
stern a dignity as the punishment of death itself.
It was a circumstance to be noted on the summer morning when our story
begins its course, that the women, of whom there were several in the crowd,
appeared to take a peculiar interest in whatever penal infliction might be
expected to ensue. The age had not so much refinement, that any sense of
impropriety restrained the wearers of petticoat and farthingale from stepping
forth into the public ways, and wedging their not unsubstantial persons, if
occasion were, into the throng nearest to the scaffold at an execution. Morally,
as well as materially, there was a coarser fibre in those wives and maidens of
old English birth and breeding than in their fair descendants, separated from
them by a series of six or seven generations; for, throughout that chain of
ancestry, every successive mother had transmitted to her child a fainter
bloom, a more delicate and briefer beauty, and a slighter physical frame, if not
character of less force and solidity than her own. The women who were now
standing about the prison-door stood within less than half a century of the
period when the man-like Elizabeth had been the not altogether unsuitable
representative of the sex. They were her countrywomen: and the beef and ale
of their native land, with a moral diet not a whit more refined, entered largely
into their composition. The bright morning sun, therefore, shone on broad
shoulders and well-developed busts, and on round and ruddy cheeks, that had
ripened in the far-off island, and had hardly yet grown paler or thinner in the
atmosphere of New England. There was, moreover, a boldness and rotundity
of speech among these matrons, as most of them seemed to be, that would
startle us at the present day, whether in respect to its purport or its volume of
tone.
“Goodwives,” said a hard-featured dame of fifty, “I’ll tell ye a piece of my
mind. It would be greatly for the public behoof if we women, being of mature
age and church-members in good repute, should have the handling of such
malefactresses as this Hester Prynne. What think ye, gossips? If the hussy
stood up for judgment before us five, that are now here in a knot together,
would she come off with such a sentence as the worshipful magistrates have
awarded? Marry, I trow not.”
“People say,” said another, “that the Reverend Master Dimmesdale, her godly
pastor, takes it very grievously to heart that such a scandal should have come
upon his congregation.”
“The magistrates are God-fearing gentlemen, but merciful overmuch—that is
a truth,” added a third autumnal matron. “At the very least, they should have
put the brand of a hot iron on Hester Prynne’s forehead. Madame Hester
would have winced at that, I warrant me. But she—the naughty baggage—
little will she care what they put upon the bodice of her gown! Why, look you,
she may cover it with a brooch, or such like heathenish adornment, and so
walk the streets as brave as ever!”
“Ah, but,” interposed, more softly, a young wife, holding a child by the hand,
“let her cover the mark as she will, the pang of it will be always in her heart.”
“What do we talk of marks and brands, whether on the bodice of her gown or
the flesh of her forehead?” cried another female, the ugliest as well as the
most pitiless of these self-constituted judges. “This woman has brought shame
upon us all, and ought to die; is there not law for it? Truly there is, both in the
Scripture and the statute-book. Then let the magistrates, who have made it of
no effect, thank themselves if their own wives and daughters go astray.”
“Mercy on us, goodwife!” exclaimed a man in the crowd, “is there no virtue
in woman, save what springs from a wholesome fear of the gallows? That is
the hardest word yet! Hush now, gossips for the lock is turning in the prison-
door, and here comes Mistress Prynne herself.”
The door of the jail being flung open from within there appeared, in the first
place, like a black shadow emerging into sunshine, the grim and grisly
presence of the town-beadle, with a sword by his side, and his staff of office
in his hand. This personage prefigured and represented in his aspect the whole
dismal severity of the Puritanic code of law, which it was his business to
administer in its final and closest application to the offender. Stretching forth
the official staff in his left hand, he laid his right upon the shoulder of a young
woman, whom he thus drew forward, until, on the threshold of the prison-
door, she repelled him, by an action marked with natural dignity and force of
character, and stepped into the open air as if by her own free will. She bore in
her arms a child, a baby of some three months old, who winked and turned
aside its little face from the too vivid light of day; because its existence,
heretofore, had brought it acquaintance only with the grey twilight of a
dungeon, or other darksome apartment of the prison.
When the young woman—the mother of this child—stood fully revealed
before the crowd, it seemed to be her first impulse to clasp the infant closely
to her bosom; not so much by an impulse of motherly affection, as that she
might thereby conceal a certain token, which was wrought or fastened into her
dress. In a moment, however, wisely judging that one token of her shame
would but poorly serve to hide another, she took the baby on her arm, and
with a burning blush, and yet a haughty smile, and a glance that would not be
abashed, looked around at her townspeople and neighbours. On the breast of
her gown, in fine red cloth, surrounded with an elaborate embroidery and
fantastic flourishes of gold thread, appeared the letter A. It was so artistically
done, and with so much fertility and gorgeous luxuriance of fancy, that it had
all the effect of a last and fitting decoration to the apparel which she wore,
and which was of a splendour in accordance with the taste of the age, but
greatly beyond what was allowed by the sumptuary regulations of the colony.
The young woman was tall, with a figure of perfect elegance on a large scale.
She had dark and abundant hair, so glossy that it threw off the sunshine with a
gleam; and a face which, besides being beautiful from regularity of feature
and richness of complexion, had the impressiveness belonging to a marked
brow and deep black eyes. She was ladylike, too, after the manner of the
feminine gentility of those days; characterised by a certain state and dignity,
rather than by the delicate, evanescent, and indescribable grace which is now
recognised as its indication. And never had Hester Prynne appeared more
ladylike, in the antique interpretation of the term, than as she issued from the
prison. Those who had before known her, and had expected to behold her
dimmed and obscured by a disastrous cloud, were astonished, and even
startled, to perceive how her beauty shone out, and made a halo of the
misfortune and ignominy in which she was enveloped. It may be true that, to
a sensitive observer, there was some thing exquisitely painful in it. Her attire,
which indeed, she had wrought for the occasion in prison, and had modelled
much after her own fancy, seemed to express the attitude of her spirit, the
desperate recklessness of her mood, by its wild and picturesque peculiarity.
But the point which drew all eyes, and, as it were, transfigured the wearer—
so that both men and women who had been familiarly acquainted with Hester
Prynne were now impressed as if they beheld her for the first time—was that
SCARLET LETTER, so fantastically embroidered and illuminated upon her
bosom. It had the effect of a spell, taking her out of the ordinary relations with
humanity, and enclosing her in a sphere by herself.
“She hath good skill at her needle, that’s certain,” remarked one of her female
spectators; “but did ever a woman, before this brazen hussy, contrive such a
way of showing it? Why, gossips, what is it but to laugh in the faces of our
godly magistrates, and make a pride out of what they, worthy gentlemen,
meant for a punishment?”
“It were well,” muttered the most iron-visaged of the old dames, “if we
stripped Madame Hester’s rich gown off her dainty shoulders; and as for the
red letter which she hath stitched so curiously, I’ll bestow a rag of mine own
rheumatic flannel to make a fitter one!”
“Oh, peace, neighbours—peace!” whispered their youngest companion; “do
not let her hear you! Not a stitch in that embroidered letter but she has felt it
in her heart.”
The grim beadle now made a gesture with his staff. “Make way, good people
—make way, in the King’s name!” cried he. “Open a passage; and I promise
ye, Mistress Prynne shall be set where man, woman, and child may have a fair
sight of her brave apparel from this time till an hour past meridian. A blessing
on the righteous colony of the Massachusetts, where iniquity is dragged out
into the sunshine! Come along, Madame Hester, and show your scarlet letter
in the market-place!”
A lane was forthwith opened through the crowd of spectators. Preceded by the
beadle, and attended by an irregular procession of stern-browed men and
unkindly visaged women, Hester Prynne set forth towards the place appointed
for her punishment. A crowd of eager and curious schoolboys, understanding
little of the matter in hand, except that it gave them a half-holiday, ran before
her progress, turning their heads continually to stare into her face and at the
winking baby in her arms, and at the ignominious letter on her breast. It was
no great distance, in those days, from the prison door to the market-place.
Measured by the prisoner’s experience, however, it might be reckoned a
journey of some length; for haughty as her demeanour was, she perchance
underwent an agony from every footstep of those that thronged to see her, as
if her heart had been flung into the street for them all to spurn and trample
upon. In our nature, however, there is a provision, alike marvellous and
merciful, that the sufferer should never know the intensity of what he endures
by its present torture, but chiefly by the pang that rankles after it. With almost
a serene deportment, therefore, Hester Prynne passed through this portion of
her ordeal, and came to a sort of scaffold, at the western extremity of the
market-place. It stood nearly beneath the eaves of Boston’s earliest church,
and appeared to be a fixture there.
In fact, this scaffold constituted a portion of a penal machine, which now, for
two or three generations past, has been merely historical and traditionary
among us, but was held, in the old time, to be as effectual an agent, in the
promotion of good citizenship, as ever was the guillotine among the terrorists
of France. It was, in short, the platform of the pillory; and above it rose the
framework of that instrument of discipline, so fashioned as to confine the
human head in its tight grasp, and thus hold it up to the public gaze. The very
ideal of ignominy was embodied and made manifest in this contrivance of
wood and iron. There can be no outrage, methinks, against our common
nature—whatever be the delinquencies of the individual—no outrage more
flagrant than to forbid the culprit to hide his face for shame; as it was the
essence of this punishment to do. In Hester Prynne’s instance, however, as not
unfrequently in other cases, her sentence bore that she should stand a certain
time upon the platform, but without undergoing that gripe about the neck and
confinement of the head, the proneness to which was the most devilish
characteristic of this ugly engine. Knowing well her part, she ascended a
flight of wooden steps, and was thus displayed to the surrounding multitude,
at about the height of a man’s shoulders above the street.
Had there been a Papist among the crowd of Puritans, he might have seen in
this beautiful woman, so picturesque in her attire and mien, and with the
infant at her bosom, an object to remind him of the image of Divine
Maternity, which so many illustrious painters have vied with one another to
represent; something which should remind him, indeed, but only by contrast,
of that sacred image of sinless motherhood, whose infant was to redeem the
world. Here, there was the taint of deepest sin in the most sacred quality of
human life, working such effect, that the world was only the darker for this
woman’s beauty, and the more lost for the infant that she had borne.
The scene was not without a mixture of awe, such as must always invest the
spectacle of guilt and shame in a fellow-creature, before society shall have
grown corrupt enough to smile, instead of shuddering at it. The witnesses of
Hester Prynne’s disgrace had not yet passed beyond their simplicity. They
were stern enough to look upon her death, had that been the sentence, without
a murmur at its severity, but had none of the heartlessness of another social
state, which would find only a theme for jest in an exhibition like the present.
Even had there been a disposition to turn the matter into ridicule, it must have
been repressed and overpowered by the solemn presence of men no less
dignified than the governor, and several of his counsellors, a judge, a general,
and the ministers of the town, all of whom sat or stood in a balcony of the
meeting-house, looking down upon the platform. When such personages
could constitute a part of the spectacle, without risking the majesty, or
reverence of rank and office, it was safely to be inferred that the infliction of a
legal sentence would have an earnest and effectual meaning. Accordingly, the
crowd was sombre and grave. The unhappy culprit sustained herself as best a
woman might, under the heavy weight of a thousand unrelenting eyes, all
fastened upon her, and concentrated at her bosom. It was almost intolerable to
be borne. Of an impulsive and passionate nature, she had fortified herself to
encounter the stings and venomous stabs of public contumely, wreaking itself
in every variety of insult; but there was a quality so much more terrible in the
solemn mood of the popular mind, that she longed rather to behold all those
rigid countenances contorted with scornful merriment, and herself the object.
Had a roar of laughter burst from the multitude—each man, each woman,
each little shrill-voiced child, contributing their individual parts—Hester
Prynne might have repaid them all with a bitter and disdainful smile. But,
under the leaden infliction which it was her doom to endure, she felt, at
moments, as if she must needs shriek out with the full power of her lungs, and
cast herself from the scaffold down upon the ground, or else go mad at once.
Yet there were intervals when the whole scene, in which she was the most
conspicuous object, seemed to vanish from her eyes, or, at least, glimmered
indistinctly before them, like a mass of imperfectly shaped and spectral
images. Her mind, and especially her memory, was preternaturally active, and
kept bringing up other scenes than this roughly hewn street of a little town, on
the edge of the western wilderness: other faces than were lowering upon her
from beneath the brims of those steeple-crowned hats. Reminiscences, the
most trifling and immaterial, passages of infancy and school-days, sports,
childish quarrels, and the little domestic traits of her maiden years, came
swarming back upon her, intermingled with recollections of whatever was
gravest in her subsequent life; one picture precisely as vivid as another; as if
all were of similar importance, or all alike a play. Possibly, it was an
instinctive device of her spirit to relieve itself by the exhibition of these
phantasmagoric forms, from the cruel weight and hardness of the reality.
Be that as it might, the scaffold of the pillory was a point of view that
revealed to Hester Prynne the entire track along which she had been treading,
since her happy infancy. Standing on that miserable eminence, she saw again
her native village, in Old England, and her paternal home: a decayed house of
grey stone, with a poverty-stricken aspect, but retaining a half obliterated
shield of arms over the portal, in token of antique gentility. She saw her
father’s face, with its bold brow, and reverend white beard that flowed over
the old-fashioned Elizabethan ruff; her mother’s, too, with the look of heedful
and anxious love which it always wore in her remembrance, and which, even
since her death, had so often laid the impediment of a gentle remonstrance in
her daughter’s pathway. She saw her own face, glowing with girlish beauty,
and illuminating all the interior of the dusky mirror in which she had been
wont to gaze at it. There she beheld another countenance, of a man well
stricken in years, a pale, thin, scholar-like visage, with eyes dim and bleared
by the lamp-light that had served them to pore over many ponderous books.
Yet those same bleared optics had a strange, penetrating power, when it was
their owner’s purpose to read the human soul. This figure of the study and the
cloister, as Hester Prynne’s womanly fancy failed not to recall, was slightly
deformed, with the left shoulder a trifle higher than the right. Next rose before
her in memory’s picture-gallery, the intricate and narrow thoroughfares, the
tall, grey houses, the huge cathedrals, and the public edifices, ancient in date
and quaint in architecture, of a continental city; where new life had awaited
her, still in connexion with the misshapen scholar: a new life, but feeding
itself on time-worn materials, like a tuft of green moss on a crumbling wall.
Lastly, in lieu of these shifting scenes, came back the rude market-place of the
Puritan settlement, with all the townspeople assembled, and levelling their
stern regards at Hester Prynne—yes, at herself—who stood on the scaffold of
the pillory, an infant on her arm, and the letter A, in scarlet, fantastically
embroidered with gold thread, upon her bosom.
Could it be true? She clutched the child so fiercely to her breast that it sent
forth a cry; she turned her eyes downward at the scarlet letter, and even
touched it with her finger, to assure herself that the infant and the shame were
real. Yes these were her realities—all else had vanished!

III. THE RECOGNITION

From this intense consciousness of being the object of severe and universal
observation, the wearer of the scarlet letter was at length relieved, by
discerning, on the outskirts of the crowd, a figure which irresistibly took
possession of her thoughts. An Indian in his native garb was standing there;
but the red men were not so infrequent visitors of the English settlements that
one of them would have attracted any notice from Hester Prynne at such a
time; much less would he have excluded all other objects and ideas from her
mind. By the Indian’s side, and evidently sustaining a companionship with
him, stood a white man, clad in a strange disarray of civilized and savage
costume.
He was small in stature, with a furrowed visage, which as yet could hardly be
termed aged. There was a remarkable intelligence in his features, as of a
person who had so cultivated his mental part that it could not fail to mould the
physical to itself and become manifest by unmistakable tokens. Although, by
a seemingly careless arrangement of his heterogeneous garb, he had
endeavoured to conceal or abate the peculiarity, it was sufficiently evident to
Hester Prynne that one of this man’s shoulders rose higher than the other.
Again, at the first instant of perceiving that thin visage, and the slight
deformity of the figure, she pressed her infant to her bosom with so
convulsive a force that the poor babe uttered another cry of pain. But the
mother did not seem to hear it.
At his arrival in the market-place, and some time before she saw him, the
stranger had bent his eyes on Hester Prynne. It was carelessly at first, like a
man chiefly accustomed to look inward, and to whom external matters are of
little value and import, unless they bear relation to something within his mind.
Very soon, however, his look became keen and penetrative. A writhing horror
twisted itself across his features, like a snake gliding swiftly over them, and
making one little pause, with all its wreathed intervolutions in open sight. His
face darkened with some powerful emotion, which, nevertheless, he so
instantaneously controlled by an effort of his will, that, save at a single
moment, its expression might have passed for calmness. After a brief space,
the convulsion grew almost imperceptible, and finally subsided into the
depths of his nature. When he found the eyes of Hester Prynne fastened on his
own, and saw that she appeared to recognize him, he slowly and calmly raised
his finger, made a gesture with it in the air, and laid it on his lips.
Then touching the shoulder of a townsman who stood near to him, he
addressed him in a formal and courteous manner:
“I pray you, good Sir,” said he, “who is this woman?—and wherefore is she
here set up to public shame?”
“You must needs be a stranger in this region, friend,” answered the
townsman, looking curiously at the questioner and his savage companion,
“else you would surely have heard of Mistress Hester Prynne and her evil
doings. She hath raised a great scandal, I promise you, in godly Master
Dimmesdale’s church.”
“You say truly,” replied the other; “I am a stranger, and have been a wanderer,
sorely against my will. I have met with grievous mishaps by sea and land, and
have been long held in bonds among the heathen-folk to the southward; and
am now brought hither by this Indian to be redeemed out of my captivity. Will
it please you, therefore, to tell me of Hester Prynne’s—have I her name
rightly?—of this woman’s offences, and what has brought her to yonder
scaffold?”
“Truly, friend; and methinks it must gladden your heart, after your troubles
and sojourn in the wilderness,” said the townsman, “to find yourself at length
in a land where iniquity is searched out and punished in the sight of rulers and
people, as here in our godly New England. Yonder woman, Sir, you must
know, was the wife of a certain learned man, English by birth, but who had
long ago dwelt in Amsterdam, whence some good time agone he was minded
to cross over and cast in his lot with us of the Massachusetts. To this purpose
he sent his wife before him, remaining himself to look after some necessary
affairs. Marry, good Sir, in some two years, or less, that the woman has been a
dweller here in Boston, no tidings have come of this learned gentleman,
Master Prynne; and his young wife, look you, being left to her own
misguidance—”
“Ah!—aha!—I conceive you,” said the stranger with a bitter smile. “So
learned a man as you speak of should have learned this too in his books. And
who, by your favour, Sir, may be the father of yonder babe—it is some three
or four months old, I should judge—which Mistress Prynne is holding in her
arms?”
“Of a truth, friend, that matter remaineth a riddle; and the Daniel who shall
expound it is yet a-wanting,” answered the townsman. “Madame Hester
absolutely refuseth to speak, and the magistrates have laid their heads
together in vain. Peradventure the guilty one stands looking on at this sad
spectacle, unknown of man, and forgetting that God sees him.”
“The learned man,” observed the stranger with another smile, “should come
himself to look into the mystery.”
“It behoves him well if he be still in life,” responded the townsman. “Now,
good Sir, our Massachusetts magistracy, bethinking themselves that this
woman is youthful and fair, and doubtless was strongly tempted to her fall,
and that, moreover, as is most likely, her husband may be at the bottom of the
sea, they have not been bold to put in force the extremity of our righteous law
against her. The penalty thereof is death. But in their great mercy and
tenderness of heart they have doomed Mistress Prynne to stand only a space
of three hours on the platform of the pillory, and then and thereafter, for the
remainder of her natural life to wear a mark of shame upon her bosom.”
“A wise sentence,” remarked the stranger, gravely, bowing his head. “Thus
she will be a living sermon against sin, until the ignominious letter be
engraved upon her tombstone. It irks me, nevertheless, that the partner of her
iniquity should not at least, stand on the scaffold by her side. But he will be
known—he will be known!—he will be known!”
He bowed courteously to the communicative townsman, and whispering a few
words to his Indian attendant, they both made their way through the crowd.
While this passed, Hester Prynne had been standing on her pedestal, still with
a fixed gaze towards the stranger—so fixed a gaze that, at moments of intense
absorption, all other objects in the visible world seemed to vanish, leaving
only him and her. Such an interview, perhaps, would have been more terrible
than even to meet him as she now did, with the hot mid-day sun burning
down upon her face, and lighting up its shame; with the scarlet token of
infamy on her breast; with the sin-born infant in her arms; with a whole
people, drawn forth as to a festival, staring at the features that should have
been seen only in the quiet gleam of the fireside, in the happy shadow of a
home, or beneath a matronly veil at church. Dreadful as it was, she was
conscious of a shelter in the presence of these thousand witnesses. It was
better to stand thus, with so many betwixt him and her, than to greet him face
to face—they two alone. She fled for refuge, as it were, to the public
exposure, and dreaded the moment when its protection should be withdrawn
from her. Involved in these thoughts, she scarcely heard a voice behind her
until it had repeated her name more than once, in a loud and solemn tone,
audible to the whole multitude.
“Hearken unto me, Hester Prynne!” said the voice.
It has already been noticed that directly over the platform on which Hester
Prynne stood was a kind of balcony, or open gallery, appended to the meeting-
house. It was the place whence proclamations were wont to be made, amidst
an assemblage of the magistracy, with all the ceremonial that attended such
public observances in those days. Here, to witness the scene which we are
describing, sat Governor Bellingham himself with four sergeants about his
chair, bearing halberds, as a guard of honour. He wore a dark feather in his
hat, a border of embroidery on his cloak, and a black velvet tunic beneath—a
gentleman advanced in years, with a hard experience written in his wrinkles.
He was not ill-fitted to be the head and representative of a community which
owed its origin and progress, and its present state of development, not to the
impulses of youth, but to the stern and tempered energies of manhood and the
sombre sagacity of age; accomplishing so much, precisely because it
imagined and hoped so little. The other eminent characters by whom the chief
ruler was surrounded were distinguished by a dignity of mien, belonging to a
period when the forms of authority were felt to possess the sacredness of
Divine institutions. They were, doubtless, good men, just and sage. But, out
of the whole human family, it would not have been easy to select the same
number of wise and virtuous persons, who should be less capable of sitting in
judgment on an erring woman’s heart, and disentangling its mesh of good and
evil, than the sages of rigid aspect towards whom Hester Prynne now turned
her face. She seemed conscious, indeed, that whatever sympathy she might
expect lay in the larger and warmer heart of the multitude; for, as she lifted
her eyes towards the balcony, the unhappy woman grew pale, and trembled.
The voice which had called her attention was that of the reverend and famous
John Wilson, the eldest clergyman of Boston, a great scholar, like most of his
contemporaries in the profession, and withal a man of kind and genial spirit.
This last attribute, however, had been less carefully developed than his
intellectual gifts, and was, in truth, rather a matter of shame than self-
congratulation with him. There he stood, with a border of grizzled locks
beneath his skull-cap, while his grey eyes, accustomed to the shaded light of
his study, were winking, like those of Hester’s infant, in the unadulterated
sunshine. He looked like the darkly engraved portraits which we see prefixed
to old volumes of sermons, and had no more right than one of those portraits
would have to step forth, as he now did, and meddle with a question of human
guilt, passion, and anguish.
“Hester Prynne,” said the clergyman, “I have striven with my young brother
here, under whose preaching of the Word you have been privileged to sit”—
here Mr. Wilson laid his hand on the shoulder of a pale young man beside him
—“I have sought, I say, to persuade this godly youth, that he should deal with
you, here in the face of Heaven, and before these wise and upright rulers, and
in hearing of all the people, as touching the vileness and blackness of your
sin. Knowing your natural temper better than I, he could the better judge what
arguments to use, whether of tenderness or terror, such as might prevail over
your hardness and obstinacy, insomuch that you should no longer hide the
name of him who tempted you to this grievous fall. But he opposes to me—
with a young man’s over-softness, albeit wise beyond his years—that it were
wronging the very nature of woman to force her to lay open her heart’s secrets
in such broad daylight, and in presence of so great a multitude. Truly, as I
sought to convince him, the shame lay in the commission of the sin, and not
in the showing of it forth. What say you to it, once again, brother
Dimmesdale? Must it be thou, or I, that shall deal with this poor sinner’s
soul?”
There was a murmur among the dignified and reverend occupants of the
balcony; and Governor Bellingham gave expression to its purport, speaking in
an authoritative voice, although tempered with respect towards the youthful
clergyman whom he addressed:
“Good Master Dimmesdale,” said he, “the responsibility of this woman’s soul
lies greatly with you. It behoves you; therefore, to exhort her to repentance
and to confession, as a proof and consequence thereof.”
The directness of this appeal drew the eyes of the whole crowd upon the
Reverend Mr. Dimmesdale—young clergyman, who had come from one of
the great English universities, bringing all the learning of the age into our
wild forest land. His eloquence and religious fervour had already given the
earnest of high eminence in his profession. He was a person of very striking
aspect, with a white, lofty, and impending brow; large, brown, melancholy
eyes, and a mouth which, unless when he forcibly compressed it, was apt to
be tremulous, expressing both nervous sensibility and a vast power of self
restraint. Notwithstanding his high native gifts and scholar-like attainments,
there was an air about this young minister—an apprehensive, a startled, a
half-frightened look—as of a being who felt himself quite astray, and at a loss
in the pathway of human existence, and could only be at ease in some
seclusion of his own. Therefore, so far as his duties would permit, he trod in
the shadowy by-paths, and thus kept himself simple and childlike, coming
forth, when occasion was, with a freshness, and fragrance, and dewy purity of
thought, which, as many people said, affected them like the speech of an
angel.
Such was the young man whom the Reverend Mr. Wilson and the Governor
had introduced so openly to the public notice, bidding him speak, in the
hearing of all men, to that mystery of a woman’s soul, so sacred even in its
pollution. The trying nature of his position drove the blood from his cheek,
and made his lips tremulous.
“Speak to the woman, my brother,” said Mr. Wilson. “It is of moment to her
soul, and, therefore, as the worshipful Governor says, momentous to thine
own, in whose charge hers is. Exhort her to confess the truth!”
The Reverend Mr. Dimmesdale bent his head, in silent prayer, as it seemed,
and then came forward.
“Hester Prynne,” said he, leaning over the balcony and looking down
steadfastly into her eyes, “thou hearest what this good man says, and seest the
accountability under which I labour. If thou feelest it to be for thy soul’s
peace, and that thy earthly punishment will thereby be made more effectual to
salvation, I charge thee to speak out the name of thy fellow-sinner and fellow-
sufferer! Be not silent from any mistaken pity and tenderness for him; for,
believe me, Hester, though he were to step down from a high place, and stand
there beside thee, on thy pedestal of shame, yet better were it so than to hide a
guilty heart through life. What can thy silence do for him, except it tempt him
—yea, compel him, as it were—to add hypocrisy to sin? Heaven hath granted
thee an open ignominy, that thereby thou mayest work out an open triumph
over the evil within thee and the sorrow without. Take heed how thou deniest
to him—who, perchance, hath not the courage to grasp it for himself—the
bitter, but wholesome, cup that is now presented to thy lips!”
The young pastor’s voice was tremulously sweet, rich, deep, and broken. The
feeling that it so evidently manifested, rather than the direct purport of the
words, caused it to vibrate within all hearts, and brought the listeners into one
accord of sympathy. Even the poor baby at Hester’s bosom was affected by
the same influence, for it directed its hitherto vacant gaze towards Mr.
Dimmesdale, and held up its little arms with a half-pleased, half-plaintive
murmur. So powerful seemed the minister’s appeal that the people could not
believe but that Hester Prynne would speak out the guilty name, or else that
the guilty one himself in whatever high or lowly place he stood, would be
drawn forth by an inward and inevitable necessity, and compelled to ascend
the scaffold.
Hester shook her head.
“Woman, transgress not beyond the limits of Heaven’s mercy!” cried the
Reverend Mr. Wilson, more harshly than before. “That little babe hath been
gifted with a voice, to second and confirm the counsel which thou hast heard.
Speak out the name! That, and thy repentance, may avail to take the scarlet
letter off thy breast.”
“Never,” replied Hester Prynne, looking, not at Mr. Wilson, but into the deep
and troubled eyes of the younger clergyman. “It is too deeply branded. Ye
cannot take it off. And would that I might endure his agony as well as mine!”
“Speak, woman!” said another voice, coldly and sternly, proceeding from the
crowd about the scaffold, “Speak; and give your child a father!”
“I will not speak!” answered Hester, turning pale as death, but responding to
this voice, which she too surely recognised. “And my child must seek a
heavenly father; she shall never know an earthly one!”
“She will not speak!” murmured Mr. Dimmesdale, who, leaning over the
balcony, with his hand upon his heart, had awaited the result of his appeal. He
now drew back with a long respiration. “Wondrous strength and generosity of
a woman’s heart! She will not speak!”
Discerning the impracticable state of the poor culprit’s mind, the elder
clergyman, who had carefully prepared himself for the occasion, addressed to
the multitude a discourse on sin, in all its branches, but with continual
reference to the ignominious letter. So forcibly did he dwell upon this symbol,
for the hour or more during which his periods were rolling over the people’s
heads, that it assumed new terrors in their imagination, and seemed to derive
its scarlet hue from the flames of the infernal pit. Hester Prynne, meanwhile,
kept her place upon the pedestal of shame, with glazed eyes, and an air of
weary indifference. She had borne that morning all that nature could endure;
and as her temperament was not of the order that escapes from too intense
suffering by a swoon, her spirit could only shelter itself beneath a stony crust
of insensibility, while the faculties of animal life remained entire. In this state,
the voice of the preacher thundered remorselessly, but unavailingly, upon her
ears. The infant, during the latter portion of her ordeal, pierced the air with its
wailings and screams; she strove to hush it mechanically, but seemed scarcely
to sympathise with its trouble. With the same hard demeanour, she was led
back to prison, and vanished from the public gaze within its iron-clamped
portal. It was whispered by those who peered after her that the scarlet letter
threw a lurid gleam along the dark passage-way of the interior.

IV. THE INTERVIEW

After her return to the prison, Hester Prynne was found to be in a state of
nervous excitement, that demanded constant watchfulness, lest she should
perpetrate violence on herself, or do some half-frenzied mischief to the poor
babe. As night approached, it proving impossible to quell her insubordination
by rebuke or threats of punishment, Master Brackett, the jailer, thought fit to
introduce a physician. He described him as a man of skill in all Christian
modes of physical science, and likewise familiar with whatever the savage
people could teach in respect to medicinal herbs and roots that grew in the
forest. To say the truth, there was much need of professional assistance, not
merely for Hester herself, but still more urgently for the child—who, drawing
its sustenance from the maternal bosom, seemed to have drank in with it all
the turmoil, the anguish and despair, which pervaded the mother’s system. It
now writhed in convulsions of pain, and was a forcible type, in its little frame,
of the moral agony which Hester Prynne had borne throughout the day.
Closely following the jailer into the dismal apartment, appeared that
individual, of singular aspect whose presence in the crowd had been of such
deep interest to the wearer of the scarlet letter. He was lodged in the prison,
not as suspected of any offence, but as the most convenient and suitable mode
of disposing of him, until the magistrates should have conferred with the
Indian sagamores respecting his ransom. His name was announced as Roger
Chillingworth. The jailer, after ushering him into the room, remained a
moment, marvelling at the comparative quiet that followed his entrance; for
Hester Prynne had immediately become as still as death, although the child
continued to moan.
“Prithee, friend, leave me alone with my patient,” said the practitioner. “Trust
me, good jailer, you shall briefly have peace in your house; and, I promise
you, Mistress Prynne shall hereafter be more amenable to just authority than
you may have found her heretofore.”
“Nay, if your worship can accomplish that,” answered Master Brackett, “I
shall own you for a man of skill, indeed! Verily, the woman hath been like a
possessed one; and there lacks little that I should take in hand, to drive Satan
out of her with stripes.”
The stranger had entered the room with the characteristic quietude of the
profession to which he announced himself as belonging. Nor did his
demeanour change when the withdrawal of the prison keeper left him face to
face with the woman, whose absorbed notice of him, in the crowd, had
intimated so close a relation between himself and her. His first care was given
to the child, whose cries, indeed, as she lay writhing on the trundle-bed, made
it of peremptory necessity to postpone all other business to the task of
soothing her. He examined the infant carefully, and then proceeded to unclasp
a leathern case, which he took from beneath his dress. It appeared to contain
medical preparations, one of which he mingled with a cup of water.
“My old studies in alchemy,” observed he, “and my sojourn, for above a year
past, among a people well versed in the kindly properties of simples, have
made a better physician of me than many that claim the medical degree. Here,
woman! The child is yours—she is none of mine—neither will she recognise
my voice or aspect as a father’s. Administer this draught, therefore, with thine
own hand.”
Hester repelled the offered medicine, at the same time gazing with strongly
marked apprehension into his face. “Wouldst thou avenge thyself on the
innocent babe?” whispered she.
“Foolish woman!” responded the physician, half coldly, half soothingly.
“What should ail me to harm this misbegotten and miserable babe? The
medicine is potent for good, and were it my child—yea, mine own, as well as
thine! I could do no better for it.”
As she still hesitated, being, in fact, in no reasonable state of mind, he took
the infant in his arms, and himself administered the draught. It soon proved its
efficacy, and redeemed the leech’s pledge. The moans of the little patient
subsided; its convulsive tossings gradually ceased; and in a few moments, as
is the custom of young children after relief from pain, it sank into a profound
and dewy slumber. The physician, as he had a fair right to be termed, next
bestowed his attention on the mother. With calm and intent scrutiny, he felt
her pulse, looked into her eyes—a gaze that made her heart shrink and
shudder, because so familiar, and yet so strange and cold—and, finally,
satisfied with his investigation, proceeded to mingle another draught.
“I know not Lethe nor Nepenthe,” remarked he; “but I have learned many
new secrets in the wilderness, and here is one of them—a recipe that an
Indian taught me, in requital of some lessons of my own, that were as old as
Paracelsus. Drink it! It may be less soothing than a sinless conscience. That I
cannot give thee. But it will calm the swell and heaving of thy passion, like
oil thrown on the waves of a tempestuous sea.”
He presented the cup to Hester, who received it with a slow, earnest look into
his face; not precisely a look of fear, yet full of doubt and questioning as to
what his purposes might be. She looked also at her slumbering child.
“I have thought of death,” said she—“have wished for it—would even have
prayed for it, were it fit that such as I should pray for anything. Yet, if death
be in this cup, I bid thee think again, ere thou beholdest me quaff it. See! it is
even now at my lips.”
“Drink, then,” replied he, still with the same cold composure. “Dost thou
know me so little, Hester Prynne? Are my purposes wont to be so shallow?
Even if I imagine a scheme of vengeance, what could I do better for my
object than to let thee live—than to give thee medicines against all harm and
peril of life—so that this burning shame may still blaze upon thy bosom?” As
he spoke, he laid his long fore-finger on the scarlet letter, which forthwith
seemed to scorch into Hester’s breast, as if it had been red hot. He noticed her
involuntary gesture, and smiled. “Live, therefore, and bear about thy doom
with thee, in the eyes of men and women—in the eyes of him whom thou
didst call thy husband—in the eyes of yonder child! And, that thou mayest
live, take off this draught.”
Without further expostulation or delay, Hester Prynne drained the cup, and, at
the motion of the man of skill, seated herself on the bed, where the child was
sleeping; while he drew the only chair which the room afforded, and took his
own seat beside her. She could not but tremble at these preparations; for she
felt that—having now done all that humanity, or principle, or, if so it were, a
refined cruelty, impelled him to do for the relief of physical suffering—he
was next to treat with her as the man whom she had most deeply and
irreparably injured.
“Hester,” said he, “I ask not wherefore, nor how thou hast fallen into the pit,
or say, rather, thou hast ascended to the pedestal of infamy on which I found
thee. The reason is not far to seek. It was my folly, and thy weakness. I—a
man of thought—the book-worm of great libraries—a man already in decay,
having given my best years to feed the hungry dream of knowledge—what
had I to do with youth and beauty like thine own? Misshapen from my birth-
hour, how could I delude myself with the idea that intellectual gifts might veil
physical deformity in a young girl’s fantasy? Men call me wise. If sages were
ever wise in their own behoof, I might have foreseen all this. I might have
known that, as I came out of the vast and dismal forest, and entered this
settlement of Christian men, the very first object to meet my eyes would be
thyself, Hester Prynne, standing up, a statue of ignominy, before the people.
Nay, from the moment when we came down the old church-steps together, a
married pair, I might have beheld the bale-fire of that scarlet letter blazing at
the end of our path!”
“Thou knowest,” said Hester—for, depressed as she was, she could not
endure this last quiet stab at the token of her shame—“thou knowest that I
was frank with thee. I felt no love, nor feigned any.”
“True,” replied he. “It was my folly! I have said it. But, up to that epoch of
my life, I had lived in vain. The world had been so cheerless! My heart was a
habitation large enough for many guests, but lonely and chill, and without a
household fire. I longed to kindle one! It seemed not so wild a dream—old as
I was, and sombre as I was, and misshapen as I was—that the simple bliss,
which is scattered far and wide, for all mankind to gather up, might yet be
mine. And so, Hester, I drew thee into my heart, into its innermost chamber,
and sought to warm thee by the warmth which thy presence made there!”
“I have greatly wronged thee,” murmured Hester.
“We have wronged each other,” answered he. “Mine was the first wrong,
when I betrayed thy budding youth into a false and unnatural relation with my
decay. Therefore, as a man who has not thought and philosophised in vain, I
seek no vengeance, plot no evil against thee. Between thee and me, the scale
hangs fairly balanced. But, Hester, the man lives who has wronged us both!
Who is he?”
“Ask me not!” replied Hester Prynne, looking firmly into his face. “That thou
shalt never know!”
“Never, sayest thou?” rejoined he, with a smile of dark and self-relying
intelligence. “Never know him! Believe me, Hester, there are few things
whether in the outward world, or, to a certain depth, in the invisible sphere of
thought—few things hidden from the man who devotes himself earnestly and
unreservedly to the solution of a mystery. Thou mayest cover up thy secret
from the prying multitude. Thou mayest conceal it, too, from the ministers
and magistrates, even as thou didst this day, when they sought to wrench the
name out of thy heart, and give thee a partner on thy pedestal. But, as for me,
I come to the inquest with other senses than they possess. I shall seek this
man, as I have sought truth in books: as I have sought gold in alchemy. There
is a sympathy that will make me conscious of him. I shall see him tremble. I
shall feel myself shudder, suddenly and unawares. Sooner or later, he must
needs be mine.”
The eyes of the wrinkled scholar glowed so intensely upon her, that Hester
Prynne clasped her hand over her heart, dreading lest he should read the
secret there at once.
“Thou wilt not reveal his name? Not the less he is mine,” resumed he, with a
look of confidence, as if destiny were at one with him. “He bears no letter of
infamy wrought into his garment, as thou dost, but I shall read it on his heart.
Yet fear not for him! Think not that I shall interfere with Heaven’s own
method of retribution, or, to my own loss, betray him to the gripe of human
law. Neither do thou imagine that I shall contrive aught against his life; no,
nor against his fame, if as I judge, he be a man of fair repute. Let him live!
Let him hide himself in outward honour, if he may! Not the less he shall be
mine!”
“Thy acts are like mercy,” said Hester, bewildered and appalled; “but thy
words interpret thee as a terror!”
“One thing, thou that wast my wife, I would enjoin upon thee,” continued the
scholar. “Thou hast kept the secret of thy paramour. Keep, likewise, mine!
There are none in this land that know me. Breathe not to any human soul that
thou didst ever call me husband! Here, on this wild outskirt of the earth, I
shall pitch my tent; for, elsewhere a wanderer, and isolated from human
interests, I find here a woman, a man, a child, amongst whom and myself
there exist the closest ligaments. No matter whether of love or hate: no matter
whether of right or wrong! Thou and thine, Hester Prynne, belong to me. My
home is where thou art and where he is. But betray me not!”
“Wherefore dost thou desire it?” inquired Hester, shrinking, she hardly knew
why, from this secret bond. “Why not announce thyself openly, and cast me
off at once?”
“It may be,” he replied, “because I will not encounter the dishonour that
besmirches the husband of a faithless woman. It may be for other reasons.
Enough, it is my purpose to live and die unknown. Let, therefore, thy husband
be to the world as one already dead, and of whom no tidings shall ever come.
Recognise me not, by word, by sign, by look! Breathe not the secret, above
all, to the man thou wottest of. Shouldst thou fail me in this, beware! His
fame, his position, his life will be in my hands. Beware!”
“I will keep thy secret, as I have his,” said Hester.
“Swear it!” rejoined he.
And she took the oath.
“And now, Mistress Prynne,” said old Roger Chillingworth, as he was
hereafter to be named, “I leave thee alone: alone with thy infant and the
scarlet letter! How is it, Hester? Doth thy sentence bind thee to wear the token
in thy sleep? Art thou not afraid of nightmares and hideous dreams?”
“Why dost thou smile so at me?” inquired Hester, troubled at the expression
of his eyes. “Art thou like the Black Man that haunts the forest round about
us? Hast thou enticed me into a bond that will prove the ruin of my soul?”
“Not thy soul,” he answered, with another smile. “No, not thine!”

V. HESTER AT HER NEEDLE

Hester Prynne’s term of confinement was now at an end. Her prison-door was
thrown open, and she came forth into the sunshine, which, falling on all alike,
seemed, to her sick and morbid heart, as if meant for no other purpose than to
reveal the scarlet letter on her breast. Perhaps there was a more real torture in
her first unattended footsteps from the threshold of the prison than even in the
procession and spectacle that have been described, where she was made the
common infamy, at which all mankind was summoned to point its finger.
Then, she was supported by an unnatural tension of the nerves, and by all the
combative energy of her character, which enabled her to convert the scene
into a kind of lurid triumph. It was, moreover, a separate and insulated event,
to occur but once in her lifetime, and to meet which, therefore, reckless of
economy, she might call up the vital strength that would have sufficed for
many quiet years. The very law that condemned her—a giant of stern features
but with vigour to support, as well as to annihilate, in his iron arm—had held
her up through the terrible ordeal of her ignominy. But now, with this
unattended walk from her prison door, began the daily custom; and she must
either sustain and carry it forward by the ordinary resources of her nature, or
sink beneath it. She could no longer borrow from the future to help her
through the present grief. Tomorrow would bring its own trial with it; so
would the next day, and so would the next: each its own trial, and yet the very
same that was now so unutterably grievous to be borne. The days of the far-
off future would toil onward, still with the same burden for her to take up, and
bear along with her, but never to fling down; for the accumulating days and
added years would pile up their misery upon the heap of shame. Throughout
them all, giving up her individuality, she would become the general symbol at
which the preacher and moralist might point, and in which they might vivify
and embody their images of woman’s frailty and sinful passion. Thus the
young and pure would be taught to look at her, with the scarlet letter flaming
on her breast—at her, the child of honourable parents—at her, the mother of a
babe that would hereafter be a woman—at her, who had once been innocent
—as the figure, the body, the reality of sin. And over her grave, the infamy
that she must carry thither would be her only monument.
It may seem marvellous that, with the world before her—kept by no
restrictive clause of her condemnation within the limits of the Puritan
settlement, so remote and so obscure—free to return to her birth-place, or to
any other European land, and there hide her character and identity under a
new exterior, as completely as if emerging into another state of being—and
having also the passes of the dark, inscrutable forest open to her, where the
wildness of her nature might assimilate itself with a people whose customs
and life were alien from the law that had condemned her—it may seem
marvellous that this woman should still call that place her home, where, and
where only, she must needs be the type of shame. But there is a fatality, a
feeling so irresistible and inevitable that it has the force of doom, which
almost invariably compels human beings to linger around and haunt, ghost-
like, the spot where some great and marked event has given the colour to their
lifetime; and, still the more irresistibly, the darker the tinge that saddens it.
Her sin, her ignominy, were the roots which she had struck into the soil. It
was as if a new birth, with stronger assimilations than the first, had converted
the forest-land, still so uncongenial to every other pilgrim and wanderer, into
Hester Prynne’s wild and dreary, but life-long home. All other scenes of earth
—even that village of rural England, where happy infancy and stainless
maidenhood seemed yet to be in her mother’s keeping, like garments put off
long ago—were foreign to her, in comparison. The chain that bound her here
was of iron links, and galling to her inmost soul, but could never be broken.
It might be, too—doubtless it was so, although she hid the secret from herself,
and grew pale whenever it struggled out of her heart, like a serpent from its
hole—it might be that another feeling kept her within the scene and pathway
that had been so fatal. There dwelt, there trode, the feet of one with whom she
deemed herself connected in a union that, unrecognised on earth, would bring
them together before the bar of final judgment, and make that their marriage-
altar, for a joint futurity of endless retribution. Over and over again, the
tempter of souls had thrust this idea upon Hester’s contemplation, and
laughed at the passionate and desperate joy with which she seized, and then
strove to cast it from her. She barely looked the idea in the face, and hastened
to bar it in its dungeon. What she compelled herself to believe—what, finally,
she reasoned upon as her motive for continuing a resident of New England—
was half a truth, and half a self-delusion. Here, she said to herself had been
the scene of her guilt, and here should be the scene of her earthly punishment;
and so, perchance, the torture of her daily shame would at length purge her
soul, and work out another purity than that which she had lost: more saint-
like, because the result of martyrdom.
Hester Prynne, therefore, did not flee. On the outskirts of the town, within the
verge of the peninsula, but not in close vicinity to any other habitation, there
was a small thatched cottage. It had been built by an earlier settler, and
abandoned, because the soil about it was too sterile for cultivation, while its
comparative remoteness put it out of the sphere of that social activity which
already marked the habits of the emigrants. It stood on the shore, looking
across a basin of the sea at the forest-covered hills, towards the west. A clump
of scrubby trees, such as alone grew on the peninsula, did not so much
conceal the cottage from view, as seem to denote that here was some object
which would fain have been, or at least ought to be, concealed. In this little
lonesome dwelling, with some slender means that she possessed, and by the
licence of the magistrates, who still kept an inquisitorial watch over her,
Hester established herself, with her infant child. A mystic shadow of
suspicion immediately attached itself to the spot. Children, too young to
comprehend wherefore this woman should be shut out from the sphere of
human charities, would creep nigh enough to behold her plying her needle at
the cottage-window, or standing in the doorway, or labouring in her little
garden, or coming forth along the pathway that led townward, and, discerning
the scarlet letter on her breast, would scamper off with a strange contagious
fear.
Lonely as was Hester’s situation, and without a friend on earth who dared to
show himself, she, however, incurred no risk of want. She possessed an art
that sufficed, even in a land that afforded comparatively little scope for its
exercise, to supply food for her thriving infant and herself. It was the art, then,
as now, almost the only one within a woman’s grasp—of needle-work. She
bore on her breast, in the curiously embroidered letter, a specimen of her
delicate and imaginative skill, of which the dames of a court might gladly
have availed themselves, to add the richer and more spiritual adornment of
human ingenuity to their fabrics of silk and gold. Here, indeed, in the sable
simplicity that generally characterised the Puritanic modes of dress, there
might be an infrequent call for the finer productions of her handiwork. Yet the
taste of the age, demanding whatever was elaborate in compositions of this
kind, did not fail to extend its influence over our stern progenitors, who had
cast behind them so many fashions which it might seem harder to dispense
with.
Public ceremonies, such as ordinations, the installation of magistrates, and all
that could give majesty to the forms in which a new government manifested
itself to the people, were, as a matter of policy, marked by a stately and well-
conducted ceremonial, and a sombre, but yet a studied magnificence. Deep
ruffs, painfully wrought bands, and gorgeously embroidered gloves, were all
deemed necessary to the official state of men assuming the reins of power,
and were readily allowed to individuals dignified by rank or wealth, even
while sumptuary laws forbade these and similar extravagances to the plebeian
order. In the array of funerals, too—whether for the apparel of the dead body,
or to typify, by manifold emblematic devices of sable cloth and snowy lawn,
the sorrow of the survivors—there was a frequent and characteristic demand
for such labour as Hester Prynne could supply. Baby-linen—for babies then
wore robes of state—afforded still another possibility of toil and emolument.
By degrees, not very slowly, her handiwork became what would now be
termed the fashion. Whether from commiseration for a woman of so
miserable a destiny; or from the morbid curiosity that gives a fictitious value
even to common or worthless things; or by whatever other intangible
circumstance was then, as now, sufficient to bestow, on some persons, what
others might seek in vain; or because Hester really filled a gap which must
otherwise have remained vacant; it is certain that she had ready and fairly
requited employment for as many hours as she saw fit to occupy with her
needle. Vanity, it may be, chose to mortify itself, by putting on, for
ceremonials of pomp and state, the garments that had been wrought by her
sinful hands. Her needle-work was seen on the ruff of the Governor; military
men wore it on their scarfs, and the minister on his band; it decked the baby’s
little cap; it was shut up, to be mildewed and moulder away, in the coffins of
the dead. But it is not recorded that, in a single instance, her skill was called
in to embroider the white veil which was to cover the pure blushes of a bride.
The exception indicated the ever relentless vigour with which society frowned
upon her sin.
Hester sought not to acquire anything beyond a subsistence, of the plainest
and most ascetic description, for herself, and a simple abundance for her
child. Her own dress was of the coarsest materials and the most sombre hue,
with only that one ornament—the scarlet letter—which it was her doom to
wear. The child’s attire, on the other hand, was distinguished by a fanciful, or,
we may rather say, a fantastic ingenuity, which served, indeed, to heighten the
airy charm that early began to develop itself in the little girl, but which
appeared to have also a deeper meaning. We may speak further of it hereafter.
Except for that small expenditure in the decoration of her infant, Hester
bestowed all her superfluous means in charity, on wretches less miserable
than herself, and who not unfrequently insulted the hand that fed them. Much
of the time, which she might readily have applied to the better efforts of her
art, she employed in making coarse garments for the poor. It is probable that
there was an idea of penance in this mode of occupation, and that she offered
up a real sacrifice of enjoyment in devoting so many hours to such rude
handiwork. She had in her nature a rich, voluptuous, Oriental characteristic—
a taste for the gorgeously beautiful, which, save in the exquisite productions
of her needle, found nothing else, in all the possibilities of her life, to exercise
itself upon. Women derive a pleasure, incomprehensible to the other sex, from
the delicate toil of the needle. To Hester Prynne it might have been a mode of
expressing, and therefore soothing, the passion of her life. Like all other joys,
she rejected it as sin. This morbid meddling of conscience with an immaterial
matter betokened, it is to be feared, no genuine and steadfast penitence, but
something doubtful, something that might be deeply wrong beneath.
In this manner, Hester Prynne came to have a part to perform in the world.
With her native energy of character and rare capacity, it could not entirely cast
her off, although it had set a mark upon her, more intolerable to a woman’s
heart than that which branded the brow of Cain. In all her intercourse with
society, however, there was nothing that made her feel as if she belonged to it.
Every gesture, every word, and even the silence of those with whom she came
in contact, implied, and often expressed, that she was banished, and as much
alone as if she inhabited another sphere, or communicated with the common
nature by other organs and senses than the rest of human kind. She stood apart
from mortal interests, yet close beside them, like a ghost that revisits the
familiar fireside, and can no longer make itself seen or felt; no more smile
with the household joy, nor mourn with the kindred sorrow; or, should it
succeed in manifesting its forbidden sympathy, awakening only terror and
horrible repugnance. These emotions, in fact, and its bitterest scorn besides,
seemed to be the sole portion that she retained in the universal heart. It was
not an age of delicacy; and her position, although she understood it well, and
was in little danger of forgetting it, was often brought before her vivid self-
perception, like a new anguish, by the rudest touch upon the tenderest spot.
The poor, as we have already said, whom she sought out to be the objects of
her bounty, often reviled the hand that was stretched forth to succour them.
Dames of elevated rank, likewise, whose doors she entered in the way of her
occupation, were accustomed to distil drops of bitterness into her heart;
sometimes through that alchemy of quiet malice, by which women can
concoct a subtle poison from ordinary trifles; and sometimes, also, by a
coarser expression, that fell upon the sufferer’s defenceless breast like a rough
blow upon an ulcerated wound. Hester had schooled herself long and well;
and she never responded to these attacks, save by a flush of crimson that rose
irrepressibly over her pale cheek, and again subsided into the depths of her
bosom. She was patient—a martyr, indeed—but she forebore to pray for
enemies, lest, in spite of her forgiving aspirations, the words of the blessing
should stubbornly twist themselves into a curse.
Continually, and in a thousand other ways, did she feel the innumerable
throbs of anguish that had been so cunningly contrived for her by the
undying, the ever-active sentence of the Puritan tribunal. Clergymen paused
in the streets, to address words of exhortation, that brought a crowd, with its
mingled grin and frown, around the poor, sinful woman. If she entered a
church, trusting to share the Sabbath smile of the Universal Father, it was
often her mishap to find herself the text of the discourse. She grew to have a
dread of children; for they had imbibed from their parents a vague idea of
something horrible in this dreary woman gliding silently through the town,
with never any companion but one only child. Therefore, first allowing her to
pass, they pursued her at a distance with shrill cries, and the utterances of a
word that had no distinct purport to their own minds, but was none the less
terrible to her, as proceeding from lips that babbled it unconsciously. It
seemed to argue so wide a diffusion of her shame, that all nature knew of it; it
could have caused her no deeper pang had the leaves of the trees whispered
the dark story among themselves—had the summer breeze murmured about it
—had the wintry blast shrieked it aloud! Another peculiar torture was felt in
the gaze of a new eye. When strangers looked curiously at the scarlet letter—
and none ever failed to do so—they branded it afresh in Hester’s soul; so that,
oftentimes, she could scarcely refrain, yet always did refrain, from covering
the symbol with her hand. But then, again, an accustomed eye had likewise its
own anguish to inflict. Its cool stare of familiarity was intolerable. From first
to last, in short, Hester Prynne had always this dreadful agony in feeling a
human eye upon the token; the spot never grew callous; it seemed, on the
contrary, to grow more sensitive with daily torture.
But sometimes, once in many days, or perchance in many months, she felt an
eye—a human eye—upon the ignominious brand, that seemed to give a
momentary relief, as if half of her agony were shared. The next instant, back
it all rushed again, with still a deeper throb of pain; for, in that brief interval,
she had sinned anew. (Had Hester sinned alone?)
Her imagination was somewhat affected, and, had she been of a softer moral
and intellectual fibre would have been still more so, by the strange and
solitary anguish of her life. Walking to and fro, with those lonely footsteps, in
the little world with which she was outwardly connected, it now and then
appeared to Hester—if altogether fancy, it was nevertheless too potent to be
resisted—she felt or fancied, then, that the scarlet letter had endowed her with
a new sense. She shuddered to believe, yet could not help believing, that it
gave her a sympathetic knowledge of the hidden sin in other hearts. She was
terror-stricken by the revelations that were thus made. What were they? Could
they be other than the insidious whispers of the bad angel, who would fain
have persuaded the struggling woman, as yet only half his victim, that the
outward guise of purity was but a lie, and that, if truth were everywhere to be
shown, a scarlet letter would blaze forth on many a bosom besides Hester
Prynne’s? Or, must she receive those intimations—so obscure, yet so distinct
—as truth? In all her miserable experience, there was nothing else so awful
and so loathsome as this sense. It perplexed, as well as shocked her, by the
irreverent inopportuneness of the occasions that brought it into vivid action.
Sometimes the red infamy upon her breast would give a sympathetic throb, as
she passed near a venerable minister or magistrate, the model of piety and
justice, to whom that age of antique reverence looked up, as to a mortal man
in fellowship with angels. “What evil thing is at hand?” would Hester say to
herself. Lifting her reluctant eyes, there would be nothing human within the
scope of view, save the form of this earthly saint! Again a mystic sisterhood
would contumaciously assert itself, as she met the sanctified frown of some
matron, who, according to the rumour of all tongues, had kept cold snow
within her bosom throughout life. That unsunned snow in the matron’s
bosom, and the burning shame on Hester Prynne’s—what had the two in
common? Or, once more, the electric thrill would give her warning—“Behold
Hester, here is a companion!” and, looking up, she would detect the eyes of a
young maiden glancing at the scarlet letter, shyly and aside, and quickly
averted, with a faint, chill crimson in her cheeks as if her purity were
somewhat sullied by that momentary glance. O Fiend, whose talisman was
that fatal symbol, wouldst thou leave nothing, whether in youth or age, for
this poor sinner to revere?—such loss of faith is ever one of the saddest
results of sin. Be it accepted as a proof that all was not corrupt in this poor
victim of her own frailty, and man’s hard law, that Hester Prynne yet
struggled to believe that no fellow-mortal was guilty like herself.
The vulgar, who, in those dreary old times, were always contributing a
grotesque horror to what interested their imaginations, had a story about the
scarlet letter which we might readily work up into a terrific legend. They
averred that the symbol was not mere scarlet cloth, tinged in an earthly dye-
pot, but was red-hot with infernal fire, and could be seen glowing all alight
whenever Hester Prynne walked abroad in the night-time. And we must needs
say it seared Hester’s bosom so deeply, that perhaps there was more truth in
the rumour than our modern incredulity may be inclined to admit.

VI. PEARL

We have as yet hardly spoken of the infant; that little creature, whose innocent
life had sprung, by the inscrutable decree of Providence, a lovely and
immortal flower, out of the rank luxuriance of a guilty passion. How strange it
seemed to the sad woman, as she watched the growth, and the beauty that
became every day more brilliant, and the intelligence that threw its quivering
sunshine over the tiny features of this child! Her Pearl—for so had Hester
called her; not as a name expressive of her aspect, which had nothing of the
calm, white, unimpassioned lustre that would be indicated by the comparison.
But she named the infant “Pearl,” as being of great price—purchased with all
she had—her mother’s only treasure! How strange, indeed! Man had marked
this woman’s sin by a scarlet letter, which had such potent and disastrous
efficacy that no human sympathy could reach her, save it were sinful like
herself. God, as a direct consequence of the sin which man thus punished, had
given her a lovely child, whose place was on that same dishonoured bosom, to
connect her parent for ever with the race and descent of mortals, and to be
finally a blessed soul in heaven! Yet these thoughts affected Hester Prynne
less with hope than apprehension. She knew that her deed had been evil; she
could have no faith, therefore, that its result would be good. Day after day she
looked fearfully into the child’s expanding nature, ever dreading to detect
some dark and wild peculiarity that should correspond with the guiltiness to
which she owed her being.
Certainly there was no physical defect. By its perfect shape, its vigour, and its
natural dexterity in the use of all its untried limbs, the infant was worthy to
have been brought forth in Eden: worthy to have been left there to be the
plaything of the angels after the world’s first parents were driven out. The
child had a native grace which does not invariably co-exist with faultless
beauty; its attire, however simple, always impressed the beholder as if it were
the very garb that precisely became it best. But little Pearl was not clad in
rustic weeds. Her mother, with a morbid purpose that may be better
understood hereafter, had bought the richest tissues that could be procured,
and allowed her imaginative faculty its full play in the arrangement and
decoration of the dresses which the child wore before the public eye. So
magnificent was the small figure when thus arrayed, and such was the
splendour of Pearl’s own proper beauty, shining through the gorgeous robes
which might have extinguished a paler loveliness, that there was an absolute
circle of radiance around her on the darksome cottage floor. And yet a russet
gown, torn and soiled with the child’s rude play, made a picture of her just as
perfect. Pearl’s aspect was imbued with a spell of infinite variety; in this one
child there were many children, comprehending the full scope between the
wild-flower prettiness of a peasant-baby, and the pomp, in little, of an infant
princess. Throughout all, however, there was a trait of passion, a certain depth
of hue, which she never lost; and if in any of her changes, she had grown
fainter or paler, she would have ceased to be herself—it would have been no
longer Pearl!
This outward mutability indicated, and did not more than fairly express, the
various properties of her inner life. Her nature appeared to possess depth, too,
as well as variety; but—or else Hester’s fears deceived her—it lacked
reference and adaptation to the world into which she was born. The child
could not be made amenable to rules. In giving her existence a great law had
been broken; and the result was a being whose elements were perhaps
beautiful and brilliant, but all in disorder, or with an order peculiar to
themselves, amidst which the point of variety and arrangement was difficult
or impossible to be discovered. Hester could only account for the child’s
character—and even then most vaguely and imperfectly—by recalling what
she herself had been during that momentous period while Pearl was imbibing
her soul from the spiritual world, and her bodily frame from its material of
earth. The mother’s impassioned state had been the medium through which
were transmitted to the unborn infant the rays of its moral life; and, however
white and clear originally, they had taken the deep stains of crimson and gold,
the fiery lustre, the black shadow, and the untempered light of the intervening
substance. Above all, the warfare of Hester’s spirit at that epoch was
perpetuated in Pearl. She could recognize her wild, desperate, defiant mood,
the flightiness of her temper, and even some of the very cloud-shapes of
gloom and despondency that had brooded in her heart. They were now
illuminated by the morning radiance of a young child’s disposition, but, later
in the day of earthly existence, might be prolific of the storm and whirlwind.
The discipline of the family in those days was of a far more rigid kind than
now. The frown, the harsh rebuke, the frequent application of the rod,
enjoined by Scriptural authority, were used, not merely in the way of
punishment for actual offences, but as a wholesome regimen for the growth
and promotion of all childish virtues. Hester Prynne, nevertheless, the loving
mother of this one child, ran little risk of erring on the side of undue severity.
Mindful, however, of her own errors and misfortunes, she early sought to
impose a tender but strict control over the infant immortality that was
committed to her charge. But the task was beyond her skill. After testing both
smiles and frowns, and proving that neither mode of treatment possessed any
calculable influence, Hester was ultimately compelled to stand aside and
permit the child to be swayed by her own impulses. Physical compulsion or
restraint was effectual, of course, while it lasted. As to any other kind of
discipline, whether addressed to her mind or heart, little Pearl might or might
not be within its reach, in accordance with the caprice that ruled the moment.
Her mother, while Pearl was yet an infant, grew acquainted with a certain
peculiar look, that warned her when it would be labour thrown away to insist,
persuade or plead.
It was a look so intelligent, yet inexplicable, perverse, sometimes so
malicious, but generally accompanied by a wild flow of spirits, that Hester
could not help questioning at such moments whether Pearl was a human child.
She seemed rather an airy sprite, which, after playing its fantastic sports for a
little while upon the cottage floor, would flit away with a mocking smile.
Whenever that look appeared in her wild, bright, deeply black eyes, it
invested her with a strange remoteness and intangibility: it was as if she were
hovering in the air, and might vanish, like a glimmering light that comes we
know not whence and goes we know not whither. Beholding it, Hester was
constrained to rush towards the child—to pursue the little elf in the flight
which she invariably began—to snatch her to her bosom with a close pressure
and earnest kisses—not so much from overflowing love as to assure herself
that Pearl was flesh and blood, and not utterly delusive. But Pearl’s laugh,
when she was caught, though full of merriment and music, made her mother
more doubtful than before.
Heart-smitten at this bewildering and baffling spell, that so often came
between herself and her sole treasure, whom she had bought so dear, and who
was all her world, Hester sometimes burst into passionate tears. Then, perhaps
—for there was no foreseeing how it might affect her—Pearl would frown,
and clench her little fist, and harden her small features into a stern,
unsympathising look of discontent. Not seldom she would laugh anew, and
louder than before, like a thing incapable and unintelligent of human sorrow.
Or—but this more rarely happened—she would be convulsed with rage of
grief and sob out her love for her mother in broken words, and seem intent on
proving that she had a heart by breaking it. Yet Hester was hardly safe in
confiding herself to that gusty tenderness: it passed as suddenly as it came.
Brooding over all these matters, the mother felt like one who has evoked a
spirit, but, by some irregularity in the process of conjuration, has failed to win
the master-word that should control this new and incomprehensible
intelligence. Her only real comfort was when the child lay in the placidity of
sleep. Then she was sure of her, and tasted hours of quiet, sad, delicious
happiness; until—perhaps with that perverse expression glimmering from
beneath her opening lids—little Pearl awoke!
How soon—with what strange rapidity, indeed—did Pearl arrive at an age
that was capable of social intercourse beyond the mother’s ever-ready smile
and nonsense-words! And then what a happiness would it have been could
Hester Prynne have heard her clear, bird-like voice mingling with the uproar
of other childish voices, and have distinguished and unravelled her own
darling’s tones, amid all the entangled outcry of a group of sportive children.
But this could never be. Pearl was a born outcast of the infantile world. An
imp of evil, emblem and product of sin, she had no right among christened
infants. Nothing was more remarkable than the instinct, as it seemed, with
which the child comprehended her loneliness: the destiny that had drawn an
inviolable circle round about her: the whole peculiarity, in short, of her
position in respect to other children. Never since her release from prison had
Hester met the public gaze without her. In all her walks about the town, Pearl,
too, was there: first as the babe in arms, and afterwards as the little girl, small
companion of her mother, holding a forefinger with her whole grasp, and
tripping along at the rate of three or four footsteps to one of Hester’s. She saw
the children of the settlement on the grassy margin of the street, or at the
domestic thresholds, disporting themselves in such grim fashions as the
Puritanic nurture would permit; playing at going to church, perchance, or at
scourging Quakers; or taking scalps in a sham fight with the Indians, or
scaring one another with freaks of imitative witchcraft. Pearl saw, and gazed
intently, but never sought to make acquaintance. If spoken to, she would not
speak again. If the children gathered about her, as they sometimes did, Pearl
would grow positively terrible in her puny wrath, snatching up stones to fling
at them, with shrill, incoherent exclamations, that made her mother tremble,
because they had so much the sound of a witch’s anathemas in some unknown
tongue.
The truth was, that the little Puritans, being of the most intolerant brood that
ever lived, had got a vague idea of something outlandish, unearthly, or at
variance with ordinary fashions, in the mother and child, and therefore
scorned them in their hearts, and not unfrequently reviled them with their
tongues. Pearl felt the sentiment, and requited it with the bitterest hatred that
can be supposed to rankle in a childish bosom. These outbreaks of a fierce
temper had a kind of value, and even comfort for the mother; because there
was at least an intelligible earnestness in the mood, instead of the fitful
caprice that so often thwarted her in the child’s manifestations. It appalled her,
nevertheless, to discern here, again, a shadowy reflection of the evil that had
existed in herself. All this enmity and passion had Pearl inherited, by
inalienable right, out of Hester’s heart. Mother and daughter stood together in
the same circle of seclusion from human society; and in the nature of the child
seemed to be perpetuated those unquiet elements that had distracted Hester
Prynne before Pearl’s birth, but had since begun to be soothed away by the
softening influences of maternity.
At home, within and around her mother’s cottage, Pearl wanted not a wide
and various circle of acquaintance. The spell of life went forth from her ever-
creative spirit, and communicated itself to a thousand objects, as a torch
kindles a flame wherever it may be applied. The unlikeliest materials—a
stick, a bunch of rags, a flower—were the puppets of Pearl’s witchcraft, and,
without undergoing any outward change, became spiritually adapted to
whatever drama occupied the stage of her inner world. Her one baby-voice
served a multitude of imaginary personages, old and young, to talk withal.
The pine-trees, aged, black, and solemn, and flinging groans and other
melancholy utterances on the breeze, needed little transformation to figure as
Puritan elders; the ugliest weeds of the garden were their children, whom
Pearl smote down and uprooted most unmercifully. It was wonderful, the vast
variety of forms into which she threw her intellect, with no continuity, indeed,
but darting up and dancing, always in a state of preternatural activity—soon
sinking down, as if exhausted by so rapid and feverish a tide of life—and
succeeded by other shapes of a similar wild energy. It was like nothing so
much as the phantasmagoric play of the northern lights. In the mere exercise
of the fancy, however, and the sportiveness of a growing mind, there might be
a little more than was observable in other children of bright faculties; except
as Pearl, in the dearth of human playmates, was thrown more upon the
visionary throng which she created. The singularity lay in the hostile feelings
with which the child regarded all these offsprings of her own heart and mind.
She never created a friend, but seemed always to be sowing broadcast the
dragon’s teeth, whence sprung a harvest of armed enemies, against whom she
rushed to battle. It was inexpressibly sad—then what depth of sorrow to a
mother, who felt in her own heart the cause—to observe, in one so young, this
constant recognition of an adverse world, and so fierce a training of the
energies that were to make good her cause in the contest that must ensue.
Gazing at Pearl, Hester Prynne often dropped her work upon her knees, and
cried out with an agony which she would fain have hidden, but which made
utterance for itself betwixt speech and a groan—“O Father in Heaven—if
Thou art still my Father—what is this being which I have brought into the
world?” And Pearl, overhearing the ejaculation, or aware through some more
subtile channel, of those throbs of anguish, would turn her vivid and beautiful
little face upon her mother, smile with sprite-like intelligence, and resume her
play.
One peculiarity of the child’s deportment remains yet to be told. The very first
thing which she had noticed in her life, was—what?—not the mother’s smile,
responding to it, as other babies do, by that faint, embryo smile of the little
mouth, remembered so doubtfully afterwards, and with such fond discussion
whether it were indeed a smile. By no means! But that first object of which
Pearl seemed to become aware was—shall we say it?—the scarlet letter on
Hester’s bosom! One day, as her mother stooped over the cradle, the infant’s
eyes had been caught by the glimmering of the gold embroidery about the
letter; and putting up her little hand she grasped at it, smiling, not doubtfully,
but with a decided gleam, that gave her face the look of a much older child.
Then, gasping for breath, did Hester Prynne clutch the fatal token,
instinctively endeavouring to tear it away, so infinite was the torture inflicted
by the intelligent touch of Pearl’s baby-hand. Again, as if her mother’s
agonised gesture were meant only to make sport for her, did little Pearl look
into her eyes, and smile. From that epoch, except when the child was asleep,
Hester had never felt a moment’s safety: not a moment’s calm enjoyment of
her. Weeks, it is true, would sometimes elapse, during which Pearl’s gaze
might never once be fixed upon the scarlet letter; but then, again, it would
come at unawares, like the stroke of sudden death, and always with that
peculiar smile and odd expression of the eyes.
Once this freakish, elvish cast came into the child’s eyes while Hester was
looking at her own image in them, as mothers are fond of doing; and suddenly
—for women in solitude, and with troubled hearts, are pestered with
unaccountable delusions—she fancied that she beheld, not her own miniature
portrait, but another face in the small black mirror of Pearl’s eye. It was a
face, fiend-like, full of smiling malice, yet bearing the semblance of features
that she had known full well, though seldom with a smile, and never with
malice in them. It was as if an evil spirit possessed the child, and had just then
peeped forth in mockery. Many a time afterwards had Hester been tortured,
though less vividly, by the same illusion.
In the afternoon of a certain summer’s day, after Pearl grew big enough to run
about, she amused herself with gathering handfuls of wild flowers, and
flinging them, one by one, at her mother’s bosom; dancing up and down like a
little elf whenever she hit the scarlet letter. Hester’s first motion had been to
cover her bosom with her clasped hands. But whether from pride or
resignation, or a feeling that her penance might best be wrought out by this
unutterable pain, she resisted the impulse, and sat erect, pale as death, looking
sadly into little Pearl’s wild eyes. Still came the battery of flowers, almost
invariably hitting the mark, and covering the mother’s breast with hurts for
which she could find no balm in this world, nor knew how to seek it in
another. At last, her shot being all expended, the child stood still and gazed at
Hester, with that little laughing image of a fiend peeping out—or, whether it
peeped or no, her mother so imagined it—from the unsearchable abyss of her
black eyes.
“Child, what art thou?” cried the mother.
“Oh, I am your little Pearl!” answered the child.
But while she said it, Pearl laughed, and began to dance up and down with the
humoursome gesticulation of a little imp, whose next freak might be to fly up
the chimney.
“Art thou my child, in very truth?” asked Hester.
Nor did she put the question altogether idly, but, for the moment, with a
portion of genuine earnestness; for, such was Pearl’s wonderful intelligence,
that her mother half doubted whether she were not acquainted with the secret
spell of her existence, and might not now reveal herself.
“Yes; I am little Pearl!” repeated the child, continuing her antics.
“Thou art not my child! Thou art no Pearl of mine!” said the mother half
playfully; for it was often the case that a sportive impulse came over her in
the midst of her deepest suffering. “Tell me, then, what thou art, and who sent
thee hither?”
“Tell me, mother!” said the child, seriously, coming up to Hester, and pressing
herself close to her knees. “Do thou tell me!”
“Thy Heavenly Father sent thee!” answered Hester Prynne.
But she said it with a hesitation that did not escape the acuteness of the child.
Whether moved only by her ordinary freakishness, or because an evil spirit
prompted her, she put up her small forefinger and touched the scarlet letter.
“He did not send me!” cried she, positively. “I have no Heavenly Father!”
“Hush, Pearl, hush! Thou must not talk so!” answered the mother, suppressing
a groan. “He sent us all into the world. He sent even me, thy mother. Then,
much more thee! Or, if not, thou strange and elfish child, whence didst thou
come?”
“Tell me! Tell me!” repeated Pearl, no longer seriously, but laughing and
capering about the floor. “It is thou that must tell me!”
But Hester could not resolve the query, being herself in a dismal labyrinth of
doubt. She remembered—betwixt a smile and a shudder—the talk of the
neighbouring townspeople, who, seeking vainly elsewhere for the child’s
paternity, and observing some of her odd attributes, had given out that poor
little Pearl was a demon offspring: such as, ever since old Catholic times, had
occasionally been seen on earth, through the agency of their mother’s sin, and
to promote some foul and wicked purpose. Luther, according to the scandal of
his monkish enemies, was a brat of that hellish breed; nor was Pearl the only
child to whom this inauspicious origin was assigned among the New England
Puritans.

VII. THE GOVERNOR’S HALL

Hester Prynne went one day to the mansion of Governor Bellingham, with a
pair of gloves which she had fringed and embroidered to his order, and which
were to be worn on some great occasion of state; for, though the chances of a
popular election had caused this former ruler to descend a step or two from
the highest rank, he still held an honourable and influential place among the
colonial magistracy.
Another and far more important reason than the delivery of a pair of
embroidered gloves, impelled Hester, at this time, to seek an interview with a
personage of so much power and activity in the affairs of the settlement. It
had reached her ears that there was a design on the part of some of the leading
inhabitants, cherishing the more rigid order of principles in religion and
government, to deprive her of her child. On the supposition that Pearl, as
already hinted, was of demon origin, these good people not unreasonably
argued that a Christian interest in the mother’s soul required them to remove
such a stumbling-block from her path. If the child, on the other hand, were
really capable of moral and religious growth, and possessed the elements of
ultimate salvation, then, surely, it would enjoy all the fairer prospect of these
advantages by being transferred to wiser and better guardianship than Hester
Prynne’s. Among those who promoted the design, Governor Bellingham was
said to be one of the most busy. It may appear singular, and, indeed, not a
little ludicrous, that an affair of this kind, which in later days would have been
referred to no higher jurisdiction than that of the select men of the town,
should then have been a question publicly discussed, and on which statesmen
of eminence took sides. At that epoch of pristine simplicity, however, matters
of even slighter public interest, and of far less intrinsic weight than the
welfare of Hester and her child, were strangely mixed up with the
deliberations of legislators and acts of state. The period was hardly, if at all,
earlier than that of our story, when a dispute concerning the right of property
in a pig not only caused a fierce and bitter contest in the legislative body of
the colony, but resulted in an important modification of the framework itself
of the legislature.
Full of concern, therefore—but so conscious of her own right that it seemed
scarcely an unequal match between the public on the one side, and a lonely
woman, backed by the sympathies of nature, on the other—Hester Prynne set
forth from her solitary cottage. Little Pearl, of course, was her companion.
She was now of an age to run lightly along by her mother’s side, and,
constantly in motion from morn till sunset, could have accomplished a much
longer journey than that before her. Often, nevertheless, more from caprice
than necessity, she demanded to be taken up in arms; but was soon as
imperious to be let down again, and frisked onward before Hester on the
grassy pathway, with many a harmless trip and tumble. We have spoken of
Pearl’s rich and luxuriant beauty—a beauty that shone with deep and vivid
tints, a bright complexion, eyes possessing intensity both of depth and glow,
and hair already of a deep, glossy brown, and which, in after years, would be
nearly akin to black. There was fire in her and throughout her: she seemed the
unpremeditated offshoot of a passionate moment. Her mother, in contriving
the child’s garb, had allowed the gorgeous tendencies of her imagination their
full play, arraying her in a crimson velvet tunic of a peculiar cut, abundantly
embroidered in fantasies and flourishes of gold thread. So much strength of
colouring, which must have given a wan and pallid aspect to cheeks of a
fainter bloom, was admirably adapted to Pearl’s beauty, and made her the
very brightest little jet of flame that ever danced upon the earth.
But it was a remarkable attribute of this garb, and indeed, of the child’s whole
appearance, that it irresistibly and inevitably reminded the beholder of the
token which Hester Prynne was doomed to wear upon her bosom. It was the
scarlet letter in another form: the scarlet letter endowed with life! The mother
herself—as if the red ignominy were so deeply scorched into her brain that all
her conceptions assumed its form—had carefully wrought out the similitude,
lavishing many hours of morbid ingenuity to create an analogy between the
object of her affection and the emblem of her guilt and torture. But, in truth,
Pearl was the one as well as the other; and only in consequence of that
identity had Hester contrived so perfectly to represent the scarlet letter in her
appearance.
As the two wayfarers came within the precincts of the town, the children of
the Puritans looked up from their play,—or what passed for play with those
sombre little urchins—and spoke gravely one to another.
“Behold, verily, there is the woman of the scarlet letter: and of a truth,
moreover, there is the likeness of the scarlet letter running along by her side!
Come, therefore, and let us fling mud at them!”
But Pearl, who was a dauntless child, after frowning, stamping her foot, and
shaking her little hand with a variety of threatening gestures, suddenly made a
rush at the knot of her enemies, and put them all to flight. She resembled, in
her fierce pursuit of them, an infant pestilence—the scarlet fever, or some
such half-fledged angel of judgment—whose mission was to punish the sins
of the rising generation. She screamed and shouted, too, with a terrific volume
of sound, which, doubtless, caused the hearts of the fugitives to quake within
them. The victory accomplished, Pearl returned quietly to her mother, and
looked up, smiling, into her face.
Without further adventure, they reached the dwelling of Governor
Bellingham. This was a large wooden house, built in a fashion of which there
are specimens still extant in the streets of our older towns now moss-grown,
crumbling to decay, and melancholy at heart with the many sorrowful or
joyful occurrences, remembered or forgotten, that have happened and passed
away within their dusky chambers. Then, however, there was the freshness of
the passing year on its exterior, and the cheerfulness, gleaming forth from the
sunny windows, of a human habitation, into which death had never entered. It
had, indeed, a very cheery aspect, the walls being overspread with a kind of
stucco, in which fragments of broken glass were plentifully intermixed; so
that, when the sunshine fell aslant-wise over the front of the edifice, it
glittered and sparkled as if diamonds had been flung against it by the double
handful. The brilliancy might have be fitted Aladdin’s palace rather than the
mansion of a grave old Puritan ruler. It was further decorated with strange and
seemingly cabalistic figures and diagrams, suitable to the quaint taste of the
age which had been drawn in the stucco, when newly laid on, and had now
grown hard and durable, for the admiration of after times.
Pearl, looking at this bright wonder of a house began to caper and dance, and
imperatively required that the whole breadth of sunshine should be stripped
off its front, and given her to play with.
“No, my little Pearl!” said her mother; “thou must gather thine own sunshine.
I have none to give thee!”
They approached the door, which was of an arched form, and flanked on each
side by a narrow tower or projection of the edifice, in both of which were
lattice-windows, the wooden shutters to close over them at need. Lifting the
iron hammer that hung at the portal, Hester Prynne gave a summons, which
was answered by one of the Governor’s bond servant—a free-born
Englishman, but now a seven years’ slave. During that term he was to be the
property of his master, and as much a commodity of bargain and sale as an ox,
or a joint-stool. The serf wore the customary garb of serving-men at that
period, and long before, in the old hereditary halls of England.
“Is the worshipful Governor Bellingham within?” inquired Hester.
“Yea, forsooth,” replied the bond-servant, staring with wide-open eyes at the
scarlet letter, which, being a new-comer in the country, he had never before
seen. “Yea, his honourable worship is within. But he hath a godly minister or
two with him, and likewise a leech. Ye may not see his worship now.”
“Nevertheless, I will enter,” answered Hester Prynne; and the bond-servant,
perhaps judging from the decision of her air, and the glittering symbol in her
bosom, that she was a great lady in the land, offered no opposition.
So the mother and little Pearl were admitted into the hall of entrance. With
many variations, suggested by the nature of his building materials, diversity
of climate, and a different mode of social life, Governor Bellingham had
planned his new habitation after the residences of gentlemen of fair estate in
his native land. Here, then, was a wide and reasonably lofty hall, extending
through the whole depth of the house, and forming a medium of general
communication, more or less directly, with all the other apartments. At one
extremity, this spacious room was lighted by the windows of the two towers,
which formed a small recess on either side of the portal. At the other end,
though partly muffled by a curtain, it was more powerfully illuminated by one
of those embowed hall windows which we read of in old books, and which
was provided with a deep and cushioned seat. Here, on the cushion, lay a folio
tome, probably of the Chronicles of England, or other such substantial
literature; even as, in our own days, we scatter gilded volumes on the centre
table, to be turned over by the casual guest. The furniture of the hall consisted
of some ponderous chairs, the backs of which were elaborately carved with
wreaths of oaken flowers; and likewise a table in the same taste, the whole
being of the Elizabethan age, or perhaps earlier, and heirlooms, transferred
hither from the Governor’s paternal home. On the table—in token that the
sentiment of old English hospitality had not been left behind—stood a large
pewter tankard, at the bottom of which, had Hester or Pearl peeped into it,
they might have seen the frothy remnant of a recent draught of ale.
On the wall hung a row of portraits, representing the forefathers of the
Bellingham lineage, some with armour on their breasts, and others with
stately ruffs and robes of peace. All were characterised by the sternness and
severity which old portraits so invariably put on, as if they were the ghosts,
rather than the pictures, of departed worthies, and were gazing with harsh and
intolerant criticism at the pursuits and enjoyments of living men.
At about the centre of the oaken panels that lined the hall was suspended a
suit of mail, not, like the pictures, an ancestral relic, but of the most modern
date; for it had been manufactured by a skilful armourer in London, the same
year in which Governor Bellingham came over to New England. There was a
steel head-piece, a cuirass, a gorget and greaves, with a pair of gauntlets and a
sword hanging beneath; all, and especially the helmet and breastplate, so
highly burnished as to glow with white radiance, and scatter an illumination
everywhere about upon the floor. This bright panoply was not meant for mere
idle show, but had been worn by the Governor on many a solemn muster and
training field, and had glittered, moreover, at the head of a regiment in the
Pequod war. For, though bred a lawyer, and accustomed to speak of Bacon,
Coke, Noye, and Finch, as his professional associates, the exigencies of this
new country had transformed Governor Bellingham into a soldier, as well as a
statesman and ruler.
Little Pearl, who was as greatly pleased with the gleaming armour as she had
been with the glittering frontispiece of the house, spent some time looking
into the polished mirror of the breastplate.
“Mother,” cried she, “I see you here. Look! Look!”
Hester looked by way of humouring the child; and she saw that, owing to the
peculiar effect of this convex mirror, the scarlet letter was represented in
exaggerated and gigantic proportions, so as to be greatly the most prominent
feature of her appearance. In truth, she seemed absolutely hidden behind it.
Pearl pointed upwards also, at a similar picture in the head-piece; smiling at
her mother, with the elfish intelligence that was so familiar an expression on
her small physiognomy. That look of naughty merriment was likewise
reflected in the mirror, with so much breadth and intensity of effect, that it
made Hester Prynne feel as if it could not be the image of her own child, but
of an imp who was seeking to mould itself into Pearl’s shape.
“Come along, Pearl,” said she, drawing her away, “Come and look into this
fair garden. It may be we shall see flowers there; more beautiful ones than we
find in the woods.”
Pearl accordingly ran to the bow-window, at the further end of the hall, and
looked along the vista of a garden walk, carpeted with closely-shaven grass,
and bordered with some rude and immature attempt at shrubbery. But the
proprietor appeared already to have relinquished as hopeless, the effort to
perpetuate on this side of the Atlantic, in a hard soil, and amid the close
struggle for subsistence, the native English taste for ornamental gardening.
Cabbages grew in plain sight; and a pumpkin-vine, rooted at some distance,
had run across the intervening space, and deposited one of its gigantic
products directly beneath the hall window, as if to warn the Governor that this
great lump of vegetable gold was as rich an ornament as New England earth
would offer him. There were a few rose-bushes, however, and a number of
apple-trees, probably the descendants of those planted by the Reverend Mr.
Blackstone, the first settler of the peninsula; that half mythological personage
who rides through our early annals, seated on the back of a bull.
Pearl, seeing the rose-bushes, began to cry for a red rose, and would not be
pacified.
“Hush, child—hush!” said her mother, earnestly. “Do not cry, dear little Pearl!
I hear voices in the garden. The Governor is coming, and gentlemen along
with him.”
In fact, adown the vista of the garden avenue, a number of persons were seen
approaching towards the house. Pearl, in utter scorn of her mother’s attempt
to quiet her, gave an eldritch scream, and then became silent, not from any
notion of obedience, but because the quick and mobile curiosity of her
disposition was excited by the appearance of those new personages.
VIII. THE ELF-CHILD AND THE MINISTER

Governor Bellingham, in a loose gown and easy cap—such as elderly

gentlemen loved to endue themselves with, in their domestic privacy—
walked foremost, and appeared to be showing off his estate, and expatiating
on his projected improvements. The wide circumference of an elaborate ruff,
beneath his grey beard, in the antiquated fashion of King James’s reign,
caused his head to look not a little like that of John the Baptist in a charger.
The impression made by his aspect, so rigid and severe, and frost-bitten with
more than autumnal age, was hardly in keeping with the appliances of worldly
enjoyment wherewith he had evidently done his utmost to surround himself.
But it is an error to suppose that our great forefathers—though accustomed to
speak and think of human existence as a state merely of trial and warfare, and
though unfeignedly prepared to sacrifice goods and life at the behest of duty
—made it a matter of conscience to reject such means of comfort, or even
luxury, as lay fairly within their grasp. This creed was never taught, for
instance, by the venerable pastor, John Wilson, whose beard, white as a snow-
drift, was seen over Governor Bellingham’s shoulders, while its wearer
suggested that pears and peaches might yet be naturalised in the New England
climate, and that purple grapes might possibly be compelled to flourish
against the sunny garden-wall. The old clergyman, nurtured at the rich bosom
of the English Church, had a long established and legitimate taste for all good
and comfortable things, and however stern he might show himself in the
pulpit, or in his public reproof of such transgressions as that of Hester Prynne,
still, the genial benevolence of his private life had won him warmer affection
than was accorded to any of his professional contemporaries.
Behind the Governor and Mr. Wilson came two other guests—one, the
Reverend Arthur Dimmesdale, whom the reader may remember as having
taken a brief and reluctant part in the scene of Hester Prynne’s disgrace; and,
in close companionship with him, old Roger Chillingworth, a person of great
skill in physic, who for two or three years past had been settled in the town. It
was understood that this learned man was the physician as well as friend of
the young minister, whose health had severely suffered of late by his too
unreserved self-sacrifice to the labours and duties of the pastoral relation.
The Governor, in advance of his visitors, ascended one or two steps, and,
throwing open the leaves of the great hall window, found himself close to
little Pearl. The shadow of the curtain fell on Hester Prynne, and partially
concealed her.
“What have we here?” said Governor Bellingham, looking with surprise at the
scarlet little figure before him. “I profess, I have never seen the like since my
days of vanity, in old King James’s time, when I was wont to esteem it a high
favour to be admitted to a court mask! There used to be a swarm of these
small apparitions in holiday time, and we called them children of the Lord of
Misrule. But how gat such a guest into my hall?”
“Ay, indeed!” cried good old Mr. Wilson. “What little bird of scarlet plumage
may this be? Methinks I have seen just such figures when the sun has been
shining through a richly painted window, and tracing out the golden and
crimson images across the floor. But that was in the old land. Prithee, young
one, who art thou, and what has ailed thy mother to bedizen thee in this
strange fashion? Art thou a Christian child—ha? Dost know thy catechism?
Or art thou one of those naughty elfs or fairies whom we thought to have left
behind us, with other relics of Papistry, in merry old England?”
“I am mother’s child,” answered the scarlet vision, “and my name is Pearl!”
“Pearl?—Ruby, rather—or Coral!—or Red Rose, at the very least, judging
from thy hue!” responded the old minister, putting forth his hand in a vain
attempt to pat little Pearl on the cheek. “But where is this mother of thine?
Ah! I see,” he added; and, turning to Governor Bellingham, whispered, “This
is the selfsame child of whom we have held speech together; and behold here
the unhappy woman, Hester Prynne, her mother!”
“Sayest thou so?” cried the Governor. “Nay, we might have judged that such a
child’s mother must needs be a scarlet woman, and a worthy type of her of
Babylon! But she comes at a good time, and we will look into this matter
forthwith.”
Governor Bellingham stepped through the window into the hall, followed by
his three guests.
“Hester Prynne,” said he, fixing his naturally stern regard on the wearer of the
scarlet letter, “there hath been much question concerning thee of late. The
point hath been weightily discussed, whether we, that are of authority and
influence, do well discharge our consciences by trusting an immortal soul,
such as there is in yonder child, to the guidance of one who hath stumbled and
fallen amid the pitfalls of this world. Speak thou, the child’s own mother!
Were it not, thinkest thou, for thy little one’s temporal and eternal welfare that
she be taken out of thy charge, and clad soberly, and disciplined strictly, and
instructed in the truths of heaven and earth? What canst thou do for the child
in this kind?”
“I can teach my little Pearl what I have learned from this!” answered Hester
Prynne, laying her finger on the red token.
“Woman, it is thy badge of shame!” replied the stern magistrate. “It is because
of the stain which that letter indicates that we would transfer thy child to other
hands.”
“Nevertheless,” said the mother, calmly, though growing more pale, “this
badge hath taught me—it daily teaches me—it is teaching me at this moment
—lessons whereof my child may be the wiser and better, albeit they can profit
nothing to myself.”
“We will judge warily,” said Bellingham, “and look well what we
are about to do. Good Master Wilson, I pray you, examine this
Pearl—since that is her name—and see whether she hath had such
Christian nurture as befits a child of her age.”
The old minister seated himself in an arm-chair and made an effort to draw
Pearl betwixt his knees. But the child, unaccustomed to the touch or
familiarity of any but her mother, escaped through the open window, and
stood on the upper step, looking like a wild tropical bird of rich plumage,
ready to take flight into the upper air. Mr. Wilson, not a little astonished at this
outbreak—for he was a grandfatherly sort of personage, and usually a vast
favourite with children—essayed, however, to proceed with the examination.
“Pearl,” said he, with great solemnity, “thou must take heed to instruction,
that so, in due season, thou mayest wear in thy bosom the pearl of great price.
Canst thou tell me, my child, who made thee?”
Now Pearl knew well enough who made her, for Hester Prynne, the daughter
of a pious home, very soon after her talk with the child about her Heavenly
Father, had begun to inform her of those truths which the human spirit, at
whatever stage of immaturity, imbibes with such eager interest. Pearl,
therefore—so large were the attainments of her three years’ lifetime—could
have borne a fair examination in the New England Primer, or the first column
of the Westminster Catechisms, although unacquainted with the outward form
of either of those celebrated works. But that perversity, which all children
have more or less of, and of which little Pearl had a tenfold portion, now, at
the most inopportune moment, took thorough possession of her, and closed
her lips, or impelled her to speak words amiss. After putting her finger in her
mouth, with many ungracious refusals to answer good Mr. Wilson’s question,
the child finally announced that she had not been made at all, but had been
plucked by her mother off the bush of wild roses that grew by the prison-door.
This phantasy was probably suggested by the near proximity of the
Governor’s red roses, as Pearl stood outside of the window, together with her
recollection of the prison rose-bush, which she had passed in coming hither.
Old Roger Chillingworth, with a smile on his face, whispered something in
the young clergyman’s ear. Hester Prynne looked at the man of skill, and even
then, with her fate hanging in the balance, was startled to perceive what a
change had come over his features—how much uglier they were, how his
dark complexion seemed to have grown duskier, and his figure more
misshapen—since the days when she had familiarly known him. She met his
eyes for an instant, but was immediately constrained to give all her attention
to the scene now going forward.
“This is awful!” cried the Governor, slowly recovering from the astonishment
into which Pearl’s response had thrown him. “Here is a child of three years
old, and she cannot tell who made her! Without question, she is equally in the
dark as to her soul, its present depravity, and future destiny! Methinks,
gentlemen, we need inquire no further.”
Hester caught hold of Pearl, and drew her forcibly into her arms, confronting
the old Puritan magistrate with almost a fierce expression. Alone in the world,
cast off by it, and with this sole treasure to keep her heart alive, she felt that
she possessed indefeasible rights against the world, and was ready to defend
them to the death.
“God gave me the child!” cried she. “He gave her in requital of all things else
which ye had taken from me. She is my happiness—she is my torture, none
the less! Pearl keeps me here in life! Pearl punishes me, too! See ye not, she is
the scarlet letter, only capable of being loved, and so endowed with a
millionfold the power of retribution for my sin? Ye shall not take her! I will
die first!”
“My poor woman,” said the not unkind old minister, “the child shall be well
cared for—far better than thou canst do for it.”
“God gave her into my keeping!” repeated Hester Prynne, raising her voice
almost to a shriek. “I will not give her up!” And here by a sudden impulse,
she turned to the young clergyman, Mr. Dimmesdale, at whom, up to this
moment, she had seemed hardly so much as once to direct her eyes. “Speak
thou for me!” cried she. “Thou wast my pastor, and hadst charge of my soul,
and knowest me better than these men can. I will not lose the child! Speak for
me! Thou knowest—for thou hast sympathies which these men lack—thou
knowest what is in my heart, and what are a mother’s rights, and how much
the stronger they are when that mother has but her child and the scarlet letter!
Look thou to it! I will not lose the child! Look to it!”
At this wild and singular appeal, which indicated that Hester Prynne’s
situation had provoked her to little less than madness, the young minister at
once came forward, pale, and holding his hand over his heart, as was his
custom whenever his peculiarly nervous temperament was thrown into
agitation. He looked now more careworn and emaciated than as we described
him at the scene of Hester’s public ignominy; and whether it were his failing
health, or whatever the cause might be, his large dark eyes had a world of
pain in their troubled and melancholy depth.
“There is truth in what she says,” began the minister, with a voice sweet,
tremulous, but powerful, insomuch that the hall re-echoed and the hollow
armour rang with it—“truth in what Hester says, and in the feeling which
inspires her! God gave her the child, and gave her, too, an instinctive
knowledge of its nature and requirements—both seemingly so peculiar—
which no other mortal being can possess. And, moreover, is there not a
quality of awful sacredness in the relation between this mother and this
child?”
“Ay—how is that, good Master Dimmesdale?” interrupted the
Governor. “Make that plain, I pray you!”
“It must be even so,” resumed the minister. “For, if we deem it otherwise, do
we not thereby say that the Heavenly Father, the creator of all flesh, hath
lightly recognised a deed of sin, and made of no account the distinction
between unhallowed lust and holy love? This child of its father’s guilt and its
mother’s shame has come from the hand of God, to work in many ways upon
her heart, who pleads so earnestly and with such bitterness of spirit the right
to keep her. It was meant for a blessing—for the one blessing of her life! It
was meant, doubtless, the mother herself hath told us, for a retribution, too; a
torture to be felt at many an unthought-of moment; a pang, a sting, an ever-
recurring agony, in the midst of a troubled joy! Hath she not expressed this
thought in the garb of the poor child, so forcibly reminding us of that red
symbol which sears her bosom?”
“Well said again!” cried good Mr. Wilson. “I feared the woman had no better
thought than to make a mountebank of her child!”
“Oh, not so!—not so!” continued Mr. Dimmesdale. “She recognises, believe
me, the solemn miracle which God hath wrought in the existence of that child.
And may she feel, too—what, methinks, is the very truth—that this boon was
meant, above all things else, to keep the mother’s soul alive, and to preserve
her from blacker depths of sin into which Satan might else have sought to
plunge her! Therefore it is good for this poor, sinful woman, that she hath an
infant immortality, a being capable of eternal joy or sorrow, confided to her
care—to be trained up by her to righteousness, to remind her, at every
moment, of her fall, but yet to teach her, as if it were by the Creator’s sacred
pledge, that, if she bring the child to heaven, the child also will bring its
parents thither! Herein is the sinful mother happier than the sinful father. For
Hester Prynne’s sake, then, and no less for the poor child’s sake, let us leave
them as Providence hath seen fit to place them!”
“You speak, my friend, with a strange earnestness,” said old
Roger Chillingworth, smiling at him.
“And there is a weighty import in what my young brother hath spoken,”
added the Rev. Mr. Wilson.
“What say you, worshipful Master Bellingham? Hath he not pleaded well for
the poor woman?”
“Indeed hath he,” answered the magistrate; “and hath adduced such
arguments, that we will even leave the matter as it now stands; so long, at
least, as there shall be no further scandal in the woman. Care must be had
nevertheless, to put the child to due and stated examination in the catechism,
at thy hands or Master Dimmesdale’s. Moreover, at a proper season, the
tithing-men must take heed that she go both to school and to meeting.”
The young minister, on ceasing to speak had withdrawn a few steps from the
group, and stood with his face partially concealed in the heavy folds of the
window-curtain; while the shadow of his figure, which the sunlight cast upon
the floor, was tremulous with the vehemence of his appeal. Pearl, that wild
and flighty little elf stole softly towards him, and taking his hand in the grasp
of both her own, laid her cheek against it; a caress so tender, and withal so
unobtrusive, that her mother, who was looking on, asked herself—“Is that my
Pearl?” Yet she knew that there was love in the child’s heart, although it
mostly revealed itself in passion, and hardly twice in her lifetime had been
softened by such gentleness as now. The minister—for, save the long-sought
regards of woman, nothing is sweeter than these marks of childish preference,
accorded spontaneously by a spiritual instinct, and therefore seeming to imply
in us something truly worthy to be loved—the minister looked round, laid his
hand on the child’s head, hesitated an instant, and then kissed her brow. Little
Pearl’s unwonted mood of sentiment lasted no longer; she laughed, and went
capering down the hall so airily, that old Mr. Wilson raised a question whether
even her tiptoes touched the floor.
“The little baggage hath witchcraft in her, I profess,” said he to Mr.
Dimmesdale. “She needs no old woman’s broomstick to fly withal!”
“A strange child!” remarked old Roger Chillingworth. “It is easy to see the
mother’s part in her. Would it be beyond a philosopher’s research, think ye,
gentlemen, to analyse that child’s nature, and, from it make a mould, to give a
shrewd guess at the father?”
“Nay; it would be sinful, in such a question, to follow the clue of profane
philosophy,” said Mr. Wilson. “Better to fast and pray upon it; and still better,
it may be, to leave the mystery as we find it, unless Providence reveal it of its
own accord. Thereby, every good Christian man hath a title to show a father’s
kindness towards the poor, deserted babe.”
The affair being so satisfactorily concluded, Hester Prynne, with Pearl,
departed from the house. As they descended the steps, it is averred that the
lattice of a chamber-window was thrown open, and forth into the sunny day
was thrust the face of Mistress Hibbins, Governor Bellingham’s bitter-
tempered sister, and the same who, a few years later, was executed as a witch.
“Hist, hist!” said she, while her ill-omened physiognomy seemed to cast a
shadow over the cheerful newness of the house. “Wilt thou go with us to-
night? There will be a merry company in the forest; and I well-nigh promised
the Black Man that comely Hester Prynne should make one.”
“Make my excuse to him, so please you!” answered Hester, with a triumphant
smile. “I must tarry at home, and keep watch over my little Pearl. Had they
taken her from me, I would willingly have gone with thee into the forest, and
signed my name in the Black Man’s book too, and that with mine own
blood!”
“We shall have thee there anon!” said the witch-lady, frowning, as she drew
back her head.
But here—if we suppose this interview betwixt Mistress Hibbins and Hester
Prynne to be authentic, and not a parable—was already an illustration of the
young minister’s argument against sundering the relation of a fallen mother to
the offspring of her frailty. Even thus early had the child saved her from
Satan’s snare.

IX. THE LEECH

Under the appellation of Roger Chillingworth, the reader will remember, was
hidden another name, which its former wearer had resolved should never
more be spoken. It has been related, how, in the crowd that witnessed Hester
Prynne’s ignominious exposure, stood a man, elderly, travel-worn, who, just
emerging from the perilous wilderness, beheld the woman, in whom he hoped
to find embodied the warmth and cheerfulness of home, set up as a type of sin
before the people. Her matronly fame was trodden under all men’s feet.
Infamy was babbling around her in the public market-place. For her kindred,
should the tidings ever reach them, and for the companions of her unspotted
life, there remained nothing but the contagion of her dishonour; which would
not fail to be distributed in strict accordance and proportion with the intimacy
and sacredness of their previous relationship. Then why—since the choice
was with himself—should the individual, whose connexion with the fallen
woman had been the most intimate and sacred of them all, come forward to
vindicate his claim to an inheritance so little desirable? He resolved not to be
pilloried beside her on her pedestal of shame. Unknown to all but Hester
Prynne, and possessing the lock and key of her silence, he chose to withdraw
his name from the roll of mankind, and, as regarded his former ties and
interest, to vanish out of life as completely as if he indeed lay at the bottom of
the ocean, whither rumour had long ago consigned him. This purpose once
effected, new interests would immediately spring up, and likewise a new
purpose; dark, it is true, if not guilty, but of force enough to engage the full
strength of his faculties.
In pursuance of this resolve, he took up his residence in the Puritan town as
Roger Chillingworth, without other introduction than the learning and
intelligence of which he possessed more than a common measure. As his
studies, at a previous period of his life, had made him extensively acquainted
with the medical science of the day, it was as a physician that he presented
himself and as such was cordially received. Skilful men, of the medical and
chirurgical profession, were of rare occurrence in the colony. They seldom, it
would appear, partook of the religious zeal that brought other emigrants
across the Atlantic. In their researches into the human frame, it may be that
the higher and more subtle faculties of such men were materialised, and that
they lost the spiritual view of existence amid the intricacies of that wondrous
mechanism, which seemed to involve art enough to comprise all of life within
itself. At all events, the health of the good town of Boston, so far as medicine
had aught to do with it, had hitherto lain in the guardianship of an aged
deacon and apothecary, whose piety and godly deportment were stronger
testimonials in his favour than any that he could have produced in the shape
of a diploma. The only surgeon was one who combined the occasional
exercise of that noble art with the daily and habitual flourish of a razor. To
such a professional body Roger Chillingworth was a brilliant acquisition. He
soon manifested his familiarity with the ponderous and imposing machinery
of antique physic; in which every remedy contained a multitude of far-fetched
and heterogeneous ingredients, as elaborately compounded as if the proposed
result had been the Elixir of Life. In his Indian captivity, moreover, he had
gained much knowledge of the properties of native herbs and roots; nor did he
conceal from his patients that these simple medicines, Nature’s boon to the
untutored savage, had quite as large a share of his own confidence as the
European Pharmacopoeia, which so many learned doctors had spent centuries
in elaborating.
This learned stranger was exemplary as regarded at least the outward forms of
a religious life; and early after his arrival, had chosen for his spiritual guide
the Reverend Mr. Dimmesdale. The young divine, whose scholar-like renown
still lived in Oxford, was considered by his more fervent admirers as little less
than a heavenly ordained apostle, destined, should he live and labour for the
ordinary term of life, to do as great deeds, for the now feeble New England
Church, as the early Fathers had achieved for the infancy of the Christian
faith. About this period, however, the health of Mr. Dimmesdale had
evidently begun to fail. By those best acquainted with his habits, the paleness
of the young minister’s cheek was accounted for by his too earnest devotion
to study, his scrupulous fulfilment of parochial duty, and more than all, to the
fasts and vigils of which he made a frequent practice, in order to keep the
grossness of this earthly state from clogging and obscuring his spiritual lamp.
Some declared, that if Mr. Dimmesdale were really going to die, it was cause
enough that the world was not worthy to be any longer trodden by his feet. He
himself, on the other hand, with characteristic humility, avowed his belief that
if Providence should see fit to remove him, it would be because of his own
unworthiness to perform its humblest mission here on earth. With all this
difference of opinion as to the cause of his decline, there could be no question
of the fact. His form grew emaciated; his voice, though still rich and sweet,
had a certain melancholy prophecy of decay in it; he was often observed, on
any slight alarm or other sudden accident, to put his hand over his heart with
first a flush and then a paleness, indicative of pain.
Such was the young clergyman’s condition, and so imminent the prospect that
his dawning light would be extinguished, all untimely, when Roger
Chillingworth made his advent to the town. His first entry on the scene, few
people could tell whence, dropping down as it were out of the sky or starting
from the nether earth, had an aspect of mystery, which was easily heightened
to the miraculous. He was now known to be a man of skill; it was observed
that he gathered herbs and the blossoms of wild-flowers, and dug up roots and
plucked off twigs from the forest-trees like one acquainted with hidden
virtues in what was valueless to common eyes. He was heard to speak of Sir
Kenelm Digby and other famous men—whose scientific attainments were
esteemed hardly less than supernatural—as having been his correspondents or
associates. Why, with such rank in the learned world, had he come hither?
What, could he, whose sphere was in great cities, be seeking in the
wilderness? In answer to this query, a rumour gained ground—and however
absurd, was entertained by some very sensible people—that Heaven had
wrought an absolute miracle, by transporting an eminent Doctor of Physic
from a German university bodily through the air and setting him down at the
door of Mr. Dimmesdale’s study! Individuals of wiser faith, indeed, who
knew that Heaven promotes its purposes without aiming at the stage-effect of
what is called miraculous interposition, were inclined to see a providential
hand in Roger Chillingworth’s so opportune arrival.
This idea was countenanced by the strong interest which the physician ever
manifested in the young clergyman; he attached himself to him as a
parishioner, and sought to win a friendly regard and confidence from his
naturally reserved sensibility. He expressed great alarm at his pastor’s state of
health, but was anxious to attempt the cure, and, if early undertaken, seemed
not despondent of a favourable result. The elders, the deacons, the motherly
dames, and the young and fair maidens of Mr. Dimmesdale’s flock, were alike
importunate that he should make trial of the physician’s frankly offered skill.
Mr. Dimmesdale gently repelled their entreaties.
“I need no medicine,” said he.
But how could the young minister say so, when, with every successive
Sabbath, his cheek was paler and thinner, and his voice more tremulous than
before—when it had now become a constant habit, rather than a casual
gesture, to press his hand over his heart? Was he weary of his labours? Did he
wish to die? These questions were solemnly propounded to Mr. Dimmesdale
by the elder ministers of Boston, and the deacons of his church, who, to use
their own phrase, “dealt with him,” on the sin of rejecting the aid which
Providence so manifestly held out. He listened in silence, and finally
promised to confer with the physician.
“Were it God’s will,” said the Reverend Mr. Dimmesdale, when, in fulfilment
of this pledge, he requested old Roger Chillingworth’s professional advice, “I
could be well content that my labours, and my sorrows, and my sins, and my
pains, should shortly end with me, and what is earthly of them be buried in
my grave, and the spiritual go with me to my eternal state, rather than that you
should put your skill to the proof in my behalf.”
“Ah,” replied Roger Chillingworth, with that quietness, which, whether
imposed or natural, marked all his deportment, “it is thus that a young
clergyman is apt to speak. Youthful men, not having taken a deep root, give
up their hold of life so easily! And saintly men, who walk with God on earth,
would fain be away, to walk with him on the golden pavements of the New
Jerusalem.”
“Nay,” rejoined the young minister, putting his hand to his heart, with a flush
of pain flitting over his brow, “were I worthier to walk there, I could be better
content to toil here.”
“Good men ever interpret themselves too meanly,” said the physician.
In this manner, the mysterious old Roger Chillingworth became the medical
adviser of the Reverend Mr. Dimmesdale. As not only the disease interested
the physician, but he was strongly moved to look into the character and
qualities of the patient, these two men, so different in age, came gradually to
spend much time together. For the sake of the minister’s health, and to enable
the leech to gather plants with healing balm in them, they took long walks on
the sea-shore, or in the forest; mingling various walks with the splash and
murmur of the waves, and the solemn wind-anthem among the tree-tops.
Often, likewise, one was the guest of the other in his place of study and
retirement. There was a fascination for the minister in the company of the
man of science, in whom he recognised an intellectual cultivation of no
moderate depth or scope; together with a range and freedom of ideas, that he
would have vainly looked for among the members of his own profession. In
truth, he was startled, if not shocked, to find this attribute in the physician.
Mr. Dimmesdale was a true priest, a true religionist, with the reverential
sentiment largely developed, and an order of mind that impelled itself
powerfully along the track of a creed, and wore its passage continually deeper
with the lapse of time. In no state of society would he have been what is
called a man of liberal views; it would always be essential to his peace to feel
the pressure of a faith about him, supporting, while it confined him within its
iron framework. Not the less, however, though with a tremulous enjoyment,
did he feel the occasional relief of looking at the universe through the medium
of another kind of intellect than those with which he habitually held converse.
It was as if a window were thrown open, admitting a freer atmosphere into the
close and stifled study, where his life was wasting itself away, amid lamp-
light, or obstructed day-beams, and the musty fragrance, be it sensual or
moral, that exhales from books. But the air was too fresh and chill to be long
breathed with comfort. So the minister, and the physician with him, withdrew
again within the limits of what their Church defined as orthodox.
Thus Roger Chillingworth scrutinised his patient carefully, both as he saw
him in his ordinary life, keeping an accustomed pathway in the range of
thoughts familiar to him, and as he appeared when thrown amidst other moral
scenery, the novelty of which might call out something new to the surface of
his character. He deemed it essential, it would seem, to know the man, before
attempting to do him good. Wherever there is a heart and an intellect, the
diseases of the physical frame are tinged with the peculiarities of these. In
Arthur Dimmesdale, thought and imagination were so active, and sensibility
so intense, that the bodily infirmity would be likely to have its groundwork
there. So Roger Chillingworth—the man of skill, the kind and friendly
physician—strove to go deep into his patient’s bosom, delving among his
principles, prying into his recollections, and probing everything with a
cautious touch, like a treasure-seeker in a dark cavern. Few secrets can escape
an investigator, who has opportunity and licence to undertake such a quest,
and skill to follow it up. A man burdened with a secret should especially
avoid the intimacy of his physician. If the latter possess native sagacity, and a
nameless something more,—let us call it intuition; if he show no intrusive
egotism, nor disagreeable prominent characteristics of his own; if he have the
power, which must be born with him, to bring his mind into such affinity with
his patient’s, that this last shall unawares have spoken what he imagines
himself only to have thought; if such revelations be received without tumult,
and acknowledged not so often by an uttered sympathy as by silence, an
inarticulate breath, and here and there a word to indicate that all is
understood; if to these qualifications of a confidant be joined the advantages
afforded by his recognised character as a physician;—then, at some inevitable
moment, will the soul of the sufferer be dissolved, and flow forth in a dark but
transparent stream, bringing all its mysteries into the daylight.
Roger Chillingworth possessed all, or most, of the attributes above
enumerated. Nevertheless, time went on; a kind of intimacy, as we have said,
grew up between these two cultivated minds, which had as wide a field as the
whole sphere of human thought and study to meet upon; they discussed every
topic of ethics and religion, of public affairs, and private character; they
talked much, on both sides, of matters that seemed personal to themselves;
and yet no secret, such as the physician fancied must exist there, ever stole
out of the minister’s consciousness into his companion’s ear. The latter had
his suspicions, indeed, that even the nature of Mr. Dimmesdale’s bodily
disease had never fairly been revealed to him. It was a strange reserve!
After a time, at a hint from Roger Chillingworth, the friends of Mr.
Dimmesdale effected an arrangement by which the two were lodged in the
same house; so that every ebb and flow of the minister’s life-tide might pass
under the eye of his anxious and attached physician. There was much joy
throughout the town when this greatly desirable object was attained. It was
held to be the best possible measure for the young clergyman’s welfare;
unless, indeed, as often urged by such as felt authorised to do so, he had
selected some one of the many blooming damsels, spiritually devoted to him,
to become his devoted wife. This latter step, however, there was no present
prospect that Arthur Dimmesdale would be prevailed upon to take; he rejected
all suggestions of the kind, as if priestly celibacy were one of his articles of
Church discipline. Doomed by his own choice, therefore, as Mr. Dimmesdale
so evidently was, to eat his unsavoury morsel always at another’s board, and
endure the life-long chill which must be his lot who seeks to warm himself
only at another’s fireside, it truly seemed that this sagacious, experienced,
benevolent old physician, with his concord of paternal and reverential love for
the young pastor, was the very man, of all mankind, to be constantly within
reach of his voice.
The new abode of the two friends was with a pious widow, of good social
rank, who dwelt in a house covering pretty nearly the site on which the
venerable structure of King’s Chapel has since been built. It had the
graveyard, originally Isaac Johnson’s home-field, on one side, and so was
well adapted to call up serious reflections, suited to their respective
employments, in both minister and man of physic. The motherly care of the
good widow assigned to Mr. Dimmesdale a front apartment, with a sunny
exposure, and heavy window-curtains, to create a noontide shadow when
desirable. The walls were hung round with tapestry, said to be from the
Gobelin looms, and, at all events, representing the Scriptural story of David
and Bathsheba, and Nathan the Prophet, in colours still unfaded, but which
made the fair woman of the scene almost as grimly picturesque as the woe-
denouncing seer. Here the pale clergyman piled up his library, rich with
parchment-bound folios of the Fathers, and the lore of Rabbis, and monkish
erudition, of which the Protestant divines, even while they vilified and decried
that class of writers, were yet constrained often to avail themselves. On the
other side of the house, old Roger Chillingworth arranged his study and
laboratory: not such as a modern man of science would reckon even tolerably
complete, but provided with a distilling apparatus and the means of
compounding drugs and chemicals, which the practised alchemist knew well
how to turn to purpose. With such commodiousness of situation, these two
learned persons sat themselves down, each in his own domain, yet familiarly
passing from one apartment to the other, and bestowing a mutual and not
incurious inspection into one another’s business.
And the Reverend Arthur Dimmesdale’s best discerning friends, as we have
intimated, very reasonably imagined that the hand of Providence had done all
this for the purpose—besought in so many public and domestic and secret
prayers—of restoring the young minister to health. But, it must now be said,
another portion of the community had latterly begun to take its own view of
the relation betwixt Mr. Dimmesdale and the mysterious old physician. When
an uninstructed multitude attempts to see with its eyes, it is exceedingly apt to
be deceived. When, however, it forms its judgment, as it usually does, on the
intuitions of its great and warm heart, the conclusions thus attained are often
so profound and so unerring as to possess the character of truth supernaturally
revealed. The people, in the case of which we speak, could justify its
prejudice against Roger Chillingworth by no fact or argument worthy of
serious refutation. There was an aged handicraftsman, it is true, who had been
a citizen of London at the period of Sir Thomas Overbury’s murder, now
some thirty years agone; he testified to having seen the physician, under some
other name, which the narrator of the story had now forgotten, in company
with Dr. Forman, the famous old conjurer, who was implicated in the affair of
Overbury. Two or three individuals hinted that the man of skill, during his
Indian captivity, had enlarged his medical attainments by joining in the
incantations of the savage priests, who were universally acknowledged to be
powerful enchanters, often performing seemingly miraculous cures by their
skill in the black art. A large number—and many of these were persons of
such sober sense and practical observation that their opinions would have
been valuable in other matters—affirmed that Roger Chillingworth’s aspect
had undergone a remarkable change while he had dwelt in town, and
especially since his abode with Mr. Dimmesdale. At first, his expression had
been calm, meditative, scholar-like. Now there was something ugly and evil
in his face, which they had not previously noticed, and which grew still the
more obvious to sight the oftener they looked upon him. According to the
vulgar idea, the fire in his laboratory had been brought from the lower
regions, and was fed with infernal fuel; and so, as might be expected, his
visage was getting sooty with the smoke.
To sum up the matter, it grew to be a widely diffused opinion that the Rev.
Arthur Dimmesdale, like many other personages of special sanctity, in all
ages of the Christian world, was haunted either by Satan himself or Satan’s
emissary, in the guise of old Roger Chillingworth. This diabolical agent had
the Divine permission, for a season, to burrow into the clergyman’s intimacy,
and plot against his soul. No sensible man, it was confessed, could doubt on
which side the victory would turn. The people looked, with an unshaken hope,
to see the minister come forth out of the conflict transfigured with the glory
which he would unquestionably win. Meanwhile, nevertheless, it was sad to
think of the perchance mortal agony through which he must struggle towards
his triumph.
Alas! to judge from the gloom and terror in the depth of the poor minister’s
eyes, the battle was a sore one, and the victory anything but secure.

X. THE LEECH AND HIS PATIENT

Old Roger Chillingworth, throughout life, had been calm in temperament,

kindly, though not of warm affections, but ever, and in all his relations with
the world, a pure and upright man. He had begun an investigation, as he
imagined, with the severe and equal integrity of a judge, desirous only of
truth, even as if the question involved no more than the air-drawn lines and
figures of a geometrical problem, instead of human passions, and wrongs
inflicted on himself. But, as he proceeded, a terrible fascination, a kind of
fierce, though still calm, necessity, seized the old man within its gripe, and
never set him free again until he had done all its bidding. He now dug into the
poor clergyman’s heart, like a miner searching for gold; or, rather, like a
sexton delving into a grave, possibly in quest of a jewel that had been buried
on the dead man’s bosom, but likely to find nothing save mortality and
corruption. Alas, for his own soul, if these were what he sought!
Sometimes a light glimmered out of the physician’s eyes, burning blue and
ominous, like the reflection of a furnace, or, let us say, like one of those
gleams of ghastly fire that darted from Bunyan’s awful doorway in the
hillside, and quivered on the pilgrim’s face. The soil where this dark miner
was working had perchance shown indications that encouraged him.
“This man,” said he, at one such moment, to himself, “pure as they deem him
—all spiritual as he seems—hath inherited a strong animal nature from his
father or his mother. Let us dig a little further in the direction of this vein!”
Then after long search into the minister’s dim interior, and turning over many
precious materials, in the shape of high aspirations for the welfare of his race,
warm love of souls, pure sentiments, natural piety, strengthened by thought
and study, and illuminated by revelation—all of which invaluable gold was
perhaps no better than rubbish to the seeker—he would turn back,
discouraged, and begin his quest towards another point. He groped along as
stealthily, with as cautious a tread, and as wary an outlook, as a thief entering
a chamber where a man lies only half asleep—or, it may be, broad awake—
with purpose to steal the very treasure which this man guards as the apple of
his eye. In spite of his premeditated carefulness, the floor would now and then
creak; his garments would rustle; the shadow of his presence, in a forbidden
proximity, would be thrown across his victim. In other words, Mr.
Dimmesdale, whose sensibility of nerve often produced the effect of spiritual
intuition, would become vaguely aware that something inimical to his peace
had thrust itself into relation with him. But Old Roger Chillingworth, too, had
perceptions that were almost intuitive; and when the minister threw his
startled eyes towards him, there the physician sat; his kind, watchful,
sympathising, but never intrusive friend.
Yet Mr. Dimmesdale would perhaps have seen this individual’s character
more perfectly, if a certain morbidness, to which sick hearts are liable, had not
rendered him suspicious of all mankind. Trusting no man as his friend, he
could not recognize his enemy when the latter actually appeared. He therefore
still kept up a familiar intercourse with him, daily receiving the old physician
in his study, or visiting the laboratory, and, for recreation’s sake, watching the
processes by which weeds were converted into drugs of potency.
One day, leaning his forehead on his hand, and his elbow on the sill of the
open window, that looked towards the grave-yard, he talked with Roger
Chillingworth, while the old man was examining a bundle of unsightly plants.
“Where,” asked he, with a look askance at them—for it was the clergyman’s
peculiarity that he seldom, now-a-days, looked straight forth at any object,
whether human or inanimate, “where, my kind doctor, did you gather those
herbs, with such a dark, flabby leaf?”
“Even in the graveyard here at hand,” answered the physician, continuing his
employment. “They are new to me. I found them growing on a grave, which
bore no tombstone, no other memorial of the dead man, save these ugly
weeds, that have taken upon themselves to keep him in remembrance. They
grew out of his heart, and typify, it may be, some hideous secret that was
buried with him, and which he had done better to confess during his lifetime.”
“Perchance,” said Mr. Dimmesdale, “he earnestly desired it, but could not.”
“And wherefore?” rejoined the physician.
“Wherefore not; since all the powers of nature call so earnestly for the
confession of sin, that these black weeds have sprung up out of a buried heart,
to make manifest, an outspoken crime?”
“That, good sir, is but a phantasy of yours,” replied the minister. “There can
be, if I forbode aright, no power, short of the Divine mercy, to disclose,
whether by uttered words, or by type or emblem, the secrets that may be
buried in the human heart. The heart, making itself guilty of such secrets,
must perforce hold them, until the day when all hidden things shall be
revealed. Nor have I so read or interpreted Holy Writ, as to understand that
the disclosure of human thoughts and deeds, then to be made, is intended as a
part of the retribution. That, surely, were a shallow view of it. No; these
revelations, unless I greatly err, are meant merely to promote the intellectual
satisfaction of all intelligent beings, who will stand waiting, on that day, to
see the dark problem of this life made plain. A knowledge of men’s hearts
will be needful to the completest solution of that problem. And, I conceive
moreover, that the hearts holding such miserable secrets as you speak of, will
yield them up, at that last day, not with reluctance, but with a joy
unutterable.”
“Then why not reveal it here?” asked Roger Chillingworth, glancing quietly
aside at the minister. “Why should not the guilty ones sooner avail themselves
of this unutterable solace?”
“They mostly do,” said the clergyman, griping hard at his breast, as if
afflicted with an importunate throb of pain. “Many, many a poor soul hath
given its confidence to me, not only on the death-bed, but while strong in life,
and fair in reputation. And ever, after such an outpouring, oh, what a relief
have I witnessed in those sinful brethren! even as in one who at last draws
free air, after a long stifling with his own polluted breath. How can it be
otherwise? Why should a wretched man—guilty, we will say, of murder—
prefer to keep the dead corpse buried in his own heart, rather than fling it
forth at once, and let the universe take care of it!”
“Yet some men bury their secrets thus,” observed the calm physician.
“True; there are such men,” answered Mr. Dimmesdale. “But not to suggest
more obvious reasons, it may be that they are kept silent by the very
constitution of their nature. Or—can we not suppose it?—guilty as they may
be, retaining, nevertheless, a zeal for God’s glory and man’s welfare, they
shrink from displaying themselves black and filthy in the view of men;
because, thenceforward, no good can be achieved by them; no evil of the past
be redeemed by better service. So, to their own unutterable torment, they go
about among their fellow-creatures, looking pure as new-fallen snow, while
their hearts are all speckled and spotted with iniquity of which they cannot rid
themselves.”
“These men deceive themselves,” said Roger Chillingworth, with somewhat
more emphasis than usual, and making a slight gesture with his forefinger.
“They fear to take up the shame that rightfully belongs to them. Their love for
man, their zeal for God’s service—these holy impulses may or may not
coexist in their hearts with the evil inmates to which their guilt has unbarred
the door, and which must needs propagate a hellish breed within them. But, if
they seek to glorify God, let them not lift heavenward their unclean hands! If
they would serve their fellowmen, let them do it by making manifest the
power and reality of conscience, in constraining them to penitential self-
abasement! Would thou have me to believe, O wise and pious friend, that a
false show can be better—can be more for God’s glory, or man’ welfare—
than God’s own truth? Trust me, such men deceive themselves!”
“It may be so,” said the young clergyman, indifferently, as waiving a
discussion that he considered irrelevant or unseasonable. He had a ready
faculty, indeed, of escaping from any topic that agitated his too sensitive and
nervous temperament.—“But, now, I would ask of my well-skilled physician,
whether, in good sooth, he deems me to have profited by his kindly care of
this weak frame of mine?”
Before Roger Chillingworth could answer, they heard the clear, wild laughter
of a young child’s voice, proceeding from the adjacent burial-ground.
Looking instinctively from the open window—for it was summer-time—the
minister beheld Hester Prynne and little Pearl passing along the footpath that
traversed the enclosure. Pearl looked as beautiful as the day, but was in one of
those moods of perverse merriment which, whenever they occurred, seemed
to remove her entirely out of the sphere of sympathy or human contact. She
now skipped irreverently from one grave to another; until coming to the
broad, flat, armorial tombstone of a departed worthy—perhaps of Isaac
Johnson himself—she began to dance upon it. In reply to her mother’s
command and entreaty that she would behave more decorously, little Pearl
paused to gather the prickly burrs from a tall burdock which grew beside the
tomb. Taking a handful of these, she arranged them along the lines of the
scarlet letter that decorated the maternal bosom, to which the burrs, as their
nature was, tenaciously adhered. Hester did not pluck them off.
Roger Chillingworth had by this time approached the window and smiled
grimly down.
“There is no law, nor reverence for authority, no regard for human ordinances
or opinions, right or wrong, mixed up with that child’s composition,”
remarked he, as much to himself as to his companion. “I saw her, the other
day, bespatter the Governor himself with water at the cattle-trough in Spring
Lane. What, in heaven’s name, is she? Is the imp altogether evil? Hath she
affections? Hath she any discoverable principle of being?”
“None, save the freedom of a broken law,” answered Mr. Dimmesdale, in a
quiet way, as if he had been discussing the point within himself, “Whether
capable of good, I know not.”
The child probably overheard their voices, for, looking up to the window with
a bright, but naughty smile of mirth and intelligence, she threw one of the
prickly burrs at the Rev. Mr. Dimmesdale. The sensitive clergyman shrank,
with nervous dread, from the light missile. Detecting his emotion, Pearl
clapped her little hands in the most extravagant ecstacy. Hester Prynne,
likewise, had involuntarily looked up, and all these four persons, old and
young, regarded one another in silence, till the child laughed aloud, and
shouted—“Come away, mother! Come away, or yonder old black man will
catch you! He hath got hold of the minister already. Come away, mother or he
will catch you! But he cannot catch little Pearl!”
So she drew her mother away, skipping, dancing, and frisking fantastically
among the hillocks of the dead people, like a creature that had nothing in
common with a bygone and buried generation, nor owned herself akin to it. It
was as if she had been made afresh out of new elements, and must perforce be
permitted to live her own life, and be a law unto herself without her
eccentricities being reckoned to her for a crime.
“There goes a woman,” resumed Roger Chillingworth, after a pause, “who, be
her demerits what they may, hath none of that mystery of hidden sinfulness
which you deem so grievous to be borne. Is Hester Prynne the less miserable,
think you, for that scarlet letter on her breast?”
“I do verily believe it,” answered the clergyman. “Nevertheless, I cannot
answer for her. There was a look of pain in her face which I would gladly
have been spared the sight of. But still, methinks, it must needs be better for
the sufferer to be free to show his pain, as this poor woman Hester is, than to
cover it up in his heart.”
There was another pause, and the physician began anew to examine and
arrange the plants which he had gathered.
“You inquired of me, a little time agone,” said he, at length, “my judgment as
touching your health.”
“I did,” answered the clergyman, “and would gladly learn it.
Speak frankly, I pray you, be it for life or death.”
“Freely then, and plainly,” said the physician, still busy with his plants, but
keeping a wary eye on Mr. Dimmesdale, “the disorder is a strange one; not so
much in itself nor as outwardly manifested,—in so far, at least as the
symptoms have been laid open to my observation. Looking daily at you, my
good sir, and watching the tokens of your aspect now for months gone by, I
should deem you a man sore sick, it may be, yet not so sick but that an
instructed and watchful physician might well hope to cure you. But I know
not what to say, the disease is what I seem to know, yet know it not.”
“You speak in riddles, learned sir,” said the pale minister, glancing aside out
of the window.
“Then, to speak more plainly,” continued the physician, “and I crave pardon,
sir, should it seem to require pardon, for this needful plainness of my speech.
Let me ask as your friend, as one having charge, under Providence, of your
life and physical well being, hath all the operations of this disorder been fairly
laid open and recounted to me?”
“How can you question it?” asked the minister. “Surely it were child’s play to
call in a physician and then hide the sore!”
“You would tell me, then, that I know all?” said Roger Chillingworth,
deliberately, and fixing an eye, bright with intense and concentrated
intelligence, on the minister’s face. “Be it so! But again! He to whom only the
outward and physical evil is laid open, knoweth, oftentimes, but half the evil
which he is called upon to cure. A bodily disease, which we look upon as
whole and entire within itself, may, after all, be but a symptom of some
ailment in the spiritual part. Your pardon once again, good sir, if my speech
give the shadow of offence. You, sir, of all men whom I have known, are he
whose body is the closest conjoined, and imbued, and identified, so to speak,
with the spirit whereof it is the instrument.”
“Then I need ask no further,” said the clergyman, somewhat hastily rising
from his chair. “You deal not, I take it, in medicine for the soul!”
“Thus, a sickness,” continued Roger Chillingworth, going on, in an unaltered
tone, without heeding the interruption, but standing up and confronting the
emaciated and white-cheeked minister, with his low, dark, and misshapen
figure,—“a sickness, a sore place, if we may so call it, in your spirit hath
immediately its appropriate manifestation in your bodily frame. Would you,
therefore, that your physician heal the bodily evil? How may this be unless
you first lay open to him the wound or trouble in your soul?”
“No, not to thee! not to an earthly physician!” cried Mr. Dimmesdale,
passionately, and turning his eyes, full and bright, and with a kind of
fierceness, on old Roger Chillingworth. “Not to thee! But, if it be the soul’s
disease, then do I commit myself to the one Physician of the soul! He, if it
stand with His good pleasure, can cure, or he can kill. Let Him do with me as,
in His justice and wisdom, He shall see good. But who art thou, that meddlest
in this matter? that dares thrust himself between the sufferer and his God?”
With a frantic gesture he rushed out of the room.
“It is as well to have made this step,” said Roger Chillingworth to himself,
looking after the minister, with a grave smile. “There is nothing lost. We shall
be friends again anon. But see, now, how passion takes hold upon this man,
and hurrieth him out of himself! As with one passion so with another. He hath
done a wild thing ere now, this pious Master Dimmesdale, in the hot passion
of his heart.”
It proved not difficult to re-establish the intimacy of the two companions, on
the same footing and in the same degree as heretofore. The young clergyman,
after a few hours of privacy, was sensible that the disorder of his nerves had
hurried him into an unseemly outbreak of temper, which there had been
nothing in the physician’s words to excuse or palliate. He marvelled, indeed,
at the violence with which he had thrust back the kind old man, when merely
proffering the advice which it was his duty to bestow, and which the minister
himself had expressly sought. With these remorseful feelings, he lost no time
in making the amplest apologies, and besought his friend still to continue the
care which, if not successful in restoring him to health, had, in all probability,
been the means of prolonging his feeble existence to that hour. Roger
Chillingworth readily assented, and went on with his medical supervision of
the minister; doing his best for him, in all good faith, but always quitting the
patient’s apartment, at the close of the professional interview, with a
mysterious and puzzled smile upon his lips. This expression was invisible in
Mr. Dimmesdale’s presence, but grew strongly evident as the physician
crossed the threshold.
“A rare case,” he muttered. “I must needs look deeper into it. A strange
sympathy betwixt soul and body! Were it only for the art’s sake, I must search
this matter to the bottom.”
It came to pass, not long after the scene above recorded, that the Reverend
Mr. Dimmesdale, noon-day, and entirely unawares, fell into a deep, deep
slumber, sitting in his chair, with a large black-letter volume open before him
on the table. It must have been a work of vast ability in the somniferous
school of literature. The profound depth of the minister’s repose was the more
remarkable, inasmuch as he was one of those persons whose sleep ordinarily
is as light as fitful, and as easily scared away, as a small bird hopping on a
twig. To such an unwonted remoteness, however, had his spirit now
withdrawn into itself that he stirred not in his chair when old Roger
Chillingworth, without any extraordinary precaution, came into the room. The
physician advanced directly in front of his patient, laid his hand upon his
bosom, and thrust aside the vestment, that hitherto had always covered it even
from the professional eye.
Then, indeed, Mr. Dimmesdale shuddered, and slightly stirred.
After a brief pause, the physician turned away.
But with what a wild look of wonder, joy, and horror! With what a ghastly
rapture, as it were, too mighty to be expressed only by the eye and features,
and therefore bursting forth through the whole ugliness of his figure, and
making itself even riotously manifest by the extravagant gestures with which
he threw up his arms towards the ceiling, and stamped his foot upon the floor!
Had a man seen old Roger Chillingworth, at that moment of his ecstasy, he
would have had no need to ask how Satan comports himself when a precious
human soul is lost to heaven, and won into his kingdom.
But what distinguished the physician’s ecstasy from Satan’s was the trait of
wonder in it!

XI. THE INTERIOR OF A HEART

After the incident last described, the intercourse between the clergyman and
the physician, though externally the same, was really of another character
than it had previously been. The intellect of Roger Chillingworth had now a
sufficiently plain path before it. It was not, indeed, precisely that which he
had laid out for himself to tread. Calm, gentle, passionless, as he appeared,
there was yet, we fear, a quiet depth of malice, hitherto latent, but active now,
in this unfortunate old man, which led him to imagine a more intimate
revenge than any mortal had ever wreaked upon an enemy. To make himself
the one trusted friend, to whom should be confided all the fear, the remorse,
the agony, the ineffectual repentance, the backward rush of sinful thoughts,
expelled in vain! All that guilty sorrow, hidden from the world, whose great
heart would have pitied and forgiven, to be revealed to him, the Pitiless—to
him, the Unforgiving! All that dark treasure to be lavished on the very man, to
whom nothing else could so adequately pay the debt of vengeance!
The clergyman’s shy and sensitive reserve had balked this scheme. Roger
Chillingworth, however, was inclined to be hardly, if at all, less satisfied with
the aspect of affairs, which Providence—using the avenger and his victim for
its own purposes, and, perchance, pardoning, where it seemed most to punish
—had substituted for his black devices. A revelation, he could almost say, had
been granted to him. It mattered little for his object, whether celestial or from
what other region. By its aid, in all the subsequent relations betwixt him and
Mr. Dimmesdale, not merely the external presence, but the very inmost soul
of the latter, seemed to be brought out before his eyes, so that he could see
and comprehend its every movement. He became, thenceforth, not a spectator
only, but a chief actor in the poor minister’s interior world. He could play
upon him as he chose. Would he arouse him with a throb of agony? The
victim was for ever on the rack; it needed only to know the spring that
controlled the engine: and the physician knew it well. Would he startle him
with sudden fear? As at the waving of a magician’s wand, up rose a grisly
phantom—up rose a thousand phantoms—in many shapes, of death, or more
awful shame, all flocking round about the clergyman, and pointing with their
fingers at his breast!
All this was accomplished with a subtlety so perfect, that the minister, though
he had constantly a dim perception of some evil influence watching over him,
could never gain a knowledge of its actual nature. True, he looked doubtfully,
fearfully—even, at times, with horror and the bitterness of hatred—at the
deformed figure of the old physician. His gestures, his gait, his grizzled beard,
his slightest and most indifferent acts, the very fashion of his garments, were
odious in the clergyman’s sight; a token implicitly to be relied on of a deeper
antipathy in the breast of the latter than he was willing to acknowledge to
himself. For, as it was impossible to assign a reason for such distrust and
abhorrence, so Mr. Dimmesdale, conscious that the poison of one morbid spot
was infecting his heart’s entire substance, attributed all his presentiments to
no other cause. He took himself to task for his bad sympathies in reference to
Roger Chillingworth, disregarded the lesson that he should have drawn from
them, and did his best to root them out. Unable to accomplish this, he
nevertheless, as a matter of principle, continued his habits of social familiarity
with the old man, and thus gave him constant opportunities for perfecting the
purpose to which—poor forlorn creature that he was, and more wretched than
his victim—the avenger had devoted himself.
While thus suffering under bodily disease, and gnawed and tortured by some
black trouble of the soul, and given over to the machinations of his deadliest
enemy, the Reverend Mr. Dimmesdale had achieved a brilliant popularity in
his sacred office. He won it indeed, in great part, by his sorrows. His
intellectual gifts, his moral perceptions, his power of experiencing and
communicating emotion, were kept in a state of preternatural activity by the
prick and anguish of his daily life. His fame, though still on its upward slope,
already overshadowed the soberer reputations of his fellow-clergymen,
eminent as several of them were. There are scholars among them, who had
spent more years in acquiring abstruse lore, connected with the divine
profession, than Mr. Dimmesdale had lived; and who might well, therefore, be
more profoundly versed in such solid and valuable attainments than their
youthful brother. There were men, too, of a sturdier texture of mind than his,
and endowed with a far greater share of shrewd, hard iron, or granite
understanding; which, duly mingled with a fair proportion of doctrinal
ingredient, constitutes a highly respectable, efficacious, and unamiable variety
of the clerical species. There were others again, true saintly fathers, whose
faculties had been elaborated by weary toil among their books, and by patient
thought, and etherealised, moreover, by spiritual communications with the
better world, into which their purity of life had almost introduced these holy
personages, with their garments of mortality still clinging to them. All that
they lacked was, the gift that descended upon the chosen disciples at
Pentecost, in tongues of flame; symbolising, it would seem, not the power of
speech in foreign and unknown languages, but that of addressing the whole
human brotherhood in the heart’s native language. These fathers, otherwise so
apostolic, lacked Heaven’s last and rarest attestation of their office, the
Tongue of Flame. They would have vainly sought—had they ever dreamed of
seeking—to express the highest truths through the humblest medium of
familiar words and images. Their voices came down, afar and indistinctly,
from the upper heights where they habitually dwelt.
Not improbably, it was to this latter class of men that Mr. Dimmesdale, by
many of his traits of character, naturally belonged. To the high mountain
peaks of faith and sanctity he would have climbed, had not the tendency been
thwarted by the burden, whatever it might be, of crime or anguish, beneath
which it was his doom to totter. It kept him down on a level with the lowest;
him, the man of ethereal attributes, whose voice the angels might else have
listened to and answered! But this very burden it was that gave him
sympathies so intimate with the sinful brotherhood of mankind; so that his
heart vibrated in unison with theirs, and received their pain into itself and sent
its own throb of pain through a thousand other hearts, in gushes of sad,
persuasive eloquence. Oftenest persuasive, but sometimes terrible! The
people knew not the power that moved them thus. They deemed the young
clergyman a miracle of holiness. They fancied him the mouth-piece of
Heaven’s messages of wisdom, and rebuke, and love. In their eyes, the very
ground on which he trod was sanctified. The virgins of his church grew pale
around him, victims of a passion so imbued with religious sentiment, that they
imagined it to be all religion, and brought it openly, in their white bosoms, as
their most acceptable sacrifice before the altar. The aged members of his
flock, beholding Mr. Dimmesdale’s frame so feeble, while they were
themselves so rugged in their infirmity, believed that he would go
heavenward before them, and enjoined it upon their children that their old
bones should be buried close to their young pastor’s holy grave. And all this
time, perchance, when poor Mr. Dimmesdale was thinking of his grave, he
questioned with himself whether the grass would ever grow on it, because an
accursed thing must there be buried!
It is inconceivable, the agony with which this public veneration tortured him.
It was his genuine impulse to adore the truth, and to reckon all things shadow-
like, and utterly devoid of weight or value, that had not its divine essence as
the life within their life. Then what was he?—a substance?—or the dimmest
of all shadows? He longed to speak out from his own pulpit at the full height
of his voice, and tell the people what he was. “I, whom you behold in these
black garments of the priesthood—I, who ascend the sacred desk, and turn my
pale face heavenward, taking upon myself to hold communion in your behalf
with the Most High Omniscience—I, in whose daily life you discern the
sanctity of Enoch—I, whose footsteps, as you suppose, leave a gleam along
my earthly track, whereby the Pilgrims that shall come after me may be
guided to the regions of the blest—I, who have laid the hand of baptism upon
your children—I, who have breathed the parting prayer over your dying
friends, to whom the Amen sounded faintly from a world which they had
quitted—I, your pastor, whom you so reverence and trust, am utterly a
pollution and a lie!”
More than once, Mr. Dimmesdale had gone into the pulpit, with a purpose
never to come down its steps until he should have spoken words like the
above. More than once he had cleared his throat, and drawn in the long, deep,
and tremulous breath, which, when sent forth again, would come burdened
with the black secret of his soul. More than once—nay, more than a hundred
times—he had actually spoken! Spoken! But how? He had told his hearers
that he was altogether vile, a viler companion of the vilest, the worst of
sinners, an abomination, a thing of unimaginable iniquity, and that the only
wonder was that they did not see his wretched body shrivelled up before their
eyes by the burning wrath of the Almighty! Could there be plainer speech
than this? Would not the people start up in their seats, by a simultaneous
impulse, and tear him down out of the pulpit which he defiled? Not so,
indeed! They heard it all, and did but reverence him the more. They little
guessed what deadly purport lurked in those self-condemning words. “The
godly youth!” said they among themselves. “The saint on earth! Alas! if he
discern such sinfulness in his own white soul, what horrid spectacle would he
behold in thine or mine!” The minister well knew—subtle, but remorseful
hypocrite that he was!—the light in which his vague confession would be
viewed. He had striven to put a cheat upon himself by making the avowal of a
guilty conscience, but had gained only one other sin, and a self-acknowledged
shame, without the momentary relief of being self-deceived. He had spoken
the very truth, and transformed it into the veriest falsehood. And yet, by the
constitution of his nature, he loved the truth, and loathed the lie, as few men
ever did. Therefore, above all things else, he loathed his miserable self!
His inward trouble drove him to practices more in accordance with the old,
corrupted faith of Rome than with the better light of the church in which he
had been born and bred. In Mr. Dimmesdale’s secret closet, under lock and
key, there was a bloody scourge. Oftentimes, this Protestant and Puritan
divine had plied it on his own shoulders, laughing bitterly at himself the
while, and smiting so much the more pitilessly because of that bitter laugh. It
was his custom, too, as it has been that of many other pious Puritans, to fast—
not however, like them, in order to purify the body, and render it the fitter
medium of celestial illumination—but rigorously, and until his knees
trembled beneath him, as an act of penance. He kept vigils, likewise, night
after night, sometimes in utter darkness, sometimes with a glimmering lamp,
and sometimes, viewing his own face in a looking-glass, by the most
powerful light which he could throw upon it. He thus typified the constant
introspection wherewith he tortured, but could not purify himself. In these
lengthened vigils, his brain often reeled, and visions seemed to flit before
him; perhaps seen doubtfully, and by a faint light of their own, in the remote
dimness of the chamber, or more vividly and close beside him, within the
looking-glass. Now it was a herd of diabolic shapes, that grinned and mocked
at the pale minister, and beckoned him away with them; now a group of
shining angels, who flew upward heavily, as sorrow-laden, but grew more
ethereal as they rose. Now came the dead friends of his youth, and his white-
bearded father, with a saint-like frown, and his mother turning her face away
as she passed by. Ghost of a mother—thinnest fantasy of a mother—methinks
she might yet have thrown a pitying glance towards her son! And now,
through the chamber which these spectral thoughts had made so ghastly,
glided Hester Prynne leading along little Pearl, in her scarlet garb, and
pointing her forefinger, first at the scarlet letter on her bosom, and then at the
clergyman’s own breast.
None of these visions ever quite deluded him. At any moment, by an effort of
his will, he could discern substances through their misty lack of substance,
and convince himself that they were not solid in their nature, like yonder table
of carved oak, or that big, square, leather-bound and brazen-clasped volume
of divinity. But, for all that, they were, in one sense, the truest and most
substantial things which the poor minister now dealt with. It is the
unspeakable misery of a life so false as his, that it steals the pith and
substance out of whatever realities there are around us, and which were meant
by Heaven to be the spirit’s joy and nutriment. To the untrue man, the whole
universe is false—it is impalpable—it shrinks to nothing within his grasp.
And he himself in so far as he shows himself in a false light, becomes a
shadow, or, indeed, ceases to exist. The only truth that continued to give Mr.
Dimmesdale a real existence on this earth was the anguish in his inmost soul,
and the undissembled expression of it in his aspect. Had he once found power
to smile, and wear a face of gaiety, there would have been no such man!
On one of those ugly nights, which we have faintly hinted at, but forborne to
picture forth, the minister started from his chair. A new thought had struck
him. There might be a moment’s peace in it. Attiring himself with as much
care as if it had been for public worship, and precisely in the same manner, he
stole softly down the staircase, undid the door, and issued forth.

XII. THE MINISTER’S VIGIL

Walking in the shadow of a dream, as it were, and perhaps actually under the
influence of a species of somnambulism, Mr. Dimmesdale reached the spot
where, now so long since, Hester Prynne had lived through her first hours of
public ignominy. The same platform or scaffold, black and weather-stained
with the storm or sunshine of seven long years, and foot-worn, too, with the
tread of many culprits who had since ascended it, remained standing beneath
the balcony of the meeting-house. The minister went up the steps.
It was an obscure night in early May. An unvaried pall of cloud muffled the
whole expanse of sky from zenith to horizon. If the same multitude which had
stood as eye-witnesses while Hester Prynne sustained her punishment could
now have been summoned forth, they would have discerned no face above the
platform nor hardly the outline of a human shape, in the dark grey of the
midnight. But the town was all asleep. There was no peril of discovery. The
minister might stand there, if it so pleased him, until morning should redden
in the east, without other risk than that the dank and chill night air would
creep into his frame, and stiffen his joints with rheumatism, and clog his
throat with catarrh and cough; thereby defrauding the expectant audience of
to-morrow’s prayer and sermon. No eye could see him, save that ever-wakeful
one which had seen him in his closet, wielding the bloody scourge. Why,
then, had he come hither? Was it but the mockery of penitence? A mockery,
indeed, but in which his soul trifled with itself! A mockery at which angels
blushed and wept, while fiends rejoiced with jeering laughter! He had been
driven hither by the impulse of that Remorse which dogged him everywhere,
and whose own sister and closely linked companion was that Cowardice
which invariably drew him back, with her tremulous gripe, just when the
other impulse had hurried him to the verge of a disclosure. Poor, miserable
man! what right had infirmity like his to burden itself with crime? Crime is
for the iron-nerved, who have their choice either to endure it, or, if it press too
hard, to exert their fierce and savage strength for a good purpose, and fling it
off at once! This feeble and most sensitive of spirits could do neither, yet
continually did one thing or another, which intertwined, in the same
inextricable knot, the agony of heaven-defying guilt and vain repentance.
And thus, while standing on the scaffold, in this vain show of expiation, Mr.
Dimmesdale was overcome with a great horror of mind, as if the universe
were gazing at a scarlet token on his naked breast, right over his heart. On that
spot, in very truth, there was, and there had long been, the gnawing and
poisonous tooth of bodily pain. Without any effort of his will, or power to
restrain himself, he shrieked aloud: an outcry that went pealing through the
night, and was beaten back from one house to another, and reverberated from
the hills in the background; as if a company of devils, detecting so much
misery and terror in it, had made a plaything of the sound, and were bandying
it to and fro.
“It is done!” muttered the minister, covering his face with his hands. “The
whole town will awake and hurry forth, and find me here!”
But it was not so. The shriek had perhaps sounded with a far greater power, to
his own startled ears, than it actually possessed. The town did not awake; or,
if it did, the drowsy slumberers mistook the cry either for something frightful
in a dream, or for the noise of witches, whose voices, at that period, were
often heard to pass over the settlements or lonely cottages, as they rode with
Satan through the air. The clergyman, therefore, hearing no symptoms of
disturbance, uncovered his eyes and looked about him. At one of the
chamber-windows of Governor Bellingham’s mansion, which stood at some
distance, on the line of another street, he beheld the appearance of the old
magistrate himself with a lamp in his hand a white night-cap on his head, and
a long white gown enveloping his figure. He looked like a ghost evoked
unseasonably from the grave. The cry had evidently startled him. At another
window of the same house, moreover appeared old Mistress Hibbins, the
Governor’s sister, also with a lamp, which even thus far off revealed the
expression of her sour and discontented face. She thrust forth her head from
the lattice, and looked anxiously upward. Beyond the shadow of a doubt, this
venerable witch-lady had heard Mr. Dimmesdale’s outcry, and interpreted it,
with its multitudinous echoes and reverberations, as the clamour of the fiends
and night-hags, with whom she was well known to make excursions in the
forest.
Detecting the gleam of Governor Bellingham’s lamp, the old lady quickly
extinguished her own, and vanished. Possibly, she went up among the clouds.
The minister saw nothing further of her motions. The magistrate, after a wary
observation of the darkness—into which, nevertheless, he could see but little
further than he might into a mill-stone—retired from the window.
The minister grew comparatively calm. His eyes, however, were soon greeted
by a little glimmering light, which, at first a long way off was approaching up
the street. It threw a gleam of recognition, on here a post, and there a garden
fence, and here a latticed window-pane, and there a pump, with its full trough
of water, and here again an arched door of oak, with an iron knocker, and a
rough log for the door-step. The Reverend Mr. Dimmesdale noted all these
minute particulars, even while firmly convinced that the doom of his
existence was stealing onward, in the footsteps which he now heard; and that
the gleam of the lantern would fall upon him in a few moments more, and
reveal his long-hidden secret. As the light drew nearer, he beheld, within its
illuminated circle, his brother clergyman—or, to speak more accurately, his
professional father, as well as highly valued friend—the Reverend Mr.
Wilson, who, as Mr. Dimmesdale now conjectured, had been praying at the
bedside of some dying man. And so he had. The good old minister came
freshly from the death-chamber of Governor Winthrop, who had passed from
earth to heaven within that very hour. And now surrounded, like the saint-like
personage of olden times, with a radiant halo, that glorified him amid this
gloomy night of sin—as if the departed Governor had left him an inheritance
of his glory, or as if he had caught upon himself the distant shine of the
celestial city, while looking thitherward to see the triumphant pilgrim pass
within its gates—now, in short, good Father Wilson was moving homeward,
aiding his footsteps with a lighted lantern! The glimmer of this luminary
suggested the above conceits to Mr. Dimmesdale, who smiled—nay, almost
laughed at them—and then wondered if he was going mad.
As the Reverend Mr. Wilson passed beside the scaffold, closely muffling his
Geneva cloak about him with one arm, and holding the lantern before his
breast with the other, the minister could hardly restrain himself from speaking
—
“A good evening to you, venerable Father Wilson. Come up hither, I pray
you, and pass a pleasant hour with me!”
Good Heavens! Had Mr. Dimmesdale actually spoken? For one instant he
believed that these words had passed his lips. But they were uttered only
within his imagination. The venerable Father Wilson continued to step slowly
onward, looking carefully at the muddy pathway before his feet, and never
once turning his head towards the guilty platform. When the light of the
glimmering lantern had faded quite away, the minister discovered, by the
faintness which came over him, that the last few moments had been a crisis of
terrible anxiety, although his mind had made an involuntary effort to relieve
itself by a kind of lurid playfulness.
Shortly afterwards, the like grisly sense of the humorous again stole in among
the solemn phantoms of his thought. He felt his limbs growing stiff with the
unaccustomed chilliness of the night, and doubted whether he should be able
to descend the steps of the scaffold. Morning would break and find him there.
The neighbourhood would begin to rouse itself. The earliest riser, coming
forth in the dim twilight, would perceive a vaguely-defined figure aloft on the
place of shame; and half-crazed betwixt alarm and curiosity, would go
knocking from door to door, summoning all the people to behold the ghost—
as he needs must think it—of some defunct transgressor. A dusky tumult
would flap its wings from one house to another. Then—the morning light still
waxing stronger—old patriarchs would rise up in great haste, each in his
flannel gown, and matronly dames, without pausing to put off their night-
gear. The whole tribe of decorous personages, who had never heretofore been
seen with a single hair of their heads awry, would start into public view with
the disorder of a nightmare in their aspects. Old Governor Bellingham would
come grimly forth, with his King James’ ruff fastened askew, and Mistress
Hibbins, with some twigs of the forest clinging to her skirts, and looking
sourer than ever, as having hardly got a wink of sleep after her night ride; and
good Father Wilson too, after spending half the night at a death-bed, and
liking ill to be disturbed, thus early, out of his dreams about the glorified
saints. Hither, likewise, would come the elders and deacons of Mr.
Dimmesdale’s church, and the young virgins who so idolized their minister,
and had made a shrine for him in their white bosoms, which now, by-the-bye,
in their hurry and confusion, they would scantly have given themselves time
to cover with their kerchiefs. All people, in a word, would come stumbling
over their thresholds, and turning up their amazed and horror-stricken visages
around the scaffold. Whom would they discern there, with the red eastern
light upon his brow? Whom, but the Reverend Arthur Dimmesdale, half-
frozen to death, overwhelmed with shame, and standing where Hester Prynne
had stood!
Carried away by the grotesque horror of this picture, the minister, unawares,
and to his own infinite alarm, burst into a great peal of laughter. It was
immediately responded to by a light, airy, childish laugh, in which, with a
thrill of the heart—but he knew not whether of exquisite pain, or pleasure as
acute—he recognised the tones of little Pearl.
“Pearl! Little Pearl!” cried he, after a moment’s pause; then, suppressing his
voice—“Hester! Hester Prynne! Are you there?”
“Yes; it is Hester Prynne!” she replied, in a tone of surprise; and the minister
heard her footsteps approaching from the side-walk, along which she had
been passing. “It is I, and my little Pearl.”
“Whence come you, Hester?” asked the minister. “What sent you hither?”
“I have been watching at a death-bed,” answered Hester Prynne “at Governor
Winthrop’s death-bed, and have taken his measure for a robe, and am now
going homeward to my dwelling.”
“Come up hither, Hester, thou and little Pearl,” said the Reverend Mr.
Dimmesdale. “Ye have both been here before, but I was not with you. Come
up hither once again, and we will stand all three together.”
She silently ascended the steps, and stood on the platform, holding little Pearl
by the hand. The minister felt for the child’s other hand, and took it. The
moment that he did so, there came what seemed a tumultuous rush of new
life, other life than his own pouring like a torrent into his heart, and hurrying
through all his veins, as if the mother and the child were communicating their
vital warmth to his half-torpid system. The three formed an electric chain.
“Minister!” whispered little Pearl.
“What wouldst thou say, child?” asked Mr. Dimmesdale.
“Wilt thou stand here with mother and me, to-morrow noontide?” inquired
Pearl.
“Nay; not so, my little Pearl,” answered the minister; for, with the new energy
of the moment, all the dread of public exposure, that had so long been the
anguish of his life, had returned upon him; and he was already trembling at
the conjunction in which—with a strange joy, nevertheless—he now found
himself—“not so, my child. I shall, indeed, stand with thy mother and thee
one other day, but not to-morrow.”
Pearl laughed, and attempted to pull away her hand. But the minister held it
fast.
“A moment longer, my child!” said he.
“But wilt thou promise,” asked Pearl, “to take my hand, and mother’s hand,
to-morrow noontide?”
“Not then, Pearl,” said the minister; “but another time.”
“And what other time?” persisted the child.
“At the great judgment day,” whispered the minister; and, strangely enough,
the sense that he was a professional teacher of the truth impelled him to
answer the child so. “Then, and there, before the judgment-seat, thy mother,
and thou, and I must stand together. But the daylight of this world shall not
see our meeting!”
Pearl laughed again.
But before Mr. Dimmesdale had done speaking, a light gleamed far and wide
over all the muffled sky. It was doubtless caused by one of those meteors,
which the night-watcher may so often observe burning out to waste, in the
vacant regions of the atmosphere. So powerful was its radiance, that it
thoroughly illuminated the dense medium of cloud betwixt the sky and earth.
The great vault brightened, like the dome of an immense lamp. It showed the
familiar scene of the street with the distinctness of mid-day, but also with the
awfulness that is always imparted to familiar objects by an unaccustomed
light. The wooden houses, with their jutting storeys and quaint gable-peaks;
the doorsteps and thresholds with the early grass springing up about them; the
garden-plots, black with freshly-turned earth; the wheel-track, little worn, and
even in the market-place margined with green on either side—all were visible,
but with a singularity of aspect that seemed to give another moral
interpretation to the things of this world than they had ever borne before. And
there stood the minister, with his hand over his heart; and Hester Prynne, with
the embroidered letter glimmering on her bosom; and little Pearl, herself a
symbol, and the connecting link between those two. They stood in the noon of
that strange and solemn splendour, as if it were the light that is to reveal all
secrets, and the daybreak that shall unite all who belong to one another.
There was witchcraft in little Pearl’s eyes; and her face, as she glanced
upward at the minister, wore that naughty smile which made its expression
frequently so elvish. She withdrew her hand from Mr. Dimmesdale’s, and
pointed across the street. But he clasped both his hands over his breast, and
cast his eyes towards the zenith.
Nothing was more common, in those days, than to interpret all meteoric
appearances, and other natural phenomena that occurred with less regularity
than the rise and set of sun and moon, as so many revelations from a
supernatural source. Thus, a blazing spear, a sword of flame, a bow, or a sheaf
of arrows seen in the midnight sky, prefigured Indian warfare. Pestilence was
known to have been foreboded by a shower of crimson light. We doubt
whether any marked event, for good or evil, ever befell New England, from
its settlement down to revolutionary times, of which the inhabitants had not
been previously warned by some spectacle of its nature. Not seldom, it had
been seen by multitudes. Oftener, however, its credibility rested on the faith
of some lonely eye-witness, who beheld the wonder through the coloured,
magnifying, and distorted medium of his imagination, and shaped it more
distinctly in his after-thought. It was, indeed, a majestic idea that the destiny
of nations should be revealed, in these awful hieroglyphics, on the cope of
heaven. A scroll so wide might not be deemed too expensive for Providence
to write a people’s doom upon. The belief was a favourite one with our
forefathers, as betokening that their infant commonwealth was under a
celestial guardianship of peculiar intimacy and strictness. But what shall we
say, when an individual discovers a revelation addressed to himself alone, on
the same vast sheet of record. In such a case, it could only be the symptom of
a highly disordered mental state, when a man, rendered morbidly self-
contemplative by long, intense, and secret pain, had extended his egotism
over the whole expanse of nature, until the firmament itself should appear no
more than a fitting page for his soul’s history and fate.
We impute it, therefore, solely to the disease in his own eye and heart that the
minister, looking upward to the zenith, beheld there the appearance of an
immense letter—the letter A—marked out in lines of dull red light. Not but
the meteor may have shown itself at that point, burning duskily through a veil
of cloud, but with no such shape as his guilty imagination gave it, or, at least,
with so little definiteness, that another’s guilt might have seen another symbol
in it.
There was a singular circumstance that characterised Mr. Dimmesdale’s
psychological state at this moment. All the time that he gazed upward to the
zenith, he was, nevertheless, perfectly aware that little Pearl was pointing her
finger towards old Roger Chillingworth, who stood at no great distance from
the scaffold. The minister appeared to see him, with the same glance that
discerned the miraculous letter. To his feature as to all other objects, the
meteoric light imparted a new expression; or it might well be that the
physician was not careful then, as at all other times, to hide the malevolence
with which he looked upon his victim. Certainly, if the meteor kindled up the
sky, and disclosed the earth, with an awfulness that admonished Hester
Prynne and the clergyman of the day of judgment, then might Roger
Chillingworth have passed with them for the arch-fiend, standing there with a
smile and scowl, to claim his own. So vivid was the expression, or so intense
the minister’s perception of it, that it seemed still to remain painted on the
darkness after the meteor had vanished, with an effect as if the street and all
things else were at once annihilated.
“Who is that man, Hester?” gasped Mr. Dimmesdale, overcome with terror. “I
shiver at him! Dost thou know the man? I hate him, Hester!”
She remembered her oath, and was silent.
“I tell thee, my soul shivers at him!” muttered the minister again. “Who is he?
Who is he? Canst thou do nothing for me? I have a nameless horror of the
man!”
“Minister,” said little Pearl, “I can tell thee who he is!”
“Quickly, then, child!” said the minister, bending his ear close to her lips.
“Quickly, and as low as thou canst whisper.”
Pearl mumbled something into his ear that sounded, indeed, like human
language, but was only such gibberish as children may be heard amusing
themselves with by the hour together. At all events, if it involved any secret
information in regard to old Roger Chillingworth, it was in a tongue unknown
to the erudite clergyman, and did but increase the bewilderment of his mind.
The elvish child then laughed aloud.
“Dost thou mock me now?” said the minister.
“Thou wast not bold!—thou wast not true!” answered the child. “Thou
wouldst not promise to take my hand, and mother’s hand, to-morrow noon-
tide!”
“Worthy sir,” answered the physician, who had now advanced to the foot of
the platform—“pious Master Dimmesdale! can this be you? Well, well,
indeed! We men of study, whose heads are in our books, have need to be
straitly looked after! We dream in our waking moments, and walk in our
sleep. Come, good sir, and my dear friend, I pray you let me lead you home!”
“How knewest thou that I was here?” asked the minister, fearfully.
“Verily, and in good faith,” answered Roger Chillingworth, “I knew nothing
of the matter. I had spent the better part of the night at the bedside of the
worshipful Governor Winthrop, doing what my poor skill might to give him
ease. He, going home to a better world, I, likewise, was on my way
homeward, when this light shone out. Come with me, I beseech you,
Reverend sir, else you will be poorly able to do Sabbath duty to-morrow. Aha!
see now how they trouble the brain—these books!—these books! You should
study less, good sir, and take a little pastime, or these night whimsies will
grow upon you.”
“I will go home with you,” said Mr. Dimmesdale.
With a chill despondency, like one awakening, all nerveless, from an ugly
dream, he yielded himself to the physician, and was led away.
The next day, however, being the Sabbath, he preached a discourse which was
held to be the richest and most powerful, and the most replete with heavenly
influences, that had ever proceeded from his lips. Souls, it is said, more souls
than one, were brought to the truth by the efficacy of that sermon, and vowed
within themselves to cherish a holy gratitude towards Mr. Dimmesdale
throughout the long hereafter. But as he came down the pulpit steps, the grey-
bearded sexton met him, holding up a black glove, which the minister
recognised as his own.
“It was found,” said the Sexton, “this morning on the scaffold where evil-
doers are set up to public shame. Satan dropped it there, I take it, intending a
scurrilous jest against your reverence. But, indeed, he was blind and foolish,
as he ever and always is. A pure hand needs no glove to cover it!”
“Thank you, my good friend,” said the minister, gravely, but startled at heart;
for so confused was his remembrance, that he had almost brought himself to
look at the events of the past night as visionary.
“Yes, it seems to be my glove, indeed!”
“And, since Satan saw fit to steal it, your reverence must needs handle him
without gloves henceforward,” remarked the old sexton, grimly smiling. “But
did your reverence hear of the portent that was seen last night? a great red
letter in the sky—the letter A, which we interpret to stand for Angel. For, as
our good Governor Winthrop was made an angel this past night, it was
doubtless held fit that there should be some notice thereof!”
“No,” answered the minister; “I had not heard of it.”
XIII. ANOTHER VIEW OF HESTER
In her late singular interview with Mr. Dimmesdale, Hester Prynne was
shocked at the condition to which she found the clergyman reduced. His nerve
seemed absolutely destroyed. His moral force was abased into more than
childish weakness. It grovelled helpless on the ground, even while his
intellectual faculties retained their pristine strength, or had perhaps acquired a
morbid energy, which disease only could have given them. With her
knowledge of a train of circumstances hidden from all others, she could
readily infer that, besides the legitimate action of his own conscience, a
terrible machinery had been brought to bear, and was still operating, on Mr.
Dimmesdale’s well-being and repose. Knowing what this poor fallen man had
once been, her whole soul was moved by the shuddering terror with which he
had appealed to her—the outcast woman—for support against his
instinctively discovered enemy. She decided, moreover, that he had a right to
her utmost aid. Little accustomed, in her long seclusion from society, to
measure her ideas of right and wrong by any standard external to herself,
Hester saw—or seemed to see—that there lay a responsibility upon her in
reference to the clergyman, which she owned to no other, nor to the whole
world besides. The links that united her to the rest of humankind—links of
flowers, or silk, or gold, or whatever the material—had all been broken. Here
was the iron link of mutual crime, which neither he nor she could break. Like
all other ties, it brought along with it its obligations.
Hester Prynne did not now occupy precisely the same position in which we
beheld her during the earlier periods of her ignominy. Years had come and
gone. Pearl was now seven years old. Her mother, with the scarlet letter on
her breast, glittering in its fantastic embroidery, had long been a familiar
object to the townspeople. As is apt to be the case when a person stands out in
any prominence before the community, and, at the same time, interferes
neither with public nor individual interests and convenience, a species of
general regard had ultimately grown up in reference to Hester Prynne. It is to
the credit of human nature that, except where its selfishness is brought into
play, it loves more readily than it hates. Hatred, by a gradual and quiet
process, will even be transformed to love, unless the change be impeded by a
continually new irritation of the original feeling of hostility. In this matter of
Hester Prynne there was neither irritation nor irksomeness. She never battled
with the public, but submitted uncomplainingly to its worst usage; she made
no claim upon it in requital for what she suffered; she did not weigh upon its
sympathies. Then, also, the blameless purity of her life during all these years
in which she had been set apart to infamy was reckoned largely in her favour.
With nothing now to lose, in the sight of mankind, and with no hope, and
seemingly no wish, of gaining anything, it could only be a genuine regard for
virtue that had brought back the poor wanderer to its paths.
It was perceived, too, that while Hester never put forward even the humblest
title to share in the world’s privileges—further than to breathe the common air
and earn daily bread for little Pearl and herself by the faithful labour of her
hands—she was quick to acknowledge her sisterhood with the race of man
whenever benefits were to be conferred. None so ready as she to give of her
little substance to every demand of poverty, even though the bitter-hearted
pauper threw back a gibe in requital of the food brought regularly to his door,
or the garments wrought for him by the fingers that could have embroidered a
monarch’s robe. None so self-devoted as Hester when pestilence stalked
through the town. In all seasons of calamity, indeed, whether general or of
individuals, the outcast of society at once found her place. She came, not as a
guest, but as a rightful inmate, into the household that was darkened by
trouble, as if its gloomy twilight were a medium in which she was entitled to
hold intercourse with her fellow-creature. There glimmered the embroidered
letter, with comfort in its unearthly ray. Elsewhere the token of sin, it was the
taper of the sick chamber. It had even thrown its gleam, in the sufferer’s hard
extremity, across the verge of time. It had shown him where to set his foot,
while the light of earth was fast becoming dim, and ere the light of futurity
could reach him. In such emergencies Hester’s nature showed itself warm and
rich—a well-spring of human tenderness, unfailing to every real demand, and
inexhaustible by the largest. Her breast, with its badge of shame, was but the
softer pillow for the head that needed one. She was self-ordained a Sister of
Mercy, or, we may rather say, the world’s heavy hand had so ordained her,
when neither the world nor she looked forward to this result. The letter was
the symbol of her calling. Such helpfulness was found in her—so much power
to do, and power to sympathise—that many people refused to interpret the
scarlet A by its original signification. They said that it meant Able, so strong
was Hester Prynne, with a woman’s strength.
It was only the darkened house that could contain her. When sunshine came
again, she was not there. Her shadow had faded across the threshold. The
helpful inmate had departed, without one backward glance to gather up the
meed of gratitude, if any were in the hearts of those whom she had served so
zealously. Meeting them in the street, she never raised her head to receive
their greeting. If they were resolute to accost her, she laid her finger on the
scarlet letter, and passed on. This might be pride, but was so like humility,
that it produced all the softening influence of the latter quality on the public
mind. The public is despotic in its temper; it is capable of denying common
justice when too strenuously demanded as a right; but quite as frequently it
awards more than justice, when the appeal is made, as despots love to have it
made, entirely to its generosity. Interpreting Hester Prynne’s deportment as an
appeal of this nature, society was inclined to show its former victim a more
benign countenance than she cared to be favoured with, or, perchance, than
she deserved.
The rulers, and the wise and learned men of the community, were longer in
acknowledging the influence of Hester’s good qualities than the people. The
prejudices which they shared in common with the latter were fortified in
themselves by an iron frame-work of reasoning, that made it a far tougher
labour to expel them. Day by day, nevertheless, their sour and rigid wrinkles
were relaxing into something which, in the due course of years, might grow to
be an expression of almost benevolence. Thus it was with the men of rank, on
whom their eminent position imposed the guardianship of the public morals.
Individuals in private life, meanwhile, had quite forgiven Hester Prynne for
her frailty; nay, more, they had begun to look upon the scarlet letter as the
token, not of that one sin for which she had borne so long and dreary a
penance, but of her many good deeds since. “Do you see that woman with the
embroidered badge?” they would say to strangers. “It is our Hester—the
town’s own Hester—who is so kind to the poor, so helpful to the sick, so
comfortable to the afflicted!” Then, it is true, the propensity of human nature
to tell the very worst of itself, when embodied in the person of another, would
constrain them to whisper the black scandal of bygone years. It was none the
less a fact, however, that in the eyes of the very men who spoke thus, the
scarlet letter had the effect of the cross on a nun’s bosom. It imparted to the
wearer a kind of sacredness, which enabled her to walk securely amid all
peril. Had she fallen among thieves, it would have kept her safe. It was
reported, and believed by many, that an Indian had drawn his arrow against
the badge, and that the missile struck it, and fell harmless to the ground.
The effect of the symbol—or rather, of the position in respect to society that
was indicated by it—on the mind of Hester Prynne herself was powerful and
peculiar. All the light and graceful foliage of her character had been withered
up by this red-hot brand, and had long ago fallen away, leaving a bare and
harsh outline, which might have been repulsive had she possessed friends or
companions to be repelled by it. Even the attractiveness of her person had
undergone a similar change. It might be partly owing to the studied austerity
of her dress, and partly to the lack of demonstration in her manners. It was a
sad transformation, too, that her rich and luxuriant hair had either been cut
off, or was so completely hidden by a cap, that not a shining lock of it ever
once gushed into the sunshine. It was due in part to all these causes, but still
more to something else, that there seemed to be no longer anything in
Hester’s face for Love to dwell upon; nothing in Hester’s form, though
majestic and statue like, that Passion would ever dream of clasping in its
embrace; nothing in Hester’s bosom to make it ever again the pillow of
Affection. Some attribute had departed from her, the permanence of which
had been essential to keep her a woman. Such is frequently the fate, and such
the stern development, of the feminine character and person, when the woman
has encountered, and lived through, an experience of peculiar severity. If she
be all tenderness, she will die. If she survive, the tenderness will either be
crushed out of her, or—and the outward semblance is the same—crushed so
deeply into her heart that it can never show itself more. The latter is perhaps
the truest theory. She who has once been a woman, and ceased to be so, might
at any moment become a woman again, if there were only the magic touch to
effect the transformation. We shall see whether Hester Prynne were ever
afterwards so touched and so transfigured.
Much of the marble coldness of Hester’s impression was to be attributed to
the circumstance that her life had turned, in a great measure, from passion and
feeling to thought. Standing alone in the world—alone, as to any dependence
on society, and with little Pearl to be guided and protected—alone, and
hopeless of retrieving her position, even had she not scorned to consider it
desirable—she cast away the fragment of a broken chain. The world’s law
was no law for her mind. It was an age in which the human intellect, newly
emancipated, had taken a more active and a wider range than for many
centuries before. Men of the sword had overthrown nobles and kings. Men
bolder than these had overthrown and rearranged—not actually, but within the
sphere of theory, which was their most real abode—the whole system of
ancient prejudice, wherewith was linked much of ancient principle. Hester
Prynne imbibed this spirit. She assumed a freedom of speculation, then
common enough on the other side of the Atlantic, but which our forefathers,
had they known it, would have held to be a deadlier crime than that
stigmatised by the scarlet letter. In her lonesome cottage, by the seashore,
thoughts visited her such as dared to enter no other dwelling in New England;
shadowy guests, that would have been as perilous as demons to their
entertainer, could they have been seen so much as knocking at her door.
It is remarkable that persons who speculate the most boldly often conform
with the most perfect quietude to the external regulations of society. The
thought suffices them, without investing itself in the flesh and blood of action.
So it seemed to be with Hester. Yet, had little Pearl never come to her from
the spiritual world, it might have been far otherwise. Then she might have
come down to us in history, hand in hand with Ann Hutchinson, as the
foundress of a religious sect. She might, in one of her phases, have been a
prophetess. She might, and not improbably would, have suffered death from
the stern tribunals of the period, for attempting to undermine the foundations
of the Puritan establishment. But, in the education of her child, the mother’s
enthusiasm of thought had something to wreak itself upon. Providence, in the
person of this little girl, had assigned to Hester’s charge, the germ and
blossom of womanhood, to be cherished and developed amid a host of
difficulties. Everything was against her. The world was hostile. The child’s
own nature had something wrong in it which continually betokened that she
had been born amiss—the effluence of her mother’s lawless passion—and
often impelled Hester to ask, in bitterness of heart, whether it were for ill or
good that the poor little creature had been born at all.
Indeed, the same dark question often rose into her mind with reference to the
whole race of womanhood. Was existence worth accepting even to the
happiest among them? As concerned her own individual existence, she had
long ago decided in the negative, and dismissed the point as settled. A
tendency to speculation, though it may keep women quiet, as it does man, yet
makes her sad. She discerns, it may be, such a hopeless task before her. As a
first step, the whole system of society is to be torn down and built up anew.
Then the very nature of the opposite sex, or its long hereditary habit, which
has become like nature, is to be essentially modified before woman can be
allowed to assume what seems a fair and suitable position. Finally, all other
difficulties being obviated, woman cannot take advantage of these preliminary
reforms until she herself shall have undergone a still mightier change, in
which, perhaps, the ethereal essence, wherein she has her truest life, will be
found to have evaporated. A woman never overcomes these problems by any
exercise of thought. They are not to be solved, or only in one way. If her heart
chance to come uppermost, they vanish. Thus Hester Prynne, whose heart had
lost its regular and healthy throb, wandered without a clue in the dark
labyrinth of mind; now turned aside by an insurmountable precipice; now
starting back from a deep chasm. There was wild and ghastly scenery all
around her, and a home and comfort nowhere. At times a fearful doubt strove
to possess her soul, whether it were not better to send Pearl at once to Heaven,
and go herself to such futurity as Eternal Justice should provide.
The scarlet letter had not done its office. Now, however, her interview with
the Reverend Mr. Dimmesdale, on the night of his vigil, had given her a new
theme of reflection, and held up to her an object that appeared worthy of any
exertion and sacrifice for its attainment. She had witnessed the intense misery
beneath which the minister struggled, or, to speak more accurately, had ceased
to struggle. She saw that he stood on the verge of lunacy, if he had not already
stepped across it. It was impossible to doubt that, whatever painful efficacy
there might be in the secret sting of remorse, a deadlier venom had been
infused into it by the hand that proffered relief. A secret enemy had been
continually by his side, under the semblance of a friend and helper, and had
availed himself of the opportunities thus afforded for tampering with the
delicate springs of Mr. Dimmesdale’s nature. Hester could not but ask herself
whether there had not originally been a defect of truth, courage, and loyalty
on her own part, in allowing the minister to be thrown into a position where
so much evil was to be foreboded and nothing auspicious to be hoped. Her
only justification lay in the fact that she had been able to discern no method of
rescuing him from a blacker ruin than had overwhelmed herself except by
acquiescing in Roger Chillingworth’s scheme of disguise. Under that impulse
she had made her choice, and had chosen, as it now appeared, the more
wretched alternative of the two. She determined to redeem her error so far as
it might yet be possible. Strengthened by years of hard and solemn trial, she
felt herself no longer so inadequate to cope with Roger Chillingworth as on
that night, abased by sin and half-maddened by the ignominy that was still
new, when they had talked together in the prison-chamber. She had climbed
her way since then to a higher point. The old man, on the other hand, had
brought himself nearer to her level, or, perhaps, below it, by the revenge
which he had stooped for.
In fine, Hester Prynne resolved to meet her former husband, and do what
might be in her power for the rescue of the victim on whom he had so
evidently set his gripe. The occasion was not long to seek. One afternoon,
walking with Pearl in a retired part of the peninsula, she beheld the old
physician with a basket on one arm and a staff in the other hand, stooping
along the ground in quest of roots and herbs to concoct his medicine withal.

XIV. HESTER AND THE PHYSICIAN

Hester bade little Pearl run down to the margin of the water, and play with the
shells and tangled sea-weed, until she should have talked awhile with yonder
gatherer of herbs. So the child flew away like a bird, and, making bare her
small white feet went pattering along the moist margin of the sea. Here and
there she came to a full stop, and peeped curiously into a pool, left by the
retiring tide as a mirror for Pearl to see her face in. Forth peeped at her, out of
the pool, with dark, glistening curls around her head, and an elf-smile in her
eyes, the image of a little maid whom Pearl, having no other playmate, invited
to take her hand and run a race with her. But the visionary little maid on her
part, beckoned likewise, as if to say—“This is a better place; come thou into
the pool.” And Pearl, stepping in mid-leg deep, beheld her own white feet at
the bottom; while, out of a still lower depth, came the gleam of a kind of
fragmentary smile, floating to and fro in the agitated water.
Meanwhile her mother had accosted the physician. “I would speak a word
with you,” said she—“a word that concerns us much.”
“Aha! and is it Mistress Hester that has a word for old Roger Chillingworth?”
answered he, raising himself from his stooping posture. “With all my heart!
Why, mistress, I hear good tidings of you on all hands! No longer ago than
yester-eve, a magistrate, a wise and godly man, was discoursing of your
affairs, Mistress Hester, and whispered me that there had been question
concerning you in the council. It was debated whether or no, with safety to
the commonweal, yonder scarlet letter might be taken off your bosom. On my
life, Hester, I made my intreaty to the worshipful magistrate that it might be
done forthwith.”
“It lies not in the pleasure of the magistrates to take off the badge,” calmly
replied Hester. “Were I worthy to be quit of it, it would fall away of its own
nature, or be transformed into something that should speak a different
purport.”
“Nay, then, wear it, if it suit you better,” rejoined he, “A woman must needs
follow her own fancy touching the adornment of her person. The letter is
gaily embroidered, and shows right bravely on your bosom!”
All this while Hester had been looking steadily at the old man, and was
shocked, as well as wonder-smitten, to discern what a change had been
wrought upon him within the past seven years. It was not so much that he had
grown older; for though the traces of advancing life were visible he bore his
age well, and seemed to retain a wiry vigour and alertness. But the former
aspect of an intellectual and studious man, calm and quiet, which was what
she best remembered in him, had altogether vanished, and been succeeded by
an eager, searching, almost fierce, yet carefully guarded look. It seemed to be
his wish and purpose to mask this expression with a smile, but the latter
played him false, and flickered over his visage so derisively that the spectator
could see his blackness all the better for it. Ever and anon, too, there came a
glare of red light out of his eyes, as if the old man’s soul were on fire and kept
on smouldering duskily within his breast, until by some casual puff of passion
it was blown into a momentary flame. This he repressed as speedily as
possible, and strove to look as if nothing of the kind had happened.
In a word, old Roger Chillingworth was a striking evidence of man’s faculty
of transforming himself into a devil, if he will only, for a reasonable space of
time, undertake a devil’s office. This unhappy person had effected such a
transformation by devoting himself for seven years to the constant analysis of
a heart full of torture, and deriving his enjoyment thence, and adding fuel to
those fiery tortures which he analysed and gloated over.
The scarlet letter burned on Hester Prynne’s bosom. Here was another ruin,
the responsibility of which came partly home to her.
“What see you in my face,” asked the physician, “that you look at it so
earnestly?”
“Something that would make me weep, if there were any tears bitter enough
for it,” answered she. “But let it pass! It is of yonder miserable man that I
would speak.”
“And what of him?” cried Roger Chillingworth, eagerly, as if he loved the
topic, and were glad of an opportunity to discuss it with the only person of
whom he could make a confidant. “Not to hide the truth, Mistress Hester, my
thoughts happen just now to be busy with the gentleman. So speak freely and
I will make answer.”
“When we last spake together,” said Hester, “now seven years ago, it was
your pleasure to extort a promise of secrecy as touching the former relation
betwixt yourself and me. As the life and good fame of yonder man were in
your hands there seemed no choice to me, save to be silent in accordance with
your behest. Yet it was not without heavy misgivings that I thus bound
myself, for, having cast off all duty towards other human beings, there
remained a duty towards him, and something whispered me that I was
betraying it in pledging myself to keep your counsel. Since that day no man is
so near to him as you. You tread behind his every footstep. You are beside
him, sleeping and waking. You search his thoughts. You burrow and rankle in
his heart! Your clutch is on his life, and you cause him to die daily a living
death, and still he knows you not. In permitting this I have surely acted a false
part by the only man to whom the power was left me to be true!”
“What choice had you?” asked Roger Chillingworth. “My finger, pointed at
this man, would have hurled him from his pulpit into a dungeon, thence,
peradventure, to the gallows!”
“It had been better so!” said Hester Prynne.
“What evil have I done the man?” asked Roger Chillingworth again. “I tell
thee, Hester Prynne, the richest fee that ever physician earned from monarch
could not have bought such care as I have wasted on this miserable priest! But
for my aid his life would have burned away in torments within the first two
years after the perpetration of his crime and thine. For, Hester, his spirit
lacked the strength that could have borne up, as thine has, beneath a burden
like thy scarlet letter. Oh, I could reveal a goodly secret! But enough. What art
can do, I have exhausted on him. That he now breathes and creeps about on
earth is owing all to me!”
“Better he had died at once!” said Hester Prynne.
“Yea, woman, thou sayest truly!” cried old Roger Chillingworth, letting the
lurid fire of his heart blaze out before her eyes. “Better had he died at once!
Never did mortal suffer what this man has suffered. And all, all, in the sight of
his worst enemy! He has been conscious of me. He has felt an influence
dwelling always upon him like a curse. He knew, by some spiritual sense—
for the Creator never made another being so sensitive as this—he knew that
no friendly hand was pulling at his heartstrings, and that an eye was looking
curiously into him, which sought only evil, and found it. But he knew not that
the eye and hand were mine! With the superstition common to his
brotherhood, he fancied himself given over to a fiend, to be tortured with
frightful dreams and desperate thoughts, the sting of remorse and despair of
pardon, as a foretaste of what awaits him beyond the grave. But it was the
constant shadow of my presence, the closest propinquity of the man whom he
had most vilely wronged, and who had grown to exist only by this perpetual
poison of the direst revenge! Yea, indeed, he did not err, there was a fiend at
his elbow! A mortal man, with once a human heart, has become a fiend for his
especial torment.”
The unfortunate physician, while uttering these words, lifted his hands with a
look of horror, as if he had beheld some frightful shape, which he could not
recognise, usurping the place of his own image in a glass. It was one of those
moments—which sometimes occur only at the interval of years—when a
man’s moral aspect is faithfully revealed to his mind’s eye. Not improbably he
had never before viewed himself as he did now.
“Hast thou not tortured him enough?” said Hester, noticing the old man’s
look. “Has he not paid thee all?”
“No, no! He has but increased the debt!” answered the physician, and as he
proceeded, his manner lost its fiercer characteristics, and subsided into gloom.
“Dost thou remember me, Hester, as I was nine years agone? Even then I was
in the autumn of my days, nor was it the early autumn. But all my life had
been made up of earnest, studious, thoughtful, quiet years, bestowed faithfully
for the increase of mine own knowledge, and faithfully, too, though this latter
object was but casual to the other—faithfully for the advancement of human
welfare. No life had been more peaceful and innocent than mine; few lives so
rich with benefits conferred. Dost thou remember me? Was I not, though you
might deem me cold, nevertheless a man thoughtful for others, craving little
for himself—kind, true, just and of constant, if not warm affections? Was I
not all this?”
“All this, and more,” said Hester.
“And what am I now?” demanded he, looking into her face, and permitting
the whole evil within him to be written on his features. “I have already told
thee what I am—a fiend! Who made me so?”
“It was myself,” cried Hester, shuddering. “It was I, not less than he. Why
hast thou not avenged thyself on me?”
“I have left thee to the scarlet letter,” replied Roger
Chillingworth. “If that has not avenged me, I can do no more!”
He laid his finger on it with a smile.
“It has avenged thee,” answered Hester Prynne.
“I judged no less,” said the physician. “And now what wouldst thou with me
touching this man?”
“I must reveal the secret,” answered Hester, firmly. “He must discern thee in
thy true character. What may be the result I know not. But this long debt of
confidence, due from me to him, whose bane and ruin I have been, shall at
length be paid. So far as concerns the overthrow or preservation of his fair
fame and his earthly state, and perchance his life, he is in my hands. Nor do I
—whom the scarlet letter has disciplined to truth, though it be the truth of red-
hot iron entering into the soul—nor do I perceive such advantage in his living
any longer a life of ghastly emptiness, that I shall stoop to implore thy mercy.
Do with him as thou wilt! There is no good for him, no good for me, no good
for thee. There is no good for little Pearl. There is no path to guide us out of
this dismal maze.”
“Woman, I could well-nigh pity thee,” said Roger Chillingworth, unable to
restrain a thrill of admiration too, for there was a quality almost majestic in
the despair which she expressed. “Thou hadst great elements. Peradventure,
hadst thou met earlier with a better love than mine, this evil had not been. I
pity thee, for the good that has been wasted in thy nature.”
“And I thee,” answered Hester Prynne, “for the hatred that has transformed a
wise and just man to a fiend! Wilt thou yet purge it out of thee, and be once
more human? If not for his sake, then doubly for thine own! Forgive, and
leave his further retribution to the Power that claims it! I said, but now, that
there could be no good event for him, or thee, or me, who are here wandering
together in this gloomy maze of evil, and stumbling at every step over the
guilt wherewith we have strewn our path. It is not so! There might be good
for thee, and thee alone, since thou hast been deeply wronged and hast it at
thy will to pardon. Wilt thou give up that only privilege? Wilt thou reject that
priceless benefit?”
“Peace, Hester—peace!” replied the old man, with gloomy sternness—“it is
not granted me to pardon. I have no such power as thou tellest me of. My old
faith, long forgotten, comes back to me, and explains all that we do, and all
we suffer. By thy first step awry, thou didst plant the germ of evil; but since
that moment it has all been a dark necessity. Ye that have wronged me are not
sinful, save in a kind of typical illusion; neither am I fiend-like, who have
snatched a fiend’s office from his hands. It is our fate. Let the black flower
blossom as it may! Now, go thy ways, and deal as thou wilt with yonder
man.”
He waved his hand, and betook himself again to his employment of gathering
herbs.
XV. HESTER AND PEARL
So Roger Chillingworth—a deformed old figure with a face that haunted
men’s memories longer than they liked—took leave of Hester Prynne, and
went stooping away along the earth. He gathered here and there a herb, or
grubbed up a root and put it into the basket on his arm. His gray beard almost
touched the ground as he crept onward. Hester gazed after him a little while,
looking with a half fantastic curiosity to see whether the tender grass of early
spring would not be blighted beneath him and show the wavering track of his
footsteps, sere and brown, across its cheerful verdure. She wondered what
sort of herbs they were which the old man was so sedulous to gather. Would
not the earth, quickened to an evil purpose by the sympathy of his eye, greet
him with poisonous shrubs of species hitherto unknown, that would start up
under his fingers? Or might it suffice him that every wholesome growth
should be converted into something deleterious and malignant at his touch?
Did the sun, which shone so brightly everywhere else, really fall upon him?
Or was there, as it rather seemed, a circle of ominous shadow moving along
with his deformity whichever way he turned himself? And whither was he
now going? Would he not suddenly sink into the earth, leaving a barren and
blasted spot, where, in due course of time, would be seen deadly nightshade,
dogwood, henbane, and whatever else of vegetable wickedness the climate
could produce, all flourishing with hideous luxuriance? Or would he spread
bat’s wings and flee away, looking so much the uglier the higher he rose
towards heaven?
“Be it sin or no,” said Hester Prynne, bitterly, as still she gazed after him, “I
hate the man!”
She upbraided herself for the sentiment, but could not overcome or lessen it.
Attempting to do so, she thought of those long-past days in a distant land,
when he used to emerge at eventide from the seclusion of his study and sit
down in the firelight of their home, and in the light of her nuptial smile. He
needed to bask himself in that smile, he said, in order that the chill of so many
lonely hours among his books might be taken off the scholar’s heart. Such
scenes had once appeared not otherwise than happy, but now, as viewed
through the dismal medium of her subsequent life, they classed themselves
among her ugliest remembrances. She marvelled how such scenes could have
been! She marvelled how she could ever have been wrought upon to marry
him! She deemed it her crime most to be repented of, that she had ever
endured and reciprocated the lukewarm grasp of his hand, and had suffered
the smile of her lips and eyes to mingle and melt into his own. And it seemed
a fouler offence committed by Roger Chillingworth than any which had since
been done him, that, in the time when her heart knew no better, he had
persuaded her to fancy herself happy by his side.
“Yes, I hate him!” repeated Hester more bitterly than before.
“He betrayed me! He has done me worse wrong than I did him!”
Let men tremble to win the hand of woman, unless they win along with it the
utmost passion of her heart! Else it may be their miserable fortune, as it was
Roger Chillingworth’s, when some mightier touch than their own may have
awakened all her sensibilities, to be reproached even for the calm content, the
marble image of happiness, which they will have imposed upon her as the
warm reality. But Hester ought long ago to have done with this injustice.
What did it betoken? Had seven long years, under the torture of the scarlet
letter, inflicted so much of misery and wrought out no repentance?
The emotion of that brief space, while she stood gazing after the crooked
figure of old Roger Chillingworth, threw a dark light on Hester’s state of
mind, revealing much that she might not otherwise have acknowledged to
herself.
He being gone, she summoned back her child.
“Pearl! Little Pearl! Where are you?”
Pearl, whose activity of spirit never flagged, had been at no loss for
amusement while her mother talked with the old gatherer of herbs. At first, as
already told, she had flirted fancifully with her own image in a pool of water,
beckoning the phantom forth, and—as it declined to venture—seeking a
passage for herself into its sphere of impalpable earth and unattainable sky.
Soon finding, however, that either she or the image was unreal, she turned
elsewhere for better pastime. She made little boats out of birch-bark, and
freighted them with snailshells, and sent out more ventures on the mighty
deep than any merchant in New England; but the larger part of them
foundered near the shore. She seized a live horse-shoe by the tail, and made
prize of several five-fingers, and laid out a jelly-fish to melt in the warm sun.
Then she took up the white foam that streaked the line of the advancing tide,
and threw it upon the breeze, scampering after it with winged footsteps to
catch the great snowflakes ere they fell. Perceiving a flock of beach-birds that
fed and fluttered along the shore, the naughty child picked up her apron full of
pebbles, and, creeping from rock to rock after these small sea-fowl, displayed
remarkable dexterity in pelting them. One little gray bird, with a white breast,
Pearl was almost sure had been hit by a pebble, and fluttered away with a
broken wing. But then the elf-child sighed, and gave up her sport, because it
grieved her to have done harm to a little being that was as wild as the sea-
breeze, or as wild as Pearl herself.
Her final employment was to gather seaweed of various kinds, and make
herself a scarf or mantle, and a head-dress, and thus assume the aspect of a
little mermaid. She inherited her mother’s gift for devising drapery and
costume. As the last touch to her mermaid’s garb, Pearl took some eel-grass
and imitated, as best she could, on her own bosom the decoration with which
she was so familiar on her mother’s. A letter—the letter A—but freshly green
instead of scarlet. The child bent her chin upon her breast, and contemplated
this device with strange interest, even as if the one only thing for which she
had been sent into the world was to make out its hidden import.
“I wonder if mother will ask me what it means?” thought Pearl.
Just then she heard her mother’s voice, and, flitting along as lightly as one of
the little sea-birds, appeared before Hester Prynne dancing, laughing, and
pointing her finger to the ornament upon her bosom.
“My little Pearl,” said Hester, after a moment’s silence, “the green letter, and
on thy childish bosom, has no purport. But dost thou know, my child, what
this letter means which thy mother is doomed to wear?”
“Yes, mother,” said the child. “It is the great letter A. Thou hast taught me in
the horn-book.”
Hester looked steadily into her little face; but though there was that singular
expression which she had so often remarked in her black eyes, she could not
satisfy herself whether Pearl really attached any meaning to the symbol. She
felt a morbid desire to ascertain the point.
“Dost thou know, child, wherefore thy mother wears this letter?”
“Truly do I!” answered Pearl, looking brightly into her mother’s face. “It is
for the same reason that the minister keeps his hand over his heart!”
“And what reason is that?” asked Hester, half smiling at the absurd
incongruity of the child’s observation; but on second thoughts turning pale.
“What has the letter to do with any heart save mine?”
“Nay, mother, I have told all I know,” said Pearl, more seriously than she was
wont to speak. “Ask yonder old man whom thou hast been talking with,—it
may be he can tell. But in good earnest now, mother dear, what does this
scarlet letter mean?—and why dost thou wear it on thy bosom?—and why
does the minister keep his hand over his heart?”
She took her mother’s hand in both her own, and gazed into her eyes with an
earnestness that was seldom seen in her wild and capricious character. The
thought occurred to Hester, that the child might really be seeking to approach
her with childlike confidence, and doing what she could, and as intelligently
as she knew how, to establish a meeting-point of sympathy. It showed Pearl in
an unwonted aspect. Heretofore, the mother, while loving her child with the
intensity of a sole affection, had schooled herself to hope for little other return
than the waywardness of an April breeze, which spends its time in airy sport,
and has its gusts of inexplicable passion, and is petulant in its best of moods,
and chills oftener than caresses you, when you take it to your bosom; in
requital of which misdemeanours it will sometimes, of its own vague purpose,
kiss your cheek with a kind of doubtful tenderness, and play gently with your
hair, and then be gone about its other idle business, leaving a dreamy pleasure
at your heart. And this, moreover, was a mother’s estimate of the child’s
disposition. Any other observer might have seen few but unamiable traits, and
have given them a far darker colouring. But now the idea came strongly into
Hester’s mind, that Pearl, with her remarkable precocity and acuteness, might
already have approached the age when she could have been made a friend,
and intrusted with as much of her mother’s sorrows as could be imparted,
without irreverence either to the parent or the child. In the little chaos of
Pearl’s character there might be seen emerging and could have been from the
very first—the steadfast principles of an unflinching courage—an
uncontrollable will—sturdy pride, which might be disciplined into self-
respect—and a bitter scorn of many things which, when examined, might be
found to have the taint of falsehood in them. She possessed affections, too,
though hitherto acrid and disagreeable, as are the richest flavours of unripe
fruit. With all these sterling attributes, thought Hester, the evil which she
inherited from her mother must be great indeed, if a noble woman do not
grow out of this elfish child.
Pearl’s inevitable tendency to hover about the enigma of the scarlet letter
seemed an innate quality of her being. From the earliest epoch of her
conscious life, she had entered upon this as her appointed mission. Hester had
often fancied that Providence had a design of justice and retribution, in
endowing the child with this marked propensity; but never, until now, had she
bethought herself to ask, whether, linked with that design, there might not
likewise be a purpose of mercy and beneficence. If little Pearl were
entertained with faith and trust, as a spirit messenger no less than an earthly
child, might it not be her errand to soothe away the sorrow that lay cold in her
mother’s heart, and converted it into a tomb?—and to help her to overcome
the passion, once so wild, and even yet neither dead nor asleep, but only
imprisoned within the same tomb-like heart?
Such were some of the thoughts that now stirred in Hester’s mind, with as
much vivacity of impression as if they had actually been whispered into her
ear. And there was little Pearl, all this while, holding her mother’s hand in
both her own, and turning her face upward, while she put these searching
questions, once and again, and still a third time.
“What does the letter mean, mother? and why dost thou wear it? and why
does the minister keep his hand over his heart?”
“What shall I say?” thought Hester to herself. “No! if this be the price of the
child’s sympathy, I cannot pay it.”
Then she spoke aloud—
“Silly Pearl,” said she, “what questions are these? There are many things in
this world that a child must not ask about. What know I of the minister’s
heart? And as for the scarlet letter, I wear it for the sake of its gold thread.”
In all the seven bygone years, Hester Prynne had never before been false to
the symbol on her bosom. It may be that it was the talisman of a stern and
severe, but yet a guardian spirit, who now forsook her; as recognising that, in
spite of his strict watch over her heart, some new evil had crept into it, or
some old one had never been expelled. As for little Pearl, the earnestness soon
passed out of her face.
But the child did not see fit to let the matter drop. Two or three times, as her
mother and she went homeward, and as often at supper-time, and while Hester
was putting her to bed, and once after she seemed to be fairly asleep, Pearl
looked up, with mischief gleaming in her black eyes.
“Mother,” said she, “what does the scarlet letter mean?”
And the next morning, the first indication the child gave of being awake was
by popping up her head from the pillow, and making that other enquiry, which
she had so unaccountably connected with her investigations about the scarlet
letter—
“Mother!—Mother!—Why does the minister keep his hand over his heart?”
“Hold thy tongue, naughty child!” answered her mother, with an asperity that
she had never permitted to herself before. “Do not tease me; else I shall put
thee into the dark closet!”
XVI. A FOREST WALK

Hester Prynne remained constant in her resolve to make known to Mr.

Dimmesdale, at whatever risk of present pain or ulterior consequences, the
true character of the man who had crept into his intimacy. For several days,
however, she vainly sought an opportunity of addressing him in some of the
meditative walks which she knew him to be in the habit of taking along the
shores of the Peninsula, or on the wooded hills of the neighbouring country.
There would have been no scandal, indeed, nor peril to the holy whiteness of
the clergyman’s good fame, had she visited him in his own study, where many
a penitent, ere now, had confessed sins of perhaps as deep a dye as the one
betokened by the scarlet letter. But, partly that she dreaded the secret or
undisguised interference of old Roger Chillingworth, and partly that her
conscious heart imparted suspicion where none could have been felt, and
partly that both the minister and she would need the whole wide world to
breathe in, while they talked together—for all these reasons Hester never
thought of meeting him in any narrower privacy than beneath the open sky.
At last, while attending a sick chamber, whither the Rev. Mr. Dimmesdale had
been summoned to make a prayer, she learnt that he had gone, the day before,
to visit the Apostle Eliot, among his Indian converts. He would probably
return by a certain hour in the afternoon of the morrow. Betimes, therefore,
the next day, Hester took little Pearl—who was necessarily the companion of
all her mother’s expeditions, however inconvenient her presence—and set
forth.
The road, after the two wayfarers had crossed from the Peninsula to the
mainland, was no other than a foot-path. It straggled onward into the mystery
of the primeval forest. This hemmed it in so narrowly, and stood so black and
dense on either side, and disclosed such imperfect glimpses of the sky above,
that, to Hester’s mind, it imaged not amiss the moral wilderness in which she
had so long been wandering. The day was chill and sombre. Overhead was a
gray expanse of cloud, slightly stirred, however, by a breeze; so that a gleam
of flickering sunshine might now and then be seen at its solitary play along
the path. This flitting cheerfulness was always at the further extremity of
some long vista through the forest. The sportive sunlight—feebly sportive, at
best, in the predominant pensiveness of the day and scene—withdrew itself as
they came nigh, and left the spots where it had danced the drearier, because
they had hoped to find them bright.
“Mother,” said little Pearl, “the sunshine does not love you.
It runs away and hides itself, because it is afraid of something
on your bosom. Now, see! There it is, playing a good way off.
Stand you here, and let me run and catch it. I am but a child.
It will not flee from me—for I wear nothing on my bosom yet!”
“Nor ever will, my child, I hope,” said Hester.
“And why not, mother?” asked Pearl, stopping short, just at the beginning of
her race. “Will not it come of its own accord when I am a woman grown?”
“Run away, child,” answered her mother, “and catch the sunshine.
It will soon be gone.”
Pearl set forth at a great pace, and as Hester smiled to perceive, did actually
catch the sunshine, and stood laughing in the midst of it, all brightened by its
splendour, and scintillating with the vivacity excited by rapid motion. The
light lingered about the lonely child, as if glad of such a playmate, until her
mother had drawn almost nigh enough to step into the magic circle too.
“It will go now,” said Pearl, shaking her head.
“See!” answered Hester, smiling; “now I can stretch out my hand and grasp
some of it.”
As she attempted to do so, the sunshine vanished; or, to judge from the bright
expression that was dancing on Pearl’s features, her mother could have
fancied that the child had absorbed it into herself, and would give it forth
again, with a gleam about her path, as they should plunge into some gloomier
shade. There was no other attribute that so much impressed her with a sense
of new and untransmitted vigour in Pearl’s nature, as this never failing
vivacity of spirits: she had not the disease of sadness, which almost all
children, in these latter days, inherit, with the scrofula, from the troubles of
their ancestors. Perhaps this, too, was a disease, and but the reflex of the wild
energy with which Hester had fought against her sorrows before Pearl’s birth.
It was certainly a doubtful charm, imparting a hard, metallic lustre to the
child’s character. She wanted—what some people want throughout life—a
grief that should deeply touch her, and thus humanise and make her capable
of sympathy. But there was time enough yet for little Pearl.
“Come, my child!” said Hester, looking about her from the spot where Pearl
had stood still in the sunshine—“we will sit down a little way within the
wood, and rest ourselves.”
“I am not aweary, mother,” replied the little girl. “But you may sit down, if
you will tell me a story meanwhile.”
“A story, child!” said Hester. “And about what?”
“Oh, a story about the Black Man,” answered Pearl, taking hold of her
mother’s gown, and looking up, half earnestly, half mischievously, into her
face.
“How he haunts this forest, and carries a book with him a big, heavy book,
with iron clasps; and how this ugly Black Man offers his book and an iron pen
to everybody that meets him here among the trees; and they are to write their
names with their own blood; and then he sets his mark on their bosoms. Didst
thou ever meet the Black Man, mother?”
“And who told you this story, Pearl,” asked her mother, recognising a
common superstition of the period.
“It was the old dame in the chimney corner, at the house where you watched
last night,” said the child. “But she fancied me asleep while she was talking of
it. She said that a thousand and a thousand people had met him here, and had
written in his book, and have his mark on them. And that ugly tempered lady,
old Mistress Hibbins, was one. And, mother, the old dame said that this
scarlet letter was the Black Man’s mark on thee, and that it glows like a red
flame when thou meetest him at midnight, here in the dark wood. Is it true,
mother? And dost thou go to meet him in the nighttime?”
“Didst thou ever awake and find thy mother gone?” asked Hester. “Not that I
remember,” said the child. “If thou fearest to leave me in our cottage, thou
mightest take me along with thee. I would very gladly go! But, mother, tell
me now! Is there such a Black Man? And didst thou ever meet him? And is
this his mark?”
“Wilt thou let me be at peace, if I once tell thee?” asked her mother.
“Yes, if thou tellest me all,” answered Pearl.
“Once in my life I met the Black Man!” said her mother. “This scarlet letter is
his mark!”
Thus conversing, they entered sufficiently deep into the wood to secure
themselves from the observation of any casual passenger along the forest
track. Here they sat down on a luxuriant heap of moss; which at some epoch
of the preceding century, had been a gigantic pine, with its roots and trunk in
the darksome shade, and its head aloft in the upper atmosphere. It was a little
dell where they had seated themselves, with a leaf-strewn bank rising gently
on either side, and a brook flowing through the midst, over a bed of fallen and
drowned leaves. The trees impending over it had flung down great branches
from time to time, which choked up the current, and compelled it to form
eddies and black depths at some points; while, in its swifter and livelier
passages there appeared a channel-way of pebbles, and brown, sparkling sand.
Letting the eyes follow along the course of the stream, they could catch the
reflected light from its water, at some short distance within the forest, but
soon lost all traces of it amid the bewilderment of tree-trunks and underbrush,
and here and there a huge rock covered over with gray lichens. All these giant
trees and boulders of granite seemed intent on making a mystery of the course
of this small brook; fearing, perhaps, that, with its never-ceasing loquacity, it
should whisper tales out of the heart of the old forest whence it flowed, or
mirror its revelations on the smooth surface of a pool. Continually, indeed, as
it stole onward, the streamlet kept up a babble, kind, quiet, soothing, but
melancholy, like the voice of a young child that was spending its infancy
without playfulness, and knew not how to be merry among sad acquaintance
and events of sombre hue.
“Oh, brook! Oh, foolish and tiresome little brook!” cried
Pearl, after listening awhile to its talk, “Why art thou so sad?
Pluck up a spirit, and do not be all the time sighing and
murmuring!”
But the brook, in the course of its little lifetime among the forest trees, had
gone through so solemn an experience that it could not help talking about it,
and seemed to have nothing else to say. Pearl resembled the brook, inasmuch
as the current of her life gushed from a well-spring as mysterious, and had
flowed through scenes shadowed as heavily with gloom. But, unlike the little
stream, she danced and sparkled, and prattled airily along her course.
“What does this sad little brook say, mother?” inquired she.
“If thou hadst a sorrow of thine own, the brook might tell thee of it,”
answered her mother, “even as it is telling me of mine. But now, Pearl, I hear
a footstep along the path, and the noise of one putting aside the branches. I
would have thee betake thyself to play, and leave me to speak with him that
comes yonder.”
“Is it the Black Man?” asked Pearl.
“Wilt thou go and play, child?” repeated her mother, “But do not stray far into
the wood. And take heed that thou come at my first call.”
“Yes, mother,” answered Pearl, “But if it be the Black Man, wilt thou not let
me stay a moment, and look at him, with his big book under his arm?”
“Go, silly child!” said her mother impatiently. “It is no Black Man! Thou
canst see him now, through the trees. It is the minister!”
“And so it is!” said the child. “And, mother, he has his hand over his heart! Is
it because, when the minister wrote his name in the book, the Black Man set
his mark in that place? But why does he not wear it outside his bosom, as thou
dost, mother?”
“Go now, child, and thou shalt tease me as thou wilt another time,” cried
Hester Prynne. “But do not stray far. Keep where thou canst hear the babble
of the brook.”
The child went singing away, following up the current of the brook, and
striving to mingle a more lightsome cadence with its melancholy voice. But
the little stream would not be comforted, and still kept telling its unintelligible
secret of some very mournful mystery that had happened—or making a
prophetic lamentation about something that was yet to happen—within the
verge of the dismal forest. So Pearl, who had enough of shadow in her own
little life, chose to break off all acquaintance with this repining brook. She set
herself, therefore, to gathering violets and wood-anemones, and some scarlet
columbines that she found growing in the crevice of a high rock.
When her elf-child had departed, Hester Prynne made a step or two towards
the track that led through the forest, but still remained under the deep shadow
of the trees. She beheld the minister advancing along the path entirely alone,
and leaning on a staff which he had cut by the wayside. He looked haggard
and feeble, and betrayed a nerveless despondency in his air, which had never
so remarkably characterised him in his walks about the settlement, nor in any
other situation where he deemed himself liable to notice. Here it was wofully
visible, in this intense seclusion of the forest, which of itself would have been
a heavy trial to the spirits. There was a listlessness in his gait, as if he saw no
reason for taking one step further, nor felt any desire to do so, but would have
been glad, could he be glad of anything, to fling himself down at the root of
the nearest tree, and lie there passive for evermore. The leaves might bestrew
him, and the soil gradually accumulate and form a little hillock over his
frame, no matter whether there were life in it or no. Death was too definite an
object to be wished for or avoided.
To Hester’s eye, the Reverend Mr. Dimmesdale exhibited no symptom of
positive and vivacious suffering, except that, as little Pearl had remarked, he
kept his hand over his heart.

XVII. THE PASTOR AND HIS PARISHIONER

Slowly as the minister walked, he had almost gone by before Hester Prynne
could gather voice enough to attract his observation. At length she succeeded.
“Arthur Dimmesdale!” she said, faintly at first, then louder, but hoarsely
—“Arthur Dimmesdale!”
“Who speaks?” answered the minister. Gathering himself quickly up, he stood
more erect, like a man taken by surprise in a mood to which he was reluctant
to have witnesses. Throwing his eyes anxiously in the direction of the voice,
he indistinctly beheld a form under the trees, clad in garments so sombre, and
so little relieved from the gray twilight into which the clouded sky and the
heavy foliage had darkened the noontide, that he knew not whether it were a
woman or a shadow. It may be that his pathway through life was haunted thus
by a spectre that had stolen out from among his thoughts.
He made a step nigher, and discovered the scarlet letter.
“Hester! Hester Prynne!”, said he; “is it thou? Art thou in life?”
“Even so.” she answered. “In such life as has been mine these seven years
past! And thou, Arthur Dimmesdale, dost thou yet live?”
It was no wonder that they thus questioned one another’s actual and bodily
existence, and even doubted of their own. So strangely did they meet in the
dim wood that it was like the first encounter in the world beyond the grave of
two spirits who had been intimately connected in their former life, but now
stood coldly shuddering in mutual dread, as not yet familiar with their state,
nor wonted to the companionship of disembodied beings. Each a ghost, and
awe-stricken at the other ghost. They were awe-stricken likewise at
themselves, because the crisis flung back to them their consciousness, and
revealed to each heart its history and experience, as life never does, except at
such breathless epochs. The soul beheld its features in the mirror of the
passing moment. It was with fear, and tremulously, and, as it were, by a slow,
reluctant necessity, that Arthur Dimmesdale put forth his hand, chill as death,
and touched the chill hand of Hester Prynne. The grasp, cold as it was, took
away what was dreariest in the interview. They now felt themselves, at least,
inhabitants of the same sphere.
Without a word more spoken—neither he nor she assuming the guidance, but
with an unexpressed consent—they glided back into the shadow of the woods
whence Hester had emerged, and sat down on the heap of moss where she and
Pearl had before been sitting. When they found voice to speak, it was at first
only to utter remarks and inquiries such as any two acquaintances might have
made, about the gloomy sky, the threatening storm, and, next, the health of
each. Thus they went onward, not boldly, but step by step, into the themes
that were brooding deepest in their hearts. So long estranged by fate and
circumstances, they needed something slight and casual to run before and
throw open the doors of intercourse, so that their real thoughts might be led
across the threshold.
After awhile, the minister fixed his eyes on Hester Prynne’s.
“Hester,” said he, “hast thou found peace?”
She smiled drearily, looking down upon her bosom.
“Hast thou?” she asked.
“None—nothing but despair!” he answered. “What else could I look for,
being what I am, and leading such a life as mine? Were I an atheist—a man
devoid of conscience—a wretch with coarse and brutal instincts—I might
have found peace long ere now. Nay, I never should have lost it. But, as
matters stand with my soul, whatever of good capacity there originally was in
me, all of God’s gifts that were the choicest have become the ministers of
spiritual torment. Hester, I am most miserable!”
“The people reverence thee,” said Hester. “And surely thou workest good
among them! Doth this bring thee no comfort?”
“More misery, Hester!—Only the more misery!” answered the clergyman
with a bitter smile. “As concerns the good which I may appear to do, I have
no faith in it. It must needs be a delusion. What can a ruined soul like mine
effect towards the redemption of other souls?—or a polluted soul towards
their purification? And as for the people’s reverence, would that it were
turned to scorn and hatred! Canst thou deem it, Hester, a consolation that I
must stand up in my pulpit, and meet so many eyes turned upward to my face,
as if the light of heaven were beaming from it!—must see my flock hungry
for the truth, and listening to my words as if a tongue of Pentecost were
speaking!—and then look inward, and discern the black reality of what they
idolise? I have laughed, in bitterness and agony of heart, at the contrast
between what I seem and what I am! And Satan laughs at it!”
“You wrong yourself in this,” said Hester gently. “You have deeply and sorely
repented. Your sin is left behind you in the days long past. Your present life is
not less holy, in very truth, than it seems in people’s eyes. Is there no reality in
the penitence thus sealed and witnessed by good works? And wherefore
should it not bring you peace?”
“No, Hester—no!” replied the clergyman. “There is no substance in it! It is
cold and dead, and can do nothing for me! Of penance, I have had enough! Of
penitence, there has been none! Else, I should long ago have thrown off these
garments of mock holiness, and have shown myself to mankind as they will
see me at the judgment-seat. Happy are you, Hester, that wear the scarlet
letter openly upon your bosom! Mine burns in secret! Thou little knowest
what a relief it is, after the torment of a seven years’ cheat, to look into an eye
that recognises me for what I am! Had I one friend—or were it my worst
enemy!—to whom, when sickened with the praises of all other men, I could
daily betake myself, and be known as the vilest of all sinners, methinks my
soul might keep itself alive thereby. Even thus much of truth would save me!
But now, it is all falsehood!—all emptiness!—all death!”
Hester Prynne looked into his face, but hesitated to speak. Yet, uttering his
long-restrained emotions so vehemently as he did, his words here offered her
the very point of circumstances in which to interpose what she came to say.
She conquered her fears, and spoke:
“Such a friend as thou hast even now wished for,” said she, “with whom to
weep over thy sin, thou hast in me, the partner of it!” Again she hesitated, but
brought out the words with an effort.—“Thou hast long had such an enemy,
and dwellest with him, under the same roof!”
The minister started to his feet, gasping for breath, and clutching at his heart,
as if he would have torn it out of his bosom.
“Ha! What sayest thou?” cried he. “An enemy! And under mine own roof!
What mean you?”
Hester Prynne was now fully sensible of the deep injury for which she was
responsible to this unhappy man, in permitting him to lie for so many years,
or, indeed, for a single moment, at the mercy of one whose purposes could not
be other than malevolent. The very contiguity of his enemy, beneath whatever
mask the latter might conceal himself, was enough to disturb the magnetic
sphere of a being so sensitive as Arthur Dimmesdale. There had been a period
when Hester was less alive to this consideration; or, perhaps, in the
misanthropy of her own trouble, she left the minister to bear what she might
picture to herself as a more tolerable doom. But of late, since the night of his
vigil, all her sympathies towards him had been both softened and invigorated.
She now read his heart more accurately. She doubted not that the continual
presence of Roger Chillingworth—the secret poison of his malignity,
infecting all the air about him—and his authorised interference, as a
physician, with the minister’s physical and spiritual infirmities—that these
bad opportunities had been turned to a cruel purpose. By means of them, the
sufferer’s conscience had been kept in an irritated state, the tendency of which
was, not to cure by wholesome pain, but to disorganize and corrupt his
spiritual being. Its result, on earth, could hardly fail to be insanity, and
hereafter, that eternal alienation from the Good and True, of which madness is
perhaps the earthly type.
Such was the ruin to which she had brought the man, once—nay, why should
we not speak it?—still so passionately loved! Hester felt that the sacrifice of
the clergyman’s good name, and death itself, as she had already told Roger
Chillingworth, would have been infinitely preferable to the alternative which
she had taken upon herself to choose. And now, rather than have had this
grievous wrong to confess, she would gladly have laid down on the forest
leaves, and died there, at Arthur Dimmesdale’s feet.
“Oh, Arthur!” cried she, “forgive me! In all things else, I have striven to be
true! Truth was the one virtue which I might have held fast, and did hold fast,
through all extremity; save when thy good—thy life—thy fame—were put in
question! Then I consented to a deception. But a lie is never good, even
though death threaten on the other side! Dost thou not see what I would say?
That old man!—the physician!—he whom they call Roger Chillingworth!—
he was my husband!”
The minister looked at her for an instant, with all that violence of passion,
which—intermixed in more shapes than one with his higher, purer, softer
qualities—was, in fact, the portion of him which the devil claimed, and
through which he sought to win the rest. Never was there a blacker or a
fiercer frown than Hester now encountered. For the brief space that it lasted, it
was a dark transfiguration. But his character had been so much enfeebled by
suffering, that even its lower energies were incapable of more than a
temporary struggle. He sank down on the ground, and buried his face in his
hands.
“I might have known it,” murmured he—“I did know it! Was not the secret
told me, in the natural recoil of my heart at the first sight of him, and as often
as I have seen him since? Why did I not understand? Oh, Hester Prynne, thou
little, little knowest all the horror of this thing! And the shame!—the
indelicacy!—the horrible ugliness of this exposure of a sick and guilty heart
to the very eye that would gloat over it! Woman, woman, thou art accountable
for this!—I cannot forgive thee!”
“Thou shalt forgive me!” cried Hester, flinging herself on the fallen leaves
beside him. “Let God punish! Thou shalt forgive!”
With sudden and desperate tenderness she threw her arms around him, and
pressed his head against her bosom, little caring though his cheek rested on
the scarlet letter. He would have released himself, but strove in vain to do so.
Hester would not set him free, lest he should look her sternly in the face. All
the world had frowned on her—for seven long years had it frowned upon this
lonely woman—and still she bore it all, nor ever once turned away her firm,
sad eyes. Heaven, likewise, had frowned upon her, and she had not died. But
the frown of this pale, weak, sinful, and sorrow-stricken man was what Hester
could not bear, and live!
“Wilt thou yet forgive me?” she repeated, over and over again.
“Wilt thou not frown? Wilt thou forgive?”
“I do forgive you, Hester,” replied the minister at length, with a deep
utterance, out of an abyss of sadness, but no anger. “I freely forgive you now.
May God forgive us both. We are not, Hester, the worst sinners in the world.
There is one worse than even the polluted priest! That old man’s revenge has
been blacker than my sin. He has violated, in cold blood, the sanctity of a
human heart. Thou and I, Hester, never did so!”
“Never, never!” whispered she. “What we did had a consecration of its own.
We felt it so! We said so to each other. Hast thou forgotten it?”
“Hush, Hester!” said Arthur Dimmesdale, rising from the ground.
“No; I have not forgotten!”
They sat down again, side by side, and hand clasped in hand, on the mossy
trunk of the fallen tree. Life had never brought them a gloomier hour; it was
the point whither their pathway had so long been tending, and darkening ever,
as it stole along—and yet it unclosed a charm that made them linger upon it,
and claim another, and another, and, after all, another moment. The forest was
obscure around them, and creaked with a blast that was passing through it.
The boughs were tossing heavily above their heads; while one solemn old tree
groaned dolefully to another, as if telling the sad story of the pair that sat
beneath, or constrained to forbode evil to come.
And yet they lingered. How dreary looked the forest-track that led backward
to the settlement, where Hester Prynne must take up again the burden of her
ignominy and the minister the hollow mockery of his good name! So they
lingered an instant longer. No golden light had ever been so precious as the
gloom of this dark forest. Here seen only by his eyes, the scarlet letter need
not burn into the bosom of the fallen woman! Here seen only by her eyes,
Arthur Dimmesdale, false to God and man, might be, for one moment true!
He started at a thought that suddenly occurred to him.
“Hester!” cried he, “here is a new horror! Roger Chillingworth knows your
purpose to reveal his true character. Will he continue, then, to keep our secret?
What will now be the course of his revenge?”
“There is a strange secrecy in his nature,” replied Hester, thoughtfully; “and it
has grown upon him by the hidden practices of his revenge. I deem it not
likely that he will betray the secret. He will doubtless seek other means of
satiating his dark passion.”
“And I!—how am I to live longer, breathing the same air with this deadly
enemy?” exclaimed Arthur Dimmesdale, shrinking within himself, and
pressing his hand nervously against his heart—a gesture that had grown
involuntary with him. “Think for me, Hester! Thou art strong. Resolve for
me!”
“Thou must dwell no longer with this man,” said Hester, slowly and firmly.
“Thy heart must be no longer under his evil eye!”
“It were far worse than death!” replied the minister. “But how to avoid it?
What choice remains to me? Shall I lie down again on these withered leaves,
where I cast myself when thou didst tell me what he was? Must I sink down
there, and die at once?”
“Alas! what a ruin has befallen thee!” said Hester, with the tears gushing into
her eyes. “Wilt thou die for very weakness? There is no other cause!”
“The judgment of God is on me,” answered the conscience-stricken priest. “It
is too mighty for me to struggle with!”
“Heaven would show mercy,” rejoined Hester, “hadst thou but the strength to
take advantage of it.”
“Be thou strong for me!” answered he. “Advise me what to do.”
“Is the world, then, so narrow?” exclaimed Hester Prynne, fixing her deep
eyes on the minister’s, and instinctively exercising a magnetic power over a
spirit so shattered and subdued that it could hardly hold itself erect. “Doth the
universe lie within the compass of yonder town, which only a little time ago
was but a leaf-strewn desert, as lonely as this around us? Whither leads
yonder forest-track? Backward to the settlement, thou sayest! Yes; but,
onward, too! Deeper it goes, and deeper into the wilderness, less plainly to be
seen at every step; until some few miles hence the yellow leaves will show no
vestige of the white man’s tread. There thou art free! So brief a journey would
bring thee from a world where thou hast been most wretched, to one where
thou mayest still be happy! Is there not shade enough in all this boundless
forest to hide thy heart from the gaze of Roger Chillingworth?”
“Yes, Hester; but only under the fallen leaves!” replied the minister, with a
sad smile.
“Then there is the broad pathway of the sea!” continued Hester. “It brought
thee hither. If thou so choose, it will bear thee back again. In our native land,
whether in some remote rural village, or in vast London—or, surely, in
Germany, in France, in pleasant Italy—thou wouldst be beyond his power and
knowledge! And what hast thou to do with all these iron men, and their
opinions? They have kept thy better part in bondage too long already!”
“It cannot be!” answered the minister, listening as if he were called upon to
realise a dream. “I am powerless to go. Wretched and sinful as I am, I have
had no other thought than to drag on my earthly existence in the sphere where
Providence hath placed me. Lost as my own soul is, I would still do what I
may for other human souls! I dare not quit my post, though an unfaithful
sentinel, whose sure reward is death and dishonour, when his dreary watch
shall come to an end!”
“Thou art crushed under this seven years’ weight of misery,” replied Hester,
fervently resolved to buoy him up with her own energy. “But thou shalt leave
it all behind thee! It shall not cumber thy steps, as thou treadest along the
forest-path: neither shalt thou freight the ship with it, if thou prefer to cross
the sea. Leave this wreck and ruin here where it hath happened. Meddle no
more with it! Begin all anew! Hast thou exhausted possibility in the failure of
this one trial? Not so! The future is yet full of trial and success. There is
happiness to be enjoyed! There is good to be done! Exchange this false life of
thine for a true one. Be, if thy spirit summon thee to such a mission, the
teacher and apostle of the red men. Or, as is more thy nature, be a scholar and
a sage among the wisest and the most renowned of the cultivated world.
Preach! Write! Act! Do anything, save to lie down and die! Give up this name
of Arthur Dimmesdale, and make thyself another, and a high one, such as
thou canst wear without fear or shame. Why shouldst thou tarry so much as
one other day in the torments that have so gnawed into thy life? that have
made thee feeble to will and to do? that will leave thee powerless even to
repent? Up, and away!”
“Oh, Hester!” cried Arthur Dimmesdale, in whose eyes a fitful light, kindled
by her enthusiasm, flashed up and died away, “thou tellest of running a race to
a man whose knees are tottering beneath him! I must die here! There is not
the strength or courage left me to venture into the wide, strange, difficult
world alone!”
It was the last expression of the despondency of a broken spirit. He lacked
energy to grasp the better fortune that seemed within his reach.
He repeated the word—“Alone, Hester!”
“Thou shall not go alone!” answered she, in a deep whisper.
Then, all was spoken!

XVIII. A FLOOD OF SUNSHINE

Arthur Dimmesdale gazed into Hester’s face with a look in which hope and
joy shone out, indeed, but with fear betwixt them, and a kind of horror at her
boldness, who had spoken what he vaguely hinted at, but dared not speak.
But Hester Prynne, with a mind of native courage and activity, and for so long
a period not merely estranged, but outlawed from society, had habituated
herself to such latitude of speculation as was altogether foreign to the
clergyman. She had wandered, without rule or guidance, in a moral
wilderness, as vast, as intricate, and shadowy as the untamed forest, amid the
gloom of which they were now holding a colloquy that was to decide their
fate. Her intellect and heart had their home, as it were, in desert places, where
she roamed as freely as the wild Indian in his woods. For years past she had
looked from this estranged point of view at human institutions, and whatever
priests or legislators had established; criticising all with hardly more
reverence than the Indian would feel for the clerical band, the judicial robe,
the pillory, the gallows, the fireside, or the church. The tendency of her fate
and fortunes had been to set her free. The scarlet letter was her passport into
regions where other women dared not tread. Shame, Despair, Solitude! These
had been her teachers—stern and wild ones—and they had made her strong,
but taught her much amiss.
The minister, on the other hand, had never gone through an experience
calculated to lead him beyond the scope of generally received laws; although,
in a single instance, he had so fearfully transgressed one of the most sacred of
them. But this had been a sin of passion, not of principle, nor even purpose.
Since that wretched epoch, he had watched with morbid zeal and minuteness,
not his acts—for those it was easy to arrange—but each breath of emotion,
and his every thought. At the head of the social system, as the clergymen of
that day stood, he was only the more trammelled by its regulations, its
principles, and even its prejudices. As a priest, the framework of his order
inevitably hemmed him in. As a man who had once sinned, but who kept his
conscience all alive and painfully sensitive by the fretting of an unhealed
wound, he might have been supposed safer within the line of virtue than if he
had never sinned at all.
Thus we seem to see that, as regarded Hester Prynne, the whole seven years
of outlaw and ignominy had been little other than a preparation for this very
hour. But Arthur Dimmesdale! Were such a man once more to fall, what plea
could be urged in extenuation of his crime? None; unless it avail him
somewhat that he was broken down by long and exquisite suffering; that his
mind was darkened and confused by the very remorse which harrowed it; that,
between fleeing as an avowed criminal, and remaining as a hypocrite,
conscience might find it hard to strike the balance; that it was human to avoid
the peril of death and infamy, and the inscrutable machinations of an enemy;
that, finally, to this poor pilgrim, on his dreary and desert path, faint, sick,
miserable, there appeared a glimpse of human affection and sympathy, a new
life, and a true one, in exchange for the heavy doom which he was now
expiating. And be the stern and sad truth spoken, that the breach which guilt
has once made into the human soul is never, in this mortal state, repaired. It
may be watched and guarded, so that the enemy shall not force his way again
into the citadel, and might even in his subsequent assaults, select some other
avenue, in preference to that where he had formerly succeeded. But there is
still the ruined wall, and near it the stealthy tread of the foe that would win
over again his unforgotten triumph.
The struggle, if there were one, need not be described. Let it suffice that the
clergyman resolved to flee, and not alone.
“If in all these past seven years,” thought he, “I could recall one instant of
peace or hope, I would yet endure, for the sake of that earnest of Heaven’s
mercy. But now—since I am irrevocably doomed—wherefore should I not
snatch the solace allowed to the condemned culprit before his execution? Or,
if this be the path to a better life, as Hester would persuade me, I surely give
up no fairer prospect by pursuing it! Neither can I any longer live without her
companionship; so powerful is she to sustain—so tender to soothe! O Thou to
whom I dare not lift mine eyes, wilt Thou yet pardon me?”
“Thou wilt go!” said Hester calmly, as he met her glance.
The decision once made, a glow of strange enjoyment threw its flickering
brightness over the trouble of his breast. It was the exhilarating effect—upon
a prisoner just escaped from the dungeon of his own heart—of breathing the
wild, free atmosphere of an unredeemed, unchristianised, lawless region. His
spirit rose, as it were, with a bound, and attained a nearer prospect of the sky,
than throughout all the misery which had kept him grovelling on the earth. Of
a deeply religious temperament, there was inevitably a tinge of the devotional
in his mood.
“Do I feel joy again?” cried he, wondering at himself. “Methought the germ
of it was dead in me! Oh, Hester, thou art my better angel! I seem to have
flung myself—sick, sin-stained, and sorrow-blackened—down upon these
forest leaves, and to have risen up all made anew, and with new powers to
glorify Him that hath been merciful! This is already the better life! Why did
we not find it sooner?”
“Let us not look back,” answered Hester Prynne. “The past is gone!
Wherefore should we linger upon it now? See! With this symbol I undo it all,
and make it as if it had never been!”
So speaking, she undid the clasp that fastened the scarlet letter, and, taking it
from her bosom, threw it to a distance among the withered leaves. The mystic
token alighted on the hither verge of the stream. With a hand’s-breadth further
flight, it would have fallen into the water, and have given the little brook
another woe to carry onward, besides the unintelligible tale which it still kept
murmuring about. But there lay the embroidered letter, glittering like a lost
jewel, which some ill-fated wanderer might pick up, and thenceforth be
haunted by strange phantoms of guilt, sinkings of the heart, and
unaccountable misfortune.
The stigma gone, Hester heaved a long, deep sigh, in which the burden of
shame and anguish departed from her spirit. O exquisite relief! She had not
known the weight until she felt the freedom! By another impulse, she took off
the formal cap that confined her hair, and down it fell upon her shoulders,
dark and rich, with at once a shadow and a light in its abundance, and
imparting the charm of softness to her features. There played around her
mouth, and beamed out of her eyes, a radiant and tender smile, that seemed
gushing from the very heart of womanhood. A crimson flush was glowing on
her cheek, that had been long so pale. Her sex, her youth, and the whole
richness of her beauty, came back from what men call the irrevocable past,
and clustered themselves with her maiden hope, and a happiness before
unknown, within the magic circle of this hour. And, as if the gloom of the
earth and sky had been but the effluence of these two mortal hearts, it
vanished with their sorrow. All at once, as with a sudden smile of heaven,
forth burst the sunshine, pouring a very flood into the obscure forest,
gladdening each green leaf, transmuting the yellow fallen ones to gold, and
gleaming adown the gray trunks of the solemn trees. The objects that had
made a shadow hitherto, embodied the brightness now. The course of the little
brook might be traced by its merry gleam afar into the wood’s heart of
mystery, which had become a mystery of joy.
Such was the sympathy of Nature—that wild, heathen Nature of the forest,
never subjugated by human law, nor illumined by higher truth—with the bliss
of these two spirits! Love, whether newly-born, or aroused from a death-like
slumber, must always create a sunshine, filling the heart so full of radiance,
that it overflows upon the outward world. Had the forest still kept its gloom, it
would have been bright in Hester’s eyes, and bright in Arthur Dimmesdale’s!
Hester looked at him with a thrill of another joy.
“Thou must know Pearl!” said she. “Our little Pearl! Thou hast seen her—yes,
I know it!—but thou wilt see her now with other eyes. She is a strange child! I
hardly comprehend her! But thou wilt love her dearly, as I do, and wilt advise
me how to deal with her!”
“Dost thou think the child will be glad to know me?” asked the minister,
somewhat uneasily. “I have long shrunk from children, because they often
show a distrust—a backwardness to be familiar with me. I have even been
afraid of little Pearl!”
“Ah, that was sad!” answered the mother. “But she will love thee dearly, and
thou her. She is not far off. I will call her. Pearl! Pearl!”
“I see the child,” observed the minister. “Yonder she is, standing in a streak of
sunshine, a good way off, on the other side of the brook. So thou thinkest the
child will love me?”
Hester smiled, and again called to Pearl, who was visible at some distance, as
the minister had described her, like a bright-apparelled vision in a sunbeam,
which fell down upon her through an arch of boughs. The ray quivered to and
fro, making her figure dim or distinct—now like a real child, now like a
child’s spirit—as the splendour went and came again. She heard her mother’s
voice, and approached slowly through the forest.
Pearl had not found the hour pass wearisomely while her mother sat talking
with the clergyman. The great black forest—stern as it showed itself to those
who brought the guilt and troubles of the world into its bosom—became the
playmate of the lonely infant, as well as it knew how. Sombre as it was, it put
on the kindest of its moods to welcome her. It offered her the partridge-
berries, the growth of the preceding autumn, but ripening only in the spring,
and now red as drops of blood upon the withered leaves. These Pearl
gathered, and was pleased with their wild flavour. The small denizens of the
wilderness hardly took pains to move out of her path. A partridge, indeed,
with a brood of ten behind her, ran forward threateningly, but soon repented
of her fierceness, and clucked to her young ones not to be afraid. A pigeon,
alone on a low branch, allowed Pearl to come beneath, and uttered a sound as
much of greeting as alarm. A squirrel, from the lofty depths of his domestic
tree, chattered either in anger or merriment—for the squirrel is such a choleric
and humorous little personage, that it is hard to distinguish between his
moods—so he chattered at the child, and flung down a nut upon her head. It
was a last year’s nut, and already gnawed by his sharp tooth. A fox, startled
from his sleep by her light footstep on the leaves, looked inquisitively at
Pearl, as doubting whether it were better to steal off, or renew his nap on the
same spot. A wolf, it is said—but here the tale has surely lapsed into the
improbable—came up and smelt of Pearl’s robe, and offered his savage head
to be patted by her hand. The truth seems to be, however, that the mother-
forest, and these wild things which it nourished, all recognised a kindred
wilderness in the human child.
And she was gentler here than in the grassy-margined streets of the
settlement, or in her mother’s cottage. The Bowers appeared to know it, and
one and another whispered as she passed, “Adorn thyself with me, thou
beautiful child, adorn thyself with me!”—and, to please them, Pearl gathered
the violets, and anemones, and columbines, and some twigs of the freshest
green, which the old trees held down before her eyes. With these she
decorated her hair and her young waist, and became a nymph child, or an
infant dryad, or whatever else was in closest sympathy with the antique wood.
In such guise had Pearl adorned herself, when she heard her mother’s voice,
and came slowly back.
Slowly—for she saw the clergyman!

XIX. THE CHILD AT THE BROOKSIDE

“Thou wilt love her dearly,” repeated Hester Prynne, as she and the minister
sat watching little Pearl. “Dost thou not think her beautiful? And see with
what natural skill she has made those simple flowers adorn her! Had she
gathered pearls, and diamonds, and rubies in the wood, they could not have
become her better! She is a splendid child! But I know whose brow she has!”
“Dost thou know, Hester,” said Arthur Dimmesdale, with an unquiet smile,
“that this dear child, tripping about always at thy side, hath caused me many
an alarm? Methought—oh, Hester, what a thought is that, and how terrible to
dread it!—that my own features were partly repeated in her face, and so
strikingly that the world might see them! But she is mostly thine!”
“No, no! Not mostly!” answered the mother, with a tender smile. “A little
longer, and thou needest not to be afraid to trace whose child she is. But how
strangely beautiful she looks with those wild flowers in her hair! It is as if one
of the fairies, whom we left in dear old England, had decked her out to meet
us.”
It was with a feeling which neither of them had ever before experienced, that
they sat and watched Pearl’s slow advance. In her was visible the tie that
united them. She had been offered to the world, these seven past years, as the
living hieroglyphic, in which was revealed the secret they so darkly sought to
hide—all written in this symbol—all plainly manifest—had there been a
prophet or magician skilled to read the character of flame! And Pearl was the
oneness of their being. Be the foregone evil what it might, how could they
doubt that their earthly lives and future destinies were conjoined when they
beheld at once the material union, and the spiritual idea, in whom they met,
and were to dwell immortally together; thoughts like these—and perhaps
other thoughts, which they did not acknowledge or define—threw an awe
about the child as she came onward.
“Let her see nothing strange—no passion or eagerness—in thy way of
accosting her,” whispered Hester. “Our Pearl is a fitful and fantastic little elf
sometimes. Especially she is generally intolerant of emotion, when she does
not fully comprehend the why and wherefore. But the child hath strong
affections! She loves me, and will love thee!”
“Thou canst not think,” said the minister, glancing aside at Hester Prynne,
“how my heart dreads this interview, and yearns for it! But, in truth, as I
already told thee, children are not readily won to be familiar with me. They
will not climb my knee, nor prattle in my ear, nor answer to my smile, but
stand apart, and eye me strangely. Even little babes, when I take them in my
arms, weep bitterly. Yet Pearl, twice in her little lifetime, hath been kind to
me! The first time—thou knowest it well! The last was when thou ledst her
with thee to the house of yonder stern old Governor.”
“And thou didst plead so bravely in her behalf and mine!” answered the
mother. “I remember it; and so shall little Pearl. Fear nothing. She may be
strange and shy at first, but will soon learn to love thee!”
By this time Pearl had reached the margin of the brook, and stood on the
further side, gazing silently at Hester and the clergyman, who still sat together
on the mossy tree-trunk waiting to receive her. Just where she had paused, the
brook chanced to form a pool so smooth and quiet that it reflected a perfect
image of her little figure, with all the brilliant picturesqueness of her beauty,
in its adornment of flowers and wreathed foliage, but more refined and
spiritualized than the reality. This image, so nearly identical with the living
Pearl, seemed to communicate somewhat of its own shadowy and intangible
quality to the child herself. It was strange, the way in which Pearl stood,
looking so steadfastly at them through the dim medium of the forest gloom,
herself, meanwhile, all glorified with a ray of sunshine, that was attracted
thitherward as by a certain sympathy. In the brook beneath stood another child
—another and the same—with likewise its ray of golden light. Hester felt
herself, in some indistinct and tantalizing manner, estranged from Pearl, as if
the child, in her lonely ramble through the forest, had strayed out of the
sphere in which she and her mother dwelt together, and was now vainly
seeking to return to it.
There were both truth and error in the impression; the child and mother were
estranged, but through Hester’s fault, not Pearl’s. Since the latter rambled
from her side, another inmate had been admitted within the circle of the
mother’s feelings, and so modified the aspect of them all, that Pearl, the
returning wanderer, could not find her wonted place, and hardly knew where
she was.
“I have a strange fancy,” observed the sensitive minister, “that this brook is
the boundary between two worlds, and that thou canst never meet thy Pearl
again. Or is she an elfish spirit, who, as the legends of our childhood taught
us, is forbidden to cross a running stream? Pray hasten her, for this delay has
already imparted a tremor to my nerves.”
“Come, dearest child!” said Hester encouragingly, and stretching out both her
arms. “How slow thou art! When hast thou been so sluggish before now?
Here is a friend of mine, who must be thy friend also. Thou wilt have twice as
much love henceforward as thy mother alone could give thee! Leap across the
brook and come to us. Thou canst leap like a young deer!”
Pearl, without responding in any manner to these honey-sweet expressions,
remained on the other side of the brook. Now she fixed her bright wild eyes
on her mother, now on the minister, and now included them both in the same
glance, as if to detect and explain to herself the relation which they bore to
one another. For some unaccountable reason, as Arthur Dimmesdale felt the
child’s eyes upon himself, his hand—with that gesture so habitual as to have
become involuntary—stole over his heart. At length, assuming a singular air
of authority, Pearl stretched out her hand, with the small forefinger extended,
and pointing evidently towards her mother’s breast. And beneath, in the
mirror of the brook, there was the flower-girdled and sunny image of little
Pearl, pointing her small forefinger too.
“Thou strange child! why dost thou not come to me?” exclaimed
Hester.
Pearl still pointed with her forefinger, and a frown gathered on her brow—the
more impressive from the childish, the almost baby-like aspect of the features
that conveyed it. As her mother still kept beckoning to her, and arraying her
face in a holiday suit of unaccustomed smiles, the child stamped her foot with
a yet more imperious look and gesture. In the brook, again, was the fantastic
beauty of the image, with its reflected frown, its pointed finger, and imperious
gesture, giving emphasis to the aspect of little Pearl.
“Hasten, Pearl, or I shall be angry with thee!” cried Hester Prynne, who,
however, inured to such behaviour on the elf-child’s part at other seasons, was
naturally anxious for a more seemly deportment now. “Leap across the brook,
naughty child, and run hither! Else I must come to thee!”
But Pearl, not a whit startled at her mother’s threats any more than mollified
by her entreaties, now suddenly burst into a fit of passion, gesticulating
violently, and throwing her small figure into the most extravagant contortions.
She accompanied this wild outbreak with piercing shrieks, which the woods
reverberated on all sides, so that, alone as she was in her childish and
unreasonable wrath, it seemed as if a hidden multitude were lending her their
sympathy and encouragement. Seen in the brook once more was the shadowy
wrath of Pearl’s image, crowned and girdled with flowers, but stamping its
foot, wildly gesticulating, and, in the midst of all, still pointing its small
forefinger at Hester’s bosom.
“I see what ails the child,” whispered Hester to the clergyman, and turning
pale in spite of a strong effort to conceal her trouble and annoyance,
“Children will not abide any, the slightest, change in the accustomed aspect of
things that are daily before their eyes. Pearl misses something that she has
always seen me wear!”
“I pray you,” answered the minister, “if thou hast any means of pacifying the
child, do it forthwith! Save it were the cankered wrath of an old witch like
Mistress Hibbins,” added he, attempting to smile, “I know nothing that I
would not sooner encounter than this passion in a child. In Pearl’s young
beauty, as in the wrinkled witch, it has a preternatural effect. Pacify her if
thou lovest me!”
Hester turned again towards Pearl with a crimson blush upon her cheek, a
conscious glance aside clergyman, and then a heavy sigh, while, even before
she had time to speak, the blush yielded to a deadly pallor.
“Pearl,” said she sadly, “look down at thy feet! There!—before thee!—on the
hither side of the brook!”
The child turned her eyes to the point indicated, and there lay the scarlet letter
so close upon the margin of the stream that the gold embroidery was reflected
in it.
“Bring it hither!” said Hester.
“Come thou and take it up!” answered Pearl.
“Was ever such a child!” observed Hester aside to the minister. “Oh, I have
much to tell thee about her! But, in very truth, she is right as regards this
hateful token. I must bear its torture yet a little longer—only a few days
longer—until we shall have left this region, and look back hither as to a land
which we have dreamed of. The forest cannot hide it! The mid-ocean shall
take it from my hand, and swallow it up for ever!”
With these words she advanced to the margin of the brook, took up the scarlet
letter, and fastened it again into her bosom. Hopefully, but a moment ago, as
Hester had spoken of drowning it in the deep sea, there was a sense of
inevitable doom upon her as she thus received back this deadly symbol from
the hand of fate. She had flung it into infinite space! she had drawn an hour’s
free breath! and here again was the scarlet misery glittering on the old spot!
So it ever is, whether thus typified or no, that an evil deed invests itself with
the character of doom. Hester next gathered up the heavy tresses of her hair
and confined them beneath her cap. As if there were a withering spell in the
sad letter, her beauty, the warmth and richness of her womanhood, departed
like fading sunshine, and a gray shadow seemed to fall across her.
When the dreary change was wrought, she extended her hand to
Pearl.
“Dost thou know thy mother now, child?”, asked she, reproachfully, but with
a subdued tone. “Wilt thou come across the brook, and own thy mother, now
that she has her shame upon her—now that she is sad?”
“Yes; now I will!” answered the child, bounding across the brook, and
clasping Hester in her arms “Now thou art my mother indeed! and I am thy
little Pearl!”
In a mood of tenderness that was not usual with her, she drew down her
mother’s head, and kissed her brow and both her cheeks. But then—by a kind
of necessity that always impelled this child to alloy whatever comfort she
might chance to give with a throb of anguish—Pearl put up her mouth and
kissed the scarlet letter, too.
“That was not kind!” said Hester. “When thou hast shown me a little love,
thou mockest me!”
“Why doth the minister sit yonder?” asked Pearl.
“He waits to welcome thee,” replied her mother. “Come thou, and entreat his
blessing! He loves thee, my little Pearl, and loves thy mother, too. Wilt thou
not love him? Come he longs to greet thee!”
“Doth he love us?” said Pearl, looking up with acute intelligence into her
mother’s face. “Will he go back with us, hand in hand, we three together, into
the town?”
“Not now, my child,” answered Hester. “But in days to come he will walk
hand in hand with us. We will have a home and fireside of our own; and thou
shalt sit upon his knee; and he will teach thee many things, and love thee
dearly. Thou wilt love him—wilt thou not?”
“And will he always keep his hand over his heart?” inquired
Pearl.
“Foolish child, what a question is that!” exclaimed her mother.
“Come, and ask his blessing!”
But, whether influenced by the jealousy that seems instinctive with every
petted child towards a dangerous rival, or from whatever caprice of her
freakish nature, Pearl would show no favour to the clergyman. It was only by
an exertion of force that her mother brought her up to him, hanging back, and
manifesting her reluctance by odd grimaces; of which, ever since her
babyhood, she had possessed a singular variety, and could transform her
mobile physiognomy into a series of different aspects, with a new mischief in
them, each and all. The minister—painfully embarrassed, but hoping that a
kiss might prove a talisman to admit him into the child’s kindlier regards—
bent forward, and impressed one on her brow. Hereupon, Pearl broke away
from her mother, and, running to the brook, stooped over it, and bathed her
forehead, until the unwelcome kiss was quite washed off and diffused through
a long lapse of the gliding water. She then remained apart, silently watching
Hester and the clergyman; while they talked together and made such
arrangements as were suggested by their new position and the purposes soon
to be fulfilled.
And now this fateful interview had come to a close. The dell was to be left in
solitude among its dark, old trees, which, with their multitudinous tongues,
would whisper long of what had passed there, and no mortal be the wiser.
And the melancholy brook would add this other tale to the mystery with
which its little heart was already overburdened, and whereof it still kept up a
murmuring babble, with not a whit more cheerfulness of tone than for ages
heretofore.

XX. THE MINISTER IN A MAZE

As the minister departed, in advance of Hester Prynne and little Pearl, he
threw a backward glance, half expecting that he should discover only some
faintly traced features or outline of the mother and the child, slowly fading
into the twilight of the woods. So great a vicissitude in his life could not at
once be received as real. But there was Hester, clad in her gray robe, still
standing beside the tree-trunk, which some blast had overthrown a long
antiquity ago, and which time had ever since been covering with moss, so that
these two fated ones, with earth’s heaviest burden on them, might there sit
down together, and find a single hour’s rest and solace. And there was Pearl,
too, lightly dancing from the margin of the brook—now that the intrusive
third person was gone—and taking her old place by her mother’s side. So the
minister had not fallen asleep and dreamed!
In order to free his mind from this indistinctness and duplicity of impression,
which vexed it with a strange disquietude, he recalled and more thoroughly
defined the plans which Hester and himself had sketched for their departure.
It had been determined between them that the Old World, with its crowds and
cities, offered them a more eligible shelter and concealment than the wilds of
New England or all America, with its alternatives of an Indian wigwam, or
the few settlements of Europeans scattered thinly along the sea-board. Not to
speak of the clergyman’s health, so inadequate to sustain the hardships of a
forest life, his native gifts, his culture, and his entire development would
secure him a home only in the midst of civilization and refinement; the higher
the state the more delicately adapted to it the man. In furtherance of this
choice, it so happened that a ship lay in the harbour; one of those
unquestionable cruisers, frequent at that day, which, without being absolutely
outlaws of the deep, yet roamed over its surface with a remarkable
irresponsibility of character. This vessel had recently arrived from the Spanish
Main, and within three days’ time would sail for Bristol. Hester Prynne—
whose vocation, as a self-enlisted Sister of Charity, had brought her
acquainted with the captain and crew—could take upon herself to secure the
passage of two individuals and a child with all the secrecy which
circumstances rendered more than desirable.
The minister had inquired of Hester, with no little interest, the precise time at
which the vessel might be expected to depart. It would probably be on the
fourth day from the present. “This is most fortunate!” he had then said to
himself. Now, why the Reverend Mr. Dimmesdale considered it so very
fortunate we hesitate to reveal. Nevertheless—to hold nothing back from the
reader—it was because, on the third day from the present, he was to preach
the Election Sermon; and, as such an occasion formed an honourable epoch in
the life of a New England Clergyman, he could not have chanced upon a more
suitable mode and time of terminating his professional career. “At least, they
shall say of me,” thought this exemplary man, “that I leave no public duty
unperformed or ill-performed!” Sad, indeed, that an introspection so profound
and acute as this poor minister’s should be so miserably deceived! We have
had, and may still have, worse things to tell of him; but none, we apprehend,
so pitiably weak; no evidence, at once so slight and irrefragable, of a subtle
disease that had long since begun to eat into the real substance of his
character. No man, for any considerable period, can wear one face to himself
and another to the multitude, without finally getting bewildered as to which
may be the true.
The excitement of Mr. Dimmesdale’s feelings as he returned from his
interview with Hester, lent him unaccustomed physical energy, and hurried
him townward at a rapid pace. The pathway among the woods seemed wilder,
more uncouth with its rude natural obstacles, and less trodden by the foot of
man, than he remembered it on his outward journey. But he leaped across the
plashy places, thrust himself through the clinging underbrush, climbed the
ascent, plunged into the hollow, and overcame, in short, all the difficulties of
the track, with an unweariable activity that astonished him. He could not but
recall how feebly, and with what frequent pauses for breath he had toiled over
the same ground, only two days before. As he drew near the town, he took an
impression of change from the series of familiar objects that presented
themselves. It seemed not yesterday, not one, not two, but many days, or even
years ago, since he had quitted them. There, indeed, was each former trace of
the street, as he remembered it, and all the peculiarities of the houses, with the
due multitude of gable-peaks, and a weather-cock at every point where his
memory suggested one. Not the less, however, came this importunately
obtrusive sense of change. The same was true as regarded the acquaintances
whom he met, and all the well-known shapes of human life, about the little
town. They looked neither older nor younger now; the beards of the aged
were no whiter, nor could the creeping babe of yesterday walk on his feet to-
day; it was impossible to describe in what respect they differed from the
individuals on whom he had so recently bestowed a parting glance; and yet
the minister’s deepest sense seemed to inform him of their mutability. A
similar impression struck him most remarkably as he passed under the walls
of his own church. The edifice had so very strange, and yet so familiar an
aspect, that Mr. Dimmesdale’s mind vibrated between two ideas; either that he
had seen it only in a dream hitherto, or that he was merely dreaming about it
now.
This phenomenon, in the various shapes which it assumed, indicated no
external change, but so sudden and important a change in the spectator of the
familiar scene, that the intervening space of a single day had operated on his
consciousness like the lapse of years. The minister’s own will, and Hester’s
will, and the fate that grew between them, had wrought this transformation. It
was the same town as heretofore, but the same minister returned not from the
forest. He might have said to the friends who greeted him—“I am not the man
for whom you take me! I left him yonder in the forest, withdrawn into a secret
dell, by a mossy tree trunk, and near a melancholy brook! Go, seek your
minister, and see if his emaciated figure, his thin cheek, his white, heavy,
pain-wrinkled brow, be not flung down there, like a cast-off garment!” His
friends, no doubt, would still have insisted with him—“Thou art thyself the
man!” but the error would have been their own, not his.
Before Mr. Dimmesdale reached home, his inner man gave him other
evidences of a revolution in the sphere of thought and feeling. In truth,
nothing short of a total change of dynasty and moral code, in that interior
kingdom, was adequate to account for the impulses now communicated to the
unfortunate and startled minister. At every step he was incited to do some
strange, wild, wicked thing or other, with a sense that it would be at once
involuntary and intentional, in spite of himself, yet growing out of a
profounder self than that which opposed the impulse. For instance, he met one
of his own deacons. The good old man addressed him with the paternal
affection and patriarchal privilege which his venerable age, his upright and
holy character, and his station in the church, entitled him to use and,
conjoined with this, the deep, almost worshipping respect, which the
minister’s professional and private claims alike demanded. Never was there a
more beautiful example of how the majesty of age and wisdom may comport
with the obeisance and respect enjoined upon it, as from a lower social rank,
and inferior order of endowment, towards a higher. Now, during a
conversation of some two or three moments between the Reverend Mr.
Dimmesdale and this excellent and hoary-bearded deacon, it was only by the
most careful self-control that the former could refrain from uttering certain
blasphemous suggestions that rose into his mind, respecting the communion-
supper. He absolutely trembled and turned pale as ashes, lest his tongue
should wag itself in utterance of these horrible matters, and plead his own
consent for so doing, without his having fairly given it. And, even with this
terror in his heart, he could hardly avoid laughing, to imagine how the
sanctified old patriarchal deacon would have been petrified by his minister’s
impiety.
Again, another incident of the same nature. Hurrying along the street, the
Reverend Mr. Dimmesdale encountered the eldest female member of his
church, a most pious and exemplary old dame, poor, widowed, lonely, and
with a heart as full of reminiscences about her dead husband and children, and
her dead friends of long ago, as a burial-ground is full of storied gravestones.
Yet all this, which would else have been such heavy sorrow, was made almost
a solemn joy to her devout old soul, by religious consolations and the truths of
Scripture, wherewith she had fed herself continually for more than thirty
years. And since Mr. Dimmesdale had taken her in charge, the good
grandam’s chief earthly comfort—which, unless it had been likewise a
heavenly comfort, could have been none at all—was to meet her pastor,
whether casually, or of set purpose, and be refreshed with a word of warm,
fragrant, heaven-breathing Gospel truth, from his beloved lips, into her
dulled, but rapturously attentive ear. But, on this occasion, up to the moment
of putting his lips to the old woman’s ear, Mr. Dimmesdale, as the great
enemy of souls would have it, could recall no text of Scripture, nor aught else,
except a brief, pithy, and, as it then appeared to him, unanswerable argument
against the immortality of the human soul. The instilment thereof into her
mind would probably have caused this aged sister to drop down dead, at once,
as by the effect of an intensely poisonous infusion. What he really did
whisper, the minister could never afterwards recollect. There was, perhaps, a
fortunate disorder in his utterance, which failed to impart any distinct idea to
the good widows comprehension, or which Providence interpreted after a
method of its own. Assuredly, as the minister looked back, he beheld an
expression of divine gratitude and ecstasy that seemed like the shine of the
celestial city on her face, so wrinkled and ashy pale.
Again, a third instance. After parting from the old church member, he met the
youngest sister of them all. It was a maiden newly-won—and won by the
Reverend Mr. Dimmesdale’s own sermon, on the Sabbath after his vigil—to
barter the transitory pleasures of the world for the heavenly hope that was to
assume brighter substance as life grew dark around her, and which would gild
the utter gloom with final glory. She was fair and pure as a lily that had
bloomed in Paradise. The minister knew well that he was himself enshrined
within the stainless sanctity of her heart, which hung its snowy curtains about
his image, imparting to religion the warmth of love, and to love a religious
purity. Satan, that afternoon, had surely led the poor young girl away from her
mother’s side, and thrown her into the pathway of this sorely tempted, or—
shall we not rather say?—this lost and desperate man. As she drew nigh, the
arch-fiend whispered him to condense into small compass, and drop into her
tender bosom a germ of evil that would be sure to blossom darkly soon, and
bear black fruit betimes. Such was his sense of power over this virgin soul,
trusting him as she did, that the minister felt potent to blight all the field of
innocence with but one wicked look, and develop all its opposite with but a
word. So—with a mightier struggle than he had yet sustained—he held his
Geneva cloak before his face, and hurried onward, making no sign of
recognition, and leaving the young sister to digest his rudeness as she might.
She ransacked her conscience—which was full of harmless little matters, like
her pocket or her work-bag—and took herself to task, poor thing! for a
thousand imaginary faults, and went about her household duties with swollen
eyelids the next morning.
Before the minister had time to celebrate his victory over this last temptation,
he was conscious of another impulse, more ludicrous, and almost as horrible.
It was—we blush to tell it—it was to stop short in the road, and teach some
very wicked words to a knot of little Puritan children who were playing there,
and had but just begun to talk. Denying himself this freak, as unworthy of his
cloth, he met a drunken seaman, one of the ship’s crew from the Spanish
Main. And here, since he had so valiantly forborne all other wickedness, poor
Mr. Dimmesdale longed at least to shake hands with the tarry black-guard,
and recreate himself with a few improper jests, such as dissolute sailors so
abound with, and a volley of good, round, solid, satisfactory, and heaven-
defying oaths! It was not so much a better principle, as partly his natural good
taste, and still more his buckramed habit of clerical decorum, that carried him
safely through the latter crisis.
“What is it that haunts and tempts me thus?” cried the minister to himself, at
length, pausing in the street, and striking his hand against his forehead.
“Am I mad? or am I given over utterly to the fiend? Did I make a contract
with him in the forest, and sign it with my blood? And does he now summon
me to its fulfilment, by suggesting the performance of every wickedness
which his most foul imagination can conceive?”
At the moment when the Reverend Mr. Dimmesdale thus communed with
himself, and struck his forehead with his hand, old Mistress Hibbins, the
reputed witch-lady, is said to have been passing by. She made a very grand
appearance, having on a high head-dress, a rich gown of velvet, and a ruff
done up with the famous yellow starch, of which Anne Turner, her especial
friend, had taught her the secret, before this last good lady had been hanged
for Sir Thomas Overbury’s murder. Whether the witch had read the minister’s
thoughts or no, she came to a full stop, looked shrewdly into his face, smiled
craftily, and—though little given to converse with clergymen—began a
conversation.
“So, reverend sir, you have made a visit into the forest,” observed the witch-
lady, nodding her high head-dress at him. “The next time I pray you to allow
me only a fair warning, and I shall be proud to bear you company. Without
taking overmuch upon myself my good word will go far towards gaining any
strange gentleman a fair reception from yonder potentate you wot of.”
“I profess, madam,” answered the clergyman, with a grave obeisance, such as
the lady’s rank demanded, and his own good breeding made imperative—“I
profess, on my conscience and character, that I am utterly bewildered as
touching the purport of your words! I went not into the forest to seek a
potentate, neither do I, at any future time, design a visit thither, with a view to
gaining the favour of such personage. My one sufficient object was to greet
that pious friend of mine, the Apostle Eliot, and rejoice with him over the
many precious souls he hath won from heathendom!”
“Ha, ha, ha!” cackled the old witch-lady, still nodding her high head-dress at
the minister. “Well, well! we must needs talk thus in the daytime! You carry it
off like an old hand! But at midnight, and in the forest, we shall have other
talk together!”
She passed on with her aged stateliness, but often turning back her head and
smiling at him, like one willing to recognise a secret intimacy of connexion.
“Have I then sold myself,” thought the minister, “to the fiend whom, if men
say true, this yellow-starched and velveted old hag has chosen for her prince
and master?”
The wretched minister! He had made a bargain very like it! Tempted by a
dream of happiness, he had yielded himself with deliberate choice, as he had
never done before, to what he knew was deadly sin. And the infectious poison
of that sin had been thus rapidly diffused throughout his moral system. It had
stupefied all blessed impulses, and awakened into vivid life the whole
brotherhood of bad ones. Scorn, bitterness, unprovoked malignity, gratuitous
desire of ill, ridicule of whatever was good and holy, all awoke to tempt, even
while they frightened him. And his encounter with old Mistress Hibbins, if it
were a real incident, did but show its sympathy and fellowship with wicked
mortals, and the world of perverted spirits.
He had by this time reached his dwelling on the edge of the burial ground,
and, hastening up the stairs, took refuge in his study. The minister was glad to
have reached this shelter, without first betraying himself to the world by any
of those strange and wicked eccentricities to which he had been continually
impelled while passing through the streets. He entered the accustomed room,
and looked around him on its books, its windows, its fireplace, and the
tapestried comfort of the walls, with the same perception of strangeness that
had haunted him throughout his walk from the forest dell into the town and
thitherward. Here he had studied and written; here gone through fast and
vigil, and come forth half alive; here striven to pray; here borne a hundred
thousand agonies! There was the Bible, in its rich old Hebrew, with Moses
and the Prophets speaking to him, and God’s voice through all.
There on the table, with the inky pen beside it, was an unfinished sermon,
with a sentence broken in the midst, where his thoughts had ceased to gush
out upon the page two days before. He knew that it was himself, the thin and
white-cheeked minister, who had done and suffered these things, and written
thus far into the Election Sermon! But he seemed to stand apart, and eye this
former self with scornful pitying, but half-envious curiosity. That self was
gone. Another man had returned out of the forest—a wiser one—with a
knowledge of hidden mysteries which the simplicity of the former never
could have reached. A bitter kind of knowledge that!
While occupied with these reflections, a knock came at the door of the study,
and the minister said, “Come in!”—not wholly devoid of an idea that he
might behold an evil spirit. And so he did! It was old Roger Chillingworth
that entered. The minister stood white and speechless, with one hand on the
Hebrew Scriptures, and the other spread upon his breast.
“Welcome home, reverend sir,” said the physician “And how found you that
godly man, the Apostle Eliot? But methinks, dear sir, you look pale, as if the
travel through the wilderness had been too sore for you. Will not my aid be
requisite to put you in heart and strength to preach your Election Sermon?”
“Nay, I think not so,” rejoined the Reverend Mr. Dimmesdale. “My journey,
and the sight of the holy Apostle yonder, and the free air which I have
breathed have done me good, after so long confinement in my study. I think to
need no more of your drugs, my kind physician, good though they be, and
administered by a friendly hand.”
All this time Roger Chillingworth was looking at the minister with the grave
and intent regard of a physician towards his patient. But, in spite of this
outward show, the latter was almost convinced of the old man’s knowledge,
or, at least, his confident suspicion, with respect to his own interview with
Hester Prynne. The physician knew then that in the minister’s regard he was
no longer a trusted friend, but his bitterest enemy. So much being known, it
would appear natural that a part of it should be expressed. It is singular,
however, how long a time often passes before words embody things; and with
what security two persons, who choose to avoid a certain subject, may
approach its very verge, and retire without disturbing it. Thus the minister felt
no apprehension that Roger Chillingworth would touch, in express words,
upon the real position which they sustained towards one another. Yet did the
physician, in his dark way, creep frightfully near the secret.
“Were it not better,” said he, “that you use my poor skill tonight? Verily, dear
sir, we must take pains to make you strong and vigorous for this occasion of
the Election discourse. The people look for great things from you,
apprehending that another year may come about and find their pastor gone.”
“Yes, to another world,” replied the minister with pious resignation. “Heaven
grant it be a better one; for, in good sooth, I hardly think to tarry with my
flock through the flitting seasons of another year! But touching your
medicine, kind sir, in my present frame of body I need it not.”
“I joy to hear it,” answered the physician. “It may be that my remedies, so
long administered in vain, begin now to take due effect. Happy man were I,
and well deserving of New England’s gratitude, could I achieve this cure!”
“I thank you from my heart, most watchful friend,” said the Reverend Mr.
Dimmesdale with a solemn smile. “I thank you, and can but requite your good
deeds with my prayers.”
“A good man’s prayers are golden recompense!” rejoined old Roger
Chillingworth, as he took his leave. “Yea, they are the current gold coin of the
New Jerusalem, with the King’s own mint mark on them!”
Left alone, the minister summoned a servant of the house, and requested food,
which, being set before him, he ate with ravenous appetite. Then flinging the
already written pages of the Election Sermon into the fire, he forthwith began
another, which he wrote with such an impulsive flow of thought and emotion,
that he fancied himself inspired; and only wondered that Heaven should see
fit to transmit the grand and solemn music of its oracles through so foul an
organ pipe as he. However, leaving that mystery to solve itself, or go
unsolved for ever, he drove his task onward with earnest haste and ecstasy.
Thus the night fled away, as if it were a winged steed, and he careering on it;
morning came, and peeped, blushing, through the curtains; and at last sunrise
threw a golden beam into the study, and laid it right across the minister’s
bedazzled eyes. There he was, with the pen still between his fingers, and a
vast, immeasurable tract of written space behind him!

XXI. THE NEW ENGLAND HOLIDAY

Betimes in the morning of the day on which the new Governor was to receive
his office at the hands of the people, Hester Prynne and little Pearl came into
the market-place. It was already thronged with the craftsmen and other
plebeian inhabitants of the town, in considerable numbers, among whom,
likewise, were many rough figures, whose attire of deer-skins marked them as
belonging to some of the forest settlements, which surrounded the little
metropolis of the colony.
On this public holiday, as on all other occasions for seven years past, Hester
was clad in a garment of coarse gray cloth. Not more by its hue than by some
indescribable peculiarity in its fashion, it had the effect of making her fade
personally out of sight and outline; while again the scarlet letter brought her
back from this twilight indistinctness, and revealed her under the moral aspect
of its own illumination. Her face, so long familiar to the townspeople, showed
the marble quietude which they were accustomed to behold there. It was like
a mask; or, rather like the frozen calmness of a dead woman’s features; owing
this dreary resemblance to the fact that Hester was actually dead, in respect to
any claim of sympathy, and had departed out of the world with which she still
seemed to mingle.
It might be, on this one day, that there was an expression unseen before, nor,
indeed, vivid enough to be detected now; unless some preternaturally gifted
observer should have first read the heart, and have afterwards sought a
corresponding development in the countenance and mien. Such a spiritual
seer might have conceived, that, after sustaining the gaze of the multitude
through several miserable years as a necessity, a penance, and something
which it was a stern religion to endure, she now, for one last time more,
encountered it freely and voluntarily, in order to convert what had so long
been agony into a kind of triumph. “Look your last on the scarlet letter and its
wearer!”—the people’s victim and lifelong bond-slave, as they fancied her,
might say to them. “Yet a little while, and she will be beyond your reach! A
few hours longer and the deep, mysterious ocean will quench and hide for
ever the symbol which ye have caused to burn on her bosom!” Nor were it an
inconsistency too improbable to be assigned to human nature, should we
suppose a feeling of regret in Hester’s mind, at the moment when she was
about to win her freedom from the pain which had been thus deeply
incorporated with her being. Might there not be an irresistible desire to quaff a
last, long, breathless draught of the cup of wormwood and aloes, with which
nearly all her years of womanhood had been perpetually flavoured. The wine
of life, henceforth to be presented to her lips, must be indeed rich, delicious,
and exhilarating, in its chased and golden beaker, or else leave an inevitable
and weary languor, after the lees of bitterness wherewith she had been
drugged, as with a cordial of intensest potency.
Pearl was decked out with airy gaiety. It would have been impossible to guess
that this bright and sunny apparition owed its existence to the shape of
gloomy gray; or that a fancy, at once so gorgeous and so delicate as must have
been requisite to contrive the child’s apparel, was the same that had achieved
a task perhaps more difficult, in imparting so distinct a peculiarity to Hester’s
simple robe. The dress, so proper was it to little Pearl, seemed an effluence, or
inevitable development and outward manifestation of her character, no more
to be separated from her than the many-hued brilliancy from a butterfly’s
wing, or the painted glory from the leaf of a bright flower. As with these, so
with the child; her garb was all of one idea with her nature. On this eventful
day, moreover, there was a certain singular inquietude and excitement in her
mood, resembling nothing so much as the shimmer of a diamond, that
sparkles and flashes with the varied throbbings of the breast on which it is
displayed. Children have always a sympathy in the agitations of those
connected with them: always, especially, a sense of any trouble or impending
revolution, of whatever kind, in domestic circumstances; and therefore Pearl,
who was the gem on her mother’s unquiet bosom, betrayed, by the very dance
of her spirits, the emotions which none could detect in the marble passiveness
of Hester’s brow.
This effervescence made her flit with a bird-like movement, rather than walk
by her mother’s side.
She broke continually into shouts of a wild, inarticulate, and sometimes
piercing music. When they reached the market-place, she became still more
restless, on perceiving the stir and bustle that enlivened the spot; for it was
usually more like the broad and lonesome green before a village meeting-
house, than the centre of a town’s business.
“Why, what is this, mother?” cried she. “Wherefore have all the people left
their work to-day? Is it a play-day for the whole world? See, there is the
blacksmith! He has washed his sooty face, and put on his Sabbath-day
clothes, and looks as if he would gladly be merry, if any kind body would
only teach him how! And there is Master Brackett, the old jailer, nodding and
smiling at me. Why does he do so, mother?”
“He remembers thee a little babe, my child,” answered Hester.
“He should not nod and smile at me, for all that—the black, grim, ugly-eyed
old man!” said Pearl. “He may nod at thee, if he will; for thou art clad in gray,
and wearest the scarlet letter. But see, mother, how many faces of strange
people, and Indians among them, and sailors! What have they all come to do,
here in the market-place?”
“They wait to see the procession pass,” said Hester. “For the Governor and
the magistrates are to go by, and the ministers, and all the great people and
good people, with the music and the soldiers marching before them.”
“And will the minister be there?” asked Pearl. “And will he hold out both his
hands to me, as when thou ledst me to him from the brook-side?”
“He will be there, child,” answered her mother, “but he will not greet thee to-
day, nor must thou greet him.”
“What a strange, sad man is he!” said the child, as if speaking partly to
herself. “In the dark nighttime he calls us to him, and holds thy hand and
mine, as when we stood with him on the scaffold yonder! And in the deep
forest, where only the old trees can hear, and the strip of sky see it, he talks
with thee, sitting on a heap of moss! And he kisses my forehead, too, so that
the little brook would hardly wash it off! But, here, in the sunny day, and
among all the people, he knows us not; nor must we know him! A strange, sad
man is he, with his hand always over his heart!”
“Be quiet, Pearl—thou understandest not these things,” said her mother.
“Think not now of the minister, but look about thee, and see how cheery is
everybody’s face to-day. The children have come from their schools, and the
grown people from their workshops and their fields, on purpose to be happy,
for, to-day, a new man is beginning to rule over them; and so—as has been
the custom of mankind ever since a nation was first gathered—they make
merry and rejoice: as if a good and golden year were at length to pass over the
poor old world!”
It was as Hester said, in regard to the unwonted jollity that brightened the
faces of the people. Into this festal season of the year—as it already was, and
continued to be during the greater part of two centuries—the Puritans
compressed whatever mirth and public joy they deemed allowable to human
infirmity; thereby so far dispelling the customary cloud, that, for the space of
a single holiday, they appeared scarcely more grave than most other
communities at a period of general affliction.
But we perhaps exaggerate the gray or sable tinge, which undoubtedly
characterized the mood and manners of the age. The persons now in the
market-place of Boston had not been born to an inheritance of Puritanic
gloom. They were native Englishmen, whose fathers had lived in the sunny
richness of the Elizabethan epoch; a time when the life of England, viewed as
one great mass, would appear to have been as stately, magnificent, and
joyous, as the world has ever witnessed. Had they followed their hereditary
taste, the New England settlers would have illustrated all events of public
importance by bonfires, banquets, pageantries, and processions. Nor would it
have been impracticable, in the observance of majestic ceremonies, to
combine mirthful recreation with solemnity, and give, as it were, a grotesque
and brilliant embroidery to the great robe of state, which a nation, at such
festivals, puts on. There was some shadow of an attempt of this kind in the
mode of celebrating the day on which the political year of the colony
commenced. The dim reflection of a remembered splendour, a colourless and
manifold diluted repetition of what they had beheld in proud old London—we
will not say at a royal coronation, but at a Lord Mayor’s show—might be
traced in the customs which our forefathers instituted, with reference to the
annual installation of magistrates. The fathers and founders of the
commonwealth—the statesman, the priest, and the soldier—seemed it a duty
then to assume the outward state and majesty, which, in accordance with
antique style, was looked upon as the proper garb of public and social
eminence. All came forth to move in procession before the people’s eye, and
thus impart a needed dignity to the simple framework of a government so
newly constructed.
Then, too, the people were countenanced, if not encouraged, in relaxing the
severe and close application to their various modes of rugged industry, which
at all other times, seemed of the same piece and material with their religion.
Here, it is true, were none of the appliances which popular merriment would
so readily have found in the England of Elizabeth’s time, or that of James—
no rude shows of a theatrical kind; no minstrel, with his harp and legendary
ballad, nor gleeman with an ape dancing to his music; no juggler, with his
tricks of mimic witchcraft; no Merry Andrew, to stir up the multitude with
jests, perhaps a hundred years old, but still effective, by their appeals to the
very broadest sources of mirthful sympathy. All such professors of the several
branches of jocularity would have been sternly repressed, not only by the
rigid discipline of law, but by the general sentiment which give law its
vitality. Not the less, however, the great, honest face of the people smiled—
grimly, perhaps, but widely too. Nor were sports wanting, such as the
colonists had witnessed, and shared in, long ago, at the country fairs and on
the village-greens of England; and which it was thought well to keep alive on
this new soil, for the sake of the courage and manliness that were essential in
them. Wrestling matches, in the different fashions of Cornwall and
Devonshire, were seen here and there about the market-place; in one corner,
there was a friendly bout at quarterstaff; and—what attracted most interest of
all—on the platform of the pillory, already so noted in our pages, two masters
of defence were commencing an exhibition with the buckler and broadsword.
But, much to the disappointment of the crowd, this latter business was broken
off by the interposition of the town beadle, who had no idea of permitting the
majesty of the law to be violated by such an abuse of one of its consecrated
places.
It may not be too much to affirm, on the whole, (the people being then in the
first stages of joyless deportment, and the offspring of sires who had known
how to be merry, in their day), that they would compare favourably, in point
of holiday keeping, with their descendants, even at so long an interval as
ourselves. Their immediate posterity, the generation next to the early
emigrants, wore the blackest shade of Puritanism, and so darkened the
national visage with it, that all the subsequent years have not sufficed to clear
it up. We have yet to learn again the forgotten art of gaiety.
The picture of human life in the market-place, though its general tint was the
sad gray, brown, or black of the English emigrants, was yet enlivened by
some diversity of hue. A party of Indians—in their savage finery of curiously
embroidered deerskin robes, wampum-belts, red and yellow ochre, and
feathers, and armed with the bow and arrow and stone-headed spear—stood
apart with countenances of inflexible gravity, beyond what even the Puritan
aspect could attain. Nor, wild as were these painted barbarians, were they the
wildest feature of the scene. This distinction could more justly be claimed by
some mariners—a part of the crew of the vessel from the Spanish Main—who
had come ashore to see the humours of Election Day. They were rough-
looking desperadoes, with sun-blackened faces, and an immensity of beard;
their wide short trousers were confined about the waist by belts, often clasped
with a rough plate of gold, and sustaining always a long knife, and in some
instances, a sword. From beneath their broad-brimmed hats of palm-leaf,
gleamed eyes which, even in good-nature and merriment, had a kind of
animal ferocity. They transgressed without fear or scruple, the rules of
behaviour that were binding on all others: smoking tobacco under the beadle’s
very nose, although each whiff would have cost a townsman a shilling; and
quaffing at their pleasure, draughts of wine or aqua-vitae from pocket flasks,
which they freely tendered to the gaping crowd around them. It remarkably
characterised the incomplete morality of the age, rigid as we call it, that a
licence was allowed the seafaring class, not merely for their freaks on shore,
but for far more desperate deeds on their proper element. The sailor of that
day would go near to be arraigned as a pirate in our own. There could be little
doubt, for instance, that this very ship’s crew, though no unfavourable
specimens of the nautical brotherhood, had been guilty, as we should phrase
it, of depredations on the Spanish commerce, such as would have perilled all
their necks in a modern court of justice.
But the sea in those old times heaved, swelled, and foamed very much at its
own will, or subject only to the tempestuous wind, with hardly any attempts at
regulation by human law. The buccaneer on the wave might relinquish his
calling and become at once if he chose, a man of probity and piety on land;
nor, even in the full career of his reckless life, was he regarded as a personage
with whom it was disreputable to traffic or casually associate. Thus the
Puritan elders in their black cloaks, starched bands, and steeple-crowned hats,
smiled not unbenignantly at the clamour and rude deportment of these jolly
seafaring men; and it excited neither surprise nor animadversion when so
reputable a citizen as old Roger Chillingworth, the physician, was seen to
enter the market-place in close and familiar talk with the commander of the
questionable vessel.
The latter was by far the most showy and gallant figure, so far as apparel
went, anywhere to be seen among the multitude. He wore a profusion of
ribbons on his garment, and gold lace on his hat, which was also encircled by
a gold chain, and surmounted with a feather. There was a sword at his side
and a sword-cut on his forehead, which, by the arrangement of his hair, he
seemed anxious rather to display than hide. A landsman could hardly have
worn this garb and shown this face, and worn and shown them both with such
a galliard air, without undergoing stern question before a magistrate, and
probably incurring a fine or imprisonment, or perhaps an exhibition in the
stocks. As regarded the shipmaster, however, all was looked upon as
pertaining to the character, as to a fish his glistening scales.
After parting from the physician, the commander of the Bristol ship strolled
idly through the market-place; until happening to approach the spot where
Hester Prynne was standing, he appeared to recognise, and did not hesitate to
address her. As was usually the case wherever Hester stood, a small vacant
area—a sort of magic circle—had formed itself about her, into which, though
the people were elbowing one another at a little distance, none ventured or
felt disposed to intrude. It was a forcible type of the moral solitude in which
the scarlet letter enveloped its fated wearer; partly by her own reserve, and
partly by the instinctive, though no longer so unkindly, withdrawal of her
fellow-creatures. Now, if never before, it answered a good purpose by
enabling Hester and the seaman to speak together without risk of being
overheard; and so changed was Hester Prynne’s repute before the public, that
the matron in town, most eminent for rigid morality, could not have held such
intercourse with less result of scandal than herself.
“So, mistress,” said the mariner, “I must bid the steward make ready one more
berth than you bargained for! No fear of scurvy or ship fever this voyage.
What with the ship’s surgeon and this other doctor, our only danger will be
from drug or pill; more by token, as there is a lot of apothecary’s stuff aboard,
which I traded for with a Spanish vessel.”
“What mean you?” inquired Hester, startled more than she permitted to
appear. “Have you another passenger?”
“Why, know you not,” cried the shipmaster, “that this physician here—
Chillingworth he calls himself—is minded to try my cabin-fare with you? Ay,
ay, you must have known it; for he tells me he is of your party, and a close
friend to the gentleman you spoke of—he that is in peril from these sour old
Puritan rulers.”
“They know each other well, indeed,” replied Hester, with a mien of
calmness, though in the utmost consternation. “They have long dwelt
together.”
Nothing further passed between the mariner and Hester Prynne. But at that
instant she beheld old Roger Chillingworth himself, standing in the remotest
corner of the market-place and smiling on her; a smile which—across the
wide and bustling square, and through all the talk and laughter, and various
thoughts, moods, and interests of the crowd—conveyed secret and fearful
meaning.
XXII. THE PROCESSION
Before Hester Prynne could call together her thoughts, and consider what was
practicable to be done in this new and startling aspect of affairs, the sound of
military music was heard approaching along a contiguous street. It denoted
the advance of the procession of magistrates and citizens on its way towards
the meeting-house: where, in compliance with a custom thus early
established, and ever since observed, the Reverend Mr. Dimmesdale was to
deliver an Election Sermon.
Soon the head of the procession showed itself, with a slow and stately march,
turning a corner, and making its way across the market-place. First came the
music. It comprised a variety of instruments, perhaps imperfectly adapted to
one another, and played with no great skill; but yet attaining the great object
for which the harmony of drum and clarion addresses itself to the multitude—
that of imparting a higher and more heroic air to the scene of life that passes
before the eye. Little Pearl at first clapped her hands, but then lost for an
instant the restless agitation that had kept her in a continual effervescence
throughout the morning; she gazed silently, and seemed to be borne upward
like a floating sea-bird on the long heaves and swells of sound. But she was
brought back to her former mood by the shimmer of the sunshine on the
weapons and bright armour of the military company, which followed after the
music, and formed the honorary escort of the procession. This body of
soldiery—which still sustains a corporate existence, and marches down from
past ages with an ancient and honourable fame—was composed of no
mercenary materials. Its ranks were filled with gentlemen who felt the
stirrings of martial impulse, and sought to establish a kind of College of
Arms, where, as in an association of Knights Templars, they might learn the
science, and, so far as peaceful exercise would teach them, the practices of
war. The high estimation then placed upon the military character might be
seen in the lofty port of each individual member of the company. Some of
them, indeed, by their services in the Low Countries and on other fields of
European warfare, had fairly won their title to assume the name and pomp of
soldiership. The entire array, moreover, clad in burnished steel, and with
plumage nodding over their bright morions, had a brilliancy of effect which
no modern display can aspire to equal.
And yet the men of civil eminence, who came immediately behind the
military escort, were better worth a thoughtful observer’s eye. Even in
outward demeanour they showed a stamp of majesty that made the warrior’s
haughty stride look vulgar, if not absurd. It was an age when what we call
talent had far less consideration than now, but the massive materials which
produce stability and dignity of character a great deal more. The people
possessed by hereditary right the quality of reverence, which, in their
descendants, if it survive at all, exists in smaller proportion, and with a vastly
diminished force in the selection and estimate of public men. The change may
be for good or ill, and is partly, perhaps, for both. In that old day the English
settler on these rude shores—having left king, nobles, and all degrees of
awful rank behind, while still the faculty and necessity of reverence was
strong in him—bestowed it on the white hair and venerable brow of age—on
long-tried integrity—on solid wisdom and sad-coloured experience—on
endowments of that grave and weighty order which gave the idea of
permanence, and comes under the general definition of respectability. These
primitive statesmen, therefore—Bradstreet, Endicott, Dudley, Bellingham,
and their compeers—who were elevated to power by the early choice of the
people, seem to have been not often brilliant, but distinguished by a
ponderous sobriety, rather than activity of intellect. They had fortitude and
self-reliance, and in time of difficulty or peril stood up for the welfare of the
state like a line of cliffs against a tempestuous tide. The traits of character
here indicated were well represented in the square cast of countenance and
large physical development of the new colonial magistrates. So far as a
demeanour of natural authority was concerned, the mother country need not
have been ashamed to see these foremost men of an actual democracy
adopted into the House of Peers, or make the Privy Council of the Sovereign.
Next in order to the magistrates came the young and eminently distinguished
divine, from whose lips the religious discourse of the anniversary was
expected. His was the profession at that era in which intellectual ability
displayed itself far more than in political life; for—leaving a higher motive
out of the question it offered inducements powerful enough in the almost
worshipping respect of the community, to win the most aspiring ambition into
its service. Even political power—as in the case of Increase Mather—was
within the grasp of a successful priest.
It was the observation of those who beheld him now, that never, since Mr.
Dimmesdale first set his foot on the New England shore, had he exhibited
such energy as was seen in the gait and air with which he kept his pace in the
procession. There was no feebleness of step as at other times; his frame was
not bent, nor did his hand rest ominously upon his heart. Yet, if the clergyman
were rightly viewed, his strength seemed not of the body. It might be spiritual
and imparted to him by angelical ministrations. It might be the exhilaration of
that potent cordial which is distilled only in the furnace-glow of earnest and
long-continued thought. Or perchance his sensitive temperament was
invigorated by the loud and piercing music that swelled heaven-ward, and
uplifted him on its ascending wave. Nevertheless, so abstracted was his look,
it might be questioned whether Mr. Dimmesdale even heard the music. There
was his body, moving onward, and with an unaccustomed force. But where
was his mind? Far and deep in its own region, busying itself, with
preternatural activity, to marshal a procession of stately thoughts that were
soon to issue thence; and so he saw nothing, heard nothing, knew nothing of
what was around him; but the spiritual element took up the feeble frame and
carried it along, unconscious of the burden, and converting it to spirit like
itself. Men of uncommon intellect, who have grown morbid, possess this
occasional power of mighty effort, into which they throw the life of many
days and then are lifeless for as many more.
Hester Prynne, gazing steadfastly at the clergyman, felt a dreary influence
come over her, but wherefore or whence she knew not, unless that he seemed
so remote from her own sphere, and utterly beyond her reach. One glance of
recognition she had imagined must needs pass between them. She thought of
the dim forest, with its little dell of solitude, and love, and anguish, and the
mossy tree-trunk, where, sitting hand-in-hand, they had mingled their sad and
passionate talk with the melancholy murmur of the brook. How deeply had
they known each other then! And was this the man? She hardly knew him
now! He, moving proudly past, enveloped as it were, in the rich music, with
the procession of majestic and venerable fathers; he, so unattainable in his
worldly position, and still more so in that far vista of his unsympathizing
thoughts, through which she now beheld him! Her spirit sank with the idea
that all must have been a delusion, and that, vividly as she had dreamed it,
there could be no real bond betwixt the clergyman and herself. And thus
much of woman was there in Hester, that she could scarcely forgive him—
least of all now, when the heavy footstep of their approaching Fate might be
heard, nearer, nearer, nearer!—for being able so completely to withdraw
himself from their mutual world—while she groped darkly, and stretched
forth her cold hands, and found him not.
Pearl either saw and responded to her mother’s feelings, or herself felt the
remoteness and intangibility that had fallen around the minister. While the
procession passed, the child was uneasy, fluttering up and down, like a bird
on the point of taking flight. When the whole had gone by, she looked up into
Hester’s face—
“Mother,” said she, “was that the same minister that kissed me by the brook?”
“Hold thy peace, dear little Pearl!” whispered her mother. “We must not
always talk in the marketplace of what happens to us in the forest.”
“I could not be sure that it was he—so strange he looked,” continued the
child. “Else I would have run to him, and bid him kiss me now, before all the
people, even as he did yonder among the dark old trees. What would the
minister have said, mother? Would he have clapped his hand over his heart,
and scowled on me, and bid me begone?”
“What should he say, Pearl,” answered Hester, “save that it was no time to
kiss, and that kisses are not to be given in the market-place? Well for thee,
foolish child, that thou didst not speak to him!”
Another shade of the same sentiment, in reference to Mr. Dimmesdale, was
expressed by a person whose eccentricities—insanity, as we should term it—
led her to do what few of the townspeople would have ventured on—to begin
a conversation with the wearer of the scarlet letter in public. It was Mistress
Hibbins, who, arrayed in great magnificence, with a triple ruff, a broidered
stomacher, a gown of rich velvet, and a gold-headed cane, had come forth to
see the procession. As this ancient lady had the renown (which subsequently
cost her no less a price than her life) of being a principal actor in all the works
of necromancy that were continually going forward, the crowd gave way
before her, and seemed to fear the touch of her garment, as if it carried the
plague among its gorgeous folds. Seen in conjunction with Hester Prynne—
kindly as so many now felt towards the latter—the dread inspired by Mistress
Hibbins had doubled, and caused a general movement from that part of the
market-place in which the two women stood.
“Now, what mortal imagination could conceive it?” whispered the old lady
confidentially to Hester. “Yonder divine man! That saint on earth, as the
people uphold him to be, and as—I must needs say—he really looks! Who,
now, that saw him pass in the procession, would think how little while it is
since he went forth out of his study—chewing a Hebrew text of Scripture in
his mouth, I warrant—to take an airing in the forest! Aha! we know what that
means, Hester Prynne! But truly, forsooth, I find it hard to believe him the
same man. Many a church member saw I, walking behind the music, that has
danced in the same measure with me, when Somebody was fiddler, and, it
might be, an Indian powwow or a Lapland wizard changing hands with us!
That is but a trifle, when a woman knows the world. But this minister. Couldst
thou surely tell, Hester, whether he was the same man that encountered thee
on the forest path?”
“Madam, I know not of what you speak,” answered Hester Prynne, feeling
Mistress Hibbins to be of infirm mind; yet strangely startled and awe-stricken
by the confidence with which she affirmed a personal connexion between so
many persons (herself among them) and the Evil One. “It is not for me to talk
lightly of a learned and pious minister of the Word, like the Reverend Mr.
Dimmesdale.”
“Fie, woman—fie!” cried the old lady, shaking her finger at Hester. “Dost
thou think I have been to the forest so many times, and have yet no skill to
judge who else has been there? Yea, though no leaf of the wild garlands
which they wore while they danced be left in their hair! I know thee, Hester,
for I behold the token. We may all see it in the sunshine! and it glows like a
red flame in the dark. Thou wearest it openly, so there need be no question
about that. But this minister! Let me tell thee in thine ear! When the Black
Man sees one of his own servants, signed and sealed, so shy of owning to the
bond as is the Reverend Mr. Dimmesdale, he hath a way of ordering matters
so that the mark shall be disclosed, in open daylight, to the eyes of all the
world! What is that the minister seeks to hide, with his hand always over his
heart? Ha, Hester Prynne?”
“What is it, good Mistress Hibbins?” eagerly asked little Pearl.
“Hast thou seen it?”
“No matter, darling!” responded Mistress Hibbins, making Pearl a profound
reverence. “Thou thyself wilt see it, one time or another. They say, child, thou
art of the lineage of the Prince of Air! Wilt thou ride with me some fine night
to see thy father? Then thou shalt know wherefore the minister keeps his hand
over his heart!”
Laughing so shrilly that all the market-place could hear her, the weird old
gentlewoman took her departure.
By this time the preliminary prayer had been offered in the meeting-house,
and the accents of the Reverend Mr. Dimmesdale were heard commencing his
discourse. An irresistible feeling kept Hester near the spot. As the sacred
edifice was too much thronged to admit another auditor, she took up her
position close beside the scaffold of the pillory. It was in sufficient proximity
to bring the whole sermon to her ears, in the shape of an indistinct but varied
murmur and flow of the minister’s very peculiar voice.
This vocal organ was in itself a rich endowment, insomuch that a listener,
comprehending nothing of the language in which the preacher spoke, might
still have been swayed to and fro by the mere tone and cadence. Like all other
music, it breathed passion and pathos, and emotions high or tender, in a
tongue native to the human heart, wherever educated. Muffled as the sound
was by its passage through the church walls, Hester Prynne listened with such
intenseness, and sympathized so intimately, that the sermon had throughout a
meaning for her, entirely apart from its indistinguishable words. These,
perhaps, if more distinctly heard, might have been only a grosser medium,
and have clogged the spiritual sense. Now she caught the low undertone, as of
the wind sinking down to repose itself; then ascended with it, as it rose
through progressive gradations of sweetness and power, until its volume
seemed to envelop her with an atmosphere of awe and solemn grandeur. And
yet, majestic as the voice sometimes became, there was for ever in it an
essential character of plaintiveness. A loud or low expression of anguish—the
whisper, or the shriek, as it might be conceived, of suffering humanity, that
touched a sensibility in every bosom! At times this deep strain of pathos was
all that could be heard, and scarcely heard sighing amid a desolate silence.
But even when the minister’s voice grew high and commanding—when it
gushed irrepressibly upward—when it assumed its utmost breadth and power,
so overfilling the church as to burst its way through the solid walls, and
diffuse itself in the open air—still, if the auditor listened intently, and for the
purpose, he could detect the same cry of pain. What was it? The complaint of
a human heart, sorrow-laden, perchance guilty, telling its secret, whether of
guilt or sorrow, to the great heart of mankind; beseeching its sympathy or
forgiveness,—at every moment,—in each accent,—and never in vain! It was
this profound and continual undertone that gave the clergyman his most
appropriate power.
During all this time, Hester stood, statue-like, at the foot of the scaffold. If the
minister’s voice had not kept her there, there would, nevertheless, have been
an inevitable magnetism in that spot, whence she dated the first hour of her
life of ignominy. There was a sense within her—too ill-defined to be made a
thought, but weighing heavily on her mind—that her whole orb of life, both
before and after, was connected with this spot, as with the one point that gave
it unity.
Little Pearl, meanwhile, had quitted her mother’s side, and was playing at her
own will about the market-place. She made the sombre crowd cheerful by her
erratic and glistening ray, even as a bird of bright plumage illuminates a
whole tree of dusky foliage by darting to and fro, half seen and half concealed
amid the twilight of the clustering leaves. She had an undulating, but
oftentimes a sharp and irregular movement. It indicated the restless vivacity
of her spirit, which to-day was doubly indefatigable in its tip-toe dance,
because it was played upon and vibrated with her mother’s disquietude.
Whenever Pearl saw anything to excite her ever active and wandering
curiosity, she flew thitherward, and, as we might say, seized upon that man or
thing as her own property, so far as she desired it, but without yielding the
minutest degree of control over her motions in requital. The Puritans looked
on, and, if they smiled, were none the less inclined to pronounce the child a
demon offspring, from the indescribable charm of beauty and eccentricity that
shone through her little figure, and sparkled with its activity. She ran and
looked the wild Indian in the face, and he grew conscious of a nature wilder
than his own. Thence, with native audacity, but still with a reserve as
characteristic, she flew into the midst of a group of mariners, the swarthy-
cheeked wild men of the ocean, as the Indians were of the land; and they
gazed wonderingly and admiringly at Pearl, as if a flake of the sea-foam had
taken the shape of a little maid, and were gifted with a soul of the sea-fire,
that flashes beneath the prow in the night-time.
One of these seafaring men the shipmaster, indeed, who had spoken to Hester
Prynne was so smitten with Pearl’s aspect, that he attempted to lay hands
upon her, with purpose to snatch a kiss. Finding it as impossible to touch her
as to catch a humming-bird in the air, he took from his hat the gold chain that
was twisted about it, and threw it to the child. Pearl immediately twined it
around her neck and waist with such happy skill, that, once seen there, it
became a part of her, and it was difficult to imagine her without it.
“Thy mother is yonder woman with the scarlet letter,” said the seaman, “Wilt
thou carry her a message from me?”
“If the message pleases me, I will,” answered Pearl.
“Then tell her,” rejoined he, “that I spake again with the black-a-visaged,
hump shouldered old doctor, and he engages to bring his friend, the
gentleman she wots of, aboard with him. So let thy mother take no thought,
save for herself and thee. Wilt thou tell her this, thou witch-baby?”
“Mistress Hibbins says my father is the Prince of the Air!” cried Pearl, with a
naughty smile. “If thou callest me that ill-name, I shall tell him of thee, and he
will chase thy ship with a tempest!”
Pursuing a zigzag course across the marketplace, the child returned to her
mother, and communicated what the mariner had said. Hester’s strong, calm
steadfastly-enduring spirit almost sank, at last, on beholding this dark and
grim countenance of an inevitable doom, which at the moment when a
passage seemed to open for the minister and herself out of their labyrinth of
misery—showed itself with an unrelenting smile, right in the midst of their
path.
With her mind harassed by the terrible perplexity in which the shipmaster’s
intelligence involved her, she was also subjected to another trial. There were
many people present from the country round about, who had often heard of
the scarlet letter, and to whom it had been made terrific by a hundred false or
exaggerated rumours, but who had never beheld it with their own bodily eyes.
These, after exhausting other modes of amusement, now thronged about
Hester Prynne with rude and boorish intrusiveness. Unscrupulous as it was,
however, it could not bring them nearer than a circuit of several yards. At that
distance they accordingly stood, fixed there by the centrifugal force of the
repugnance which the mystic symbol inspired. The whole gang of sailors,
likewise, observing the press of spectators, and learning the purport of the
scarlet letter, came and thrust their sunburnt and desperado-looking faces into
the ring. Even the Indians were affected by a sort of cold shadow of the white
man’s curiosity and, gliding through the crowd, fastened their snake-like
black eyes on Hester’s bosom, conceiving, perhaps, that the wearer of this
brilliantly embroidered badge must needs be a personage of high dignity
among her people. Lastly, the inhabitants of the town (their own interest in
this worn-out subject languidly reviving itself, by sympathy with what they
saw others feel) lounged idly to the same quarter, and tormented Hester
Prynne, perhaps more than all the rest, with their cool, well-acquainted gaze
at her familiar shame. Hester saw and recognized the selfsame faces of that
group of matrons, who had awaited her forthcoming from the prison-door
seven years ago; all save one, the youngest and only compassionate among
them, whose burial-robe she had since made. At the final hour, when she was
so soon to fling aside the burning letter, it had strangely become the centre of
more remark and excitement, and was thus made to sear her breast more
painfully, than at any time since the first day she put it on.
While Hester stood in that magic circle of ignominy, where the cunning
cruelty of her sentence seemed to have fixed her for ever, the admirable
preacher was looking down from the sacred pulpit upon an audience whose
very inmost spirits had yielded to his control. The sainted minister in the
church! The woman of the scarlet letter in the marketplace! What imagination
would have been irreverent enough to surmise that the same scorching stigma
was on them both!

XXIII. THE REVELATION OF THE SCARLET LETTER

The eloquent voice, on which the souls of the listening audience had been
borne aloft as on the swelling waves of the sea, at length came to a pause.
There was a momentary silence, profound as what should follow the utterance
of oracles. Then ensued a murmur and half-hushed tumult, as if the auditors,
released from the high spell that had transported them into the region of
another’s mind, were returning into themselves, with all their awe and wonder
still heavy on them. In a moment more the crowd began to gush forth from
the doors of the church. Now that there was an end, they needed more breath,
more fit to support the gross and earthly life into which they relapsed, than
that atmosphere which the preacher had converted into words of flame, and
had burdened with the rich fragrance of his thought.
In the open air their rapture broke into speech. The street and the market-
place absolutely babbled, from side to side, with applauses of the minister.
His hearers could not rest until they had told one another of what each knew
better than he could tell or hear.
According to their united testimony, never had man spoken in so wise, so
high, and so holy a spirit, as he that spake this day; nor had inspiration ever
breathed through mortal lips more evidently than it did through his. Its
influence could be seen, as it were, descending upon him, and possessing him,
and continually lifting him out of the written discourse that lay before him,
and filling him with ideas that must have been as marvellous to himself as to
his audience. His subject, it appeared, had been the relation between the Deity
and the communities of mankind, with a special reference to the New England
which they were here planting in the wilderness. And, as he drew towards the
close, a spirit as of prophecy had come upon him, constraining him to its
purpose as mightily as the old prophets of Israel were constrained, only with
this difference, that, whereas the Jewish seers had denounced judgments and
ruin on their country, it was his mission to foretell a high and glorious destiny
for the newly gathered people of the Lord. But, throughout it all, and through
the whole discourse, there had been a certain deep, sad undertone of pathos,
which could not be interpreted otherwise than as the natural regret of one
soon to pass away. Yes; their minister whom they so loved—and who so
loved them all, that he could not depart heavenward without a sigh—had the
foreboding of untimely death upon him, and would soon leave them in their
tears. This idea of his transitory stay on earth gave the last emphasis to the
effect which the preacher had produced; it was as if an angel, in his passage to
the skies, had shaken his bright wings over the people for an instant—at once
a shadow and a splendour—and had shed down a shower of golden truths
upon them.
Thus, there had come to the Reverend Mr. Dimmesdale—as to most men, in
their various spheres, though seldom recognised until they see it far behind
them—an epoch of life more brilliant and full of triumph than any previous
one, or than any which could hereafter be. He stood, at this moment, on the
very proudest eminence of superiority, to which the gifts or intellect, rich lore,
prevailing eloquence, and a reputation of whitest sanctity, could exalt a
clergyman in New England’s earliest days, when the professional character
was of itself a lofty pedestal. Such was the position which the minister
occupied, as he bowed his head forward on the cushions of the pulpit at the
close of his Election Sermon. Meanwhile Hester Prynne was standing beside
the scaffold of the pillory, with the scarlet letter still burning on her breast!
Now was heard again the clamour of the music, and the measured tramp of
the military escort issuing from the church door. The procession was to be
marshalled thence to the town hall, where a solemn banquet would complete
the ceremonies of the day.
Once more, therefore, the train of venerable and majestic fathers were seen
moving through a broad pathway of the people, who drew back reverently, on
either side, as the Governor and magistrates, the old and wise men, the holy
ministers, and all that were eminent and renowned, advanced into the midst of
them. When they were fairly in the marketplace, their presence was greeted
by a shout. This—though doubtless it might acquire additional force and
volume from the child-like loyalty which the age awarded to its rulers—was
felt to be an irrepressible outburst of enthusiasm kindled in the auditors by
that high strain of eloquence which was yet reverberating in their ears. Each
felt the impulse in himself, and in the same breath, caught it from his
neighbour. Within the church, it had hardly been kept down; beneath the sky
it pealed upward to the zenith. There were human beings enough, and enough
of highly wrought and symphonious feeling to produce that more impressive
sound than the organ tones of the blast, or the thunder, or the roar of the sea;
even that mighty swell of many voices, blended into one great voice by the
universal impulse which makes likewise one vast heart out of the many.
Never, from the soil of New England had gone up such a shout! Never, on
New England soil had stood the man so honoured by his mortal brethren as
the preacher!
How fared it with him, then? Were there not the brilliant particles of a halo in
the air about his head? So etherealised by spirit as he was, and so
apotheosised by worshipping admirers, did his footsteps, in the procession,
really tread upon the dust of earth?
As the ranks of military men and civil fathers moved onward, all eyes were
turned towards the point where the minister was seen to approach among
them. The shout died into a murmur, as one portion of the crowd after another
obtained a glimpse of him. How feeble and pale he looked, amid all his
triumph! The energy—or say, rather, the inspiration which had held him up,
until he should have delivered the sacred message that had brought its own
strength along with it from heaven—was withdrawn, now that it had so
faithfully performed its office. The glow, which they had just before beheld
burning on his cheek, was extinguished, like a flame that sinks down
hopelessly among the late decaying embers. It seemed hardly the face of a
man alive, with such a death-like hue: it was hardly a man with life in him,
that tottered on his path so nervously, yet tottered, and did not fall!
One of his clerical brethren—it was the venerable John Wilson—observing
the state in which Mr. Dimmesdale was left by the retiring wave of intellect
and sensibility, stepped forward hastily to offer his support. The minister
tremulously, but decidedly, repelled the old man’s arm. He still walked
onward, if that movement could be so described, which rather resembled the
wavering effort of an infant, with its mother’s arms in view, outstretched to
tempt him forward. And now, almost imperceptible as were the latter steps of
his progress, he had come opposite the well-remembered and weather-
darkened scaffold, where, long since, with all that dreary lapse of time
between, Hester Prynne had encountered the world’s ignominious stare. There
stood Hester, holding little Pearl by the hand! And there was the scarlet letter
on her breast! The minister here made a pause; although the music still played
the stately and rejoicing march to which the procession moved. It summoned
him onward—inward to the festival!—but here he made a pause.
Bellingham, for the last few moments, had kept an anxious eye upon him. He
now left his own place in the procession, and advanced to give assistance
judging, from Mr. Dimmesdale’s aspect that he must otherwise inevitably fall.
But there was something in the latter’s expression that warned back the
magistrate, although a man not readily obeying the vague intimations that
pass from one spirit to another. The crowd, meanwhile, looked on with awe
and wonder. This earthly faintness, was, in their view, only another phase of
the minister’s celestial strength; nor would it have seemed a miracle too high
to be wrought for one so holy, had he ascended before their eyes, waxing
dimmer and brighter, and fading at last into the light of heaven!
He turned towards the scaffold, and stretched forth his arms.
“Hester,” said he, “come hither! Come, my little Pearl!”
It was a ghastly look with which he regarded them; but there was something
at once tender and strangely triumphant in it. The child, with the bird-like
motion, which was one of her characteristics, flew to him, and clasped her
arms about his knees. Hester Prynne—slowly, as if impelled by inevitable
fate, and against her strongest will—likewise drew near, but paused before
she reached him. At this instant old Roger Chillingworth thrust himself
through the crowd—or, perhaps, so dark, disturbed, and evil was his look, he
rose up out of some nether region—to snatch back his victim from what he
sought to do! Be that as it might, the old man rushed forward, and caught the
minister by the arm.
“Madman, hold! what is your purpose?” whispered he. “Wave back that
woman! Cast off this child! All shall be well! Do not blacken your fame, and
perish in dishonour! I can yet save you! Would you bring infamy on your
sacred profession?”
“Ha, tempter! Methinks thou art too late!” answered the minister,
encountering his eye, fearfully, but firmly. “Thy power is not what it was!
With God’s help, I shall escape thee now!”
He again extended his hand to the woman of the scarlet letter.
“Hester Prynne,” cried he, with a piercing earnestness, “in the name of Him,
so terrible and so merciful, who gives me grace, at this last moment, to do
what—for my own heavy sin and miserable agony—I withheld myself from
doing seven years ago, come hither now, and twine thy strength about me!
Thy strength, Hester; but let it be guided by the will which God hath granted
me! This wretched and wronged old man is opposing it with all his might!—
with all his own might, and the fiend’s! Come, Hester—come! Support me up
yonder scaffold.”
The crowd was in a tumult. The men of rank and dignity, who stood more
immediately around the clergyman, were so taken by surprise, and so
perplexed as to the purport of what they saw—unable to receive the
explanation which most readily presented itself, or to imagine any other—that
they remained silent and inactive spectators of the judgement which
Providence seemed about to work. They beheld the minister, leaning on
Hester’s shoulder, and supported by her arm around him, approach the
scaffold, and ascend its steps; while still the little hand of the sin-born child
was clasped in his. Old Roger Chillingworth followed, as one intimately
connected with the drama of guilt and sorrow in which they had all been
actors, and well entitled, therefore to be present at its closing scene.
“Hadst thou sought the whole earth over,” said he looking darkly at the
clergyman, “there was no one place so secret—no high place nor lowly place,
where thou couldst have escaped me—save on this very scaffold!”
“Thanks be to Him who hath led me hither!” answered the minister.
Yet he trembled, and turned to Hester, with an expression of doubt and
anxiety in his eyes, not the less evidently betrayed, that there was a feeble
smile upon his lips.
“Is not this better,” murmured he, “than what we dreamed of in the forest?”
“I know not! I know not!” she hurriedly replied. “Better? Yea; so we may
both die, and little Pearl die with us!”
“For thee and Pearl, be it as God shall order,” said the minister; “and God is
merciful! Let me now do the will which He hath made plain before my sight.
For, Hester, I am a dying man. So let me make haste to take my shame upon
me!”
Partly supported by Hester Prynne, and holding one hand of little Pearl’s, the
Reverend Mr. Dimmesdale turned to the dignified and venerable rulers; to the
holy ministers, who were his brethren; to the people, whose great heart was
thoroughly appalled yet overflowing with tearful sympathy, as knowing that
some deep life-matter—which, if full of sin, was full of anguish and
repentance likewise—was now to be laid open to them. The sun, but little past
its meridian, shone down upon the clergyman, and gave a distinctness to his
figure, as he stood out from all the earth, to put in his plea of guilty at the bar
of Eternal Justice.
“People of New England!” cried he, with a voice that rose over them, high,
solemn, and majestic—yet had always a tremor through it, and sometimes a
shriek, struggling up out of a fathomless depth of remorse and woe—“ye, that
have loved me!—ye, that have deemed me holy!—behold me here, the one
sinner of the world! At last—at last!—I stand upon the spot where, seven
years since, I should have stood, here, with this woman, whose arm, more
than the little strength wherewith I have crept hitherward, sustains me at this
dreadful moment, from grovelling down upon my face! Lo, the scarlet letter
which Hester wears! Ye have all shuddered at it! Wherever her walk hath
been—wherever, so miserably burdened, she may have hoped to find repose
—it hath cast a lurid gleam of awe and horrible repugnance round about her.
But there stood one in the midst of you, at whose brand of sin and infamy ye
have not shuddered!”
It seemed, at this point, as if the minister must leave the remainder of his
secret undisclosed. But he fought back the bodily weakness—and, still more,
the faintness of heart—that was striving for the mastery with him. He threw
off all assistance, and stepped passionately forward a pace before the woman
and the children.
“It was on him!” he continued, with a kind of fierceness; so determined was
he to speak out the whole. “God’s eye beheld it! The angels were for ever
pointing at it! (The Devil knew it well, and fretted it continually with the
touch of his burning finger!) But he hid it cunningly from men, and walked
among you with the mien of a spirit, mournful, because so pure in a sinful
world!—and sad, because he missed his heavenly kindred! Now, at the death-
hour, he stands up before you! He bids you look again at Hester’s scarlet
letter! He tells you, that, with all its mysterious horror, it is but the shadow of
what he bears on his own breast, and that even this, his own red stigma, is no
more than the type of what has seared his inmost heart! Stand any here that
question God’s judgment on a sinner! Behold! Behold, a dreadful witness of
it!”
With a convulsive motion, he tore away the ministerial band from before his
breast. It was revealed! But it were irreverent to describe that revelation. For
an instant, the gaze of the horror-stricken multitude was concentrated on the
ghastly miracle; while the minister stood, with a flush of triumph in his face,
as one who, in the crisis of acutest pain, had won a victory. Then, down he
sank upon the scaffold! Hester partly raised him, and supported his head
against her bosom. Old Roger Chillingworth knelt down beside him, with a
blank, dull countenance, out of which the life seemed to have departed.
“Thou hast escaped me!” he repeated more than once. “Thou hast escaped
me!”
“May God forgive thee!” said the minister. “Thou, too, hast deeply sinned!”
He withdrew his dying eyes from the old man, and fixed them on the woman
and the child.
“My little Pearl,” said he, feebly and there was a sweet and gentle smile over
his face, as of a spirit sinking into deep repose; nay, now that the burden was
removed, it seemed almost as if he would be sportive with the child—“dear
little Pearl, wilt thou kiss me now? Thou wouldst not, yonder, in the forest!
But now thou wilt?”
Pearl kissed his lips. A spell was broken. The great scene of grief, in which
the wild infant bore a part had developed all her sympathies; and as her tears
fell upon her father’s cheek, they were the pledge that she would grow up
amid human joy and sorrow, nor forever do battle with the world, but be a
woman in it. Towards her mother, too, Pearl’s errand as a messenger of
anguish was fulfilled.
“Hester,” said the clergyman, “farewell!”
“Shall we not meet again?” whispered she, bending her face down
close to his. “Shall we not spend our immortal life together?
Surely, surely, we have ransomed one another, with all this woe!
Thou lookest far into eternity, with those bright dying eyes!
Then tell me what thou seest!”
“Hush, Hester—hush!” said he, with tremulous solemnity. “The law we
broke!—the sin here awfully revealed!—let these alone be in thy thoughts! I
fear! I fear! It may be, that, when we forgot our God—when we violated our
reverence each for the other’s soul—it was thenceforth vain to hope that we
could meet hereafter, in an everlasting and pure reunion. God knows; and He
is merciful! He hath proved his mercy, most of all, in my afflictions. By
giving me this burning torture to bear upon my breast! By sending yonder
dark and terrible old man, to keep the torture always at red-heat! By bringing
me hither, to die this death of triumphant ignominy before the people! Had
either of these agonies been wanting, I had been lost for ever! Praised be His
name! His will be done! Farewell!”
That final word came forth with the minister’s expiring breath. The multitude,
silent till then, broke out in a strange, deep voice of awe and wonder, which
could not as yet find utterance, save in this murmur that rolled so heavily after
the departed spirit.

XXIV. CONCLUSION

After many days, when time sufficed for the people to arrange their thoughts
in reference to the foregoing scene, there was more than one account of what
had been witnessed on the scaffold.
Most of the spectators testified to having seen, on the breast of the unhappy
minister, a SCARLET LETTER—the very semblance of that worn by Hester
Prynne—imprinted in the flesh. As regarded its origin there were various
explanations, all of which must necessarily have been conjectural. Some
affirmed that the Reverend Mr. Dimmesdale, on the very day when Hester
Prynne first wore her ignominious badge, had begun a course of penance—
which he afterwards, in so many futile methods, followed out—by inflicting a
hideous torture on himself. Others contended that the stigma had not been
produced until a long time subsequent, when old Roger Chillingworth, being
a potent necromancer, had caused it to appear, through the agency of magic
and poisonous drugs. Others, again and those best able to appreciate the
minister’s peculiar sensibility, and the wonderful operation of his spirit upon
the body—whispered their belief, that the awful symbol was the effect of the
ever-active tooth of remorse, gnawing from the inmost heart outwardly, and at
last manifesting Heaven’s dreadful judgment by the visible presence of the
letter. The reader may choose among these theories. We have thrown all the
light we could acquire upon the portent, and would gladly, now that it has
done its office, erase its deep print out of our own brain, where long
meditation has fixed it in very undesirable distinctness.
It is singular, nevertheless, that certain persons, who were spectators of the
whole scene, and professed never once to have removed their eyes from the
Reverend Mr. Dimmesdale, denied that there was any mark whatever on his
breast, more than on a new-born infant’s. Neither, by their report, had his
dying words acknowledged, nor even remotely implied, any—the slightest—
connexion on his part, with the guilt for which Hester Prynne had so long
worn the scarlet letter. According to these highly-respectable witnesses, the
minister, conscious that he was dying—conscious, also, that the reverence of
the multitude placed him already among saints and angels—had desired, by
yielding up his breath in the arms of that fallen woman, to express to the
world how utterly nugatory is the choicest of man’s own righteousness. After
exhausting life in his efforts for mankind’s spiritual good, he had made the
manner of his death a parable, in order to impress on his admirers the mighty
and mournful lesson, that, in the view of Infinite Purity, we are sinners all
alike. It was to teach them, that the holiest amongst us has but attained so far
above his fellows as to discern more clearly the Mercy which looks down,
and repudiate more utterly the phantom of human merit, which would look
aspiringly upward. Without disputing a truth so momentous, we must be
allowed to consider this version of Mr. Dimmesdale’s story as only an
instance of that stubborn fidelity with which a man’s friends—and especially
a clergyman’s—will sometimes uphold his character, when proofs, clear as
the mid-day sunshine on the scarlet letter, establish him a false and sin-stained
creature of the dust.
The authority which we have chiefly followed—a manuscript of old date,
drawn up from the verbal testimony of individuals, some of whom had known
Hester Prynne, while others had heard the tale from contemporary witnesses
fully confirms the view taken in the foregoing pages. Among many morals
which press upon us from the poor minister’s miserable experience, we put
only this into a sentence:—“Be true! Be true! Be true! Show freely to the
world, if not your worst, yet some trait whereby the worst may be inferred!”
Nothing was more remarkable than the change which took place, almost
immediately after Mr. Dimmesdale’s death, in the appearance and demeanour
of the old man known as Roger Chillingworth. All his strength and energy—
all his vital and intellectual force—seemed at once to desert him, insomuch
that he positively withered up, shrivelled away and almost vanished from
mortal sight, like an uprooted weed that lies wilting in the sun. This unhappy
man had made the very principle of his life to consist in the pursuit and
systematic exercise of revenge; and when, by its completest triumph
consummation that evil principle was left with no further material to support
it—when, in short, there was no more Devil’s work on earth for him to do, it
only remained for the unhumanised mortal to betake himself whither his
master would find him tasks enough, and pay him his wages duly. But, to all
these shadowy beings, so long our near acquaintances—as well Roger
Chillingworth as his companions we would fain be merciful. It is a curious
subject of observation and inquiry, whether hatred and love be not the same
thing at bottom. Each, in its utmost development, supposes a high degree of
intimacy and heart-knowledge; each renders one individual dependent for the
food of his affections and spiritual fife upon another: each leaves the
passionate lover, or the no less passionate hater, forlorn and desolate by the
withdrawal of his subject. Philosophically considered, therefore, the two
passions seem essentially the same, except that one happens to be seen in a
celestial radiance, and the other in a dusky and lurid glow. In the spiritual
world, the old physician and the minister—mutual victims as they have been
—may, unawares, have found their earthly stock of hatred and antipathy
transmuted into golden love.
Leaving this discussion apart, we have a matter of business to communicate to
the reader. At old Roger Chillingworth’s decease, (which took place within
the year), and by his last will and testament, of which Governor Bellingham
and the Reverend Mr. Wilson were executors, he bequeathed a very
considerable amount of property, both here and in England to little Pearl, the
daughter of Hester Prynne.
So Pearl—the elf child—the demon offspring, as some people up to that
epoch persisted in considering her—became the richest heiress of her day in
the New World. Not improbably this circumstance wrought a very material
change in the public estimation; and had the mother and child remained here,
little Pearl at a marriageable period of life might have mingled her wild blood
with the lineage of the devoutest Puritan among them all. But, in no long time
after the physician’s death, the wearer of the scarlet letter disappeared, and
Pearl along with her. For many years, though a vague report would now and
then find its way across the sea—like a shapeless piece of driftwood tossed
ashore with the initials of a name upon it—yet no tidings of them
unquestionably authentic were received. The story of the scarlet letter grew
into a legend. Its spell, however, was still potent, and kept the scaffold awful
where the poor minister had died, and likewise the cottage by the sea-shore
where Hester Prynne had dwelt. Near this latter spot, one afternoon some
children were at play, when they beheld a tall woman in a gray robe approach
the cottage-door. In all those years it had never once been opened; but either
she unlocked it or the decaying wood and iron yielded to her hand, or she
glided shadow-like through these impediments—and, at all events, went in.
On the threshold she paused—turned partly round—for perchance the idea of
entering alone and all so changed, the home of so intense a former life, was
more dreary and desolate than even she could bear. But her hesitation was
only for an instant, though long enough to display a scarlet letter on her
breast.
And Hester Prynne had returned, and taken up her long-forsaken shame! But
where was little Pearl? If still alive she must now have been in the flush and
bloom of early womanhood. None knew—nor ever learned with the fulness of
perfect certainty—whether the elf-child had gone thus untimely to a maiden
grave; or whether her wild, rich nature had been softened and subdued and
made capable of a woman’s gentle happiness. But through the remainder of
Hester’s life there were indications that the recluse of the scarlet letter was the
object of love and interest with some inhabitant of another land. Letters came,
with armorial seals upon them, though of bearings unknown to English
heraldry. In the cottage there were articles of comfort and luxury such as
Hester never cared to use, but which only wealth could have purchased and
affection have imagined for her. There were trifles too, little ornaments,
beautiful tokens of a continual remembrance, that must have been wrought by
delicate fingers at the impulse of a fond heart. And once Hester was seen
embroidering a baby-garment with such a lavish richness of golden fancy as
would have raised a public tumult had any infant thus apparelled, been shown
to our sober-hued community.
In fine, the gossips of that day believed—and Mr. Surveyor Pue, who made
investigations a century later, believed—and one of his recent successors in
office, moreover, faithfully believes—that Pearl was not only alive, but
married, and happy, and mindful of her mother; and that she would most
joyfully have entertained that sad and lonely mother at her fireside.
But there was a more real life for Hester Prynne, here, in New England, than
in that unknown region where Pearl had found a home. Here had been her sin;
here, her sorrow; and here was yet to be her penitence. She had returned,
therefore, and resumed—of her own free will, for not the sternest magistrate
of that iron period would have imposed it—resumed the symbol of which we
have related so dark a tale. Never afterwards did it quit her bosom. But, in the
lapse of the toilsome, thoughtful, and self-devoted years that made up
Hester’s life, the scarlet letter ceased to be a stigma which attracted the
world’s scorn and bitterness, and became a type of something to be sorrowed
over, and looked upon with awe, yet with reverence too. And, as Hester
Prynne had no selfish ends, nor lived in any measure for her own profit and
enjoyment, people brought all their sorrows and perplexities, and besought
her counsel, as one who had herself gone through a mighty trouble. Women,
more especially—in the continually recurring trials of wounded, wasted,
wronged, misplaced, or erring and sinful passion—or with the dreary burden
of a heart unyielded, because unvalued and unsought came to Hester’s
cottage, demanding why they were so wretched, and what the remedy! Hester
comforted and counselled them, as best she might. She assured them, too, of
her firm belief that, at some brighter period, when the world should have
grown ripe for it, in Heaven’s own time, a new truth would be revealed, in
order to establish the whole relation between man and woman on a surer
ground of mutual happiness. Earlier in life, Hester had vainly imagined that
she herself might be the destined prophetess, but had long since recognised
the impossibility that any mission of divine and mysterious truth should be
confided to a woman stained with sin, bowed down with shame, or even
burdened with a life-long sorrow. The angel and apostle of the coming
revelation must be a woman, indeed, but lofty, pure, and beautiful, and wise;
moreover, not through dusky grief, but the ethereal medium of joy; and
showing how sacred love should make us happy, by the truest test of a life
successful to such an end.
So said Hester Prynne, and glanced her sad eyes downward at the scarlet
letter. And, after many, many years, a new grave was delved, near an old and
sunken one, in that burial-ground beside which King’s Chapel has since been
built. It was near that old and sunken grave, yet with a space between, as if
the dust of the two sleepers had no right to mingle. Yet one tomb-stone served
for both. All around, there were monuments carved with armorial bearings;
and on this simple slab of slate—as the curious investigator may still discern,
and perplex himself with the purport—there appeared the semblance of an
engraved escutcheon. It bore a device, a herald’s wording of which may serve
for a motto and brief description of our now concluded legend; so sombre is
it, and relieved only by one ever-glowing point of light gloomier than the
shadow:—

“ON A FIELD, SABLE, THE LETTER A, GULES”

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