The Scarlet Letter (Readable Classics)

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Readable Classics gently edits the works of great literature, retaining the original authors' voices, making them less frustrating for students and more enjoyable for modern readers.Puritan Boston, 1600’s -- Beautiful, defiant Hester Prynne commits adultery, refuses to name the father of her illegitimate child, and is condemned to wear a scarlet ‘A’ on her breast for the rest of her life. She becomes the first true heroine of American fiction. Nathaniel Hawthorne’s 1850 masterpiece was the first American novel to explore the moral struggle with sin, guilt, and pride; the conflict between the heart and the mind; and the deadly consequences of not being able to forgive ourselves and others.

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Content

The

Scarlet Letter

Nathaniel Hawthorne
and

A
Wayne Josephson

Readable Classics
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The Scarlet Letter
Nathaniel Hawthorne
and Wayne Josephson

Readable Classics
Charlottesville VA 22901
2

Readable Classics
Readable Classics gently edits great works of literature, retaining the original authors' voices, and making them less frustrating for students and more enjoyable for modern readers.

The Scarlet Letter
Puritan Boston, 1600·s -- Beautiful, defiant Hester Prynne commits adultery, refuses to name the father of her illegitimate child, and is condemned to wear a scarlet ¶A· on her breast for the rest of her life. She becomes the first true heroine of American fiction. Nathaniel Hawthorne·s 1850 masterpiece was the first American novel to explore the moral struggle with sin, guilt, and pride; the conflict between the heart and the mind; and the deadly consequences of not being able to forgive ourselves and others.

Copyright 2010 by Readable Classics All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form without written permission from the publisher. ISBN: 978-0-615-32444-9 Library of Congress Control Number: 2009937410 Readable Classics Charlottesville, VA 22901

www.ReadableClassics.com
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Chapter 1
The Prison Door
A throng of bearded men in sad-coloured garments and grey pointed hats, and women, some wearing hoods and others bareheaded, was assembled in front of a wooden building, the door of which was made of heavy oak and studded with iron spikes. The founders of any new colony, regardless of whatever Utopia of virtue and happiness they might originally plan, soon recognize that one of their first practical necessities is to build a cemetery and a prison. In accordance with this rule, the forefathers of Boston built the first prison, and marked out the first burial ground, on Isaac Johnson·s land, near his grave, which subsequently became the old churchyard of King·s Chapel. Fifteen or twenty years after the settlement of Boston, the wooden jail was already marked with weather stains, which gave its gloomy front an even darker appearance. The rust on the heavy ironwork of its oak door looked more antique than anything else in the New World. Like all that relates to crime, it seemed to never have looked new. Between this ugly prison and the tracks of the street was a grass plot, overgrown with weeds and unsightly vegetation that flourished in the same soil that had produced the black flower of civilized society--a prison. But on one side of the door, almost at the threshold, was a wild rose-bush, in full bloom in this month of June, which offered its fragrance and fragile beauty to the prisoner as he went in, and to the condemned criminal as he came out to face his doom. At least Nature had a deep heart and could pity him, even if man could not. This rose-bush, by a strange chance, has survived for over two hundred years; but whether it merely survived in the harsh wilderness, or whether, as there is evidence for believing, it sprung up under the footsteps of the sainted Ann Hutchinson as she entered the prison door, we shall not attempt to determine. Finding the rose-bush on the threshold of our story, the subject of whom is
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now about to exit from that prison door, we cannot help but pluck one of its flowers and present it to the reader. Let us hope it may symbolize some sweet moral blossom, or provide some relief for a tale of human frailty and sorrow.

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Chapter 2
The Market-Place
On a certain summer morning over two centuries ago, the grass plot in front of the jail in Prison Lane was crowded with a large number of the inhabitants of Boston, all with their eyes intently fastened on the iron-clamped oaken door. At a later period in the history of New England, the grim expression of these bearded faces would have indicated some awful business at hand--perhaps the execution of some rioted culprit, on whom the verdict and sentence had been pronounced. But here, instead, among the severe Puritans of Boston, this scene might indicate that a lazy servant or rebellious child was to be corrected at the whipping post; or that a Quaker was forced to leave town; or a vagrant Indian, whom the white man·s liquor had made riotous in the streets, was to be driven back into the forest with lashes of the whip. 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 any case, the solemn faces of the spectators suited people to whom religion and law were almost identical, and so intertwined that both the mildest and severest acts of public punishment were both honored and awful. The sympathy that a sinner on the scaffold might look for in these bystanders was meager and cold. On the other hand, a penalty which we might ridicule today would, back then, be regarded as deserving as death itself. When our story begins, it is to be noted that the women, of whom there were several in the crowd, appeared to be quite interested in the punishment to be inflicted. This Puritan age was not so refined women could not step out in public and wedge their often substantial bodies into the throng nearest to the scaffold at an execution. Those English-born and bred women were morally and physically coarser than their fair descendants; for, during the next six or seven generations, each
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mother passed on to her child a fainter bloom, a more delicate beauty, and a slighter physical frame--though not a less solid and forceful character--than her own. The women who now stood around the prison door were less than two generations removed from the reign of the man-like Queen Elizabeth. These were her countrywomen--and their bodies and morals reflected the beef and ale of England. The bright morning sun, therefore, shone on women with broad shoulders, well-developed busts, and ruddy cheeks that had ripened in England and had not yet grown paler or thinner in the atmosphere of New England. There was, moreover, a boldness in the speech among these matrons that would startle us today. ´Good wives,µ said a hard-featured dame of fifty, ´I·ll give you a piece of my mind. It would good if we women, being of mature age and church members in good repute, should be in charge of punishing sinners such as this Hester Prynne. What think you, gossips? If that hussy received her judgment from the five of us, would she come off with such a light sentence as the worshipful magistrates have awarded? I think not.µ ´People say,µ 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.µ ´The magistrates are God-fearing gentlemen, but overly merciful--that is the truth,µ added a third older 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. But the naughty sinner will little care what they put upon the bosom of her gown. Why, look, she may cover it with a brooch or such heathen adornment and walk the streets as brave as ever.µ ´Ah,µ interposed a young wife, more softly, holding a child by the hand, ´she may cover the mark as she will, but the pain of it will be always in her heart.µ ´Why do we talk of marks and brands, whether on the bosom of her gown or the flesh of her forehead?µ cried another female, the ugliest of these selfproclaimed judges. ´This woman has brought shame upon us all, and ought to die. Is there not a law for it? Truly there is, both in the Scripture and the statute book. Then let the magistrates, who have not enforced it, thank themselves if their own wives and daughters go astray.µ ´Have mercy on us, good wife,µ exclaimed a man in the crowd. ´Is there no virtue in women except that which comes from fear of the gallows? Hush now, gossips, for the lock is turning in the prison-door, and here comes Mistress Prynne herself.µ

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The door of the jail was flung open, and from inside appeared, like a black shadow emerging into sunshine, the grim and gristly town beadle, with a sword by his side, and his staff of office in his hand. This parish official·s appearance represented the whole dismal severity of the Puritanic code of law, which it was his business to administer to the offender. He stretched forth the official staff in his left hand, and laid his right upon the shoulder of a young woman, whom he brought forward to the threshold of the prison door. She repelled him--an action of natural dignity and force of character--and stepped into the open air by her own free will. She held a child in her arms, a baby of three months old, who winked and turned its little face away from the bright light of day--because up till now, the baby had only been acquainted with the grey twilight of a dungeon and the darkness of the prison. When the young mother stood fully revealed before the crowd, her first impulse was to clasp the infant closely to her bosom--not from motherly affection, but so she might conceal something that was fastened onto her dress. A moment later, however, wisely judging that one symbol of her shame would not hide the other, she took the baby on her arm. Then with a burning blush, but yet a haughty smile, and a glance that refused to be ashamed, she looked around at her townspeople and neighbours. On the breast of her fancy black dress, in fine red cloth, surrounded by elaborate embroidery of gold thread, appeared the letter A. It was artistically done, with gorgeous luxury of imagination. Its splendor was in accordance with the fashion of the day, but greatly beyond what was allowed by the regulations of the Puritan colony. The young woman was tall, with a figure of perfect elegance. She had dark and abundant hair, so glossy that it threw off the sunshine with a gleam. Her face was beautiful, with a rich complexion, a prominent forehead, and deep black eyes. She was ladylike, too, with feminine dignity rather than delicate grace. And never had Hester Prynne appeared more ladylike than when she stepped from the prison. Those who knew her, and expected her to be dimmed by her disaster, were astonished and even startled to see how her beauty shone out, and made a halo of her misfortune and disgrace. It may be true that the sensitive observer saw something exquisitely painful in it. Her fancy dress, which she had made for her prison stay, seemed to express the attitude of her spirit and the desperate recklessness of her mood. But the point which drew all eyes and transformed her--so that both men and women who knew Hester Prynne were now impressed as if they saw 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

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realm of ordinary humans and enclosing her in a sphere by herself. ´She has good skill at her needle, that·s certain,µ remarked one of her female spectators, ´but did ever a woman, before this brazen hussy, show it in such a manner as that? Why, gossips, what does it do, except to laugh in the faces of our godly magistrates and make pride out of punishment?µ ´It would be well,µ muttered the most iron-faced old dame, ´if we stripped Madame Hester·s rich gown off her dainty shoulders; and as for the red letter which she has stitched so curiously, I·ll give her a rag of my own flannel to make a more suitable one!µ ´Oh, peace, neighbours--peace!µ whispered their youngest companion. ´Do not let her hear you! There is not a stitch in that embroidered letter that she did not feel in her heart.µ The grim beadle now made a gesture with his staff. ´Make way, good people--make way, in the King·s name!µ cried he. ´Make way, and I promise you, Mistress Prynne shall be put where man, woman, and child may have a fair sight of her brave apparel from this time till an hour past noon. It is a blessing on the righteous colony of Massachusetts, where sin is dragged out into the sunshine! Come along, Madame Hester, and show your scarlet letter in the market-place!µ The crowd of spectators immediately parted. Hester Prynne, followed by the beadle, led the procession of stern-browed men and unkindly-faced women toward the place appointed for her punishment. A crowd of eager and curious schoolboys, understanding little of the matter at hand except that they were given a half-holiday, ran before her, turning their heads continually to stare into her face, at the winking baby, and at the shameful letter on her breast. It was no great distance, in those days, from the prison-door to the marketplace. From the prisoner·s point of view, however, it might be considered a journey of some length--for haughty as her demeanor was, Hester Prynne perhaps experienced 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 trample on. The marvelous and merciful quality of human nature is such that a sufferer never feels the intensity of torture when it occurs--it is afterwards that the pain stings. With a serene manner, therefore, Hester Prynne passed through this portion of her ordeal and came to a scaffold at the western end of the market-place. It stood nearly beneath the roof of Boston·s oldest church, and appeared to be a permanent structure. In fact, this scaffold was part of a punishment machine which, today, is merely of historical interest. But in the old days of the Puritans, it was as

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effective a way to promote good citizenship as the guillotine was among the terrorists of France. It was, in short, the pillory. Above the platform rose the wooden frame of that instrument of discipline. The holes were designed to lock the human head and hands in its tight grasp and hold them up to public gaze. The very ideal of disgrace came to life and was made obvious in this contrivance of wood and iron. There can be no greater outrage against a man than to prevent the culprit from hiding his face for shame, as this punishment did. In Hester Prynne·s instance, however, as frequently occurred in other cases, her sentence required that she should stand a certain time upon the platform, but without her head being confined. Knowing her part well, she ascended the 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 Catholic among the crowd of Puritans, he might have seen, in this beautiful woman with the infant at her bosom, a reminder of the Virgin Mary--that sacred image of sinless motherhood, whose infant was to redeem the world. Here, by contrast, the taint of deepest sin darkened this woman·s beauty, and the world was more lost for the infant she had borne. This spectacle of guilt and shame inspired a sense of awe. The solemn presence of the governor, several of his counselors, a judge, a general, and the ministers of the town, all of whom sat or stood in a balcony of the meetinghouse, looking down upon the platform, gave the event earnest meaning. Accordingly, the crowd was somber and grave. The unhappy sinner held up 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 an intolerable burden to bear. Hester Prynne had an impulsive and passionate nature, and she had prepared herself for loud, venomous insults from the crowd. But their solemn mood was much more terrible. She rather wished those rigid faces had instead been full of laughter, so that she could have repaid them with a bitter and disdainful smile. But the silence made her feel, at moments, that she would 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 moments when the whole scene seemed to vanish from her eyes. Her mind and her memory were uncannily active, and kept bringing up other scenes and other faces than those glowering upon her from beneath the brims of those steeple-crowned hats.

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Reminiscences--trifling and immaterial, of infancy and school days, sports, childish quarrels, and her maiden years--came swarming back upon her, one picture precisely as vivid as another. Possibly, it was her spirit relieving her from the cruel weight and hardness of reality. Standing on that miserable scaffold, she saw again her happy infancy in her native village in Old England; her home, a poverty-stricken, decayed house of grey stone, but with a half-ruined shield of arms over the door, a token of her family·s long-ago gentility. She saw her father·s face, with its bold forehead, and the white beard that flowed over the old-fashioned Elizabethan ruff collar; her mother·s face, too, with the look of attentive and anxious love, even after her death. She saw her own face, glowing with girlish beauty, and illuminating the mirror at which she gazed. Then she beheld another face, of a man well-advanced in years, a pale, thin, scholar-like face, with eyes dim and bleary from poring over many ponderous books in the lamp-light. Yet those same eyes had a strange, penetrating power when they were used to read the human soul. His body was slightly deformed, with the left shoulder a trifle higher than the right. Next her in memory·s picture gallery, she saw a great European city, with ancient buildings of quaint architecture, the intricate and narrow roads, the tall, grey houses, and the huge cathedrals. Here a new life had awaited her upon her marriage to the misshapen scholar--a new life that became more like a tuft of green moss on a crumbling wall. Lastly, she came back the rude market-place of the Puritan settlement, with all the townspeople assembled, and leveling their stern gaze at her, as she 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 let out 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!

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Chapter 3
The Recognition
From this intense awareness of being the object of severe observation, Hester Prynne saw, at length, on the outskirts of the crowd, a person who caught her attention. An Indian in his native garb was standing there--but the red men were often visitors to the English settlements. It was not he that caught her attention. By the Indian·s side, and evidently a friend, stood a white man, clad in a strange combination of civilized and savage costume. He was small in stature, with a wrinkled face which could not yet be considered old. There was a remarkable intelligence in his features. And though he had tried to conceal his deformity, it was evident to Hester Prynne that one of this man·s shoulders rose higher than the other. At the first instant of perceiving that thin face, and the slight defect of figure, she pressed her infant to her bosom with so convulsive a force that the poor baby uttered another cry of pain. But the mother did not seem to hear it. Upon his arrival in the market-place, and some time before she saw him, the stranger had set his eyes on Hester Prynne. It was careless at first, but very soon his look became keen and penetrating. A writhing horror twisted itself across his face, which darkened with some powerful emotion. Nevertheless, he quickly changed his expression to appear calm. 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,µ said he, ´who is this woman? And why is she here, set up to public shame?µ ´You must be a stranger in this region, friend,µ answered the townsman, looking curiously at the questioner and his savage companion, ´or else you
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would surely have heard of Mistress Hester Prynne and her evil doings. She has raised a great scandal, I promise you, in godly Master Dimmesdale·s church.µ ´Truly, I am a stranger,µ replied the other, ´and have been a wanderer, against my will. I have met with grievous mishaps by sea and land, and have been long held in bonds among the heathens to the south; and am now brought here by this Indian, released 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 offenses, and what has brought her to that scaffold?µ ´Truly, friend, and I think it must gladden your heart, after your troubles in the wilderness,µ said the townsman, ´to find yourself in a land where immorality is searched out and punished in the sight of the people, as here in our godly New England.µ He continued, ´That woman, Sir, you must know, was the wife of a certain learned Englishman who had dwelt in Amsterdam. Some time ago, he decided to cross over and live in Massachusetts. To this end, he sent his wife ahead of him, remaining himself to look after some necessary affairs. During the two years, good Sir, that the woman has been a dweller here in Boston, no news had come of this learned gentleman, Master Prynne. And his young wife, you see, being left to her own misguidance--µ ´Aha! I understand you,µ said the stranger with a bitter smile. ´Such a learned man should have learned this, too, in his books. And who, Sir, may be the father of that baby--it is some three or four months old, I should judge-which Mistress Prynne is holding in her arms?µ ´In truth, friend, that matter remains a riddle; and the father has still not spoken,µ answered the townsman. ´Madame Hester absolutely refuses to speak, and the magistrates have put their heads together in vain. Perhaps the guilty man stands here, unknown to others, looking at this sad spectacle, and forgetting that God sees him.µ ´The learned man,µ observed the stranger with another smile, ´should come here himself to look into the mystery.µ ´Yes, it would behoove him well--if he is still alive,µ responded the townsman. ´Now, good Sir, our Massachusetts magistracy thinks that because this woman is youthful and fair, and was strongly tempted, and that her husband is most likely at the bottom of the sea, they have not enforced the extreme punishment of our righteous law against her--which is death. In their great mercy and tenderness of heart, they have doomed Mistress Prynne to stand for only three hours on the platform of the pillory, and thereafter for the remainder of her life to wear a mark of shame upon her bosom.µ ´A wise sentence,µ remarked the stranger, gravely, bowing his head. ´Thus she will be a living sermon against sin, until the shameful letter be engraved

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upon her tombstone. It irks me, though, that her partner in sin should not at least stand on the scaffold by her side. But he will be known! He will be known! He will be known!µ He bowed courteously to the townsman and, whispering a few words to his Indian attendant, they both made their way through the crowd. While this occurred, Hester Prynne stood on her pedestal, still with a fixed gaze toward the stranger--so fixed a gaze that everything around her seemed to vanish, leaving only him and her. Dreadful as it this punishment was, she felt protected in the presence of these thousand witnesses. It was better to stand with so many people between him and her, than to greet him face to face. She dreaded the moment when the crowd·s 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, heard by the whole multitude. ´Listen to me, Hester Prynne!µ said the voice. In the balcony that we noticed before, sat Governor Bellingham himself with four sergeants about his chair, 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. He was a gentleman advanced in years, with hard experience written in his wrinkles. He was well-suited to head the community which owed its origin and progress to the stern and somber wisdom of aged men. The other eminent characters surrounding the chief ruler had a great dignity--belonging to a time when authority figures were felt to possess the sacredness of Divine institutions. These men were good, just, wise, and virtuous. But no group of men was less capable of sitting in judgment of an erring woman·s heart, and untangling its mesh of good and evil, than the rigid sages toward 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 crowd gathered around her. As she lifted her eyes toward the balcony and the voice, the unhappy woman grew pale, and trembled. The voice which had called her attention was that of the famous Reverend John Wilson, the eldest clergyman of Boston--a great scholar and a man of kind and genial spirit. This last quality, however, had been less carefully developed than his intellectual gifts, and was, in truth, rather a matter of shame with him. There he stood, with grizzled hair beneath his skull-cap, while his grey eyes, accustomed to the shaded light of his study, were winking in the bold sunshine.

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He looked like the darkly engraved portraits which we see in the preface of old volumes of sermons, and had no more right than one of those portraits to meddle with questions of human guilt, passion, and anguish. ´Hester Prynne,µ said the clergyman, ´I have strived with my young brother here, the good Reverend Mr. Dimmesdale, whose preaching of the Word you have been privileged to hear,µ as Mr. Wilson laid his hand on the shoulder of the pale young man beside him, ´and I have tried to persuade this godly youth that he should deal with you--here, in the face of Heaven, before these wise and upright rulers, and all the people--as to the vileness and blackness of your sin. Knowing your natural temper better than I, he could better prevail upon you to reveal the name of him who tempted you to this grievous fall. ´But he opposes me, with a young man·s softness, saying that it would wrong the very nature of a woman to force her to lay open her heart·s secrets in such broad daylight, and in presence of so great a multitude. Truly, I sought to convince him that the shame lay in the commission of the sin, not in showing it. Once again, what say you, brother Dimmesdale? Must it be you, or I, that shall deal with this poor sinner·s soul?µ There was a murmured conference among the dignified occupants of the balcony; then Governor Bellingham spoke in an authoritative voice, but with respect toward the youthful clergyman whom he addressed: ´Good Master Dimmesdale,µ said he, ´the responsibility of this woman·s soul lies greatly with you. It behooves you, therefore, to urge her to repent and confess, as proof of her sin.µ This appeal from the Governor drew the eyes of the whole crowd upon the Reverend Mr. Dimmesdale--a 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 fervor had already given him a high position in his profession. He had a very striking appearance, with a high, threatening forehead; large, brown, melancholy eyes; and a mouth which looked nervous. Despite his great gifts and scholar-like attainments, there was an apprehensive, half-frightened look about him--as if he felt lost in the pathway of life, and could only be comfortable in seclusion. And so, he appeared simple and childlike, coming forth with a freshness and purity that many people said affected them like the speech of an angel. Such was the young man whom the Reverend Mr. Wilson and the Governor introduced to the public, bidding him to speak to the mystery of a woman·s soul, which was sacred even in sin. The trying nature of his position made his cheeks pale and his lips tremble. ´Speak to the woman, my brother,µ said Mr. Wilson. ´It is important to her

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soul and to your own. Urge her to confess the truth!µ The Reverend Mr. Dimmesdale bent his head, in silent prayer it seemed, and then came forward. ´Hester Prynne,µ said he, leaning over the balcony and looking down steadfastly into her eyes, ´you hear what this good man says. If you feel that it will give your soul peace, and that your earthly punishment will lead to salvation, I charge you to speak out the name of your fellow sinner and fellow sufferer! Have no pity and tenderness for him; for, believe me, Hester, though he might be brought down from a high place to stand beside you on your pedestal of shame, it would be better than to hide a guilty heart through life.µ He paused, then said, ´What can your silence do for him, except tempt him to add hypocrisy to sin? Heaven has granted you a public disgrace so that you may work out a public triumph over the evil within you and the sorrow without. Pay attention how you deny your partner the bitter but wholesome cup that is now presented to your lips!µ The young pastor·s nervous voice was sweet, rich, deep, and broken. The feeling that it conveyed, rather than the words themselves, caused it to vibrate within all hearts, and united the listeners in sympathy. Even the poor baby at Hester·s bosom gazed at Mr. Dimmesdale and held up its little arms with a murmur. So powerful was the minister·s appeal that the people certainly believed that Hester Prynne would speak out the guilty name, or the guilty man himself would be drawn forth and compelled to ascend the scaffold. Hester shook her head. ´Woman, do not sin beyond the limits of Heaven·s mercy!µ cried the Reverend Mr. Wilson, more harshly than before. ´Speak out the name and repent, and that may help to take the scarlet letter off your breast.µ ´Never,µ replied Hester Prynne, looking not at Mr. Wilson, but into the deep and troubled eyes of the younger clergyman. ´The letter is too deeply branded. You cannot take it off. I will endure his agony as well as mine!µ ´Speak, woman!µ said another voice, coldly and sternly, coming from the crowd around the scaffold. ´Speak and give your child a father!µ ´I will not speak!µ answered Hester, turning pale as death, but responding to this voice, which she recognized. ´My child must seek a heavenly father; she shall never know an earthly one!µ ´She will not speak!µ murmured Mr. Dimmesdale, who was leaning over the balcony, with his hand upon his heart. He now drew back with a long sigh. ´The wondrous strength and generosity of a woman·s heart! She will not speak!µ The Reverend Wilson then addressed the multitude with a sermon on sin, with continual reference to the shameful scarlet letter. So forcibly did he dwell

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upon this symbol for an hour or more, that the letter terrified the people·s imagination and seemed to receive its scarlet color from the flames of hell. Hester Prynne, meanwhile, kept her place upon the pedestal of shame, with glazed eyes and a weary lack of interest. She had withstood all that a person could endure that morning; and since she was not the kind of woman who escaped from intense suffering by fainting, she wore a stony crust. The voice of the preacher thundered remorselessly upon her ears. The infant pierced the air with its wailings and screams; Hester mechanically tried to hush the baby, but barely seemed to sympathize with its trouble. Then, with the same hard demeanor, Hester Prynne was led back to prison, and vanished from the public gaze. It was whispered by those who peered after her that the scarlet letter threw a vivid gleam along the dark passageway of the prison·s interior.

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Chapter 4
The Interview
After her return to the prison, Hester Prynne was in a state of nervous excitement that demanded constant watchfulness, in case she should do harm to herself or some half-frenzied mischief to the poor baby. As night approached, and she could not be stopped either by reprimand or threats of punishment, Master Brackett, the jailer, thought fit to bring in a physician. The jailer described him as a man of skill in all Christian methods of physical science, and likewise familiar with medicinal herbs and roots that grew in the forest, which he learned about from savage tribes. To tell the truth, the physician was needed not merely for Hester, but more urgently for the child--who, nursing on her breast, seemed to have drank in all the anguish and despair of the mother·s body. The infant now writhed in convulsions of pain. Closely following the jailer into the dismal room, the individual was the same man in the crowd who had expressed such deep interest in the wearer of the scarlet letter. His name was announced as Roger Chillingworth. The jailer, after ushering him into the room, remained a moment, marveling that Hester Prynne had immediately become as still as death, although the child continued to moan. ´Pray, friend, leave me alone with my patient,µ said the physician. ´Trust me, good jailer, you shall soon have peace here and, I promise you, Mistress Prynne shall soon be more cooperative with authority than before.µ ´If your worship can accomplish that,µ answered Master Brackett, ´I shall regard you as a man of skill, indeed! Truly, the woman has been like a possessed one; and there is very little keeping me from driving Satan out of her with lashes of the whip.µ The stranger had entered the room with the characteristic quiet of a physician. Nor did his demeanor change when the prison keeper left, and he was face-to-face with the woman, whose notice of him in the crowd had
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implied a close a relationship between himself and her. His first care was given to the child, whose cries made it necessary to soothe her. He examined the infant carefully, and then proceeded to unlock a leather case which he took from beneath his garb. It appeared to contain medical preparations, one of which he mingled with a cup of water. ´My old studies in alchemy,µ observed he, ´and my journey during the last year, among people well versed in these preparations, have made me a better physician than many with a medical degree. Here, woman! The child is yours-she is not mine--neither will she recognize my voice nor my face as a father. Give her this drink, therefore, with your own hand.µ Hester rejected the offered medicine, at the same time gazing with strong dread into his face. ´Would you take revenge on the innocent baby?µ she whispered. ´Foolish woman!µ responded the physician, half-coldly, half-soothingly. ´What would make me harm this illegitimate and miserable babe? The medicine is good, and were it my child--yes, my own as well as yours!--I could do no better for it.µ As she still hesitated, still not in a reasonable state of mind, he took the infant in his arms, and himself administered the drink. It soon proved effective; the moans of the little patient subsided; its convulsive tossing gradually ceased; and in a few moments, it sank into a profound sleep. The physician next gave his attention to 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 it was so familiar, and yet so strange and cold--and, finally, satisfied with his investigation, proceeded to mix another drink of medicine. ´I learned many secrets in the wilderness,µ remarked he, ´and here is one of them--a recipe that an Indian taught me. Drink it! It may be less soothing than a sinless conscience--that I cannot give you. But it will calm your emotions, like oil thrown on the waves of a tempestuous sea.µ He presented the cup to Hester, who received it with a slow, earnest look at his face--not precisely a look of fear, yet full of doubt and questioning as to what his intentions might be. She also looked at her slumbering child. ´I have thought of death,µ said she. ´I have wished for it, and would even have prayed for it, if I deserved to pray for anything. Yet, if death is in this cup, I ask you to think again, before you watch me drink it. See! It is now at my lips.µ ´Drink, then,µ replied he, still with the same cold composure. ´Do you know me so little, Hester Prynne? Are my intentions likely to be so shallow? Even if I desire vengeance, what would be better than to let you live, so that this burning shame may still blaze upon your bosom?µ

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As he spoke, he laid his long forefinger on the scarlet letter, which then 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 your doom in the eyes of men and women--in the eyes of him whom you called your husband--in the eyes of that child! And, so that you may live, take this drink.µ Without further delay, Hester Prynne drained the cup and seated herself on the bed where the child was sleeping. He drew up the only chair in the room, and took his seat beside her. She trembled, for she felt that, having now relieved her physical suffering, he would address her as the man whom she had most deeply and permanently injured. ´Hester,µ said he, ´I ask not why or how you have fallen into the pit, or rather, have ascended the pedestal of infamy on which I found you. The reason is not far to seek. It was my folly, and your weakness. I, a man of thought, the bookworm of great libraries, a man already in decay, having given my best years to pursue knowledge--what did I have to do with youth and beauty such as yours?µ He continued, ´Misshapen from birth, how could I delude myself that intellectual gifts might hide physical deformity in a young girl·s fantasy? Men call me wise. If wise men were ever wise about themselves, I might have foreseen all this. I might have known that, as I came out of the savage forest and entered this town of Christian men, the very first object to meet my eyes would be you, Hester Prynne, standing on a statue of shame before the people. Nay, from the moment when we married, I might have seen the fire of that scarlet letter blazing at the end of our path!µ ´You know,µ said Hester, for depressed as she was, she could not endure this last quiet stab at the symbol of her shame, ´you know that I was honest with you. I felt no love, nor pretended any.µ ´True,µ replied he. ´It was my folly! I have said it. But, up to then, the world had been so cheerless! My heart was large, but it was lonely and chilly, without a fire at home. I longed to kindle a flame! It seemed not so wild a dream--old as I was, and somber as I was, and misshapen as I was--that simple bliss might yet be mine. And so, Hester, I drew you into my heart and sought to warm you by the warmth which your presence made there!µ ´I have greatly wronged you,µ murmured Hester. ´We have wronged each other,µ answered he. ´Mine was the first wrong, when I deceived your budding youth into a false and unnatural relation with my decay. Therefore, as a man who has given it much thought, I seek no vengeance, plot no evil against you. Between you and me, the scale hangs fairly balanced. But Hester, the man who has wronged us both still lives! Who is he?µ

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´Ask me not,µ replied Hester Prynne, looking firmly into his face. ´You shall never know his name!µ ´Never, you say?µ rejoined he, with a smile of dark and confident intelligence. ´Never know him? Believe me, Hester, there are few things hidden from the man who devotes himself earnestly to the solution of a mystery. You may cover up your secret from the prying multitude. You may conceal it, too, from the ministers and magistrates, even as you did today. But I shall seek this man, as I have sought truth in books, as I have sought gold in alchemy. There is an understanding that will make me aware of him. I shall see him tremble. Sooner or later, he will be mine.µ The eyes of the wrinkled scholar glowed so intensely upon her, that Hester Prynne clasped her hand over her heart, dreading that he should read the secret there at once. ´You will not reveal his name? He is no less mine,µ resumed he, with a look of confidence. ´He wears no letter of shame on his garment, as you do, but I shall read it on his heart. Yet do not fear for him! Do not think that I shall interfere with Heaven·s own method of punishment or reveal him to human law. Nor shall I plot against his life, nor against his reputation. Let him live! He shall be mine!µ ´Your acts are merciful,µ said Hester, bewildered and appalled, ´but your words announce you as a terror!µ ´One thing I would command you,µ continued the scholar. ´You, who were my wife, have kept the secret of your lover. Likewise, keep mine! There are none in this land that know me. Breathe not to any human soul that you ever called me husband! Here I shall settle down--for here, I find a woman, a man, and a child with whom I have the closest bond. No matter whether this is love or hate, no matter whether this is right or wrong! You and yours, Hester Prynne, belong to me. My home is where you are and where he is. But betray me not!µ ´Why do you desire this secret?" inquired Hester, shrinking from him. ´Why not announce yourself publicly and cast me off at once?µ ´It may be,µ he replied, ´because I do not want the dishonor that disgraces the husband of a faithless woman. It may be for other reasons. Enough--it is my intention to live and die unknown. Therefore, let the world believe your husband is already dead. Recognize me not, by word, by sign, by look! Breathe not the secret, above all, to the man you love. Should you fail me in this, beware! His fame, his position, his life will be in my hands. Beware!µ ´I will keep your secret, as I have his,µ said Hester. ´Swear it!µ rejoined he. And she took the oath. ´And now, Mistress Prynne,µ said old Roger Chillingworth, as he was

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hereafter to be called, ´I leave you alone--alone with your infant and the scarlet letter! How is it, Hester? Does your sentence require you to wear the token in your sleep? Are you not afraid of nightmares and hideous dreams?µ ´Why do you smile so at me?µ inquired Hester, troubled at the expression of his eyes. ´Are you like the Black Man--the Devil in disguise--that haunts the forest round about us? Have you led me into a bond that will prove the ruin of my soul?µ ´Not your soul,µ he answered, with another smile. ´No, not yours!µ

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