Chương Chương 23 · THE REVELATION OF THE SCARLET LETTER

. THE REVELATION OF THE SCARLET LETTER

The eloquent voice, on which the souls of the listening audience had

been borne aloft as on the swelling waves of the sea, at length came to

a pause. There was a momentary silence, profound as what should follow

the utterance of oracles. Then ensued a murmur and half-hushed tumult,

as if the auditors, released from the high spell that had transported

them into the region of another’s mind, were returning into themselves,

with all their awe and wonder still heavy on them. In a moment more the

crowd began to gush forth from the doors of the church. Now that there

was an end, they needed more breath, more fit to support the gross and

earthly life into which they relapsed, than that atmosphere which the

preacher had converted into words of flame, and had burdened with the

rich fragrance of his thought.

In the open air their rapture broke into speech. The street and the

market-place absolutely babbled, from side to side, with applauses of

the minister. His hearers could not rest until they had told one

another of what each knew better than he could tell or hear.

According to their united testimony, never had man spoken in so wise,

so high, and so holy a spirit, as he that spake this day; nor had

inspiration ever breathed through mortal lips more evidently than it

did through his. Its influence could be seen, as it were, descending

upon him, and possessing him, and continually lifting him out of the

written discourse that lay before him, and filling him with ideas that

must have been as marvellous to himself as to his audience. His

subject, it appeared, had been the relation between the Deity and the

communities of mankind, with a special reference to the New England

which they were here planting in the wilderness. And, as he drew

towards the close, a spirit as of prophecy had come upon him,

constraining him to its purpose as mightily as the old prophets of

Israel were constrained, only with this difference, that, whereas the

Jewish seers had denounced judgments and ruin on their country, it was

his mission to foretell a high and glorious destiny for the newly

gathered people of the Lord. But, throughout it all, and through the

whole discourse, there had been a certain deep, sad undertone of

pathos, which could not be interpreted otherwise than as the natural

regret of one soon to pass away. Yes; their minister whom they so

loved—and who so loved them all, that he could not depart heavenward

without a sigh—had the foreboding of untimely death upon him, and would

soon leave them in their tears. This idea of his transitory stay on

earth gave the last emphasis to the effect which the preacher had

produced; it was as if an angel, in his passage to the skies, had

shaken his bright wings over the people for an instant—at once a shadow

and a splendour—and had shed down a shower of golden truths upon them.

Thus, there had come to the Reverend Mr. Dimmesdale—as to most men, in

their various spheres, though seldom recognised until they see it far

behind them—an epoch of life more brilliant and full of triumph than

any previous one, or than any which could hereafter be. He stood, at

this moment, on the very proudest eminence of superiority, to which the

gifts or intellect, rich lore, prevailing eloquence, and a reputation

of whitest sanctity, could exalt a clergyman in New England’s earliest

days, when the professional character was of itself a lofty pedestal.

Such was the position which the minister occupied, as he bowed his head

forward on the cushions of the pulpit at the close of his Election

Sermon. Meanwhile Hester Prynne was standing beside the scaffold of the

pillory, with the scarlet letter still burning on her breast!

Now was heard again the clamour of the music, and the measured tramp of

the military escort issuing from the church door. The procession was to

be marshalled thence to the town hall, where a solemn banquet would

complete the ceremonies of the day.

Once more, therefore, the train of venerable and majestic fathers were

seen moving through a broad pathway of the people, who drew back

reverently, on either side, as the Governor and magistrates, the old

and wise men, the holy ministers, and all that were eminent and

renowned, advanced into the midst of them. When they were fairly in the

market-place, their presence was greeted by a shout. This—though

doubtless it might acquire additional force and volume from the

child-like loyalty which the age awarded to its rulers—was felt to be

an irrepressible outburst of enthusiasm kindled in the auditors by that

high strain of eloquence which was yet reverberating in their ears.

Each felt the impulse in himself, and in the same breath, caught it

from his neighbour. Within the church, it had hardly been kept down;

beneath the sky it pealed upward to the zenith. There were human beings

enough, and enough of highly wrought and symphonious feeling to produce

that more impressive sound than the organ tones of the blast, or the

thunder, or the roar of the sea; even that mighty swell of many voices,

blended into one great voice by the universal impulse which makes

likewise one vast heart out of the many. Never, from the soil of New

England had gone up such a shout! Never, on New England soil had stood

the man so honoured by his mortal brethren as the preacher!

How fared it with him, then? Were there not the brilliant particles of

a halo in the air about his head? So etherealised by spirit as he was,

and so apotheosised by worshipping admirers, did his footsteps, in the

procession, really tread upon the dust of earth?

As the ranks of military men and civil fathers moved onward, all eyes

were turned towards the point where the minister was seen to approach

among them. The shout died into a murmur, as one portion of the crowd

after another obtained a glimpse of him. How feeble and pale he looked,

amid all his triumph! The energy—or say, rather, the inspiration which

had held him up, until he should have delivered the sacred message that

had brought its own strength along with it from heaven—was withdrawn,

now that it had so faithfully performed its office. The glow, which

they had just before beheld burning on his cheek, was extinguished,

like a flame that sinks down hopelessly among the late decaying embers.

It seemed hardly the face of a man alive, with such a death-like hue:

it was hardly a man with life in him, that tottered on his path so

nervously, yet tottered, and did not fall!

One of his clerical brethren—it was the venerable John Wilson—observing

the state in which Mr. Dimmesdale was left by the retiring wave of

intellect and sensibility, stepped forward hastily to offer his

support. The minister tremulously, but decidedly, repelled the old

man’s arm. He still walked onward, if that movement could be so

described, which rather resembled the wavering effort of an infant,

with its mother’s arms in view, outstretched to tempt him forward. And

now, almost imperceptible as were the latter steps of his progress, he

had come opposite the well-remembered and weather-darkened scaffold,

where, long since, with all that dreary lapse of time between, Hester

Prynne had encountered the world’s ignominious stare. There stood

Hester, holding little Pearl by the hand! And there was the scarlet

letter on her breast! The minister here made a pause; although the

music still played the stately and rejoicing march to which the

procession moved. It summoned him onward—inward to the festival!—but

here he made a pause.

Bellingham, for the last few moments, had kept an anxious eye upon him.

He now left his own place in the procession, and advanced to give

assistance judging, from Mr. Dimmesdale’s aspect that he must otherwise

inevitably fall. But there was something in the latter’s expression

that warned back the magistrate, although a man not readily obeying the

vague intimations that pass from one spirit to another. The crowd,

meanwhile, looked on with awe and wonder. This earthly faintness, was,

in their view, only another phase of the minister’s celestial strength;

nor would it have seemed a miracle too high to be wrought for one so

holy, had he ascended before their eyes, waxing dimmer and brighter,

and fading at last into the light of heaven!

He turned towards the scaffold, and stretched forth his arms.

“Hester,” said he, “come hither! Come, my little Pearl!”

It was a ghastly look with which he regarded them; but there was

something at once tender and strangely triumphant in it. The child,

with the bird-like motion, which was one of her characteristics, flew

to him, and clasped her arms about his knees. Hester Prynne—slowly, as

if impelled by inevitable fate, and against her strongest will—likewise

drew near, but paused before she reached him. At this instant old Roger

Chillingworth thrust himself through the crowd—or, perhaps, so dark,

disturbed, and evil was his look, he rose up out of some nether

region—to snatch back his victim from what he sought to do! Be that as

it might, the old man rushed forward, and caught the minister by the

arm.

“Madman, hold! what is your purpose?” whispered he. “Wave back that

woman! Cast off this child! All shall be well! Do not blacken your

fame, and perish in dishonour! I can yet save you! Would you bring

infamy on your sacred profession?”

“Ha, tempter! Methinks thou art too late!” answered the minister,

encountering his eye, fearfully, but firmly. “Thy power is not what it

was! With God’s help, I shall escape thee now!”

He again extended his hand to the woman of the scarlet letter.

“Hester Prynne,” cried he, with a piercing earnestness, “in the name of

Him, so terrible and so merciful, who gives me grace, at this last

moment, to do what—for my own heavy sin and miserable agony—I withheld

myself from doing seven years ago, come hither now, and twine thy

strength about me! Thy strength, Hester; but let it be guided by the

will which God hath granted me! This wretched and wronged old man is

opposing it with all his might!—with all his own might, and the

fiend’s! Come, Hester—come! Support me up yonder scaffold.”

The crowd was in a tumult. The men of rank and dignity, who stood more

immediately around the clergyman, were so taken by surprise, and so

perplexed as to the purport of what they saw—unable to receive the

explanation which most readily presented itself, or to imagine any

other—that they remained silent and inactive spectators of the

judgement which Providence seemed about to work. They beheld the

minister, leaning on Hester’s shoulder, and supported by her arm around

him, approach the scaffold, and ascend its steps; while still the

little hand of the sin-born child was clasped in his. Old Roger

Chillingworth followed, as one intimately connected with the drama of

guilt and sorrow in which they had all been actors, and well entitled,

therefore to be present at its closing scene.

“Hadst thou sought the whole earth over,” said he looking darkly at the

clergyman, “there was no one place so secret—no high place nor lowly

place, where thou couldst have escaped me—save on this very scaffold!”

“Thanks be to Him who hath led me hither!” answered the minister.

Yet he trembled, and turned to Hester, with an expression of doubt and

anxiety in his eyes, not the less evidently betrayed, that there was a

feeble smile upon his lips.

“Is not this better,” murmured he, “than what we dreamed of in the

forest?”

“I know not! I know not!” she hurriedly replied. “Better? Yea; so we

may both die, and little Pearl die with us!”

“For thee and Pearl, be it as God shall order,” said the minister; “and

God is merciful! Let me now do the will which He hath made plain before

my sight. For, Hester, I am a dying man. So let me make haste to take

my shame upon me!”

Partly supported by Hester Prynne, and holding one hand of little

Pearl’s, the Reverend Mr. Dimmesdale turned to the dignified and

venerable rulers; to the holy ministers, who were his brethren; to the

people, whose great heart was thoroughly appalled yet overflowing with

tearful sympathy, as knowing that some deep life-matter—which, if full

of sin, was full of anguish and repentance likewise—was now to be laid

open to them. The sun, but little past its meridian, shone down upon

the clergyman, and gave a distinctness to his figure, as he stood out

from all the earth, to put in his plea of guilty at the bar of Eternal

Justice.

“People of New England!” cried he, with a voice that rose over them,

high, solemn, and majestic—yet had always a tremor through it, and

sometimes a shriek, struggling up out of a fathomless depth of remorse

and woe—“ye, that have loved me!—ye, that have deemed me holy!—behold

me here, the one sinner of the world! At last—at last!—I stand upon the

spot where, seven years since, I should have stood, here, with this

woman, whose arm, more than the little strength wherewith I have crept

hitherward, sustains me at this dreadful moment, from grovelling down

upon my face! Lo, the scarlet letter which Hester wears! Ye have all

shuddered at it! Wherever her walk hath been—wherever, so miserably

burdened, she may have hoped to find repose—it hath cast a lurid gleam

of awe and horrible repugnance round about her. But there stood one in

the midst of you, at whose brand of sin and infamy ye have not

shuddered!”

It seemed, at this point, as if the minister must leave the remainder

of his secret undisclosed. But he fought back the bodily weakness—and,

still more, the faintness of heart—that was striving for the mastery

with him. He threw off all assistance, and stepped passionately forward

a pace before the woman and the children.

“It was on him!” he continued, with a kind of fierceness; so determined

was he to speak out the whole. “God’s eye beheld it! The angels were

for ever pointing at it! (The Devil knew it well, and fretted it

continually with the touch of his burning finger!) But he hid it

cunningly from men, and walked among you with the mien of a spirit,

mournful, because so pure in a sinful world!—and sad, because he missed

his heavenly kindred! Now, at the death-hour, he stands up before you!

He bids you look again at Hester’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, and that even this, his own red stigma, is no more

than the type of what has seared his inmost heart! Stand any here that

question God’s judgment on a sinner! Behold! Behold, a dreadful witness

of it!”

With a convulsive motion, he tore away the ministerial band from before

his breast. It was revealed! But it were irreverent to describe that

revelation. For an instant, the gaze of the horror-stricken multitude

was concentrated on the ghastly miracle; while the minister stood, with

a flush of triumph in his face, as one who, in the crisis of acutest

pain, had won a victory. Then, down he sank upon the scaffold! Hester

partly raised him, and supported his head against her bosom. Old Roger

Chillingworth knelt down beside him, with a blank, dull countenance,

out of which the life seemed to have departed.

“Thou hast escaped me!” he repeated more than once. “Thou hast escaped

me!”

“May God forgive thee!” said the minister. “Thou, too, hast deeply

sinned!”

He withdrew his dying eyes from the old man, and fixed them on the

woman and the child.

“My little Pearl,” said he, feebly and there was a sweet and gentle

smile over his face, as of a spirit sinking into deep repose; nay, now

that the burden was removed, it seemed almost as if he would be

sportive with the child—“dear little Pearl, wilt thou kiss me now? Thou

wouldst not, yonder, in the forest! But now thou wilt?”

Pearl kissed his lips. A spell was broken. The great scene of grief, in

which the wild infant bore a part had developed all her sympathies; and

as her tears fell upon her father’s cheek, they were the pledge that

she would grow up amid human joy and sorrow, nor forever do battle with

the world, but be a woman in it. Towards her mother, too, Pearl’s

errand as a messenger of anguish was fulfilled.

“Hester,” said the clergyman, “farewell!”

“Shall we not meet again?” whispered she, bending her face down close

to his. “Shall we not spend our immortal life together? Surely, surely,

we have ransomed one another, with all this woe! Thou lookest far into

eternity, with those bright dying eyes! Then tell me what thou seest!”

“Hush, Hester—hush!” said he, with tremulous solemnity. “The law we

broke!—the sin here awfully revealed!—let these alone be in thy

thoughts! I fear! I fear! It may be, that, when we forgot our God—when

we violated our reverence each for the other’s soul—it was thenceforth

vain to hope that we could meet hereafter, in an everlasting and pure

reunion. God knows; and He is merciful! He hath proved his mercy, most

of all, in my afflictions. By giving me this burning torture to bear

upon my breast! By sending yonder dark and terrible old man, to keep

the torture always at red-heat! By bringing me hither, to die this

death of triumphant ignominy before the people! Had either of these

agonies been wanting, I had been lost for ever! Praised be His name!

His will be done! Farewell!”

That final word came forth with the minister’s expiring breath. The

multitude, silent till then, broke out in a strange, deep voice of awe

and wonder, which could not as yet find utterance, save in this murmur

that rolled so heavily after the departed spirit.

XXIV.