C 10
Old Roger Chillingworth, throughout life, had been calm in
temperament, kindly, though not of warm affections, but ever, and in
all his relations with the world, a pure and upright man. He had
begun an investigation, as he imagined, with the severe and equal
integrity of a judge, desirous only of truth, even as if the question
involved no more than the air-drawn lines and figures of a
geometrical problem, instead of human passions, and wrongs
inflicted on himself. But, as he proceeded, a terrible fascination, a
kind of fierce, though still calm, necessity, seized the old man within
its gripe, and never set him free again until he had done all its
bidding. He now dug into the poor clergyman’s heart, like a miner
searching for gold; or, rather, like a sexton delving into a grave,
possibly in quest of a jewel that had been buried on the dead man’s
bosom, but likely to find nothing save mortality and corruption. Alas,
for his own soul, if these were what he sought!
Sometimes a light glimmered out of the physician’s eyes, burning
blue and ominous, like the reflection of a furnace, or, let us say, like
one of those gleams of ghastly fire that darted from Bunyan’s awful
doorway in the hillside, and quivered on the pilgrim’s face. The soil
where this dark miner was working had perchance shown indications
that encouraged him.
“This man,” said he, at one such moment, to himself, “pure as they
deem himร๏ฟฝฤโยฌฤโฌยฏall spiritual as he seemsร๏ฟฝฤโยฌฤโฌยฏhath inherited a strong animal
nature from his father or his mother. Let us dig a little further in the
direction of this vein!”
Then after long search into the minister’s dim interior, and turning
over many precious materials, in the shape of high aspirations for
the welfare of his race, warm love of souls, pure sentiments, natural
piety, strengthened by thought and study, and illuminated by
revelationร๏ฟฝฤโยฌฤโฌยฏall of which invaluable gold was perhaps no better than
rubbish to the seekerร๏ฟฝฤโยฌฤโฌยฏhe would turn back, discouraged, and begin
his quest towards another point. He groped along as stealthily, with
as cautious a tread, and as wary an outlook, as a thief entering a
chamber where a man lies only half asleepร๏ฟฝฤโยฌฤโฌยฏor, it may be, broad
awakeร๏ฟฝฤโยฌฤโฌยฏwith purpose to steal the very treasure which this man
guards as the apple of his eye. In spite of his premeditated
carefulness, the floor would now and then creak; his garments would
rustle; the shadow of his presence, in a forbidden proximity, would
be thrown across his victim. In other words, Mr. Dimmesdale, whose
sensibility of nerve often produced the effect of spiritual intuition,
would become vaguely aware that something inimical to his peace
had thrust itself into relation with him. But Old Roger Chillingworth,
too, had perceptions that were almost intuitive; and when the
minister threw his startled eyes towards him, there the physician sat;
his kind, watchful, sympathising, but never intrusive friend.
Yet Mr. Dimmesdale would perhaps have seen this individual’s
character more perfectly, if a certain morbidness, to which sick
hearts are liable, had not rendered him suspicious of all mankind.
Trusting no man as his friend, he could not recognize his enemy
when the latter actually appeared. He therefore still kept up a familiar
intercourse with him, daily receiving the old physician in his study, or
visiting the laboratory, and, for recreation’s sake, watching the
processes by which weeds were converted into drugs of potency.
One day, leaning his forehead on his hand, and his elbow on the
sill of the open window, that looked towards the grave-yard, he
talked with Roger Chillingworth, while the old man was examining a
bundle of unsightly plants.
“Where,” asked he, with a look askance at themร๏ฟฝฤโยฌฤโฌยฏfor it was the
clergyman’s peculiarity that he seldom, now-a-days, looked straight
forth at any object, whether human or inanimate, “where, my kind
doctor, did you gather those herbs, with such a dark, flabby leaf?”
“Even in the graveyard here at hand,” answered the physician,
continuing his employment. “They are new to me. I found them
growing on a grave, which bore no tombstone, no other memorial of
the dead man, save these ugly weeds, that have taken upon
themselves to keep him in remembrance. They grew out of his heart,
and typify, it may be, some hideous secret that was buried with him,
and which he had done better to confess during his lifetime.”
“Perchance,” said Mr. Dimmesdale, “he earnestly desired it, but
could not.”
“And wherefore?” rejoined the physician.
“Wherefore not; since all the powers of nature call so earnestly for
the confession of sin, that these black weeds have sprung up out of
a buried heart, to make manifest, an outspoken crime?”
“That, good sir, is but a phantasy of yours,” replied the minister.
“There can be, if I forbode aright, no power, short of the Divine
mercy, to disclose, whether by uttered words, or by type or emblem,
the secrets that may be buried in the human heart. The heart,
making itself guilty of such secrets, must perforce hold them, until
the day when all hidden things shall be revealed. Nor have I so read
or interpreted Holy Writ, as to understand that the disclosure of
human thoughts and deeds, then to be made, is intended as a part
of the retribution. That, surely, were a shallow view of it. No; these
revelations, unless I greatly err, are meant merely to promote the
intellectual satisfaction of all intelligent beings, who will stand
waiting, on that day, to see the dark problem of this life made plain. A
knowledge of men’s hearts will be needful to the completest solution
of that problem. And, I conceive moreover, that the hearts holding
such miserable secrets as you speak of, will yield them up, at that
last day, not with reluctance, but with a joy unutterable.”
“Then why not reveal it here?” asked Roger Chillingworth,
glancing quietly aside at the minister. “Why should not the guilty
ones sooner avail themselves of this unutterable solace?”
“They mostly do,” said the clergyman, griping hard at his breast,
as if afflicted with an importunate throb of pain. “Many, many a poor
soul hath given its confidence to me, not only on the death-bed, but
while strong in life, and fair in reputation. And ever, after such an
outpouring, oh, what a relief have I witnessed in those sinful
brethren! even as in one who at last draws free air, after a long
stifling with his own polluted breath. How can it be otherwise? Why
should a wretched manร๏ฟฝฤโยฌฤโฌยฏguilty, we will say, of murderร๏ฟฝฤโยฌฤโฌยฏprefer to
keep the dead corpse buried in his own heart, rather than fling it forth
at once, and let the universe take care of it!”
“Yet some men bury their secrets thus,” observed the calm
physician.
“True; there are such men,” answered Mr. Dimmesdale. “But not to
suggest more obvious reasons, it may be that they are kept silent by
the very constitution of their nature. Orร๏ฟฝฤโยฌฤโฌยฏcan we not suppose it?ร๏ฟฝฤโยฌฤโฌยฏ
guilty as they may be, retaining, nevertheless, a zeal for God’s glory
and man’s welfare, they shrink from displaying themselves black and
filthy in the view of men; because, thenceforward, no good can be
achieved by them; no evil of the past be redeemed by better service.
So, to their own unutterable torment, they go about among their
fellow-creatures, looking pure as new-fallen snow, while their hearts
are all speckled and spotted with iniquity of which they cannot rid
themselves.”
“These men deceive themselves,” said Roger Chillingworth, with
somewhat more emphasis than usual, and making a slight gesture
with his forefinger. “They fear to take up the shame that rightfully
belongs to them. Their love for man, their zeal for God’s serviceร๏ฟฝฤโยฌฤโฌยฏ
these holy impulses may or may not coexist in their hearts with the
evil inmates to which their guilt has unbarred the door, and which
must needs propagate a hellish breed within them. But, if they seek
to glorify God, let them not lift heavenward their unclean hands! If
they would serve their fellowmen, let them do it by making manifest
the power and reality of conscience, in constraining them to
penitential self-abasement! Would thou have me to believe, O wise
and pious friend, that a false show can be betterร๏ฟฝฤโยฌฤโฌยฏcan be more for
God’s glory, or man’ welfareร๏ฟฝฤโยฌฤโฌยฏthan God’s own truth? Trust me, such
men deceive themselves!”
“It may be so,” said the young clergyman, indifferently, as waiving
a discussion that he considered irrelevant or unseasonable. He had
a ready faculty, indeed, of escaping from any topic that agitated his
too sensitive and nervous temperament.ร๏ฟฝฤโยฌฤโฌยฏ”But, now, I would ask of
my well-skilled physician, whether, in good sooth, he deems me to
have profited by his kindly care of this weak frame of mine?”
Before Roger Chillingworth could answer, they heard the clear,
wild laughter of a young child’s voice, proceeding from the adjacent
burial-ground. Looking instinctively from the open windowร๏ฟฝฤโยฌฤโฌยฏfor it was
summer-timeร๏ฟฝฤโยฌฤโฌยฏthe minister beheld Hester Prynne and little Pearl
passing along the footpath that traversed the enclosure. Pearl looked
as beautiful as the day, but was in one of those moods of perverse
merriment which, whenever they occurred, seemed to remove her
entirely out of the sphere of sympathy or human contact. She now
skipped irreverently from one grave to another; until coming to the
broad, flat, armorial tombstone of a departed worthyร๏ฟฝฤโยฌฤโฌยฏperhaps of
Isaac Johnson himselfร๏ฟฝฤโยฌฤโฌยฏshe began to dance upon it. In reply to her
mother’s command and entreaty that she would behave more
decorously, little Pearl paused to gather the prickly burrs from a tall
burdock which grew beside the tomb. Taking a handful of these, she
arranged them along the lines of the scarlet letter that decorated the
maternal bosom, to which the burrs, as their nature was, tenaciously
adhered. Hester did not pluck them off.
Roger Chillingworth had by this time approached the window and
smiled grimly down.
“There is no law, nor reverence for authority, no regard for human
ordinances or opinions, right or wrong, mixed up with that child’s
composition,” remarked he, as much to himself as to his companion.
“I saw her, the other day, bespatter the Governor himself with water
at the cattle-trough in Spring Lane. What, in heaven’s name, is she?
Is the imp altogether evil? Hath she affections? Hath she any
discoverable principle of being?”
“None, save the freedom of a broken law,” answered Mr.
Dimmesdale, in a quiet way, as if he had been discussing the point
within himself, “Whether capable of good, I know not.”
The child probably overheard their voices, for, looking up to the
window with a bright, but naughty smile of mirth and intelligence, she
threw one of the prickly burrs at the Rev. Mr. Dimmesdale. The
sensitive clergyman shrank, with nervous dread, from the light
missile. Detecting his emotion, Pearl clapped her little hands in the
most extravagant ecstacy. Hester Prynne, likewise, had involuntarily
looked up, and all these four persons, old and young, regarded one
another in silence, till the child laughed aloud, and shoutedร๏ฟฝฤโยฌฤโฌยฏ”Come
away, mother! Come away, or yonder old black man will catch you!
He hath got hold of the minister already. Come away, mother or he
will catch you! But he cannot catch little Pearl!”
So she drew her mother away, skipping, dancing, and frisking
fantastically among the hillocks of the dead people, like a creature
that had nothing in common with a bygone and buried generation,
nor owned herself akin to it. It was as if she had been made afresh
out of new elements, and must perforce be permitted to live her own
life, and be a law unto herself without her eccentricities being
reckoned to her for a crime.
“There goes a woman,” resumed Roger Chillingworth, after a
pause, “who, be her demerits what they may, hath none of that
mystery of hidden sinfulness which you deem so grievous to be
borne. Is Hester Prynne the less miserable, think you, for that scarlet
letter on her breast?”
“I do verily believe it,” answered the clergyman. “Nevertheless, I
cannot answer for her. There was a look of pain in her face which I
would gladly have been spared the sight of. But still, methinks, it
must needs be better for the sufferer to be free to show his pain, as
this poor woman Hester is, than to cover it up in his heart.”
There was another pause, and the physician began anew to
examine and arrange the plants which he had gathered.
“You inquired of me, a little time agone,” said he, at length, “my
judgment as touching your health.”
“I did,” answered the clergyman, “and would gladly learn it. Speak
frankly, I pray you, be it for life or death.”
“Freely then, and plainly,” said the physician, still busy with his
plants, but keeping a wary eye on Mr. Dimmesdale, “the disorder is a
strange one; not so much in itself nor as outwardly manifested,ร๏ฟฝฤโยฌฤโฌยฏin
so far, at least as the symptoms have been laid open to my
observation. Looking daily at you, my good sir, and watching the
tokens of your aspect now for months gone by, I should deem you a
man sore sick, it may be, yet not so sick but that an instructed and
watchful physician might well hope to cure you. But I know not what
to say, the disease is what I seem to know, yet know it not.”
“You speak in riddles, learned sir,” said the pale minister, glancing
aside out of the window.
“Then, to speak more plainly,” continued the physician, “and I
crave pardon, sir, should it seem to require pardon, for this needful
plainness of my speech. Let me ask as your friend, as one having
charge, under Providence, of your life and physical well being, hath
all the operations of this disorder been fairly laid open and recounted
to me?”
“How can you question it?” asked the minister. “Surely it were
child’s play to call in a physician and then hide the sore!”
“You would tell me, then, that I know all?” said Roger
Chillingworth, deliberately, and fixing an eye, bright with intense and
concentrated intelligence, on the minister’s face. “Be it so! But again!
He to whom only the outward and physical evil is laid open, knoweth,
oftentimes, but half the evil which he is called upon to cure. A bodily
disease, which we look upon as whole and entire within itself, may,
after all, be but a symptom of some ailment in the spiritual part. Your
pardon once again, good sir, if my speech give the shadow of
offence. You, sir, of all men whom I have known, are he whose body
is the closest conjoined, and imbued, and identified, so to speak,
with the spirit whereof it is the instrument.”
“Then I need ask no further,” said the clergyman, somewhat
hastily rising from his chair. “You deal not, I take it, in medicine for
the soul!”
“Thus, a sickness,” continued Roger Chillingworth, going on, in an
unaltered tone, without heeding the interruption, but standing up and
confronting the emaciated and white-cheeked minister, with his low,
dark, and misshapen figure,ร๏ฟฝฤโยฌฤโฌยฏ”a sickness, a sore place, if we may so
call it, in your spirit hath immediately its appropriate manifestation in
your bodily frame. Would you, therefore, that your physician heal the
bodily evil? How may this be unless you first lay open to him the
wound or trouble in your soul?”
“No, not to thee! not to an earthly physician!” cried Mr.
Dimmesdale, passionately, and turning his eyes, full and bright, and
with a kind of fierceness, on old Roger Chillingworth. “Not to thee!
But, if it be the soul’s disease, then do I commit myself to the one
Physician of the soul! He, if it stand with His good pleasure, can
cure, or he can kill. Let Him do with me as, in His justice and
wisdom, He shall see good. But who art thou, that meddlest in this
matter? that dares thrust himself between the sufferer and his God?”
With a frantic gesture he rushed out of the room.
“It is as well to have made this step,” said Roger Chillingworth to
himself, looking after the minister, with a grave smile. “There is
nothing lost. We shall be friends again anon. But see, now, how
passion takes hold upon this man, and hurrieth him out of himself! As
with one passion so with another. He hath done a wild thing ere now,
this pious Master Dimmesdale, in the hot passion of his heart. ”
It proved not difficult to re-establish the intimacy of the two
companions, on the same footing and in the same degree as
heretofore. The young clergyman, after a few hours of privacy, was
sensible that the disorder of his nerves had hurried him into an
unseemly outbreak of temper, which there had been nothing in the
physician’s words to excuse or palliate. He marvelled, indeed, at the
violence with which he had thrust back the kind old man, when
merely proffering the advice which it was his duty to bestow, and
which the minister himself had expressly sought. With these
remorseful feelings, he lost no time in making the amplest apologies,
and besought his friend still to continue the care which, if not
successful in restoring him to health, had, in all probability, been the
means of prolonging his feeble existence to that hour. Roger
Chillingworth readily assented, and went on with his medical
supervision of the minister; doing his best for him, in all good faith,
but always quitting the patient’s apartment, at the close of the
professional interview, with a mysterious and puzzled smile upon his
lips. This expression was invisible in Mr. Dimmesdale’s presence,
but grew strongly evident as the physician crossed the threshold.
“A rare case,” he muttered. “I must needs look deeper into it. A
strange sympathy betwixt soul and body! Were it only for the art’s
sake, I must search this matter to the bottom.”
It came to pass, not long after the scene above recorded, that the
Reverend Mr. Dimmesdale, noon-day, and entirely unawares, fell
into a deep, deep slumber, sitting in his chair, with a large black-letter
volume open before him on the table. It must have been a work of
vast ability in the somniferous school of literature. The profound
depth of the minister’s repose was the more remarkable, inasmuch
as he was one of those persons whose sleep ordinarily is as light as
fitful, and as easily scared away, as a small bird hopping on a twig.
To such an unwonted remoteness, however, had his spirit now
withdrawn into itself that he stirred not in his chair when old Roger
Chillingworth, without any extraordinary precaution, came into the
room. The physician advanced directly in front of his patient, laid his
hand upon his bosom, and thrust aside the vestment, that hitherto
had always covered it even from the professional eye.
Then, indeed, Mr. Dimmesdale shuddered, and slightly stirred.
After a brief pause, the physician turned away.
But with what a wild look of wonder, joy, and honor! With what a
ghastly rapture, as it were, too mighty to be expressed only by the
eye and features, and therefore bursting forth through the whole
ugliness of his figure, and making itself even riotously manifest by
the extravagant gestures with which he threw up his arms towards
the ceiling, and stamped his foot upon the floor! Had a man seen old
Roger Chillingworth, at that moment of his ecstasy, he would have
had no need to ask how Satan comports himself when a precious
human soul is lost to heaven, and won into his kingdom.
But what distinguished the physician’s ecstasy from Satan’s was
the trait of wonder in it!
