Chapter: 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 owed to no other,
nor to the whole world besides. The links that united her to the rest
of human kind--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 towns-people. 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 favor. 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.

[Illustration: Hester in the House of Mourning]

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 labor 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-creatures. 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
sympathize,--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 favored 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 framework of reasoning, that
made it a far tougher labor 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,
but 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 woman, and ceased to be so, might at any moment
become a woman again if there were only the magic touch to effect the
transfiguration. 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 fragments 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 stigmatized by the scarlet
letter. In her lonesome cottage, by the sea-shore, 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 woman 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 clew
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 medicines withal.

[Illustration]




                            [Illustration]


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 common weal,
yonder scarlet letter might be taken off your bosom. On my life,
Hester, I made my entreaty to the worshipful magistrate that it might
be done forthwith!"

"It lies not in the pleasure of the magistrates to take off this
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 gayly 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 vigor 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 analyzed 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. O, 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 heart-strings, 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 recognize, 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 have 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 thy 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 wellnigh 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.

[Illustration: Mandrake]




                            [Illustration]


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 an 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?

[Illustration: "He gathered herbs here and there"]

"Be it sin or no," said Hester Prynne, bitterly, as she still 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 emotions 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?"

[Illustration: Pearl on the Sea-Shore]

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 snail-shells, 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 horseshoe 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 snow-flakes 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 sea-weed, 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 misdemeanors, 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 coloring. 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 be 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,--a
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 flavors 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 recognizing 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 inquiry, 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 shut thee into the dark closet!"

[Illustration]




                            [Illustration]


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 neighboring 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 imputed 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 in a sick-chamber, whither the Reverend 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 footpath. 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 farther 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 splendor, 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 vigor 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
humanize 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?"

"O, 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, recognizing 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 night-time?"

"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 bowlders 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.

"O brook! O 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 crevices 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
characterized 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
farther, 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, forevermore. 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.

[Illustration]




                            [Illustration]

 Another View of Hester Hester's reputation has changed over the seven years since she had Pearl. Her devotion to serving the sick and needy has given her access into almost every home, and people now interpret the A as meaning "Able" rather than "Adultery." The narrator goes so far as to state that "the scarlet letter had the effect of the cross on a nun's bosom." Hester's appearance has also changed over the years, but for the worse. Rather than having her youthful good looks, she now seems more like a shell of a human being. Her "rich and luxuriant" hair either has been cut off or remains hidden under a cap. But she "might at any moment become a woman again, if there were only the magic touch to effect the transfiguration." Rather than living in passion and feeling, Hester spends most of her time devoted to thought. Indeed, "had little Pearl never come to her from the spiritual world ... she might have come down to us in history, hand in hand with Ann Hutchinson, as the foundress of a religious sect." Hester resolves to help Dimmesdale by rescuing him from Roger Chillingworth. She has grown strong enough as a woman to see that her previous pact with Chillingworth, in which she promised not to reveal who he really is, was the wrong decision. She therefore decides to meet him, and soon thereafter she finds him in the woods collecting medicinal herbs. Hester sends Pearl away for a moment and approaches Chillingworth. He tells her that the council thinks she may be allowed to remove the scarlet letter in due time, to which she replies that no earthly power can decide such a thing. Hester then notices the changes that have taken place in Chillingworth over the past seven years. She sees that he has gone from a soft-spoken scholar to a fierce man. He "was a striking evidence of man's faculty of transforming himself into a devil." Hester then tells Chillingworth that she plans to reveal his true identity to Dimmesdale. He is unmoved by this, telling her that nothing he or she does can alter the way things now stand. She pleads with Chillingworth to pardon Dimmesdale for what happened so that he can let go of his revenge. Chillingworth replies, "Let the black flower blossom as it may." During her mother's conversation with Roger Chillingworth, Pearl has managed to play by herself. Her last act is to make the symbol of the scarlet letter out of seaweed and put it on her chest. Her mother asks her if she knows what the letter means, but Pearl only knows it is the letter A. Hester then asks Pearl if she knows why her mother wears the letter. Pearl answers that "It is for the same reason that the minister keeps his hand over his heart!" Pearl then demands that her mother tell her what the A stands for and why the minister keeps putting his hand over his heart. Hester lies about the letter for the first time ever, saying that she wears it for the gold thread. Hester takes Pearl on a walk into the woods because she has heard that Dimmesdale will be walking along the forest path. She needs to meet him in order to warn him about who Chillingworth really is. While entering the woods, the sunlight spots start to disappear as Hester approaches them. Pearl tells her that she can still catch the sunlight since she does not yet wear a letter. She then runs and catches a beam of sunlight, which disappears as soon as Hester tries to put her hand into it. Pearl asks her mother to tell her a story about the Black Man, who is said to haunt the forest. The Black Man is a myth about the devil, and the story says that he carries a large book and pen with which people write their names in blood. The Black Man then puts his mark on the person. Hester, tired of Pearl asking about the scarlet letter, tells her that the letter is the mark of the Black Man, which she received after meeting the Black Man once before. Dimmesdale then starts coming down the forest path, and Pearl sees him. She asks her mother if he covers his heart because he has a mark on his chest as well. She further asks why he does not wear his mark on the outside of his clothing like her mother does.

