Level B2 Upper Intermediate American English
1. The Prison Door | 2. The Market Place | 3. The Recognition | 4. The Encounter | 5. Hester and Pearl | 6. The Governor’s Hall | 7. The Leech and his Patient | 8. The Interior of a Heart | 9. Hester and the Physician | 10. The Pastor and his Parishioner | 11. A Flood of Sunshine | 12. The Revelation of the Scarlet Letter
A group of bearded men, in sad-colored clothes and gray steeple-crowned hats, stood in front of a wooden building. Beside them stood a group of women, some wearing hoods. The heavy door of the building was made of oak, covered with iron spikes.
The founders of a new colony, no matter how optimistic they were, always set aside a portion of land for a cemetery, and another portion for a prison. They probably built the first prison near Cornhill and the first burial ground on Isaac Johnson’s land. It was around Johnson’s grave that the old churchyard of King’s Chapel grew.
Fifteen or twenty years after the settlement of the town, the wooden prison was already weather-beaten and showed the evident signs of age. The rust on the iron-work of the oak door made it look older than anything else in the New World.
In front of this sinister building was a plot of grass, covered with ugly weeds. Evidently, there was something congenial in the soil outside a prison — the black flower of civilized society — something that encouraged ugly weeds to grow.
But on one side of the entrance, there was a wild rose bush. In the month of June, it was covered with delicate, fragrant roses. They offered their fragrance and beauty to the prisoner who entered the gloomy building, and to the condemned criminal who left it to meet his doom.
Let us pick one of its flowers and give it to the reader.
Hopefully, this sweet flower will serve to soften the dark tones of a tale of human frailty and sorrow.
On a summer morning about two centuries ago, the grass plot in front of the jail in Prison Lane was occupied by a large number of Bostonians. Their eyes were fixed on the old oak door. Their faces were grim and rigid.
Every time there was such a group of people in front of the jail, there was usually a whipping of a disobedient child, a lazy bond- servant, a Quaker or a turbulent Indian. It could also have been the hanging of a witch.
The spectators looked very solemn and severe, as was typical of people who believed that religion and law were almost identical.
There was practically no sympathy from the crowd for the condemned individual. What we would consider a small offense today, was then punished very harshly—even with death itself.
The women in the crowd were particularly interested in what was about to happen. They were wives and maidens of English birth. Their features were hard, their expressions bitter.
“Goodwives,” said a severe-looking woman of fifty, “we should be the ones to judge the evil doings of this Hester Prynne, since we are women of mature age and church members of good repute. What do you all think? If the hussy were judged by us five, would she receive the same sentence as the magistrates have decided on? I think not!”
“People say,” said another woman, “that the Reverend Master Dimmesdale, her pastor, is very upset that such a scandal has fallen upon his congregation.”
“The magistrates are God-fearing gentlemen, but they are too generous—that is the truth,” added a third older woman.
“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 am sure! But, little will she care what they put on her dress! She could cover it with & brooch, and then walk the streets as proud as ever!”
“But even if she covers the mark, the pain will always be in her heart,” said a soft-spoken young wife, holding a child by hand.
“Goodness!” exclaimed a man in the crowd, “Is there no virtue in a Woman, except for what comes from the fear of punishment? Quiet now! The lock of the prison door is turning, and here comes Mistress Prynne herself!”
The door of the jail was thrown open, and there appeared the grim, threatening figure of the town-beadle. He was like a black shadow emerging into the sunshine. He had a sword by his side and carried a staff of office. His aspect represented the extreme severity of the Puritan code of law.
He stretched out the official staff in his left hand, and laid his right hand on the young woman’s shoulder, pulling her forward. Once they had reached the prison door, she pushed his hand away from her shoulder. This action marked her natural dignity and force of character. She stepped out into the open air, of her own free will. In her arms, she carried an infant of about three months.
When the young woman—the mother of the child—stood before the crowd, her first impulse was to hold the infant close to her chest, as if to hide something that was fastened to her dress.
After a moment, however, she realized that she was using her child, the living sign of her shame, to hide another sign of shame. Therefore, she put the child on her arm and, with a burning blush and an arrogant smile, she looked straight at her townspeople. On the breast of her dress, in fine red cloth, surrounded with elaborate designs in gold thread, appeared the letter “A”. It was so artistically done, that it looked like a lovely decoration on her dress.
The young woman was tall, with a perfectly elegant body. She had thick, dark hair that reflected the sunshine. Her face was beautifully regular and her complexion was rich in color. She had a marked brow and deep black eyes. She was lady-like, too. She had a certain gentle dignity about her. She radiated a painful, but beautiful light.
The point which drew all eyes was the SCARLET LETTER, so fantastically embroidered, which illuminated her. It had the effect of a spell, taking her out of the ordinary relations with humanity, and enclosing her in a sphere by herself.
“She is very skilled with her needle,” remarked one of the female spectators, “but only a brazen hussy could show her skill in this manner! This is her way of laughing at the magistrates, and making the punishment something to be proud of!”
“Oh, peace neighbors, peace!” whispered their youngest companion. “Don’t let her hear you!”
“Make way, make way!” cried the beadle. “Open a passage, and I promise you that every man, woman and child will be able to look at Mistress Prynne and her apparel, from now until one o’clock. A blessing on the Colony of Massachusetts, where injustice and wickedness are dragged out into the sunshine! Come along, Madame Hester, and show your scarlet letter in the marketplace!”
Hester Prynne walked towards the place of her punishment. A crowd of curious schoolboys ran in front of her, turning their heads to look at her face and at the humiliating letter on her breast. It was as though her heart had been thrown out into the street for the spectators to walk on.
However, no one could see her inner agony, and she walked serenely to the scaffold. The scaffold was the platform of the pillory, that horrid instrument of discipline that confines the human head in its tight grip, and exposes it to the world.
Hester Prynne was not condemned to the pillory. She was condemned to stand on the scaffold, for everyone to look at. It was intolerable! The Governor, several counselors, a judge, a general and the ministers of the town were all at the balcony of the meetinghouse, looking down on the platform.
As she stood on the scaffold, vivid memories of her childhood flashed through her mind. She remembered her schooldays and her years as a young girl. These memories made her forget, for a few instants, the brutal reality of the present. She remembered her native village in England and her paternal home—a decayed house of gray stone with a poverty-stricken aspect. She saw her father’s face, and her mother’s too. She saw her own face, alive with the happiness and beauty of youth.
Then she remembered another face, the face of a man troubled by his years—the pale, thin face of a scholar, with dull eyes that had toiled over many books. Yet, those tired eyes had a strange, penetrating power to read the human soul. Hester also remembered his slight deformity his left shoulder was a bit higher than the right.
Suddenly, Hester’s mind returned to the present, to the marketplace of the Puritan settlement, with all the townspeople looking at her, at her infant and at the scarlet letter. This was her new reality.
As Hester was standing on the platform she saw, in the distance, an Indian who was standing next to a white man. The white man had strange clothes and was small in stature. There was remarkable intelligence in his features. Hester noticed that one of the man’s shoulders was higher than the other. When she realized that the man had a thin, weary face and a slight physical deformity, she pressed her child to her breast with such force, that the poor infant cried out.
The stranger had set his eyes on Hester. At first, he looked at her carelessly. But after & while. his look became intense and penetrating. Then, a look of horror crossed his face. He tried to control his strong emotions, and soon he appeared to be calm.
At this point, he met Hester’s eyes. She appeared to recognize him. He slowly raised his finger, and put it on his lips.
He then asked a townsman the following question. “Who is this woman and why is she on the platform?”
“You must be a stranger in this area, my friend,” answered the townsman, looking curiously at the man and his Indian companion, “otherwise you would have heard of Mistress Hester Prynne and her evil doings. She has created a scandal in Master Dimmesdale’s church.”
“Really?” said the man. “I am a stranger. I have traveled by land and sea, and I have been a prisoner of the Indians. Please tell me of this woman’s offenses.”
“That woman, sir, was the wife of a well-educated man, English by birth, who had lived in Amsterdam for a long time. One day he decided to settle in Massachusetts. Therefore, he sent his wife first, and he remained in Amsterdam to look after some business. Two years have passed, and the young woman has never received any news from her husband.”
“I understand,” replied the stranger. “And who is the father of the infant?”
“The matter is a mystery. Madame Hester refuses to speak. Our Massachusetts magistrates have been merciful with Hester Prynne. They say that she is young and fair, and was strongly tempted to her fall. Moreover, it is likely that her husband may be at the bottom of the sea. If the magistrates had followed the law to its extreme, the penalty would have been death! Instead, the penalty is to stand on the platform for three hours. And then, to wear the mark of shame on her breast for the rest of her life.”
“A wise sentence,” said the stranger. “She will be a living sermon against sin until the shameful letter is engraved on her tombstone. It upsets me that the partner of her shame is not standing on the platform by her side. But he will be known!—he will be known!—he will be known!”
He bowed courteously to the townsman and left the crowd with his Indian companion.
Hester stood on the scaffold, staring at the stranger. In her heart she was thankful that the crowd, dreadful in itself, was there to separate her from him—to protect her from him! She dreaded the moment when she would have to meet him alone, face to face.
Several important men of authority and religion had assembled at the meetinghouse to discuss and judge Hester Prynne’s case. These older men were, without doubt, good, wise, just and virtuous. But they were not capable of judging the good and evil in a woman’s heart.
Governor Bellingham, head of the community, was present. The famous Reverend John Wilson, the oldest clergyman in Boston, called out Hester’s name.
“Hester Prynne,” said the clergyman. “I have tried to persuade my young brother, Reverend Dimmesdale, to deal with you in discussing the vileness of your sin. Reverend Dimmesdale is your pastor and knows you better than I. Hester Prynne, you must not continue to hide the name of he who tempted you to this grievous fall.
“Reverend Dimmesdale does not agree with me. He feels that it is against the nature of a woman to force her to open the secrets of her heart to the world. Who will deal with this poor sinner’s soul?”
There was a murmur among the dignified occupants of the balcony.
Governor Bellingham spoke in an authoritative voice, “Master Dimmesdale, the responsibility of this woman’s soul is yours. You must convince her to repent and confess.”
The whole crowd looked at Reverend Dimmesdale, a young clergyman, who had come from the great English universities, bringing all his learning to the wilderness. He was eloquent and deeply religious. He had a striking aspect with large, brown, melancholy eyes, and a mouth which tended to tremble. This expressed both nervous sensibility and a great power of self-control. The young minister had a worried, almost frightened look. He was simple and childlike, but his sermons, which reflected his purity of thought, affected his listeners like the speech of an angel.
“Spaak to the woman, my brother,” said Mr. Wilson. “She must confess the truth!”
“Hester Prynne,” said Reverend Dimmesdale, leaning over the balcony and looking inte her eyes, “you have heard what Reverend Wilson said. I ask you to confess the name of your fellow sinner. Do not have pity for him. Your silence will not save his soul. Your silence will only make him add hypocrisy to sin. It is better for him to join you on the platform than to hide a guilty heart all through his life.”
The young pastor’s voice was sweet, rich, deep and broken. He was able to evoke sympathy from the crowd.
Hester shock her head.
“Woman, do not go beyond the limits of Heaven’s mercy!” cried Reverend Wilson. “Speak out the name! That name and your repentance could help to take the scarlet letter off your breast.”
“Never!” replied Hester, looking into the deep and troubled eyes of Reverend Dimmesdale.
“Speak, woman!” said another stern voice from the crowd. “Speak and give your child a father!”
“I will not speak!” answered Hester, turning as pale as death.
“She will not speak,” murmured Reverend Dimmesdale, who was leaning over the balcony with his hand on his heart. He moved back with a long sigh. “What strength and generosity in a woman’s heart. She will not speak!”
After her return to prison, Hester Prynne was in a state of nervous excitement. It was impossible for her to remain calm. The infant was not feeling well either. It was crying desperately and was obviously in pain.
Master Brackett, the jailer, decided to call a physician, who was staying in the prison as a guest until the magistrates could meet with the Indians to decide his ransom. The physician’s name was Roger Chillingworth. The jailer accompanied him to Hester’s cell. When she saw the man that she had noticed in the crowd, she became as still as death.
The physician entered the room quietly and examined the infant carefully. He then opened his leather case and took out a medicine that he mixed with water.
“Here, woman! The child is yours—she is not mine. Make the child drink from this cup.”
Hester refused the medicine, and at the same time gazed at him with apprehension.
“Would you avenge yourself on this innocent child?” she whispered.
“Foolish woman!” responded the physician. “Why should I harm this suffering child? The medicine is good and strong, and if it were my child, I would give it.”
Hester still hesitated, so he took the infant and gave it the medicine. The child stopped crying after a while, and then fall asleep.
The physician proceeded to examine the mother, and then prepared another medicine for her.
“Drink this! It is an old Indian medicine. It will calm you but it cannot give you a sinless conscience. I have no medicine for that.”
“Is there death in this cup?” Hester asked.
“Do you know me so little, Hester Prynne? If I want revenge, what better revenge than to let you live, so that your shame can always be on your bosom?” He touched the scarlet letter with his long finger.
“Live, therefore, and support your punishment in the eyes of men and women, in the eyes of your husband, in the eyes of your child.”
Hester drank the medicine and sat down on the bad where the child was sleeping. The physician sat down near the bed. Hester knew that she had deeply and irreparably injured the man who sat next to her.
“It was my folly, my weakness, to marry you,” said the physician. “I was a man in decay, having given my best years to feed my dream of knowledge. I was born with a physical deformity. Why did I ever think that my intellectual gifts could compensate for my misshapen body and my age in the eyes of a beautiful, young girl!
“From the moment when we came down the church steps together, as husband and wife, I should have known that there would be a scarlet letter at the end of our path.”
“You knew that I did not love you. I never pretended to love you. I have always been frank with you,” said Hester.
“True,” he replied. “It was my folly. In my life, the world has been a cheerless place. My heart was sad and lonely without a household fire. I was looking for a little happiness, a little warmth. And so, Hester, I took you into my heart.”
“I have greatly wronged you,” murmured Hester.
“We have wronged each other,” answered the physician. “By marrying you, I created an unnatural relation between your youth and my decay. I plan no vengeance against you, Hester. Between you and me the scale hangs fairly balanced. But who is the man who has wronged us both?”
“Do not ask me! You will never know!” replied Hester vehemently.
“Never? Believe me, Hester, there are very few things hidden from the man who devotes himself to solving A mystery. All my life, I have searched for the truth in books. I will search for him and I will find him! Sooner or later, he must be mine!”
The eyes of the wrinkled scholar glowed So intensely upon her, that Hester put her hands over her heart, fearing that he might read her secret.
“You will not reveal his name, but he is mine. he does not wear a scarlet letter, but I will read it on his heart. He will be mine!”
Hester was terrified.
“You have kept the secret of your lover’s name. Now, keep my secret! No one here knows me. Do not tell a soul that I am your husband. I will pitch my tent here Where I have ties—a woman, a man and a child. No matter whether my ties are of love or hate. You, Hester Prynne, belong to me. My home is where you are and where he is. But do not betray mE!”
“Why not announce yourself openly and cast me off?” Hester asked.
“It may be that I do not want the dishonor of being the husband of a faithless woman. It may be for other reasons. Let everyone think that I am dead. If you betray me, beware! His fame, his position, his life will be in my hands. Beware!”
“I will keep your secret, as I have kept his,” said Hester.
“Swear it!” be insisted. And she swore.
Hester Prynne’s prison term was over. The prison door was thrown open and she came out into the bright sunshine. For Hester’s tormented heart, the sunshine had no other purpose than to reveal the scarlet letter on her breast.
From this day on, she would be alone in the world with her shame. And each day would be the same, as her burden of shame, misery and solitude grew heavier and harder to bear. Even after her death, her grave would bear the sign of her sin, of her shame.
Hester, however, was free to leave the Puritan settlement of Boston. She was free to return to her birthplace or to any other European land, where she could begin a new life. But there is a strange fatality that attracts human beings irresistibly to the place where a great event has given color and perhaps meaning to their lives. And it seems that the more tragic the event, the greater the attraction to that place.
Her sin, her ignominy, were the roots that she had planted in the soil of the Puritan settlement. Perhaps another feeling kept her there too; a feeling that she was afraid to recognize, a feeling that she hid from herself. In the Puritan settlement, there lived the man who was her partner in sin and the father of her child.
She forced herself to believe that the reason for remaining in New England was that here, she would purge her soul through humiliation, shame and suffering.
Therefore, Hester did not flee. She and her child went to live in a small thatched cottage near the seashore and far from the Puritan settlement. She lived a life of isolation. She had no friends.
Her only contact with other humans was through her work. She possessed an art that was required even in these barren lands — the art of needle work. She was exceptionally skilled with the needle.
Public ceremonies, installation of magistrates, funeral robes and baby linen all required rich embroidery and beautiful ornamentation. Hester had a good amount of work to do all year long. But never was she called to embroider the white veil of a young bride. This indicated the relentless vigor with which society punished her for her sin.
Hester often gave contributions to charity to help the poor of the community. She made clothes for them too. The poor often scorned her, but they readily accepted her charity.
Hester felt completely excluded from society. Every gesture, every word, and even the silence of those she contacted expressed that she was banished.
If she entered a church on the Sabbath, she was immediately the object of gossip and scorn. Hester began to fear children for when she walked through the town they followed her, screaming insults.
Terrible legends grew around the scarlet letter. Some people believed that it was red-hot with infernal fire, and could be seen glowing at night when Hester walked outside.
Hester had named her little girl Pearl because a pearl was an object of great price. And she had paid a very high price indeed for her Pearl.
Hester knew that what she had done was evil, and she believed that its result would not be good. Therefore, she fearfully examined Pearl, expecting to discover something dark, peculiar or perverse in the child.
Pearl had no physical defect. She had an inborn grace that accompanied her flawless beauty. In this little girl, there was something both wild and majestic.
Hester made her richly decorated dresses that enhanced Pearl’s beauty. She did everything in her power to be a strict, but loving mother.
As Pearl grew, Hester could not help asking herself if she was a human child. Her shiny black eyes had a look that was very intelligent, yet inexplicable, perverse and sometimes malicious. She was an enigma for her mother. For the townspeople, Pearl was a demon offspring — a living sin!
The first thing Pearl noticed in her life was the scarlet letter on Hester’s breast. She would grab it with her little hand and then she would look into her mother’s eyes with a peculiar smile. This peculiar smile puzzled and frightened Hester.
Pearl was an outcast in the children’s world. She was considered a product of sin, an evil child that had no right to be with the other children of the Puritan community of Boston.
One day, Hester went to Governor Bellingham’s mansion to return a pair of gloves that he had given her to embroider. She had decided to return the embroidered gloves, and talk to him regarding certain gossip that she had recently heard. The townspeople had been saying that Governor Bellingham and other leading citizens wanted to take Pearl away from her mother since she was considered a lowly sinner, and could not possibly raise her child in a Christian way. If the child was really capable of moral and religious growth, and possessed the elements of salvation, then she would be better off away from her mother. Hester, therefore, was determined to talk to the governor and convince him to let her keep Pearl.
For this occasion. Pearl was wearing a crimson velvet dress, abundantly embroidered with gold thread. Pearl possessed a rich and luxuriant beauty. There was a fire in her; she seemed the unpremeditated offshoot of a passionate moment.
The child’s appearance was an inevitable reminder of what Hester was condemned to wear on her bosom. Pearl was the scarlet letter in another form — the living scarlet letter!
They reached the governor’s mansion and a bond-servant opened the door.
“Is Governor Bellingham in?” inquired Hester.
“Yes, he is.” replied the bond-servant, staring with wide-open eyes at the scarlet letter. “But he is talking to a minister and to other gentlemen. You cannot see him now.”
“I will enter anyway.” answered Hester.
The mother and little Pearl were admitted into the entrance hall. The governor was returning from a walk in his garden with Mr. Wilson.
Behind the governor and Mr. Wilson came two other guests: the young Reverend Arthur Dimmesdale and old Roger Chillingworth. Chillingworth had settled in the town about three years ago, and worked as a physician. He was a friend of the young minister, whose health had been suffering lately.
As the governor entered the hell, he immediately noticed the little scarlet figure before him. “How did this guest enter my hall?” he asked.
“Indeed.” cried Mr. Wilson, “who is this little scarlet bird? Who are you and why has your mother dressed you in this strange way?”
“I am mother’s child,” answered the scarlet vision, “and my name is Pearl.”
Governor Bellingham looked sternly at Hester and said, “Hester Prynne, we have been worried about your child’s salvation. Is it right for you, who has fallen into sin, to be responsible for the religious and moral instruction of your child? This child needs to be dressed soberly, disciplined strictly and instructed in the truths of heaven and earth. What can you do for her?”
“I can teach my little Pearl what I have learned from this!” answered Hester, laying her finger on the scarlet letter.
“Woman, it is because of this badge of shame that we want to give the child to other hands.”
“Nevertheless,” said the mother calmly, “this badge has taught me, and is teaching me at this moment, lessons that can make my child wiser and better.”
“We will judge carefully,” said Governor Bellingham. “Reverend Wilson, examine Pearl and see whether she has had the Christian instruction for a child of her age.”
The old minister sat down and tried to draw Pearl near him.
“Pearl,” he said solemnly, “can you tell me who made you?”
Now Pearl knew very well who made her because Hester had talked to her about the Heavenly Father. For a child of three years old, she knew many things concerning catechism. But she refused to answer Reverend Wilson’s question. After putting her finger in her mouth and refusing to speak, she finally said that she had not been made at all— she had been picked off a bush of wild roses by her mother!
Old Roger Chillingworth smiled and whispered something in the young minister’s ear. Hester looked at Chillingworth and saw how much uglier he had become.
“This is awful!” cried the governor. “Here is a child of three years old who does not know who made her! We do not need to discuss the matter any further.”
Hester picked up Pearl and held the child tightly in her arms. “God gave me this child! She is my only happiness. She keeps me alive! You will not take her! I will die first!”
“My poor woman, the child will be well cared for!”
“God gave her to me,” repeated Hester raising her voice. “I will not give her up.” She suddenly turned to Mr. Dimmesdale and said, “Speak for me! You are my pastor and are responsible for my soul! You know me better than these men. You know what is in my heart. Speak for me!”
Reverend Dimmesdale looked thinner and more troubled than when he had questioned Hester three years earlier.
“There is truth in what she says,” began the minister with a sweet. tremulous, but powerful voice. “God gave her the child and the instinctive knowledge of its nature and needs, which no other mortal can possess. Moreover, there is a quality of sacredness in the relation between this mother and child.”
“How is that, Master Dimmesdale?” interrupted the governor.
“This child has come from the hand of God to work in many ways upon the mother’s heart. It was meant to he a blessing; the one blessing in her life! This child was meant to keep her mother’s soul alive, and to preserve her from blacker depths of sin. Therefore, it is good for this poor, sinful woman to care for the child. The child will remind her of her fall. Let us follow God’s wish.”
“You speak with a strange earnestness,” said old Roger Chillingworth, smiling at him.
“My young brother has spoken well,” said Reverend Wilson.
“Indeed, he has,” answered the governor. “We will leave the matter as it now stands. The child, however, must be examined in catechism, either by Reverend Wilson or Master Dimmesdale. And at the right time, she must go to school and to meeting.”
After having spoken, the young minister stood by the window and looked out. Pearl, that wild little elf, went to him, took his hand in both of hers and put it against her cheek. The minister looked down, laid his hand on the child’s head and then kissed her forehead.
“A strange child!” said old Roger Chillingworth. “It’s easy to see the mother’s part in her. Would it be so difficult to analyze the child’s nature and then try to guess who the father is?”
“No, it would be sinful.” said Reverend Wilson. “It is better to leave the mystery as we find it, unless Providence reveals it to us.”
Everything was satisfactorily concluded, and Hester and Pearl left the governor’s mansion. As they went down the steps, they met Mistress Hibbins, the governor’s bad-tempered sister. who was later executed as a witch.
She looked at Hester and asked, “Will you go to the forest with us tonight? I promised the Black Man that you would come.”
“I must stay at home to look after Pearl. If they had taken her away from me, I would have gone with you willingly, and I would have signed my name in the Black Man’s book with my own blood.”
Under the name of Roger Chillingworth was hidden another “name, which Chillingworth had decided never to use. He was unknown to all, except to Hester, and he possessed the lock and key of her silence.
Roger Chillingworth set up his residence in the town of Boston, and he became the physician of the settlement. The townspeople considered themselves fortunate to have such a learned physician in their town. During the period of Indian captivity he had gained considerable knowledge of the medicinal properties of native herbs and roots.
Chillingworth had chosen Reverend Dimmesdale, who was greatly admired, as his spiritual guide. At about this time, Reverend Dimmesdale’s health began to fail. The townspeople were very worried about this. He had become very thin and his cheeks were terribly pale. He often put his hand over his heart in sign of pain.
Therefore, the townspeople thought it was an absolute miracle that Dr. Chillingworth had come to cure their reverend. He became the reverend’s medical adviser. Together, they took long walks in the forest and along the seashore. Both were learned, intelligent men and they were glad to exchange their ideas on different topics. Intellectually, it was a breath of fresh air for the reverend.
Thus Roger Chillingworth, the kind and friendly physician, got to know his patient very well—too well. Chillingworth believed that the illnesses of the body are usually connected with the problems of the heart and mind.
A man burdened with a secret should avoid the intimate company of his physician because if the physician possesses intuition, sooner or later the secret will transpire. Chillingworth felt that Reverend Dimmesdale possessed a secret that he was carefully guarding.
After some time, upon a hint from Roger Chillingworth, the friends of Reverend Dimmesdale arranged that the two should share the same house. In this way, every moment of the minister’s life would pass under the investigating eye of his anxious physician. The townspeople were relieved because they felt that the reverend would finally be in good hands.
This new home was with a pious widow of good social rank. The kind widow gave the sickly reverend a front apartment with a sunny exposure. On the other side of the house, old Chillingworth arranged his study and laboratory.
As time went on, a part of the community began to see the old physician as a mysterious figure. There was an aged craftsman who said he had seen the same physician in London about thirty years earlier.
Others said that Roger Chillingworth’s aspect had undergone a remarkable change since he began living with Reverend Dimmesdale. At first, his expression had been calm, meditative and scholarly. Now there was something ugly and evil in his face that became more evident as the days passed. According to these people, the fire in his laboratory was fed with infernal fuel. Sometimes a blue, ghastly light burned in his eyes.
To sum up the matter, a good majority of the townspeople believed that Reverend Dimmesdale, like many other holy people, was haunted either by Satan himself or by Satan’s messenger, disguised as old Roger Chillingworth.
Throughout his life, old Chillingworth had been a calm, kindly individual. He had never been a warm person, but he was an upright man. He had begun his investigation with the impartial integrity of a judge, but as time went on, he became emotionally involved. He was seized by a terrible fascination that never again set him free. He became obsessed.
He dug incessantly into the poor clergyman’s heart, like a miner searching for gold. He groped along as stealthily as a thief. Reverend Dimmesdale, who was extremely sensitive, became aware that something inimical had entered his life. He was suspicious of all mankind. He trusted no man as his friend, but he was not able to recognize his enemy when he actually appeared. Therefore, he continued being Chillingworth’s close friend. Dimmesdale often visited the physician’s laboratory and watched the processes by which weeds and roots were converted into potent medicines.
One day, while he was in the physician’s laboratory, he asked, “Where did you find those weeds with such a dark leaf?”
“I found them growing on a grave that had no tombstone. These ugly weeds probably grew out of a dead man’s heart—a heart that hid some hideous secret that was buried with him: a secret that he should have confessed during his lifetime.”
“Perhaps,” said the reverend, “he earnestly wanted to but he could not.”
“Why not?” asked Chillingworth, observing the reverend closely.
“The human heart hides our most hideous secrets, and it must do so until that Last Day. Then, with immeasurable joy, all men will reveal their sins before the Heavenly Father. Only the Divine power can peer into the heart to discover its secrets.”
“But why not reveal them here? Why shouldn’t the guilty ones get rid of their burden and receive this immeasurable joy here on earth?”
“Most sinners do,” said the reverend, gripping his breast. “Many, many a poor soul has confided in me. not only on the death-bed. And after such an outpouring, the sinner experienced immense relief.”
“Yet some men bury their secrets,” observed the calm physician.
“True, there are such men.” answered the reverend.
“These men are afraid to take up the shame that belongs to them,” said Chillingworth. “Such men deceive themselves!”
The physician continued examining the plants that he had gathered. Reverend Dimmesdale watched him and then said, “Do you think my health is improving with your remedies? Please speak frankly.”
The physician was still busy with the plants, but kept a wary eye on the reverend. “Your disorder is a strange one. Have you told me everything I need to know in order to cure you? Are you hiding anything from me?”
“How can you ask me this?” said the minister.
“To speak very plainly, I think your bodily disease is only a symptom of a spiritual ailment. Please pardon me, sir, if my speech offends you.”
“I presume you do not deal in medicine for the soul!” said the reverend, hastily rising from his chair.
Chillingworth went on in an unaltered tone. “If you want your physician to heal the evil of your body, you must first reveal to him the trouble in your soul.”
“No! Not to you! Not to an earthly physician!” cried Reverend Dimmesdale passionately, with a kind of fierceness. “Not to you! If my soul is troubled, I will open myself to the Physician of the soul! Who are you to meddle in this matter—to put yourself between the sufferer and his God?”
With a frantic gesture, he rushed out of the room.
“It is good that this has happened,” said Chillingworth to himself. “Nothing is lost. We’ll be friends again. But I have seen how passion takes hold of this man. As with one passion, so with another!”
After a few hours, the reverend apologized to his physician for his outburst. He asked Chillingworth to continue curing his health. Chillingworth agreed and continued his medical supervision.
One day at noon, Reverend Dimmesdale fell asleep in his chair while reading a book. Old Chillingworth came into his room, but did not awaken the reverend. He laid his hand on the reverend’s chest and thrust aside the vestment that had always covered it. Dimmesdale continued sleeping.
After a moment, the physician turned away with a wild look of wonder, joy and horror! He threw up his arms and stamped his foot on the floor! He behaved like Satan himself when a soul is lost to heaven and won into his kingdom.
After the incident last described, the relationship between the clergyman and the physician changed profoundly, although externally it seemed the same. Roger Chillingworth appeared calm, gentle and passionless, as always. But there was now a certain malice in this old man that led him to imagine a more intimate revenge than any mortal had ever inflicted on an enemy. Chillingworth saw and understood every movement of Dimmesdale’s soul. He became the chief actor in the poor minister’s interior world. He could manipulate the reverend as he chose because he knew the spring that controlled the engine.
All this was accomplished with perfect subtlety. Although the minister felt an evil influence watching over him, he could never suspect its real nature. At times he looked doubtfully, fearfully, and even with horror and hatred at the deformed physician. His entire being was odious to the minister.
Nevertheless as a matter of principle, the reverend continued his habits of social familiarity with the old physician. This gave Chillingworth a constant opportunity to perfect his revenge on his unsuspecting victim.
Reverend Dimmesdale suffered from ill health, was tormented by a troubled soul and was a victim of the machinations of his worst enemy. In spite of all this, he achieved a brilliant popularity as a pastor. His intellectual gifts and his power of communicating emotion were kept alive by the anguish of his daily life.
It was the heavy burden he carried in his heart that enabled him to understand the sinners of his congregation so well. He was considered a miracle of holiness.
This public veneration tortured him! He longed to speak out from his own pulpit and tell the people what he really was: “I, your pastor, whom you venerate and trust, am a profanation and a lie!”
More than once, Reverend Dimmesdale had gone to the pulpit with the purpose of revealing his true self. More than once he had cleared his throat and had actually spoken! Spoken! But how?
He told his congregation that he was completely vile and disgusting, the worst of sinners and unworthy in every way. Wouldn’t the people take him out of the pulpit? Not so! They appreciated him even more! “He is a saint on earth! If he sees sins in his own white soul, what a horrid spectacle if he ever saw mine!” they said among themselves.
The minister knew—subtle, but remorseful hypocrite that he was—how his vague confession would be viewed. He spoke the truth and transformed it into a falsehood. And yet he loved the truth and hated lies. Therefore, above all things, he hated his miserable self!
In the reverend’s secret closet, under lock and key, there was a whip. His inner troubles led him to whip his own shoulders, while he laughed bitterly.
It was also his custom to fast. He fasted as an act of penance, until his knees trembled. At night, instead of sleeping, he kept vigils. During these long vigils, he studied himself in the mirror. He had visions of angels, of demons, of dead friends of his youth, of his parents. He also had visions of Hester with little Pearl in her scarlet dress, pointing to her mother’s scarlet letter and then to the minister’s own breast.
Reverend Dimmesdale lived a life of misery, a life of falsehood. The only truth that continued to give him a real existence on earth was the anguish of his soul.
On one of those ugly nights, a new thought came to his mind. He dressed with care, went down the staircase quietly, opened the door and went out.
Walking in the shadow of a dream, Reverend Dimmesdale reached the platform where seven years before Hester Prynne had lived through her first hour of public ignominy.
It was a cloudy night in early May. The town was asleep. Why had the minister come here? He had been driven by the impulses of Remorse and Cowardice: Remorse pushed him to confession, while Cowardice pulled him back with her tremulous grip. While standing on the scaffold in this vain show of expiation, the reverend was overcome by a horrible feeling—it was as if the universe was gazing at a scarlet token on his naked breast, right over his heart. Without realizing it, he shrieked aloud! It was a cry that went ringing through the night.
“It is done,” he muttered, covering his face with his hands. “The whole town will awaken and find me here!”
But the town did not awaken. Suddenly, in the dark of the night, he heard a light, childish laugh—he recognized little Pearl’s voice.
“Pearl! Little Pearl!” he cried. Then, with a softer voice, he said, “Hester! Hester Prynne! Are you there?”
“Yes. it is Hester Prynne,” she replied, approaching the platform.
“Where are you coming from?” asked the minister.
“I have been at Governor Winthrop’s deathbed to take the measurements for his deathrobe.”
“Come up here, Hester, you and little Pearl,” said the minister. “You both have been here before. but I was not with you. Let us stand all three together.”
She ascended the steps hesitantly, and stood on the platform, holding Pearl by the hand. The minister took the child’s other hand. The moment that he did so, a rush of new life poured into his heart and rushed through his veins. It was as if the mother and child were communicating their vital warmth to his half-torpid system. The three formed an electric chain.
Suddenly, a bright light lit up the cloudy sky. It was undoubtedly a meteor flying through the sky.
In those days it was common to interpret the appearance of meteors as revelations from a supernatural source. As Reverend Dimmesdale looked up at the sky that had been lit by the meteor, he saw an immense letter A—marked with lines of dull red light.
While the reverend was gazing up at the sky, he was perfectly aware that little Pearl was pointing her finger at old Roger Chillingworth, who stood not far from the scaffold.
“Who is that man, Hester?” gasped the reverend, filled with terror. “Do you know this man? I hate him, Hester!”
She remembered her oath and was silent.
“My soul shivers at the sight of that man. He fills me with horror. Who is he?” muttered the reverend again.
Approaching the platform with a malevolent expression, Chillingworth said, “Pious Master Dimmesdale, can this be you? We men of study dream in our working moments, and walk in our sleep. Come, my dear friend, let me lead you home.”
“How did you know I was here?” asked the reverend.
“I have spent most of the night at the deathbed of Governor Winthrop, trying to ease his suffering. Come with me, Reverend, we must go home now,” said Chillingworth. “Tomorrow is the Sabbath!”
The next day was the Sabbath and Reverend Dimmesdale preached his most powerful sermon. It was the richest and most complete that he had ever addressed to his devoted congregation.
After having met Reverend Dimmesdale on the platform, Hester was shocked by his deteriorated physical and mental condition. In seven years he had undergone a frightening change for the worse. A secret enemy was continually at his side, disguised as a friend and helper. She decided that it was her responsibility to help him.
During the past seven years, Hester’s position in the community had changed. She silently accepted her isolation and her shame. She was a self-ordained Sister of Mercy! She constantly helped the poor, the sick and the afflicted. Many people refused to interpret the scarlet A with its original meaning. They said it meant Able. It took a longer time for the rulers of the community to acknowledge Hester’s good qualities.
The townspeople had forgiven her for her frailty. They had begun to look upon the scarlet letter as a token of her many good deeds.
The symbol had had a powerful and peculiar effect on Hester. Her physical attractiveness had undergone a sad transformation. Her warm and graceful character had become cold and barren.
In her life of solitude and hopelessness, Hester was free to think about her world and to criticize it. Outwardly, she conformed to the rules of her community, but in the privacy of her mind, she disapproved and detested them. She felt that the whole system of society should be torn down and built up again. If her thoughts had been made public, she would have suffered death for attempting to destroy the Puritan institutions.
Hester decided to meet her former husband, Roger Chillingworth, and do what she could to rescue his victim. One afternoon, while walking with Pearl, she saw the old physician who was gathering roots and herbs. Hester asked Pearl to go to the seashore and play with the shells, while she spoke to the physician.
Hester approached him and said, “I need to speak to you.”
The physician looked at Hester and said, “Mistress Hester has a word for old Roger Chillingworth!”
Hester looked at Chillingworth and was shocked to see how he had changed in the past years. It was not so much that he had grown older, but that he looked so evil and fierce. There was a glare of red light that came out of his eyes, as if the old man’s soul was on fire. In a word, he was the striking example of a man who had transformed himself into a devil. He had devoted seven years of his life to the constant analysis of a tortured heart. And he had derived immense enjoyment in adding fuel to those fiery tortures and gloating over them.
“When we last spoke together seven years ago, you made me promise never to reveal your true identity. At that time, I had no choice. Since that day, you have been behind his every footstep, day and night. You search his thoughts. You dig into his heart. You cause him to die daily a living death. And he still doesn’t know who you really are!”
“What evil have I done to this man?” asked Chillingworth. “I have cared for his failing health in every possible way. If I had not cared for him, he would have died!”
“It would have been better if he had died at once!” said Hester.
“Yes, you are right!” cried old Chillingworth. “Never has a man suffered as he has suffered—and before my very eyes! He has felt a constant evil influence, like a curse. But he does not know that I am responsible for his misery. I am the evil fiend!”
“Have you not tortured him enough?” asked Hester. “Has he not paid his debt to you?”
“No, no! He has only increased the debt. Do you remember me, Hester, as I was when you first met me? I was peaceful, innocent, kind and just. Was I not all this?”
“All this and more,” said Hester.
“And what am I now?” he cried. “I am a fiend! Who made ma so?”
“I, myself!” cried Hester, shuddering. “It was I, not less than he. Why have you not avenged yourself on me?”
“I have left you to the scarlet letter,” replied Chillingworth.
“It has avenged you,” said Hester. “But now, I must reveal the secret. It is a debt I have with him. Forgive him, and leave his punishment to the Almighty Power. You have been deeply wronged, and it is your privilege to forgive. Do you want to reject this priceless privilege?”
There was almost a majestic quality in her despair.
“It is not in my power to pardon. You planted the germ of evil, and now let the black flower blossom. It is our fate. Go and do as you want with that man.” He waved his hand and continued gathering herbs.
With great anger, Hester watched him walk away. “Be it sin or not,” she said bitterly, “I hate the man!” She wondered how she could have married him. When her heart knew no better, he had persuaded her to be happy by his side. “Yes, I hate him! He betrayed me!”
When Chillingworth had gone, she called back her child. Pearl had been playing with seaweed and had made the letter A, which she put on her bosom. “I wonder if mother will ask me what it means!” thought Pearl.
“My little Pearl,” said Hester, “the green letter on your young bosom has no purpose. Do you know why your mother wears it?”
“I do!” answered Pearl. “It is for the same reason that the minister keeps his hand over his heart.”
“And what is that reason?”
“I have told all I know,” Pearl said seriously. She took her mother’s hand in both her own, and gazed into her eyes with earnestness. Hester thought that perhaps Pearl had reached an age when she could become a friend for her—a friend with whom to share her sorrow.
Pearl continued to ask her mother about the meaning of the scarlet letter. One day Hester said, “Silly Pearl, there are many things in this world that a child must not ask about. Hold your tongue! Otherwise, I will shut you in a dark closet!”
Hester was determined to reveal to Reverend Dimmesdale the true identity of Roger Chillingworth. She knew that the reverend often took walks in the forest and along the seashore. Therefore, one day Hester took little Pearl for a walk in the forest. Pearl ran about happily trying to catch the sunshine, and then sat down with her mother on a heap of moss.
“Mother, is there a Black Man who lives in the forest, and carries a big book where people write their names with their own blood? Did you ever meet him? Oh, tell me!”
Hester looked curiously at little Pearl and replied, “Once in my life I met the Black Man. This scarlet letter is his mark!”
After a vivid conversation with Pearl, Hester heard footsteps in the forest. She knew it was the reverend.
“Pearl, go and play near the brook, while I speak to this person who is walking through the woods. Do not go far away! Stay near the brook.”
When the child had gone to play, Hester walked towards the minister, who was coming down the path. He looked tired and weak, and his step was listless. He would have been only too happy to lie down in the dark forest and die.
“Arthur Dimmesdale,” Hester said softly.
“Who is there?” said the minister. He took another step and discovered the scarlet letter.
“Hester! Hester Prynne!” he said. “Is it you?”
“Yes!” she replied. They were both awestricken. Arthur Dimmesdale touched Hester’s cold hand with his own. They sat down on the heap of moss, and when they had found the strength to speak, made remarks about the approaching storm. They had been separated for so long by fate and circumstances that it took some time before they could open their hearts to each other.
After a while, the minister looked at Hester and said, “Hester, have you found peace?”
She smiled sadly, looked at her bosom and asked, “Have you?”
“None—nothing but despair! Were I an atheist, a man without a conscience, I might have found peace long ago. But I am a minister! I am so miserable.”
“The people revere you and you have certainly worked well among them,” said Hester.
“More misery, Hester! I have laughed bitterly at the contrast between what I seem and what I am! And Satan laughs at it! Happy are you, Hester! You wear the scarlet letter openly on your bosom. Mine burns in secret! If only I had a friend, or an enemy, to whom I could tell the truth!”
“You have a friend in me,” Hester said. Then, trying desperately to conquer her fears, she said, “You have such an enemy, and he lives with you under the same roof!”
The minister jumped to his feet, gasping for breath and clutching at his heart. “What are you saying? An enemy! Under my own roof? What do you mean?”
With her silence of seven years, she had ruined the man she still so passionately loved! Now, she would gladly have died at Arthur Dimmesdale’s feet.
“Oh, Arthur.” she cried, “forgive me! I have always been truthful, but in this circumstance I had no choice. The old physician—Roger Chillingworth —he was my husband!”
The minister looked at her with unimaginable violence of passion. He had never had a blacker or fiercer frown. He sank down on the ground and buried his face in his hands.
“I might have known it! I did know it! My heart knew the secret all along. Why didn’t I understand? What horror! Woman, you are responsible for this! I cannot forgive you!”
“You will forgive me!” cried Hester, throwing herself beside him. “Let God punish! You will forgive!”
With desperate tenderness, she threw her arms around him and pressed his head against her bosom. His cheek rested on the scarlet letter.
“Will you forgive me?” she repeated over and over again.
After a long silence, he replied, “I forgive you, Hester. I forgive you! May God forgive us both! We are not the worst sinners in the world. That old man’s revenge has been blacker than our sin. He has violated the sanctity of the human heart. We never did. But now that Chillingworth knows that you have revealed his secret, will he continue to keep our secret?”
“There is a strange secrecy in his nature. I do not think he will reveal our secret,” answered Hester.
“And I! How can I live any longer, under the same roof with this deadly enemy?” exclaimed the reverend. “Think for me, Hester! You are strong. Resolve this for me!”
“You must no longer live with this man,” said Hester firmly.
“But how can I avoid it? Tell me what I must do. You are strong, Hester,” said the reverend.
“Is the world so narrow?” exclaimed Hester, fixing her eyes on the minister’s, and exercising a magnetic power over his shattered spirit. “Where does this forest path lead? It goes deeper and deeper into the wilderness, where no white man has been. There you are free! “Then, there is the broad path of the sea! It brought you here, and it can take you back again. You would be out of his power and completely free, if you returned to our native land or to Germany, France or Italy.”
“It cannot be! I cannot leave my post. I have no strength or courage to begin a new life,” answered the reverend.
“You are crushed under the weight of seven years of misery,” replied Hester. “But you will leave it all behind you! Begin everything anew! The future is still full of trial and success. There is happiness to be enjoyed. Exchange this false life of yours for a new one. Preach! Write! Act! Do anything, but do not lie down and die.”
“Oh, Hester,” cried Dimmesdale, “I must die here! I have no strength or courage left in me to venture into the wide, difficult world alone.”
He repeated the last word. “Alone, Hester.”
“You will not go alone,” she answered, whispering.
Then, all was spoken!
Arthur Dimmesdale gazed into Hester’s face with a look of hope and joy, mixed with fear. Hester was strong and determined. The scarlet letter had isolated her; it had made her an outsider. In a sense, it had freed her. As an outsider, she was free to see and judge the Puritan institutions and laws with a critical eye. Her mind was free to think, to wander, to dream. She had become very independent.
The minister, on the other hand, had lived and worked within the strict laws of the Puritan community. Only once had he transgressed-—but it had been a sin of passion, not of principle or purpose. Finally, he was able to see a ray of hope in his future. He had decided to flee, but not alone. He understood that he could no longer live without Hester’s companionship, strength and tenderness. Once the decision had been made, he began to feel a strange enjoyment, a sense of exhilaration and relief.
“You will go!” said Hester firmly. “Let us not look back. The past is gone. See! I am removing this symbol forever!”
Hester removed the scarlet letter and threw it away among the leaves.
The stigma was gone. Hester had not known its weight until she felt the freedom! Then she took off her cap and let her beautiful hair fall upon her shoulders. A tender smile appeared on her lips. Her sex, her youth and her beauty all came back from the past. And all at once, the sunshine burst forth into the dark forest.
“And now, you must know Pearl!” she said joyfully. “Our little Pearl.”
“Do you think she will be glad to know me?” he asked.
“She will love you dearly, and you will love her. I will call her! Pearl! Pearl!”
Pearl walked towards them. At a certain point, she stopped at the brook.
“Come little Pearl! Cross the brook!” said Hester gently.
Pearl did not want to go to her mother. She looked at Hester, and seemed to be searching for the scarlet letter on her bosom. She pointed her little finger at her mother’s breast— the scarlet letter was missing! She shrieked wildly, gesticulated violently and threw her small figure into extravagant contortions. Her anger seemed uncontrollable.
“I know what bothers her,” whispered Hester to the clergyman. “Pearl misses something that I always wear. I must bear its torture a little longer until we have left this region. Then I will throw it into the ocean!”
With these words, she picked up the scarlet letter and fastened it to her bosom. She then gathered up her hair and put on her cap.
“Do you know your mother now?” Hester asked.
“Yes, now I will come,” answered Pearl, jumping across the brook.
“Come, the minister wants to welcome you,” said Hester. “He loves you, and he loves your mother too.”
“Does he love us?” asked Pearl. “Will he go back with us, hand in hand, we three together?”
“Not now dear child, but in a few days he will walk hand in hand with us. We will have a home and fireside of our own. You shall sit on his knee and he will teach you many things,” Hester said.
The reverend, wanting to enter into the child’s heart, bent forward and kissed her on the brow. Pearl immediately broke away and went to the brook, where she washed off the reverend’s kiss.
As the minister departed, he turned around to look at the mother and child to assure himself that he had not had a vision. He saw Hester in her gray dress and near her, little Pearl.
They had decided to flee to the Old World with its crowds and cities. There they would find a shelter and a civilization that were congenial to the clergyman’s culture.
It so happened that there was a ship in Boston harbor, that was sailing for Bristol in four days. They booked the passage for two adults and a child. In three days, the minister had to deliver the important Election Sermon. He would not have left without doing his public duty.
After having met Hester in the forest, he felt a surge of physical energy. He was amazed at the change that had taken place in his body and in his spirit. He felt strong, energetic and strangely mischievous. He felt transformed. At every step, he was tempted to do something wild or wicked. He had a strange desire to be scornful and bitter, to ridicule all that was good and holy. He felt spiteful and unkind.
“What is it that haunts and tempts me in this way?” he said to himself. “Am I mad, or did I make a contract with the fiend of the forest and sign it with my blood?”
As he walked through the town, he met Mistress Hibbins who said, “So, Reverend sir, you have been to the forest. The next time, tell me and I will accompany you.”
“The only reason I went to the forest was to greet my pious Indian friend, Apostle Eliot,” answered the reverend.
“Ha, ha, ha,” cackled the old witch-lady, and went away smiling.
The reverend hurried home and began working on the Election Sermon, which was extremely important to him.
There was a knock at the door. It was Roger Chillingworth. “Welcome home, Reverend sir,” he said. “How is Apostle Eliot? Oh, but you are pale. My medicine will help you feel better for the Election Sermon.”
“No, no! I do not think so. My walk in the forest and the clean air have done me good. I will not be needing your medicine any more, my friend.”
All this time, Chillingworth was looking at the minister with the caring look of a physician. But in spite of this outward show, the reverend was almost convinced that the old man knew about his meeting with Hester.
The physician knew from the minister’s look that he was no longer considered a friend, but a bitter enemy. Both of them carefully avoided the subject.
When the reverend was finally alone, a servant of the house brought him dinner, which he ate with a good appetite. Then he threw the original Election Sermon in the fire and began writing another one.
On the day on which the new governor of Boston was to take office, Hester and Pearl came to the marketplace. It was an important holiday because it marked the beginning of the new political year of the colony.
The marketplace was crowded with the inhabitants of Boston, dressed in their black and gray clothes. There were also brightly dressed Indians, settlers from the wilderness and rough-looking sailors from the ship that was in the harbor. The Puritans were a bit less stern and gloomy on this holiday. Hester finally felt free, happy and hopeful. She knew that soon she would be starting a new life without the scarlet letter. Her heart was light.
In the distance, Hester could see Chillingworth talking to the commander of the ship. After a while, the commander stopped to speak to Hester.
“Well, Mistress Prynne, I have another passenger on board my ship! This time we will have two doctors on board—the ship’s surgeon and this other doctor.”
“What do you mean,” asked Hester, who was startled. “Is there another passenger?”
“Why, you must know! This physician, this Chillingworth, says he is a member of your party, and a close friend of the gentleman you spoke of.”
“They know each other well, indeed,” replied Hester, trying to be calm.
At that instant, she saw old Chillingworth himself, standing at the corner of the marketplace, smiling at her wickedly.
Before Hester could collect her thoughts, the sound of military music was approaching. The procession of magistrates and citizens was on its way to the meetinghouse, where Reverend Dimmesdale would deliver the Election Sermon. The music became louder and Pearl clapped her hands. Following the magistrates, came the young and eminently divine reverend, who would preach the sermon. This was the first time that Reverend Dimmesdale had shown such energy during a procession. His body was not bent and his hand did not rest on his heart. But it was a spiritual strength, not a physical one.
Hester gazed at the clergyman, and felt that he was another person, so different from the reverend she had met in the forest.
She hardly knew him! He moved proudly on, surrounded by the rich music and the procession of the venerable leaders.
Hester decided to listen to the sermon from her position beside the scaffold since the meetinghouse was very crowded. The reverend’s voice was like a musical instrument. It was filled with emotion, passion and anguish. It was majestic, but there was an element of sadness in it.
As Hester listened to the sounds that came from the meetinghouse, Pearl ran about the marketplace, looking at the townspeople, the Indians and the sailors.
One of the sailors said to her, “Your mother is that woman with the scarlet letter. Tell her that I send this message: I spoke again to the old doctor, and he will arrange to bring his friend, the man she knows, aboard with him. So your mother need not worry, except for herself and you. Go and tell your mother!”
Pearl nodded and ran off to tell her mother, who was devastated by this message. Was there no way out of this labyrinth of misery and persecution?
The eloquent sermon came to an end. The enraptured listeners left the church and in the open air began praising the minister. According to them, no man had ever spoken so wisely, no man had ever been so pious. To them, he was a saint. He was enjoying his moment of glory, while Hester was standing beside the scaffold with the scarlet letter still burning on her breast.
As the military men and magistrates moved onward, all eyes turned to the minister. How weak and pale he looked in the middle of his triumph! The inspiration that had sustained him during his sermon had left him now that he had performed his duty. He tried to walk on, but he could barely stand erect.
The crowd looked on in awe and wonder. He passed near the scaffold where, years ago, Hester had been shamed. He paused, turned toward the scaffold and stretched out his arms.
“Hester,” he said, “come here! Come, my little Pearl!” His aspect was ghastly. The child ran to him and clasped her arms around his knees. Hester Went near him slowly against her will. At that instant, Chillingworth pushed through the crowd to snatch back his victim. He caught the minister’s arm and said,
“Madman, stop! Send away that woman and this child. Do not blacken your fame and perish in dishonor! I can still save you!”
“Ha, tempter! You are too late!” answered the minister. “With God’s help, I will escape you now!”
He again extended his hand to the woman with the scarlet letter.
“Hester Prynne,” he cried, with piercing earnestness, “in the name of God, who gave me the grace to do what I did not do seven years ago, come here now! Give me strength, Hester!”
The crowd saw the minister, leaning on Hester’s shoulder and supported by her arm around him, ascend the steps of the scaffold. Roger Chillingworth followed them and said, “There is no place on earth where you could have escaped me except on this scaffold!”
The reverend trembled, turned to Hester and said, “Isn’t this better than what we dreamed of in the forest?”
“I don’t know! I don’t know!” she replied hurriedly. “Better? Yes, so that we may both die, and little Pearl die with us!”
“For you and Pearl, God is merciful. Now, let me do what I must. Hester, I am a dying man. So let me take my shame upon myself.”
Supported in part by Hester, and holding one of Pearl’s hands, the Reverend Dimmesdale turned to the rulers, the ministers and the people. They all knew that an important event of his life was about to be revealed to them.
“People of New England!” he cried with a high, solemn voice. “You who have loved me, you who have considered me holy, look at me here, a sinner of the world. At last, I stand upon the spot where, seven years ago, I should have stood with this woman who now sustains me. You have all shuddered at the scarlet letter that Hester wears. But there was a person among you whose sin you did not know!”
The minister fought against his bodily weakness. He stepped passionately forward and said, “It was on him! God’s eye saw it! The angels were always pointing to it! The Devil knew it well! But he hid it from his fellow men. Now at this hour of death, he stands up before you. He asks you to look again at Hester Prynne’s scarlet letter! He tells you, that with all its mysterious horror, it is but the shadow of what he bears on his own breast.”
With a convulsive motion, he tore away the ministerial band from his breast. It was revealed! But it is irreverent to describe that revelation. For an instant, the gaze of the horror-stricken crowd was concentrated on the ghastly miracle. There was a flush of triumph on his face. Then he sank down on the scaffold. Hester supported his head against her bosom. Old Chillingworth knelt down beside him.
“You have escaped me,” he repeated more than once.
“May God forgive you,” said the minister. “You, too, have deeply sinned.”
He turned to the woman and the child.
“My little Pearl,” he said weakly, with a serene smile on his face, “will you kiss me now? You did not want to kiss me in the forest.”
Pearl kissed his lips. A spell was broken.
“Hester,” said the clergyman, “farewell!”
“Will we not meet again?” she whispered. “Will we not spend our immortal life together? Surely we have paid for our sin!”
“Hush, Hester, hush!” he said. “We broke the law. We forgot our God. It is therefore vain to hope that we can meet hereafter in an everlasting and pure reunion. God knows and He is merciful. He has proved his mercy in my afflictions. He brought me here to die this death of triumphant ignominy before the people. Praised be his name! His will be done! Farewell!”
That final word came forth with the minister’s last breath. The multitude broke out in a strange deep voice of fear and wonder.
There was more than one account of what had been witnessed on the scaffold. Most of the spectators testified to having seen on the breast of the unhappy minister, a SCARLET LETTER—the same as that worn by Hester Prynne and imprinted in the flesh.
There were several explanations regarding its origin. Some said that the reverend inflicted a hideous torture on himself. Others claimed that evil old Roger Chillingworth caused it to appear by giving the reverend poisonous and magic drugs. Others contended that the stigma was the effect of remorse and Heaven’s dreadful judgment.
Certain persons, who were spectators of the whole scene, denied having seen any mark whatever on his breast. They also said that his dying words did not acknowledge the slightest connection, on his part, with Hester Prynne’s scarlet letter. According to these witnesses, he wanted to teach them that, no matter how holy or pure, we are sinners all alike.
This version of Reverend Dimmesdale’s story shows the stubborn loyalty with which a man’s friend will uphold his character—even when there is clear proof that he is a false and sin-stained creature of the dust.
Within the year, old Roger Chillingworth, having lost his only purpose in life, withered up and died. In his last will and testament he left a considerable amount of property, both in the New World and in England, to Pearl. So Pearl —the demon offspring, the elf-child —became the richest heiress of her day in the New World.
After the physician’s death, Hester and Pearl disappeared and no one knew where they had gone. Many years passed and one day a tall woman in a gray robe approached the cottage by the seashore, where Hester had lived. It had never been opened in all those years. The woman, with a scarlet letter on her breast, entered the cottage. Hester Prynne had returned.
But where was Pearl? No one ever knew. But through the remainder of Hester’s life, there were indications that she was the object of love and interest of an inhabitant of another land. Letters with armorial seals arrived. In the cottage there were articles of comfort and luxury that Hester had never used, which only wealth could have purchased. Once, Hester was seen embroidering a baby garment with lavish richness.
Gossips of that day tell us that Pearl was not only alive, but married, happy and always mindful of her mother.
Hester had preferred to return to Boston rather than remain in that unknown region where Pearl had found a home. There was a more real life for her here. This was the place of her sin, her sorrow and her penance. She wore the scarlet letter of her own free will. The scarlet letter ceased to be a stigma and was looked upon with awe and reverence.
Hester lived unselfishly and devoted her life to comforting and counseling women who were burdened with sorrow, sin and suffering.
Women came to her asking why they were so wretched, and what could be done to relieve their troubles. Hester assured them that one day there would be a drastic transformation in society. The whole relationship between men and women would change, bringing greater justice and happiness.
After many, many years a new grave was dug near an old, sunken one in the burial ground beside the King’s Chapel. There was a space between them, as if the dust of the two sleepers had no right to mingle. One tombstone served for both. On this simple slab of slate, there appeared an engraved coat of arms. It had this inscription, that might serve as a motto and brief description of our legend:
ON A FIELD,
SABLE,
THE LETTER A,
GULES