The Scarlet Letter

by Nathaniel Hawthorne

 

  V.

  HESTER AT HER NEEDLE.

  Hester Prynne's term of confinement was now at an end. Her prison-doorwas thrown open, and she came forth into the sunshine, which, fallingon all alike, seemed, to her sick and morbid heart, as if meant for noother purpose than to reveal the scarlet letter on her breast. Perhapsthere was a more real torture in her first unattended footsteps fromthe threshold of the prison, than even in the procession and spectaclethat have been described, where she was made the common infamy, atwhich all mankind was summoned to point its finger. Then, she wassupported by an unnatural tension of the nerves, and by all thecombative energy of her character, which enabled her to convert thescene into a kind of lurid triumph. It was, moreover, a separate andinsulated event, to occur but once in her lifetime, and to meet which,therefore, reckless of economy, she might call up the vital strengththat would have sufficed for many quiet years. The very law thatcondemned her--a giant of stern features, but with vigor to support,as well as to annihilate, in his iron arm--had held her up, throughthe terrible ordeal of her ignominy. But now, with this unattendedwalk from her prison-door, began the daily custom; and she must eithersustain and carry it forward by the ordinary resources of her nature,or sink beneath it. She could no longer borrow from the future to helpher through the present grief. To-morrow would bring its own trialwith it; so would the next day, and so would the next; each its owntrial, and yet the very same that was now so unutterably grievous tobe borne. The days of the far-off future would toil onward, still withthe same burden for her to take up, and bear along with her, but neverto fling down; for the accumulating days, and added years, would pileup their misery upon the heap of shame. Throughout them all, giving upher individuality, she would become the general symbol at which thepreacher and moralist might point, and in which they might vivify andembody their images of woman's frailty and sinful passion. Thus theyoung and pure would be taught to look at her, with the scarlet letterflaming on her breast,--at her, the child of honorable parents,--ather, the mother of a babe, that would hereafter be a woman,--at her,who had once been innocent,--as the figure, the body, the reality ofsin. And over her grave, the infamy that she must carry thither wouldbe her only monument.

  It may seem marvellous, that, with the world before her,--kept by norestrictive clause of her condemnation within the limits of thePuritan settlement, so remote and so obscure,--free to return to herbirthplace, or to any other European land, and there hide hercharacter and identity under a new exterior, as completely as ifemerging into another state of being,--and having also the passes ofthe dark, inscrutable forest open to her, where the wildness of hernature might assimilate itself with a people whose customs and lifewere alien from the law that had condemned her,--it may seemmarvellous, that this woman should still call that place her home,where, and where only, she must needs be the type of shame. But thereis a fatality, a feeling so irresistible and inevitable that it hasthe force of doom, which almost invariably compels human beings tolinger around and haunt, ghost-like, the spot where some great andmarked event has given the color to their lifetime; and still the moreirresistibly, the darker the tinge that saddens it. Her sin, herignominy, were the roots which she had struck into the soil. It was asif a new birth, with stronger assimilations than the first, hadconverted the forest-land, still so uncongenial to every other pilgrimand wanderer, into Hester Prynne's wild and dreary, but life-longhome. All other scenes of earth--even that village of rural England,where happy infancy and stainless maidenhood seemed yet to be in hermother's keeping, like garments put off long ago--were foreign to her,in comparison. The chain that bound her here was of iron links, andgalling to her inmost soul, but could never be broken.

  It might be, too,--doubtless it was so, although she hid the secretfrom herself, and grew pale whenever it struggled out of her heart,like a serpent from its hole,--it might be that another feeling kepther within the scene and pathway that had been so fatal. There dwelt,there trode the feet of one with whom she deemed herself connected ina union, that, unrecognized on earth, would bring them together beforethe bar of final judgment, and make that their marriage-altar, for ajoint futurity of endless retribution. Over and over again, thetempter of souls had thrust this idea upon Hester's contemplation, andlaughed at the passionate and desperate joy with which she seized,and then strove to cast it from her. She barely looked the idea in theface, and hastened to bar it in its dungeon. What she compelledherself to believe--what, finally, she reasoned upon, as her motivefor continuing a resident of New England--was half a truth, and half aself-delusion. Here, she said to herself, had been the scene of herguilt, and here should be the scene of her earthly punishment; and so,perchance, the torture of her daily shame would at length purge hersoul, and work out another purity than that which she had lost; moresaint-like, because the result of martyrdom.

  The Lonesome Dwelling]

  Hester Prynne, therefore, did not flee. On the outskirts of the town,within the verge of the peninsula, but not in close vicinity to anyother habitation, there was a small thatched cottage. It had beenbuilt by an earlier settler, and abandoned because the soil about itwas too sterile for cultivation, while its comparative remoteness putit out of the sphere of that social activity which already marked thehabits of the emigrants. It stood on the shore, looking across a basinof the sea at the forest-covered hills, towards the west. A clump ofscrubby trees, such as alone grew on the peninsula, did not so muchconceal the cottage from view, as seem to denote that here was someobject which would fain have been, or at least ought to be, concealed.In this little, lonesome dwelling, with some slender means that shepossessed, and by the license of the magistrates, who still kept aninquisitorial watch over her, Hester established herself, with herinfant child. A mystic shadow of suspicion immediately attached itselfto the spot. Children, too young to comprehend wherefore this womanshould be shut out from the sphere of human charities, would creepnigh enough to behold her plying her needle at the cottage-window, orstanding in the doorway, or laboring in her little garden, or comingforth along the pathway that led townward; and, discerning the scarletletter on her breast, would scamper off with a strange, contagiousfear.

  Lonely as was Hester's situation, and without a friend on earth whodared to show himself, she, however, incurred no risk of want. Shepossessed an art that sufficed, even in a land that affordedcomparatively little scope for its exercise, to supply food for herthriving infant and herself. It was the art--then, as now, almost theonly one within a woman's grasp--of needlework. She bore on herbreast, in the curiously embroidered letter, a specimen of herdelicate and imaginative skill, of which the dames of a court mightgladly have availed themselves, to add the richer and more spiritualadornment of human ingenuity to their fabrics of silk and gold. Here,indeed, in the sable simplicity that generally characterized thePuritanic modes of dress, there might be an infrequent call for thefiner productions of her handiwork. Yet the taste of the age,demanding whatever was elaborate in compositions of this kind, did notfail to extend its influence over our stern progenitors, who had castbehind them so many fashions which it might seem harder to dispensewith. Public ceremonies, such as ordinations, the installation ofmagistrates, and all that could give majesty to the forms in which anew government manifested itself to the people, were, as a matter ofpolicy, marked by a stately and well-conducted ceremonial, and asombre, but yet a studied magnificence. Deep ruffs, painfully wroughtbands, and gorgeously embroidered gloves, were all deemed necessary tothe official state of men assuming the reins of power; and werereadily allowed to individuals dignified by rank or wealth, even whilesumptuary laws forbade these and similar extravagances to the plebeianorder. In the array of funerals, too,--whether for the apparel of thedead body, or to typify, by manifold emblematic devices of sable clothand snowy lawn, the sorrow of the survivors,--there was a frequent andcharacteristic demand for such labor as Hester Prynne could supply.Ba
by-linen--for babies then wore robes of state--afforded stillanother possibility of toil and emolument.

  By degrees, nor very slowly, her handiwork became what would now betermed the fashion. Whether from commiseration for a woman of somiserable a destiny; or from the morbid curiosity that gives afictitious value even to common or worthless things; or by whateverother intangible circumstance was then, as now, sufficient to bestow,on some persons, what others might seek in vain; or because Hesterreally filled a gap which must otherwise have remained vacant; it iscertain that she had ready and fairly requited employment for as manyhours as she saw fit to occupy with her needle. Vanity, it may be,chose to mortify itself, by putting on, for ceremonials of pomp andstate, the garments that had been wrought by her sinful hands. Herneedlework was seen on the ruff of the Governor; military men wore iton their scarfs, and the minister on his band; it decked the baby'slittle cap; it was shut up, to be mildewed and moulder away, in thecoffins of the dead. But it is not recorded that, in a singleinstance, her skill was called in aid to embroider the white veilwhich was to cover the pure blushes of a bride. The exceptionindicated the ever-relentless rigor with which society frowned uponher sin.

  Hester sought not to acquire anything beyond a subsistence, of theplainest and most ascetic description, for herself, and a simpleabundance for her child. Her own dress was of the coarsest materialsand the most sombre hue; with only that one ornament,--the scarletletter,--which it was her doom to wear. The child's attire, on theother hand, was distinguished by a fanciful, or, we might rather say,a fantastic ingenuity, which served, indeed, to heighten the airycharm that early began to develop itself in the little girl, but whichappeared to have also a deeper meaning. We may speak further of ithereafter. Except for that small expenditure in the decoration of herinfant, Hester bestowed all her superfluous means in charity, onwretches less miserable than herself, and who not unfrequentlyinsulted the hand that fed them. Much of the time, which she mightreadily have applied to the better efforts of her art, she employed inmaking coarse garments for the poor. It is probable that there was anidea of penance in this mode of occupation, and that she offered up areal sacrifice of enjoyment, in devoting so many hours to such rudehandiwork. She had in her nature a rich, voluptuous, Orientalcharacteristic,--a taste for the gorgeously beautiful, which, save inthe exquisite productions of her needle, found nothing else, in allthe possibilities of her life, to exercise itself upon. Women derivea pleasure, incomprehensible to the other sex, from the delicate toilof the needle. To Hester Prynne it might have been a mode ofexpressing, and therefore soothing, the passion of her life. Like allother joys, she rejected it as sin. This morbid meddling of consciencewith an immaterial matter betokened, it is to be feared, no genuineand steadfast penitence, but something doubtful, something that mightbe deeply wrong, beneath.

  In this manner, Hester Prynne came to have a part to perform in theworld. With her native energy of character, and rare capacity, itcould not entirely cast her off, although it had set a mark upon her,more intolerable to a woman's heart than that which branded the browof Cain. In all her intercourse with society, however, there wasnothing that made her feel as if she belonged to it. Every gesture,every word, and even the silence of those with whom she came incontact, implied, and often expressed, that she was banished, and asmuch alone as if she inhabited another sphere, or communicated withthe common nature by other organs and senses than the rest of humankind. She stood apart from moral interests, yet close beside them,like a ghost that revisits the familiar fireside, and can no longermake itself seen or felt; no more smile with the household joy, normourn with the kindred sorrow; or, should it succeed in manifestingits forbidden sympathy, awakening only terror and horrible repugnance.These emotions, in fact, and its bitterest scorn besides, seemed to bethe sole portion that she retained in the universal heart. It was notan age of delicacy; and her position, although she understood it well,and was in little danger of forgetting it, was often brought beforeher vivid self-perception, like a new anguish, by the rudest touchupon the tenderest spot. The poor, as we have already said, whom shesought out to be the objects of her bounty, often reviled the handthat was stretched forth to succor them. Dames of elevated rank,likewise, whose doors she entered in the way of her occupation, wereaccustomed to distil drops of bitterness into her heart; sometimesthrough that alchemy of quiet malice, by which women can concoct asubtle poison from ordinary trifles; and sometimes, also, by a coarserexpression, that fell upon the sufferer's defenceless breast like arough blow upon an ulcerated wound. Hester had schooled herself longand well; she never responded to these attacks, save by a flush ofcrimson that rose irrepressibly over her pale cheek, and againsubsided into the depths of her bosom. She was patient,--a martyr,indeed,--but she forbore to pray for her enemies; lest, in spite ofher forgiving aspirations, the words of the blessing should stubbornlytwist themselves into a curse.

  Continually, and in a thousand other ways, did she feel theinnumerable throbs of anguish that had been so cunningly contrived forher by the undying, the ever-active sentence of the Puritan tribunal.Clergymen paused in the street to address words of exhortation, thatbrought a crowd, with its mingled grin and frown, around the poor,sinful woman. If she entered a church, trusting to share the Sabbathsmile of the Universal Father, it was often her mishap to find herselfthe text of the discourse. She grew to have a dread of children; forthey had imbibed from their parents a vague idea of something horriblein this dreary woman, gliding silently through the town, with neverany companion but one only child. Therefore, first allowing her topass, they pursued her at a distance with shrill cries, and theutterance of a word that had no distinct purport to their ownminds, but was none the less terrible to her, as proceeding from lipsthat babbled it unconsciously. It seemed to argue so wide a diffusionof her shame, that all nature knew of it; it could have caused her nodeeper pang, had the leaves of the trees whispered the dark storyamong themselves,--had the summer breeze murmured about it,--had thewintry blast shrieked it aloud! Another peculiar torture was felt inthe gaze of a new eye. When strangers looked curiously at the scarletletter,--and none ever failed to do so,--they branded it afresh intoHester's soul; so that, oftentimes, she could scarcely refrain, yetalways did refrain, from covering the symbol with her hand. But then,again, an accustomed eye had likewise its own anguish to inflict. Itscool stare of familiarity was intolerable. From first to last, inshort, Hester Prynne had always this dreadful agony in feeling a humaneye upon the token; the spot never grew callous; it seemed, on thecontrary, to grow more sensitive with daily torture.

  Lonely Footsteps]

  But sometimes, once in many days, or perchance in many months, shefelt an eye--a human eye--upon the ignominious brand, that seemed togive a momentary relief, as if half of her agony were shared. The nextinstant, back it all rushed again, with still a deeper throb of pain;for, in that brief interval, she had sinned anew. Had Hester sinnedalone?

  Her imagination was somewhat affected, and, had she been of a softermoral and intellectual fibre, would have been still more so, by thestrange and solitary anguish of her life. Walking to and fro, withthose lonely footsteps, in the little world with which she wasoutwardly connected, it now and then appeared to Hester,--ifaltogether fancy, it was nevertheless too potent to be resisted,--shefelt or fancied, then, that the scarlet letter had endowed her with anew sense. She shuddered to believe, yet could not help believing,that it gave her a sympathetic knowledge of the hidden sin in otherhearts. She was terror-stricken by the revelations that were thusmade. What were they? Could they be other than the insidious whispersof the bad angel, who would fain have persuaded the struggling woman,as yet only half his victim, that the outward guise of purity was buta lie, and that, if truth were everywhere to be shown, a scarletletter would blaze forth on many a bosom besides Hester Prynne's? Or,must she receive those intimations--so obscure, yet so distinct--astruth? In all her miserable experience, there was nothing else soawful and so loathsome as this sense. It perplexed, as well
as shockedher, by the irreverent inopportuneness of the occasions that broughtit into vivid action. Sometimes the red infamy upon her breast wouldgive a sympathetic throb, as she passed near a venerable minister ormagistrate, the model of piety and justice, to whom that age ofantique reverence looked up, as to a mortal man in fellowship withangels. "What evil thing is at hand?" would Hester say to herself.Lifting her reluctant eyes, there would be nothing human within thescope of view, save the form of this earthly saint! Again, a mysticsisterhood would contumaciously assert itself, as she met thesanctified frown of some matron, who, according to the rumor of alltongues, had kept cold snow within her bosom throughout life. Thatunsunned snow in the matron's bosom, and the burning shame on HesterPrynne's,--what had the two in common? Or, once more, the electricthrill would give her warning,--"Behold, Hester, here is acompanion!"--and, looking up, she would detect the eyes of a youngmaiden glancing at the scarlet letter, shyly and aside, and quicklyaverted with a faint, chill crimson in her cheeks; as if her puritywere somewhat sullied by that momentary glance. O Fiend, whosetalisman was that fatal symbol, wouldst thou leave nothing, whether inyouth or age, for this poor sinner to revere?--such loss of faith isever one of the saddest results of sin. Be it accepted as a proof thatall was not corrupt in this poor victim of her own frailty, and man'shard law, that Hester Prynne yet struggled to believe that nofellow-mortal was guilty like herself.

  The vulgar, who, in those dreary old times, were always contributing agrotesque horror to what interested their imaginations, had a storyabout the scarlet letter which we might readily work up into aterrific legend. They averred, that the symbol was not mere scarletcloth, tinged in an earthly dye-pot, but was red-hot with infernalfire, and could be seen glowing all alight, whenever Hester Prynnewalked abroad in the night-time. And we must needs say, it searedHester's bosom so deeply, that perhaps there was more truth in therumor than our modern incredulity may be inclined to admit.