C 24
After many days, when time sufficed for the people to arrange their
thoughts in reference to the foregoing scene, there was more than
one account of what had been witnessed on the scaffold.
Most of the spectators testified to having seen, on the breast of the
unhappy minister, a SCARLET LETTERÄ�ā‚¬ā€¯the very semblance of that
worn by Hester PrynneÄ�ā‚¬ā€¯imprinted in the flesh. As regarded its origin
there were various explanations, all of which must necessarily have
been conjectural. Some affirmed that the Reverend Mr. Dimmesdale,
on the very day when Hester Prynne first wore her ignominious
badge, had begun a course of penanceÄ�ā‚¬ā€¯which he afterwards, in so
many futile methods, followed outÄ�ā‚¬ā€¯by inflicting a hideous torture on
himself. Others contended that the stigma had not been produced
until a long time subsequent, when old Roger Chillingworth, being a
potent necromancer, had caused it to appear, through the agency of
magic and poisonous drugs. Others, again and those best able to
appreciate the minister’s peculiar sensibility, and the wonderful
operation of his spirit upon the bodyÄ�ā‚¬ā€¯whispered their belief, that the
awful symbol was the effect of the ever-active tooth of remorse,
gnawing from the inmost heart outwardly, and at last manifesting
Heaven’s dreadful judgment by the visible presence of the letter. The
reader may choose among these theories. We have thrown all the
light we could acquire upon the portent, and would gladly, now that it
has done its office, erase its deep print out of our own brain, where
long meditation has fixed it in very undesirable distinctness.
It is singular, nevertheless, that certain persons, who were
spectators of the whole scene, and professed never once to have
removed their eyes from the Reverend Mr. Dimmesdale, denied that
there was any mark whatever on his breast, more than on a new-
born infant’s. Neither, by their report, had his dying words
acknowledged, nor even remotely implied, anyÄ�ā‚¬ā€¯the slightestÄ�ā‚¬ā€¯
connexion on his part, with the guilt for which Hester Prynne had so
long worn the scarlet letter. According to these highly-respectable
witnesses, the minister, conscious that he was dyingÄ�ā‚¬ā€¯conscious,
also, that the reverence of the multitude placed him already among
saints and angelsÄ�ā‚¬ā€¯had desired, by yielding up his breath in the
arms of that fallen woman, to express to the world how utterly
nugatory is the choicest of man’s own righteousness. After
exhausting life in his efforts for mankind’s spiritual good, he had
made the manner of his death a parable, in order to impress on his
admirers the mighty and mournful lesson, that, in the view of Infinite
Purity, we are sinners all alike. It was to teach them, that the holiest
amongst us has but attained so far above his fellows as to discern
more clearly the Mercy which looks down, and repudiate more utterly
the phantom of human merit, which would look aspiringly upward.
Without disputing a truth so momentous, we must be allowed to
consider this version of Mr. Dimmesdale’s story as only an instance
of that stubborn fidelity with which a man’s friendsÄ�ā‚¬ā€¯and especially a
clergyman’sÄ�ā‚¬ā€¯will sometimes uphold his character, when proofs,
clear as the mid-day sunshine on the scarlet letter, establish him a
false and sin-stained creature of the dust.
The authority which we have chiefly followedÄ�ā‚¬ā€¯a manuscript of old
date, drawn up from the verbal testimony of individuals, some of
whom had known Hester Prynne, while others had heard the tale
from contemporary witnesses fully confirms the view taken in the
foregoing pages. Among many morals which press upon us from the
poor minister’s miserable experience, we put only this into a
sentence:Ä�ā‚¬ā€¯”Be true! Be true! Be true! Show freely to the world, if not
your worst, yet some trait whereby the worst may be inferred!”
Nothing was more remarkable than the change which took place,
almost immediately after Mr. Dimmesdale’s death, in the appearance
and demeanour of the old man known as Roger Chillingworth. All his
strength and energyÄ�ā‚¬ā€¯all his vital and intellectual forceÄ�ā‚¬ā€¯seemed at
once to desert him, insomuch that he positively withered up,
shrivelled away and almost vanished from mortal sight, like an
uprooted weed that lies wilting in the sun. This unhappy man had
made the very principle of his life to consist in the pursuit and
systematic exercise revenge; and when, by its completest triumph
consummation that evil principle was left with no further material to
support itÄ�ā‚¬ā€¯when, in short, there was no more Devil’s work on earth
for him to do, it only remained for the unhumanised mortal to betake
himself whither his master would find him tasks enough, and pay him
his wages duly. But, to all these shadowy beings, so long our near
acquaintancesÄ�ā‚¬ā€¯as well Roger Chillingworth as his companions we
would fain be merciful. It is a curious subject of observation and
inquiry, whether hatred and love be not the same thing at bottom.
Each, in its utmost development, supposes a high degree of intimacy
and heart-knowledge; each renders one individual dependent for the
food of his affections and spiritual fife upon another: each leaves the
passionate lover, or the no less passionate hater, forlorn and
desolate by the withdrawal of his subject. Philosophically considered,
therefore, the two passions seem essentially the same, except that
one happens to be seen in a celestial radiance, and the other in a
dusky and lurid glow. In the spiritual world, the old physician and the
ministerÄ�ā‚¬ā€¯mutual victims as they have beenÄ�ā‚¬ā€¯may, unawares, have
found their earthly stock of hatred and antipathy transmuted into
golden love.
Leaving this discussion apart, we have a matter of business to
communicate to the reader. At old Roger Chillingworth’s decease,
(which took place within the year), and by his last will and testament,
of which Governor Bellingham and the Reverend Mr. Wilson were
executors, he bequeathed a very considerable amount of property,
both here and in England to little Pearl, the daughter of Hester
Prynne.
So PearlÄ�ā‚¬ā€¯the elf childÄ�ā‚¬ā€¯the demon offspring, as some people up
to that epoch persisted in considering herÄ�ā‚¬ā€¯became the richest
heiress of her day in the New World. Not improbably this
circumstance wrought a very material change in the public
estimation; and had the mother and child remained here, little Pearl
at a marriageable period of life might have mingled her wild blood
with the lineage of the devoutest Puritan among them all. But, in no
long time after the physician’s death, the wearer of the scarlet letter
disappeared, and Pearl along with her. For many years, though a
vague report would now and then find its way across the seaÄ�ā‚¬ā€¯like a
shapeless piece of driftwood tossed ashore with the initials of a
name upon itÄ�ā‚¬ā€¯yet no tidings of them unquestionably authentic were
received. The story of the scarlet letter grew into a legend. Its spell,
however, was still potent, and kept the scaffold awful where the poor
minister had died, and likewise the cottage by the sea-shore where
Hester Prynne had dwelt. Near this latter spot, one afternoon some
children were at play, when they beheld a tall woman in a gray robe
approach the cottage-door. In all those years it had never once been
opened; but either she unlocked it or the decaying wood and iron
yielded to her hand, or she glided shadow-like through these
impedimentsÄ�ā‚¬ā€¯and, at all events, went in.
On the threshold she pausedÄ�ā‚¬ā€¯turned partly roundÄ�ā‚¬ā€¯for perchance
the idea of entering alone and all so changed, the home of so
intense a former life, was more dreary and desolate than even she
could bear. But her hesitation was only for an instant, though long
enough to display a scarlet letter on her breast.
And Hester Prynne had returned, and taken up her long-forsaken
shame! But where was little Pearl? If still alive she must now have
been in the flush and bloom of early womanhood. None knewÄ�ā‚¬ā€¯nor
ever learned with the fulness of perfect certaintyÄ�ā‚¬ā€¯whether the elf-
child had gone thus untimely to a maiden grave; or whether her wild,
rich nature had been softened and subdued and made capable of a
woman’s gentle happiness. But through the remainder of Hester’s life
there were indications that the recluse of the scarlet letter was the
object of love and interest with some inhabitant of another land.
Letters came, with armorial seals upon them, though of bearings
unknown to English heraldry. In the cottage there were articles of
comfort and luxury such as Hester never cared to use, but which
only wealth could have purchased and affection have imagined for
her. There were trifles too, little ornaments, beautiful tokens of a
continual remembrance, that must have been wrought by delicate
fingers at the impulse of a fond heart. And once Hester was seen
embroidering a baby-garment with such a lavish richness of golden
fancy as would have raised a public tumult had any infant thus
apparelled, been shown to our sober-hued community.
In fine, the gossips of that day believedÄ�ā‚¬ā€¯and Mr. Surveyor Pue,
who made investigations a century later, believedÄ�ā‚¬ā€¯and one of his
recent successors in office, moreover, faithfully believesÄ�ā‚¬ā€¯that Pearl
was not only alive, but married, and happy, and mindful of her
mother; and that she would most joyfully have entertained that sad
and lonely mother at her fireside.
But there was a more real life for Hester Prynne, here, in New
England, that in that unknown region where Pearl had found a home.
Here had been her sin; here, her sorrow; and here was yet to be her
penitence. She had returned, therefore, and resumed of her own free
will, for not the sternest magistrate of that iron period would have
imposed itÄ�ā‚¬ā€¯resumed the symbol of which we have related so dark a
tale. Never afterwards did it quit her bosom. But, in the lapse of the
toilsome, thoughtful, and self-devoted years that made up Hester’s
life, the scarlet letter ceased to be a stigma which attracted the
world’s scorn and bitterness, and became a type of something to be
sorrowed over, and looked upon with awe, yet with reverence too.
And, as Hester Prynne had no selfish ends, nor lived in any measure
for her own profit and enjoyment, people brought all their sorrows
and perplexities, and besought her counsel, as one who had herself
gone through a mighty trouble. Women, more especiallyÄ�ā‚¬ā€¯in the
continually recurring trials of wounded, wasted, wronged, misplaced,
or erring and sinful passionÄ�ā‚¬ā€¯or with the dreary burden of a heart
unyielded, because unvalued and unsought came to Hester’s
cottage, demanding why they were so wretched, and what the
remedy! Hester comforted and counselled them, as best she might.
She assured them, too, of her firm belief that, at some brighter
period, when the world should have grown ripe for it, in Heaven’s
own time, a new truth would be revealed, in order to establish the
whole relation between man and woman on a surer ground of mutual
happiness. Earlier in life, Hester had vainly imagined that she herself
might be the destined prophetess, but had long since recognised the
impossibility that any mission of divine and mysterious truth should
be confided to a woman stained with sin, bowed down with shame,
or even burdened with a life-long sorrow. The angel and apostle of
the coming revelation must be a woman, indeed, but lofty, pure, and
beautiful, and wise; moreover, not through dusky grief, but the
ethereal medium of joy; and showing how sacred love should make
us happy, by the truest test of a life successful to such an end.
So said Hester Prynne, and glanced her sad eyes downward at
the scarlet letter. And, after many, many years, a new grave was
delved, near an old and sunken one, in that burial-ground beside
which King’s Chapel has since been built. It was near that old and
sunken grave, yet with a space between, as if the dust of the two
sleepers had no right to mingle. Yet one tomb-stone served for both.
All around, there were monuments carved with armorial bearings;
and on this simple slab of slateÄ�ā‚¬ā€¯as the curious investigator may still
discern, and perplex himself with the purportÄ�ā‚¬ā€¯there appeared the
semblance of an engraved escutcheon. It bore a device, a herald’s
wording of which may serve for a motto and brief description of our
now concluded legend; so sombre is it, and relieved only by one
ever-glowing point of light gloomier than the shadow: Ä�ā‚¬ā€¯
“ON A FIELD, SABLE, THE LETTER A, GULES”
