IX.
THE LEECH.
Under the appellation of Roger Chillingworth, the reader willremember, was hidden another name, which its former wearer hadresolved should never more be spoken. It has been related, how, in thecrowd that witnessed Hester Prynne's ignominious exposure, stood aman, elderly, travel-worn, who, just emerging from the perilouswilderness, beheld the woman, in whom he hoped to find embodied thewarmth and cheerfulness of home, set up as a type of sin before thepeople. Her matronly fame was trodden under all men's feet. Infamy wasbabbling around her in the public market-place. For her kindred,should the tidings ever reach them, and for the companions of herunspotted life, there remained nothing but the contagion of herdishonor; which would not fail to be distributed in strict accordanceand proportion with the intimacy and sacredness of their previousrelationship. Then why--since the choice was with himself--should theindividual, whose connection with the fallen woman had been the mostintimate and sacred of them all, come forward to vindicate his claimto an inheritance so little desirable? He resolved not to be pilloriedbeside her on her pedestal of shame. Unknown to all but Hester Prynne,and possessing the lock and key of her silence, he chose to withdrawhis name from the roll of mankind, and, as regarded his former tiesand interests, to vanish out of life as completely as if he indeed layat the bottom of the ocean, whither rumor had long ago consigned him.This purpose once effected, new interests would immediately spring up,and likewise a new purpose; dark, it is true, if not guilty, but offorce enough to engage the full strength of his faculties.
In pursuance of this resolve, he took up his residence in the Puritantown, as Roger Chillingworth, without other introduction than thelearning and intelligence of which he possessed more than a commonmeasure. As his studies, at a previous period of his life, had madehim extensively acquainted with the medical science of the day, it wasas a physician that he presented himself, and as such was cordiallyreceived. Skilful men, of the medical and chirurgical profession, wereof rare occurrence in the colony. They seldom, it would appear,partook of the religious zeal that brought other emigrants across theAtlantic. In their researches into the human frame, it may be that thehigher and more subtile faculties of such men were materialized, andthat they lost the spiritual view of existence amid the intricacies ofthat wondrous mechanism, which seemed to involve art enough tocomprise all of life within itself. At all events, the health of thegood town of Boston, so far as medicine had aught to do with it, hadhitherto lain in the guardianship of an aged deacon and apothecary,whose piety and godly deportment were stronger testimonials in hisfavor than any that he could have produced in the shape of a diploma.The only surgeon was one who combined the occasional exercise of thatnoble art with the daily and habitual flourish of a razor. To such aprofessional body Roger Chillingworth was a brilliant acquisition. Hesoon manifested his familiarity with the ponderous and imposingmachinery of antique physic; in which every remedy contained amultitude of far-fetched and heterogeneous ingredients, as elaboratelycompounded as if the proposed result had been the Elixir of Life. Inhis Indian captivity, moreover, he had gained much knowledge of theproperties of native herbs and roots; nor did he conceal from hispatients, that these simple medicines, Nature's boon to the untutoredsavage, had quite as large a share of his own confidence as theEuropean pharmacopoeia, which so many learned doctors had spentcenturies in elaborating.
This learned stranger was exemplary, as regarded, at least, theoutward forms of a religious life, and, early after his arrival, hadchosen for his spiritual guide the Reverend Mr. Dimmesdale. The youngdivine, whose scholar-like renown still lived in Oxford, wasconsidered by his more fervent admirers as little less than aheaven-ordained apostle, destined, should he live and labor for theordinary term of life, to do as great deeds for the now feeble NewEngland Church, as the early Fathers had achieved for the infancy ofthe Christian faith. About this period, however, the health of Mr.Dimmesdale had evidently begun to fail. By those best acquainted withhis habits, the paleness of the young minister's cheek was accountedfor by his too earnest devotion to study, his scrupulous fulfilment ofparochial duty, and, more than all, by the fasts and vigils of whichhe made a frequent practice, in order to keep the grossness of thisearthly state from clogging and obscuring his spiritual lamp. Somedeclared, that, if Mr. Dimmesdale were really going to die, it wascause enough, that the world was not worthy to be any longer troddenby his feet. He himself, on the other hand, with characteristichumility, avowed his belief, that, if Providence should see fit toremove him, it would be because of his own unworthiness to perform itshumblest mission here on earth. With all this difference of opinion asto the cause of his decline, there could be no question of the fact.His form grew emaciated; his voice, though still rich and sweet, had acertain melancholy prophecy of decay in it; he was often observed, onany slight alarm or other sudden accident, to put his hand over hisheart, with first a flush and then a paleness, indicative of pain.
Such was the young clergyman's condition, and so imminent the prospectthat his dawning light would be extinguished, all untimely, when RogerChillingworth made his advent to the town. His first entry on thescene, few people could tell whence, dropping down, as it were, out ofthe sky, or starting from the nether earth, had an aspect of mystery,which was easily heightened to the miraculous. He was now known to bea man of skill; it was observed that he gathered herbs, and theblossoms of wild-flowers, and dug up roots, and plucked off twigs fromthe forest-trees, like one acquainted with hidden virtues in what wasvalueless to common eyes. He was heard to speak of Sir Kenelm Digby,and other famous men,--whose scientific attainments were esteemedhardly less than supernatural,--as having been his correspondents orassociates. Why, with such rank in the learned world, had he comehither? What could he, whose sphere was in great cities, be seeking inthe wilderness? In answer to this query, a rumor gained ground,--and,however absurd, was entertained by some very sensible people,--thatHeaven had wrought an absolute miracle, by transporting an eminentDoctor of Physic, from a German university, bodily through the air,and setting him down at the door of Mr. Dimmesdale's study!Individuals of wiser faith, indeed, who knew that Heaven promotes itspurposes without aiming at the stage-effect of what is calledmiraculous interposition, were inclined to see a providential hand inRoger Chillingworth's so opportune arrival.
This idea was countenanced by the strong interest which the physicianever manifested in the young clergyman; he attached himself to him asa parishioner, and sought to win a friendly regard and confidence fromhis naturally reserved sensibility. He expressed great alarm at hispastor's state of health, but was anxious to attempt the cure, and, ifearly undertaken, seemed not despondent of a favorable result. Theelders, the deacons, the motherly dames, and the young and fairmaidens, of Mr. Dimmesdale's flock, were alike importunate that heshould make trial of the physician's frankly offered skill. Mr.Dimmesdale gently repelled their entreaties.
"I need no medicine," said he.
But how could the young minister say so, when, with every successiveSabbath, his cheek was paler and thinner, and his voice more tremulousthan before,--when it had now become a constant habit, rather than acasual gesture, to press his hand over his heart? Was he weary of hislabors? Did he wish to die? These questions were solemnly propoundedto Mr. Dimmesdale by the elder ministers of Boston and the deacons ofhis church, who, to use their own phrase, "dealt with him" on the sinof rejecting the aid which Providence so manifestly held out. Helistened in silence, and finally promised to confer with thephysician.
"Were it God's will," said the Reverend Mr. Dimmesdale, when, infulfilment of this pledge, he requested old Roger Chillingworth'sprofessional advice, "I could be well content, that my labors, and mysorrows, and my sins, and my pains, should shortly end with me, andwhat is earthly of them be buried in my grave, and the spiritual gowith me to my eternal state, rather than that you should put yourskill to the proof in my
behalf."
"Ah," replied Roger Chillingworth, with that quietness which, whetherimposed or natural, marked all his deportment, "it is thus that ayoung clergyman is apt to speak. Youthful men, not having taken a deeproot, give up their hold of life so easily! And saintly men, who walkwith God on earth, would fain be away, to walk with him on the goldenpavements of the New Jerusalem."
"Nay," rejoined the young minister, putting his hand to his heart,with a flush of pain flitting over his brow, "were I worthier to walkthere, I could be better content to toil here."
"Good men ever interpret themselves too meanly," said the physician.
The Minister and Leech]
In this manner, the mysterious old Roger Chillingworth became themedical adviser of the Reverend Mr. Dimmesdale. As not only thedisease interested the physician, but he was strongly moved to lookinto the character and qualities of the patient, these two men, sodifferent in age, came gradually to spend much time together. For thesake of the minister's health, and to enable the leech to gatherplants with healing balm in them, they took long walks on thesea-shore, or in the forest; mingling various talk with the plash andmurmur of the waves, and the solemn wind-anthem among the tree-tops.Often, likewise, one was the guest of the other, in his place ofstudy and retirement. There was a fascination for the minister in thecompany of the man of science, in whom he recognized an intellectualcultivation of no moderate depth or scope; together with a range andfreedom of ideas, that he would have vainly looked for among themembers of his own profession. In truth, he was startled, if notshocked, to find this attribute in the physician. Mr. Dimmesdale was atrue priest, a true religionist, with the reverential sentimentlargely developed, and an order of mind that impelled itselfpowerfully along the track of a creed, and wore its passagecontinually deeper with the lapse of time. In no state of societywould he have been what is called a man of liberal views; it wouldalways be essential to his peace to feel the pressure of a faith abouthim, supporting, while it confined him within its iron framework. Notthe less, however, though with a tremulous enjoyment, did he feel theoccasional relief of looking at the universe through the medium ofanother kind of intellect than those with which he habitually heldconverse. It was as if a window were thrown open, admitting a freeratmosphere into the close and stifled study, where his life waswasting itself away, amid lamplight, or obstructed day-beams, and themusty fragrance, be it sensual or moral, that exhales from books. Butthe air was too fresh and chill to be long breathed with comfort. Sothe minister, and the physician with him, withdrew again within thelimits of what their church defined as orthodox.
Thus Roger Chillingworth scrutinized his patient carefully, both as hesaw him in his ordinary life, keeping an accustomed pathway in therange of thoughts familiar to him, and as he appeared when thrownamidst other moral scenery, the novelty of which might call outsomething new to the surface of his character. He deemed it essential,it would seem, to know the man, before attempting to do him good.Wherever there is a heart and an intellect, the diseases of thephysical frame are tinged with the peculiarities of these. In ArthurDimmesdale, thought and imagination were so active, and sensibility sointense, that the bodily infirmity would be likely to have itsgroundwork there. So Roger Chillingworth--the man of skill, the kindand friendly physician--strove to go deep into his patient's bosom,delving among his principles, prying into his recollections, andprobing everything with a cautious touch, like a treasure-seeker in adark cavern. Few secrets can escape an investigator, who hasopportunity and license to undertake such a quest, and skill to followit up. A man burdened with a secret should especially avoid theintimacy of his physician. If the latter possess native sagacity, anda nameless something more,--let us call it intuition; if he show nointrusive egotism, nor disagreeably prominent characteristics of hisown; if he have the power, which must be born with him, to bring hismind into such affinity with his patient's, that this last shallunawares have spoken what he imagines himself only to have thought; ifsuch revelations be received without tumult, and acknowledged not sooften by an uttered sympathy as by silence, an inarticulate breath,and here and there a word, to indicate that all is understood; if tothese qualifications of a confidant be joined the advantages affordedby his recognized character as a physician;--then, at some inevitablemoment, will the soul of the sufferer be dissolved, and flow forth ina dark, but transparent stream, bringing all its mysteries into thedaylight.
Roger Chillingworth possessed all, or most, of the attributes aboveenumerated. Nevertheless, time went on; a kind of intimacy, as we havesaid, grew up between these two cultivated minds, which had as wide afield as the whole sphere of human thought and study, to meet upon;they discussed every topic of ethics and religion, of public affairsand private character; they talked much, on both sides, of mattersthat seemed personal to themselves; and yet no secret, such as thephysician fancied must exist there, ever stole out of the minister'sconsciousness into his companion's ear. The latter had his suspicions,indeed, that even the nature of Mr. Dimmesdale's bodily disease hadnever fairly been revealed to him. It was a strange reserve!
After a time, at a hint from Roger Chillingworth, the friends of Mr.Dimmesdale effected an arrangement by which the two were lodged in thesame house; so that every ebb and flow of the minister's life-tidemight pass under the eye of his anxious and attached physician. Therewas much joy throughout the town, when this greatly desirable objectwas attained. It was held to be the best possible measure for theyoung clergyman's welfare; unless, indeed, as often urged by such asfelt authorized to do so, he had selected some one of the manyblooming damsels, spiritually devoted to him, to become his devotedwife. This latter step, however, there was no present prospect thatArthur Dimmesdale would be prevailed upon to take; he rejected allsuggestions of the kind, as if priestly celibacy were one of hisarticles of church-discipline. Doomed by his own choice, therefore, asMr. Dimmesdale so evidently was, to eat his unsavory morsel always atanother's board, and endure the life-long chill which must be his lotwho seeks to warm himself only at another's fireside, it truly seemedthat this sagacious, experienced, benevolent old physician, with hisconcord of paternal and reverential love for the young pastor, was thevery man, of all mankind, to be constantly within reach of his voice.
The new abode of the two friends was with a pious widow, of goodsocial rank, who dwelt in a house covering pretty nearly the site onwhich the venerable structure of King's Chapel has since been built.It had the graveyard, originally Isaac Johnson's home-field, on oneside, and so was well adapted to call up serious reflections, suitedto their respective employments, in both minister and man of physic.The motherly care of the good widow assigned to Mr. Dimmesdale a frontapartment, with a sunny exposure, and heavy window-curtains, to createa noontide shadow, when desirable. The walls were hung round withtapestry, said to be from the Gobelin looms, and, at all events,representing the Scriptural story of David and Bathsheba, and Nathanthe Prophet, in colors still unfaded, but which made the fair womanof the scene almost as grimly picturesque as the woe-denouncing seer.Here the pale clergyman piled up his library, rich withparchment-bound folios of the Fathers, and the lore of Rabbis, andmonkish erudition, of which the Protestant divines, even while theyvilified and decried that class of writers, were yet constrained oftento avail themselves. On the other side of the house old RogerChillingworth arranged his study and laboratory; not such as a modernman of science would reckon even tolerably complete, but provided witha distilling apparatus, and the means of compounding drugs andchemicals, which the practised alchemist knew well how to turn topurpose. With such commodiousness of situation, these two learnedpersons sat themselves down, each in his own domain, yet familiarlypassing from one apartment to the other, and bestowing a mutual andnot incurious inspection into one another's business.
And the Reverend Arthur Dimmesdale's best discerning friends, as wehave intimated, very reasonably imagined that the hand of Providencehad done all this, for the purpose--besought in so many public, anddomestic, and secret prayers-
-of restoring the young minister tohealth. But--it must now be said--another portion of the community hadlatterly begun to take its own view of the relation betwixt Mr.Dimmesdale and the mysterious old physician. When an uninstructedmultitude attempts to see with its eyes, it is exceedingly apt to bedeceived. When, however, it forms its judgment, as it usually does, onthe intuitions of its great and warm heart, the conclusions thusattained are often so profound and so unerring, as to possess thecharacter of truths supernaturally revealed. The people, in the caseof which we speak, could justify its prejudice against RogerChillingworth by no fact or argument worthy of serious refutation.There was an aged handicraftsman, it is true, who had been a citizenof London at the period of Sir Thomas Overbury's murder, now somethirty years agone; he testified to having seen the physician, undersome other name, which the narrator of the story had now forgotten, incompany with Doctor Forman, the famous old conjurer, who wasimplicated in the affair of Overbury. Two or three individuals hinted,that the man of skill, during his Indian captivity, had enlarged hismedical attainments by joining in the incantations of the savagepriests; who were universally acknowledged to be powerful enchanters,often performing seemingly miraculous cures by their skill in theblack art. A large number--and many of these were persons of suchsober sense and practical observation that their opinions would havebeen valuable, in other matters--affirmed that Roger Chillingworth'saspect had undergone a remarkable change while he had dwelt in town,and especially since his abode with Mr. Dimmesdale. At first, hisexpression had been calm, meditative, scholar-like. Now, there wassomething ugly and evil in his face, which they had not previouslynoticed, and which grew still the more obvious to sight, the oftenerthey looked upon him. According to the vulgar idea, the fire in hislaboratory had been brought from the lower regions, and was fed withinfernal fuel; and so, as might be expected, his visage was gettingsooty with the smoke.
To sum up the matter, it grew to be a widely diffused opinion, thatthe Reverend Arthur Dimmesdale, like many other personages of especialsanctity, in all ages of the Christian world, was haunted either bySatan himself, or Satan's emissary, in the guise of old RogerChillingworth. This diabolical agent had the Divine permission, for aseason, to burrow into the clergyman's intimacy, and plot against hissoul. No sensible man, it was confessed, could doubt on which side thevictory would turn. The people looked, with an unshaken hope, to seethe minister come forth out of the conflict, transfigured with theglory which he would unquestionably win. Meanwhile, nevertheless, itwas sad to think of the perchance mortal agony through which he muststruggle towards his triumph.
Alas! to judge from the gloom and terror in the depths of the poorminister's eyes, the battle was a sore one and the victory anythingbut secure.
The Scarlet Letter Page 12
