Chapter 3
THE RECOGNITION
From this intense consciousness of being the
object of severe and universal observation,
the wearer of the scarlet letter was at length
relieved, by discerning, on the outskirts
of the crowd, a figure which irresistibly
took possession of her thoughts. An Indian
in his native garb was standing there; but
the red men were not so infrequent visitors
of the English settlements that one of them
would have attracted any notice from Hester
Prynne at such a time; much less would he
have excluded all other objects and ideas
from her mind. By the Indian's side, and evidently
sustaining a companionship with him, stood
a white man, clad in a strange disarray of
civilized and savage costume.
He was small in stature, with a furrowed visage,
which as yet could hardly be termed aged.
There was a remarkable intelligence in his
features, as of a person who had so cultivated
his mental part that it could not fail to
mould the physical to itself and become manifest
by unmistakable tokens. Although, by a seemingly
careless arrangement of his heterogeneous
garb, he had endeavoured to conceal or abate
the peculiarity, it was sufficiently evident
to Hester Prynne that one of this man's shoulders
rose higher than the other. Again, at the
first instant of perceiving that thin visage,
and the slight deformity of the figure, she
pressed her infant to her bosom with so convulsive
a force that the poor babe uttered another
cry of pain. But the mother did not seem to
hear it.
At his arrival in the market-place, and some
time before she saw him, the stranger had
bent his eyes on Hester Prynne. It was carelessly
at first, like a man chiefly accustomed to
look inward, and to whom external matters
are of little value and import, unless they
bear relation to something within his mind.
Very soon, however, his look became keen and
penetrative. A writhing horror twisted itself
across his features, like a snake gliding
swiftly over them, and making one little pause,
with all its wreathed intervolutions in open
sight. His face darkened with some powerful
emotion, which, nevertheless, he so instantaneously
controlled by an effort of his will, that,
save at a single moment, its expression might
have passed for calmness. After a brief space,
the convulsion grew almost imperceptible,
and finally subsided into the depths of his
nature. When he found the eyes of Hester Prynne
fastened on his own, and saw that she appeared
to recognize him, he slowly and calmly raised
his finger, made a gesture with it in the
air, and laid it on his lips.
Then touching the shoulder of a townsman who
stood near to him, he addressed him in a formal
and courteous manner:
"I pray you, good Sir," said he, "who is this
woman?—and wherefore is she here set up
to public shame?"
"You must needs be a stranger in this region,
friend," answered the townsman, looking curiously
at the questioner and his savage companion,
"else you would surely have heard of Mistress
Hester Prynne and her evil doings. She hath
raised a great scandal, I promise you, in
godly Master Dimmesdale's church."
"You say truly," replied the other; "I am
a stranger, and have been a wanderer, sorely
against my will. I have met with grievous
mishaps by sea and land, and have been long
held in bonds among the heathen-folk to the
southward; and am now brought hither by this
Indian to be redeemed out of my captivity.
Will it please you, therefore, to tell me
of Hester Prynne's—have I her name rightly?—of
this woman's offences, and what has brought
her to yonder scaffold?"
"Truly, friend; and methinks it must gladden
your heart, after your troubles and sojourn
in the wilderness," said the townsman, "to
find yourself at length in a land where iniquity
is searched out and punished in the sight
of rulers and people, as here in our godly
New England. Yonder woman, Sir, you must know,
was the wife of a certain learned man, English
by birth, but who had long ago dwelt in Amsterdam,
whence some good time agone he was minded
to cross over and cast in his lot with us
of the Massachusetts. To this purpose he sent
his wife before him, remaining himself to
look after some necessary affairs. Marry,
good Sir, in some two years, or less, that
the woman has been a dweller here in Boston,
no tidings have come of this learned gentleman,
Master Prynne; and his young wife, look you,
being left to her own misguidance—"
"Ah!—aha!—I conceive you," said the stranger
with a bitter smile. "So learned a man as
you speak of should have learned this too
in his books. And who, by your favour, Sir,
may be the father of yonder babe—it is some
three or four months old, I should judge—which
Mistress Prynne is holding in her arms?"
"Of a truth, friend, that matter remaineth
a riddle; and the Daniel who shall expound
it is yet a-wanting," answered the townsman.
"Madame Hester absolutely refuseth to speak,
and the magistrates have laid their heads
together in vain. Peradventure the guilty
one stands looking on at this sad spectacle,
unknown of man, and forgetting that God sees
him."
"The learned man," observed the stranger with
another smile, "should come himself to look
into the mystery."
"It behoves him well if he be still in life,"
responded the townsman. "Now, good Sir, our
Massachusetts magistracy, bethinking themselves
that this woman is youthful and fair, and
doubtless was strongly tempted to her fall,
and that, moreover, as is most likely, her
husband may be at the bottom of the sea, they
have not been bold to put in force the extremity
of our righteous law against her. The penalty
thereof is death. But in their great mercy
and tenderness of heart they have doomed Mistress
Prynne to stand only a space of three hours
on the platform of the pillory, and then and
thereafter, for the remainder of her natural
life to wear a mark of shame upon her bosom."
"A wise sentence," remarked the stranger,
gravely, bowing his head. "Thus she will be
a living sermon against sin, until the ignominious
letter be engraved upon her tombstone. It
irks me, nevertheless, that the partner of
her iniquity should not at least, stand on
the scaffold by her side. But he will be known—he
will be known!—he will be known!"
He bowed courteously to the communicative
townsman, and whispering a few words to his
Indian attendant, they both made their way
through the crowd.
While this passed, Hester Prynne had been
standing on her pedestal, still with a fixed
gaze towards the stranger—so fixed a gaze
that, at moments of intense absorption, all
other objects in the visible world seemed
to vanish, leaving only him and her. Such
an interview, perhaps, would have been more
terrible than even to meet him as she now
did, with the hot mid-day sun burning down
upon her face, and lighting up its shame;
with the scarlet token of infamy on her breast;
with the sin-born infant in her arms; with
a whole people, drawn forth as to a festival,
staring at the features that should have been
seen only in the quiet gleam of the fireside,
in the happy shadow of a home, or beneath
a matronly veil at church. Dreadful as it
was, she was conscious of a shelter in the
presence of these thousand witnesses. It was
better to stand thus, with so many betwixt
him and her, than to greet him face to face—they
two alone. She fled for refuge, as it were,
to the public exposure, and dreaded the moment
when its protection should be withdrawn from
her. Involved in these thoughts, she scarcely
heard a voice behind her until it had repeated
her name more than once, in a loud and solemn
tone, audible to the whole multitude.
"Hearken unto me, Hester Prynne!" said the
voice.
It has already been noticed that directly
over the platform on which Hester Prynne stood
was a kind of balcony, or open gallery, appended
to the meeting-house. It was the place whence
proclamations were wont to be made, amidst
an assemblage of the magistracy, with all
the ceremonial that attended such public observances
in those days. Here, to witness the scene
which we are describing, sat Governor Bellingham
himself with four sergeants about his chair,
bearing halberds, as a guard of honour. He
wore a dark feather in his hat, a border of
embroidery on his cloak, and a black velvet
tunic beneath—a gentleman advanced in years,
with a hard experience written in his wrinkles.
He was not ill-fitted to be the head and representative
of a community which owed its origin and progress,
and its present state of development, not
to the impulses of youth, but to the stern
and tempered energies of manhood and the sombre
sagacity of age; accomplishing so much, precisely
because it imagined and hoped so little. The
other eminent characters by whom the chief
ruler was surrounded were distinguished by
a dignity of mien, belonging to a period when
the forms of authority were felt to possess
the sacredness of Divine institutions. They
were, doubtless, good men, just and sage.
But, out of the whole human family, it would
not have been easy to select the same number
of wise and virtuous persons, who should be
less capable of sitting in judgment on an
erring woman's heart, and disentangling its
mesh of good and evil, than the sages of rigid
aspect towards whom Hester Prynne now turned
her face. She seemed conscious, indeed, that
whatever sympathy she might expect lay in
the larger and warmer heart of the multitude;
for, as she lifted her eyes towards the balcony,
the unhappy woman grew pale, and trembled.
The voice which had called her attention was
that of the reverend and famous John Wilson,
the eldest clergyman of Boston, a great scholar,
like most of his contemporaries in the profession,
and withal a man of kind and genial spirit.
This last attribute, however, had been less
carefully developed than his intellectual
gifts, and was, in truth, rather a matter
of shame than self-congratulation with him.
There he stood, with a border of grizzled
locks beneath his skull-cap, while his grey
eyes, accustomed to the shaded light of his
study, were winking, like those of Hester's
infant, in the unadulterated sunshine. He
looked like the darkly engraved portraits
which we see prefixed to old volumes of sermons,
and had no more right than one of those portraits
would have to step forth, as he now did, and
meddle with a question of human guilt, passion,
and anguish.
"Hester Prynne," said the clergyman, "I have
striven with my young brother here, under
whose preaching of the Word you have been
privileged to sit"—here Mr. Wilson laid
his hand on the shoulder of a pale young man
beside him—"I have sought, I say, to persuade
this godly youth, that he should deal with
you, here in the face of Heaven, and before
these wise and upright rulers, and in hearing
of all the people, as touching the vileness
and blackness of your sin. Knowing your natural
temper better than I, he could the better
judge what arguments to use, whether of tenderness
or terror, such as might prevail over your
hardness and obstinacy, insomuch that you
should no longer hide the name of him who
tempted you to this grievous fall. But he
opposes to me—with a young man's over-softness,
albeit wise beyond his years—that it were
wronging the very nature of woman to force
her to lay open her heart's secrets in such
broad daylight, and in presence of so great
a multitude. Truly, as I sought to convince
him, the shame lay in the commission of the
sin, and not in the showing of it forth. What
say you to it, once again, brother Dimmesdale?
Must it be thou, or I, that shall deal with
this poor sinner's soul?"
There was a murmur among the dignified and
reverend occupants of the balcony; and Governor
Bellingham gave expression to its purport,
speaking in an authoritative voice, although
tempered with respect towards the youthful
clergyman whom he addressed:
"Good Master Dimmesdale," said he, "the responsibility
of this woman's soul lies greatly with you.
It behoves you; therefore, to exhort her to
repentance and to confession, as a proof and
consequence thereof."
The directness of this appeal drew the eyes
of the whole crowd upon the Reverend Mr. Dimmesdale—young
clergyman, who had come from one of the great
English universities, bringing all the learning
of the age into our wild forest land. His
eloquence and religious fervour had already
given the earnest of high eminence in his
profession. He was a person of very striking
aspect, with a white, lofty, and impending
brow; large, brown, melancholy eyes, and a
mouth which, unless when he forcibly compressed
it, was apt to be tremulous, expressing both
nervous sensibility and a vast power of self
restraint. Notwithstanding his high native
gifts and scholar-like attainments, there
was an air about this young minister—an
apprehensive, a startled, a half-frightened
look—as of a being who felt himself quite
astray, and at a loss in the pathway of human
existence, and could only be at ease in some
seclusion of his own. Therefore, so far as
his duties would permit, he trod in the shadowy
by-paths, and thus kept himself simple and
childlike, coming forth, when occasion was,
with a freshness, and fragrance, and dewy
purity of thought, which, as many people said,
affected them like the speech of an angel.
Such was the young man whom the Reverend Mr.
Wilson and the Governor had introduced so
openly to the public notice, bidding him speak,
in the hearing of all men, to that mystery
of a woman's soul, so sacred even in its pollution.
The trying nature of his position drove the
blood from his cheek, and made his lips tremulous.
"Speak to the woman, my brother," said Mr.
Wilson. "It is of moment to her soul, and,
therefore, as the worshipful Governor says,
momentous to thine own, in whose charge hers
is. Exhort her to confess the truth!"
The Reverend Mr. Dimmesdale bent his head,
in silent prayer, as it seemed, and then came
forward.
"Hester Prynne," said he, leaning over the
balcony and looking down steadfastly into
her eyes, "thou hearest what this good man
says, and seest the accountability under which
I labour. If thou feelest it to be for thy
soul's peace, and that thy earthly punishment
will thereby be made more effectual to salvation,
I charge thee to speak out the name of thy
fellow-sinner and fellow-sufferer! Be not
silent from any mistaken pity and tenderness
for him; for, believe me, Hester, though he
were to step down from a high place, and stand
there beside thee, on thy pedestal of shame,
yet better were it so than to hide a guilty
heart through life. What can thy silence do
for him, except it tempt him—yea, compel
him, as it were—to add hypocrisy to sin?
Heaven hath granted thee an open ignominy,
that thereby thou mayest work out an open
triumph over the evil within thee and the
sorrow without. Take heed how thou deniest
to him—who, perchance, hath not the courage
to grasp it for himself—the bitter, but
wholesome, cup that is now presented to thy
lips!"
The young pastor's voice was tremulously sweet,
rich, deep, and broken. The feeling that it
so evidently manifested, rather than the direct
purport of the words, caused it to vibrate
within all hearts, and brought the listeners
into one accord of sympathy. Even the poor
baby at Hester's bosom was affected by the
same influence, for it directed its hitherto
vacant gaze towards Mr. Dimmesdale, and held
up its little arms with a half-pleased, half-plaintive
murmur. So powerful seemed the minister's
appeal that the people could not believe but
that Hester Prynne would speak out the guilty
name, or else that the guilty one himself
in whatever high or lowly place he stood,
would be drawn forth by an inward and inevitable
necessity, and compelled to ascend the scaffold.
Hester shook her head.
"Woman, transgress not beyond the limits of
Heaven's mercy!" cried the Reverend Mr. Wilson,
more harshly than before. "That little babe
hath been gifted with a voice, to second and
confirm the counsel which thou hast heard.
Speak out the name! That, and thy repentance,
may avail to take the scarlet letter off thy
breast."
"Never," replied Hester Prynne, looking, not
at Mr. Wilson, but into the deep and troubled
eyes of the younger clergyman. "It is too
deeply branded. Ye cannot take it off. And
would that I might endure his agony as well
as mine!"
"Speak, woman!" said another voice, coldly
and sternly, proceeding from the crowd about
the scaffold, "Speak; and give your child
a father!"
"I will not speak!" answered Hester, turning
pale as death, but responding to this voice,
which she too surely recognised. "And my child
must seek a heavenly father; she shall never
know an earthly one!"
"She will not speak!" murmured Mr. Dimmesdale,
who, leaning over the balcony, with his hand
upon his heart, had awaited the result of
his appeal. He now drew back with a long respiration.
"Wondrous strength and generosity of a woman's
heart! She will not speak!"
Discerning the impracticable state of the
poor culprit's mind, the elder clergyman,
who had carefully prepared himself for the
occasion, addressed to the multitude a discourse
on sin, in all its branches, but with continual
reference to the ignominious letter. So forcibly
did he dwell upon this symbol, for the hour
or more during which his periods were rolling
over the people's heads, that it assumed new
terrors in their imagination, and seemed to
derive its scarlet hue from the flames of
the infernal pit. Hester Prynne, meanwhile,
kept her place upon the pedestal of shame,
with glazed eyes, and an air of weary indifference.
She had borne that morning all that nature
could endure; and as her temperament was not
of the order that escapes from too intense
suffering by a swoon, her spirit could only
shelter itself beneath a stony crust of insensibility,
while the faculties of animal life remained
entire. In this state, the voice of the preacher
thundered remorselessly, but unavailingly,
upon her ears. The infant, during the latter
portion of her ordeal, pierced the air with
its wailings and screams; she strove to hush
it mechanically, but seemed scarcely to sympathise
with its trouble. With the same hard demeanour,
she was led back to prison, and vanished from
the public gaze within its iron-clamped portal.
It was whispered by those who peered after
her that the scarlet letter threw a lurid
gleam along the dark passage-way of the interior.
