The Scarlet Letter

by Nathaniel Hawthorne

 

  X.

  THE LEECH AND HIS PATIENT.

  Old Roger Chillingworth, throughout life, had been calm intemperament, kindly, though not of warm affections, but ever, and inall his relations with the world, a pure and upright man. He had begunan investigation, as he imagined, with the severe and equal integrityof a judge, desirous only of truth, even as if the question involvedno more than the air-drawn lines and figures of a geometrical problem,instead of human passions, and wrongs inflicted on himself. But, as heproceeded, a terrible fascination, a kind of fierce, though stillcalm, necessity, seized the old man within its gripe, and never sethim free again, until he had done all its bidding. He now dug into thepoor clergyman's heart, like a miner searching for gold; or, rather,like a sexton delving into a grave, possibly in quest of a jewel thathad been buried on the dead man's bosom, but likely to find nothingsave mortality and corruption. Alas for his own soul, if these werewhat he sought!

  Sometimes, a light glimmered out of the physician's eyes, burning blueand ominous, like the reflection of a furnace, or, let us say, likeone of those gleams of ghastly fire that darted from Bunyan's awfuldoorway in the hillside, and quivered on the pilgrim's face. The soilwhere this dark miner was working had perchance shown indications thatencouraged him.

  "This man," said he, at one such moment, to himself, "pure as theydeem him,--all spiritual as he seems,--hath inherited a strong animalnature from his father or his mother. Let us dig a little further inthe direction of this vein!"

  Then, after long search into the minister's dim interior, and turningover many precious materials, in the shape of high aspirations for thewelfare of his race, warm love of souls, pure sentiments, naturalpiety, strengthened by thought and study, and illuminated byrevelation,--all of which invaluable gold was perhaps no better thanrubbish to the seeker,--he would turn back, discouraged, and begin hisquest towards another point. He groped along as stealthily, with ascautious a tread, and as wary an outlook, as a thief entering achamber where a man lies only half asleep,--or, it may be, broadawake,--with purpose to steal the very treasure which this man guardsas the apple of his eye. In spite of his premeditated carefulness, thefloor would now and then creak; his garments would rustle; the shadowof his presence, in a forbidden proximity, would be thrown across hisvictim. In other words, Mr. Dimmesdale, whose sensibility of nerveoften produced the effect of spiritual intuition, would become vaguelyaware that something inimical to his peace had thrust itself intorelation with him. But old Roger Chillingworth, too, had perceptionsthat were almost intuitive; and when the minister threw his startledeyes towards him, there the physician sat; his kind, watchful,sympathizing, but never intrusive friend.

  Yet Mr. Dimmesdale would perhaps have seen this individual's charactermore perfectly, if a certain morbidness, to which, sick hearts areliable, had not rendered him suspicious of all mankind. Trusting noman as his friend, he could not recognize his enemy when the latteractually appeared. He therefore still kept up a familiar intercoursewith him, daily receiving the old physician in his study; or visitingthe laboratory, and, for recreation's sake, watching the processes bywhich weeds were converted into drugs of potency.

  One day, leaning his forehead on his hand, and his elbow on the sillof the open window, that looked towards the graveyard, he talked withRoger Chillingworth, while the old man was examining a bundle ofunsightly plants.

  "Where," asked he, with a look askance at them,--for it was theclergyman's peculiarity that he seldom, nowadays, looked straightforthat 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 growingon a grave, which bore no tombstone, nor other memorial of the deadman, save these ugly weeds, that have taken upon themselves to keephim 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 donebetter to confess during his lifetime."

  "Perchance," said Mr. Dimmesdale, "he earnestly desired it, but couldnot."

  "And wherefore?" rejoined the physician. "Wherefore not; since all thepowers of nature call so earnestly for the confession of sin, thatthese black weeds have sprung up out of a buried heart, to makemanifest an unspoken crime?"

  "That, good Sir, is but a fantasy of yours," replied the minister."There can be, if I forebode aright, no power, short of the Divinemercy, to disclose, whether by uttered words, or by type or emblem,the secrets that may be buried with a human heart. The heart, makingitself guilty of such secrets, must perforce hold them, until the daywhen all hidden things shall be revealed. Nor have I so read orinterpreted Holy Writ, as to understand that the disclosure of humanthoughts and deeds, then to be made, is intended as a part of theretribution. That, surely, were a shallow view of it. No; theserevelations, unless I greatly err, are meant merely to promote theintellectual satisfaction of all intelligent beings, who will standwaiting, 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 solutionof that problem. And I conceive, moreover, that the hearts holdingsuch miserable secrets as you speak of will yield them up, at thatlast day, not with reluctance, but with a joy unutterable."

  "Then why not reveal them here?" asked Roger Chillingworth, glancingquietly aside at the minister. "Why should not the guilty ones sooneravail themselves of this unutterable solace?"

  "They mostly do," said the clergyman, griping hard at his breast as ifafflicted with an importunate throb of pain. "Many, many a poor soulhath given its confidence to me, not only on the death-bed, but whilestrong in life, and fair in reputation. And ever, after such anoutpouring, O, what a relief have I witnessed in those sinfulbrethren! even as in one who at last draws free air, after longstifling with his own polluted breath. How can it be otherwise? Whyshould a wretched man, guilty, we will say, of murder, prefer to keepthe dead corpse buried in his own heart, rather than fling it forth atonce, 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 tosuggest more obvious reasons, it may be that they are kept silent bythe very constitution of their nature. Or,--can we not supposeit?--guilty as they may be, retaining, nevertheless, a zeal for God'sglory and man's welfare, they shrink from displaying themselves blackand filthy in the view of men; because, thenceforward, no good can beachieved by them; no evil of the past be redeemed by better service.So, to their own unutterable torment, they go about among theirfellow-creatures, looking pure as new-fallen snow while their heartsare all speckled and spotted with iniquity of which they cannot ridthemselves."

  "These men deceive themselves," said Roger Chillingworth, withsomewhat more emphasis than usual, and making a slight gesture withhis forefinger. "They fear to take up the shame that rightfullybelongs to them. Their love for man, their zeal for God'sservice,--these holy impulses may or may not coexist in their heartswith the evil inmates to which their guilt has unbarred the door, andwhich must needs propagate a hellish breed within them. But, if theyseek to glorify God, let them not lift heavenward their unclean hands!If they would serve their fellow-men, let them do it by makingmanifest the power and reality of conscience, in constraining them topenitential self-abasement! Wouldst thou have me to believe, O wiseand pious friend, that a false show can be better--can be more forGod's glory, or man's welfare--than God's own truth? Trust me, suchmen deceive themselves!"

  "It may be so," said the young clergyman, indifferently, as waiving adiscussion that he considered irrelevant or unseasonable. He had aready faculty, indeed, of escaping from any topic that agitated histoo sensitive and nervous temperament.--"But, now, I would ask of mywell-skilled physician, whether, in good sooth, he deems me to haveprofited by his kindly care of thi
s weak frame of mine?"

  Before Roger Chillingworth could answer, they heard the clear, wildlaughter of a young child's voice, proceeding from the adjacentburial-ground. Looking instinctively from the open window,--for it wassummer-time,--the minister beheld Hester Prynne and little Pearlpassing along the footpath that traversed the enclosure. Pearl lookedas beautiful as the day, but was in one of those moods of perversemerriment which, whenever they occurred, seemed to remove her entirelyout of the sphere of sympathy or human contact. She now skippedirreverently from one grave to another; until, coming to the broad,flat, armorial tombstone of a departed worthy,--perhaps of IsaacJohnson himself,--she began to dance upon it. In reply to her mother'scommand and entreaty that she would behave more decorously, littlePearl paused to gather the prickly burrs from a tall burdock whichgrew beside the tomb. Taking a handful of these, she arranged themalong the lines of the scarlet letter that decorated the maternalbosom, 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 smiledgrimly down.

  "There is no law, nor reverence for authority, no regard for humanordinances or opinions, right or wrong, mixed up with that child'scomposition," remarked he, as much to himself as to his companion. "Isaw her, the other day, bespatter the Governor himself with water, atthe cattle-trough in Spring Lane. What, in Heaven's name, is she? Isthe imp altogether evil? Hath she affections? Hath she anydiscoverable principle of being?"

  "None, save the freedom of a broken law," answered Mr. Dimmesdale, ina 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 thewindow, with a bright, but naughty smile of mirth and intelligence,she threw one of the prickly burrs at the Reverend Mr. Dimmesdale. Thesensitive clergyman shrunk, with nervous dread, from the lightmissile. Detecting his emotion, Pearl clapped her little hands, in themost extravagant ecstasy. Hester Prynne, likewise, had involuntarilylooked up; and all these four persons, old and young, regarded oneanother in silence, till the child laughed aloud, and shouted,--"Comeaway, mother! Come away, or yonder old Black Man will catch you! Hehath got hold of the minister already. Come away, mother, or he willcatch you! But he cannot catch little Pearl!"

  So she drew her mother away, skipping, dancing, and friskingfantastically, among the hillocks of the dead people, like a creaturethat had nothing in common with a bygone and buried generation, norowned herself akin to it. It was as if she had been made afresh, outof new elements, and must perforce be permitted to live her own life,and be a law unto herself, without her eccentricities being reckonedto 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 ofhidden sinfulness which you deem so grievous to be borne. Is HesterPrynne the less miserable, think you, for that scarlet letter on herbreast?"

  "I do verily believe it," answered the clergyman. "Nevertheless, Icannot answer for her. There was a look of pain in her face, which Iwould gladly have been spared the sight of. But still, methinks, itmust needs be better for the sufferer to be free to show his pain, asthis poor woman Hester is, than to cover it all up in his heart."

  There was another pause; and the physician began anew to examine andarrange the plants which he had gathered.

  "You inquired of me, a little time agone," said he, at length, "myjudgment as touching your health."

  "I did," answered the clergyman, "and would gladly learn it. Speakfrankly, I pray you, be it for life or death."

  "Freely, then, and plainly," said the physician, still busy with hisplants, but keeping a wary eye on Mr. Dimmesdale, "the disorder is astrange one; not so much in itself, nor as outwardly manifested,--inso far, at least, as the symptoms have been laid open to myobservation. Looking daily at you, my good Sir, and watching thetokens of your aspect, now for months gone by, I should deem you a mansore sick, it may be, yet not so sick but that an instructed andwatchful physician might well hope to cure you. But--I know not whatto say--the disease is what I seem to know, yet know it not."

  "You speak in riddles, learned Sir," said the pale minister, glancingaside out of the window.

  "Then, to speak more plainly," continued the physician, "and I cravepardon, Sir,--should it seem to require pardon,--for this needfulplainness of my speech. Let me ask,--as your friend,--as one havingcharge, under Providence, of your life and physical well-being,--hathall the operation of this disorder been fairly laid open and recountedto me?"

  "How can you question it?" asked the minister. "Surely, it werechild'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 concentratedintelligence, on the minister's face. "Be it so! But, again! He towhom only the outward and physical evil is laid open, knoweth,oftentimes, but half the evil which he is called upon to cure. Abodily disease, which we look upon as whole and entire within itself,may, after all, be but a symptom of some ailment in the spiritualpart. Your pardon, once again, good Sir, if my speech give the shadowof offence. You, Sir, of all men whom I have known, are he whose bodyis 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 hastilyrising from his chair. "You deal not, I take it, in medicine for thesoul!"

  "Thus, a sickness," continued Roger Chillingworth, going on, in anunaltered tone, without heeding the interruption,--but standing up,and confronting the emaciated and white-cheeked minister, with hislow, dark, and misshapen figure,--"a sickness, a sore place, if we mayso call it, in your spirit, hath immediately its appropriatemanifestation in your bodily frame. Would you, therefore, that yourphysician heal the bodily evil? How may this be, unless you first layopen 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, andwith 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 onePhysician of the soul! He, if it stand with his good pleasure, cancure; or he can kill! Let him do with me as, in his justice andwisdom, he shall see good. But who art thou, that meddlest in thismatter?--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 tohimself, looking after the minister with a grave smile. "There isnothing lost. We shall be friends again anon. But see, now, howpassion takes hold upon this man, and hurrieth him out of himself! Aswith one passion, so with another! He hath done a wild thing erenow,this pious Master Dimmesdale, in the hot passion of his heart!"

  The Leech and his Patient]

  It proved not difficult to re-establish the intimacy of the twocompanions, on the same footing and in the same degree as heretofore.The young clergyman, after a few hours of privacy, was sensible thatthe disorder of his nerves had hurried him into an unseemly outbreakof temper, which there had been nothing in the physician's words toexcuse or palliate. He marvelled, indeed, at the violence with whichhe had thrust back the kind old man, when merely proffering the advicewhich it was his duty to bestow, and which the minister himself hadexpressly sought. With these remorseful feelings, he lost no time inmaking the amplest apologies, and besought his friend still tocontinue the care, which, if not successful in restoring him tohealth, had, in all probability, been the means of prolonging hisfeeble existence to that hour. Roger Chillingworth readily assented,and went on with his medical supervision of the minister; doing hisbest for him, in all good faith, but always quitting the patient'sapartment, at the close of a professional interview, with a mysteriousand puzzled smile upon his lips. This expression was invisible in Mr.Dimmesdale's prese
nce, but grew strongly evident as the physiciancrossed the threshold.

  "A rare case!" he muttered. "I must needs look deeper into it. Astrange sympathy betwixt soul and body! Were it only for the art'ssake, I must search this matter to the bottom!"

  It came to pass, not long after the scene above recorded, that theReverend Mr. Dimmesdale, at noonday, and entirely unawares, fell intoa deep, deep slumber, sitting in his chair, with a large black-lettervolume open before him on the table. It must have been a work of vastability in the somniferous school of literature. The profound depth ofthe minister's repose was the more remarkable, inasmuch as he was oneof those persons whose sleep, ordinarily, is as light, as fitful, andas easily scared away, as a small bird hopping on a twig. To such anunwonted remoteness, however, had his spirit now withdrawn intoitself, that he stirred not in his chair, when old RogerChillingworth, without any extraordinary precaution, came into theroom. The physician advanced directly in front of his patient, laidhis 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 horror! With what aghastly rapture, as it were, too mighty to be expressed only by theeye and features, and therefore bursting forth through the wholeugliness of his figure, and making itself even riotously manifest bythe extravagant gestures with which he threw up his arms towards theceiling, and stamped his foot upon the floor! Had a man seen oldRoger Chillingworth, at that moment of his ecstasy, he would have hadno need to ask how Satan comports himself, when a precious human soulis lost to heaven, and won into his kingdom.

  But what distinguished the physician's ecstasy from Satan's was thetrait of wonder in it!