No More Learning

Mr.
Dimmesdale gently repelled their entreaties.

"I need no medicine," said he.

But how could the young minister say so, when, with every successive
Sabbath, his cheek was paler and thinner, and his voice more tremulous
than before,--when it had now become a constant habit, rather than a
casual gesture, to press his hand over his heart? Was he weary of his
labors? Did he wish to die? These questions were solemnly propounded
to Mr. Dimmesdale by the elder ministers of Boston and the deacons of
his church, who, to use their own phrase, "dealt with him" on the sin
of rejecting the aid which Providence so manifestly held out. He
listened in silence, and finally promised to confer with the
physician.

"Were it God's will," said the Reverend Mr. Dimmesdale, when, in
fulfilment of this pledge, he requested old Roger Chillingworth's
professional advice, "I could be well content, that my labors, and my
sorrows, and my sins, and my pains, should shortly end with me, and
what is earthly of them be buried in my grave, and the spiritual go
with me to my eternal state, rather than that you should put your
skill to the proof in my behalf. "

"Ah," replied Roger Chillingworth, with that quietness which, whether
imposed or natural, marked all his deportment, "it is thus that a
young clergyman is apt to speak. Youthful men, not having taken a deep
root, give up their hold of life so easily! And saintly men, who walk
with God on earth, would fain be away, to walk with him on the golden
pavements 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 walk
there, I could be better content to toil here. "

"Good men ever interpret themselves too meanly," said the physician.

[Illustration: The Minister and Leech]

In this manner, the mysterious old Roger Chillingworth became the
medical adviser of the Reverend Mr. Dimmesdale. As not only the
disease interested the physician, but he was strongly moved to look
into the character and qualities of the patient, these two men, so
different in age, came gradually to spend much time together. For the
sake of the minister's health, and to enable the leech to gather
plants with healing balm in them, they took long walks on the
sea-shore, or in the forest; mingling various talk with the plash and
murmur of the waves, and the solemn wind-anthem among the tree-tops.
Often, likewise, one was the guest of the other, in his place of
study and retirement. There was a fascination for the minister in the
company of the man of science, in whom he recognized an intellectual
cultivation of no moderate depth or scope; together with a range and
freedom of ideas, that he would have vainly looked for among the
members of his own profession. In truth, he was startled, if not
shocked, to find this attribute in the physician. Mr. Dimmesdale was a
true priest, a true religionist, with the reverential sentiment
largely developed, and an order of mind that impelled itself
powerfully along the track of a creed, and wore its passage
continually deeper with the lapse of time. In no state of society
would he have been what is called a man of liberal views; it would
always be essential to his peace to feel the pressure of a faith about
him, supporting, while it confined him within its iron framework. Not
the less, however, though with a tremulous enjoyment, did he feel the
occasional relief of looking at the universe through the medium of
another kind of intellect than those with which he habitually held
converse. It was as if a window were thrown open, admitting a freer
atmosphere into the close and stifled study, where his life was
wasting itself away, amid lamplight, or obstructed day-beams, and the
musty fragrance, be it sensual or moral, that exhales from books. But
the air was too fresh and chill to be long breathed with comfort. So
the minister, and the physician with him, withdrew again within the
limits of what their church defined as orthodox.

Thus Roger Chillingworth scrutinized his patient carefully, both as he
saw him in his ordinary life, keeping an accustomed pathway in the
range of thoughts familiar to him, and as he appeared when thrown
amidst other moral scenery, the novelty of which might call out
something 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 the
physical frame are tinged with the peculiarities of these. In Arthur
Dimmesdale, thought and imagination were so active, and sensibility so
intense, that the bodily infirmity would be likely to have its
groundwork there. So Roger Chillingworth--the man of skill, the kind
and friendly physician--strove to go deep into his patient's bosom,
delving among his principles, prying into his recollections, and
probing everything with a cautious touch, like a treasure-seeker in a
dark cavern. Few secrets can escape an investigator, who has
opportunity and license to undertake such a quest, and skill to follow
it up. A man burdened with a secret should especially avoid the
intimacy of his physician. If the latter possess native sagacity, and
a nameless something more,--let us call it intuition; if he show no
intrusive egotism, nor disagreeably prominent characteristics of his
own; if he have the power, which must be born with him, to bring his
mind into such affinity with his patient's, that this last shall
unawares have spoken what he imagines himself only to have thought; if
such revelations be received without tumult, and acknowledged not so
often by an uttered sympathy as by silence, an inarticulate breath,
and here and there a word, to indicate that all is understood; if to
these qualifications of a confidant be joined the advantages afforded
by his recognized character as a physician;--then, at some inevitable
moment, will the soul of the sufferer be dissolved, and flow forth in
a dark, but transparent stream, bringing all its mysteries into the
daylight.

Roger Chillingworth possessed all, or most, of the attributes above
enumerated. Nevertheless, time went on; a kind of intimacy, as we have
said, grew up between these two cultivated minds, which had as wide a
field as the whole sphere of human thought and study, to meet upon;
they discussed every topic of ethics and religion, of public affairs
and private character; they talked much, on both sides, of matters
that seemed personal to themselves; and yet no secret, such as the
physician fancied must exist there, ever stole out of the minister's
consciousness into his companion's ear. The latter had his suspicions,
indeed, that even the nature of Mr. Dimmesdale's bodily disease had
never 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 the
same house; so that every ebb and flow of the minister's life-tide
might pass under the eye of his anxious and attached physician. There
was much joy throughout the town, when this greatly desirable object
was attained. It was held to be the best possible measure for the
young clergyman's welfare; unless, indeed, as often urged by such as
felt authorized to do so, he had selected some one of the many
blooming damsels, spiritually devoted to him, to become his devoted
wife. This latter step, however, there was no present prospect that
Arthur Dimmesdale would be prevailed upon to take; he rejected all
suggestions of the kind, as if priestly celibacy were one of his
articles of church-discipline. Doomed by his own choice, therefore, as
Mr. Dimmesdale so evidently was, to eat his unsavory morsel always at
another's board, and endure the life-long chill which must be his lot
who seeks to warm himself only at another's fireside, it truly seemed
that this sagacious, experienced, benevolent old physician, with his
concord of paternal and reverential love for the young pastor, was the
very 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 good
social rank, who dwelt in a house covering pretty nearly the site on
which the venerable structure of King's Chapel has since been built.
It had the graveyard, originally Isaac Johnson's home-field, on one
side, and so was well adapted to call up serious reflections, suited
to their respective employments, in both minister and man of physic.
The motherly care of the good widow assigned to Mr. Dimmesdale a front
apartment, with a sunny exposure, and heavy window-curtains, to create
a noontide shadow, when desirable. The walls were hung round with
tapestry, said to be from the Gobelin looms, and, at all events,
representing the Scriptural story of David and Bathsheba, and Nathan
the Prophet, in colors still unfaded, but which made the fair woman
of the scene almost as grimly picturesque as the woe-denouncing seer.
Here the pale clergyman piled up his library, rich with
parchment-bound folios of the Fathers, and the lore of Rabbis, and
monkish erudition, of which the Protestant divines, even while they
vilified and decried that class of writers, were yet constrained often
to avail themselves. On the other side of the house old Roger
Chillingworth arranged his study and laboratory; not such as a modern
man of science would reckon even tolerably complete, but provided with
a distilling apparatus, and the means of compounding drugs and
chemicals, which the practised alchemist knew well how to turn to
purpose. With such commodiousness of situation, these two learned
persons sat themselves down, each in his own domain, yet familiarly
passing from one apartment to the other, and bestowing a mutual and
not incurious inspection into one another's business.

And the Reverend Arthur Dimmesdale's best discerning friends, as we
have intimated, very reasonably imagined that the hand of Providence
had done all this, for the purpose--besought in so many public, and
domestic, and secret prayers--of restoring the young minister to
health. But--it must now be said--another portion of the community had
latterly begun to take its own view of the relation betwixt Mr.
Dimmesdale and the mysterious old physician. When an uninstructed
multitude attempts to see with its eyes, it is exceedingly apt to be
deceived. When, however, it forms its judgment, as it usually does, on
the intuitions of its great and warm heart, the conclusions thus
attained are often so profound and so unerring, as to possess the
character of truths supernaturally revealed. The people, in the case
of which we speak, could justify its prejudice against Roger
Chillingworth by no fact or argument worthy of serious refutation.
There was an aged handicraftsman, it is true, who had been a citizen
of London at the period of Sir Thomas Overbury's murder, now some
thirty years agone; he testified to having seen the physician, under
some other name, which the narrator of the story had now forgotten, in
company with Doctor Forman, the famous old conjurer, who was
implicated in the affair of Overbury. Two or three individuals hinted,
that the man of skill, during his Indian captivity, had enlarged his
medical attainments by joining in the incantations of the savage
priests; who were universally acknowledged to be powerful enchanters,
often performing seemingly miraculous cures by their skill in the
black art. A large number--and many of these were persons of such
sober sense and practical observation that their opinions would have
been valuable, in other matters--affirmed that Roger Chillingworth's
aspect had undergone a remarkable change while he had dwelt in town,
and especially since his abode with Mr. Dimmesdale. At first, his
expression had been calm, meditative, scholar-like. Now, there was
something ugly and evil in his face, which they had not previously
noticed, and which grew still the more obvious to sight, the oftener
they looked upon him. According to the vulgar idea, the fire in his
laboratory had been brought from the lower regions, and was fed with
infernal fuel; and so, as might be expected, his visage was getting
sooty with the smoke.

To sum up the matter, it grew to be a widely diffused opinion, that
the Reverend Arthur Dimmesdale, like many other personages of especial
sanctity, in all ages of the Christian world, was haunted either by
Satan himself, or Satan's emissary, in the guise of old Roger
Chillingworth. This diabolical agent had the Divine permission, for a
season, to burrow into the clergyman's intimacy, and plot against his
soul. No sensible man, it was confessed, could doubt on which side the
victory would turn. The people looked, with an unshaken hope, to see
the minister come forth out of the conflict, transfigured with the
glory which he would unquestionably win. Meanwhile, nevertheless, it
was sad to think of the perchance mortal agony through which he must
struggle towards his triumph.

Alas! to judge from the gloom and terror in the depths of the poor
minister's eyes, the battle was a sore one and the victory anything
but secure.

[Illustration]




[Illustration]

X.

THE LEECH AND HIS PATIENT.


Old Roger Chillingworth, throughout life, had been calm in
temperament, kindly, though not of warm affections, but ever, and in
all his relations with the world, a pure and upright man. He had begun
an investigation, as he imagined, with the severe and equal integrity
of a judge, desirous only of truth, even as if the question involved
no more than the air-drawn lines and figures of a geometrical problem,
instead of human passions, and wrongs inflicted on himself. But, as he
proceeded, a terrible fascination, a kind of fierce, though still
calm, necessity, seized the old man within its gripe, and never set
him free again, until he had done all its bidding. He now dug into the
poor clergyman's heart, like a miner searching for gold; or, rather,
like a sexton delving into a grave, possibly in quest of a jewel that
had been buried on the dead man's bosom, but likely to find nothing
save mortality and corruption. Alas for his own soul, if these were
what he sought!

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

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

Then, after long search into the minister's dim interior, and turning
over many precious materials, in the shape of high aspirations for the
welfare of his race, warm love of souls, pure sentiments, natural
piety, strengthened by thought and study, and illuminated by
revelation,--all of which invaluable gold was perhaps no better than
rubbish to the seeker,--he would turn back, discouraged, and begin his
quest towards another point. He groped along as stealthily, with as
cautious a tread, and as wary an outlook, as a thief entering a
chamber where a man lies only half asleep,--or, it may be, broad
awake,--with purpose to steal the very treasure which this man guards
as the apple of his eye. In spite of his premeditated carefulness, the
floor would now and then creak; his garments would rustle; the shadow
of his presence, in a forbidden proximity, would be thrown across his
victim. In other words, Mr. Dimmesdale, whose sensibility of nerve
often produced the effect of spiritual intuition, would become vaguely
aware that something inimical to his peace had thrust itself into
relation with him. But old Roger Chillingworth, too, had perceptions
that were almost intuitive; and when the minister threw his startled
eyes towards him, there the physician sat; his kind, watchful,
sympathizing, but never intrusive friend.

Yet Mr. Dimmesdale would perhaps have seen this individual's character
more perfectly, if a certain morbidness, to which, sick hearts are
liable, had not rendered him suspicious of all mankind. Trusting no
man as his friend, he could not recognize his enemy when the latter
actually appeared. He therefore still kept up a familiar intercourse
with him, daily receiving the old physician in his study; or visiting
the laboratory, and, for recreation's sake, watching the processes by
which weeds were converted into drugs of potency.

One day, leaning his forehead on his hand, and his elbow on the sill
of the open window, that looked towards the graveyard, he talked with
Roger Chillingworth, while the old man was examining a bundle of
unsightly plants.

"Where," asked he, with a look askance at them,--for it was the
clergyman's peculiarity that he seldom, nowadays, looked straightforth
at 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 growing
on a grave, which bore no tombstone, nor other memorial of the dead
man, save these ugly weeds, that have taken upon themselves to keep
him 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 done
better to confess during his lifetime. "

"Perchance," said Mr. Dimmesdale, "he earnestly desired it, but could
not. "

"And wherefore? " rejoined the physician. "Wherefore not; since all the
powers of nature call so earnestly for the confession of sin, that
these black weeds have sprung up out of a buried heart, to make
manifest 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 Divine
mercy, to disclose, whether by uttered words, or by type or emblem,
the secrets that may be buried with a human heart. The heart, making
itself guilty of such secrets, must perforce hold them, until the day
when all hidden things shall be revealed. Nor have I so read or
interpreted Holy Writ, as to understand that the disclosure of human
thoughts and deeds, then to be made, is intended as a part of the
retribution. That, surely, were a shallow view of it. No; these
revelations, unless I greatly err, are meant merely to promote the
intellectual satisfaction of all intelligent beings, who will stand
waiting, 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 solution
of that problem. And I conceive, moreover, that the hearts holding
such miserable secrets as you speak of will yield them up, at that
last day, not with reluctance, but with a joy unutterable. "

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

"They mostly do," said the clergyman, griping hard at his breast as if
afflicted with an importunate throb of pain. "Many, many a poor soul
hath given its confidence to me, not only on the death-bed, but while
strong in life, and fair in reputation. And ever, after such an
outpouring, O, what a relief have I witnessed in those sinful
brethren! even as in one who at last draws free air, after long
stifling with his own polluted breath. How can it be otherwise? Why
should a wretched man, guilty, we will say, of murder, prefer to keep
the dead corpse buried in his own heart, rather than fling it forth at
once, 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 to
suggest more obvious reasons, it may be that they are kept silent by
the very constitution of their nature. Or,--can we not suppose
it? --guilty as they may be, retaining, nevertheless, a zeal for God's
glory and man's welfare, they shrink from displaying themselves black
and filthy in the view of men; because, thenceforward, no good can be
achieved by them; no evil of the past be redeemed by better service.
So, to their own unutterable torment, they go about among their
fellow-creatures, looking pure as new-fallen snow while their hearts
are all speckled and spotted with iniquity of which they cannot rid
themselves. "

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

"It may be so," said the young clergyman, indifferently, as waiving a
discussion that he considered irrelevant or unseasonable. He had a
ready faculty, indeed, of escaping from any topic that agitated his
too sensitive and nervous temperament. --"But, now, I would ask of my
well-skilled physician, whether, in good sooth, he deems me to have
profited by his kindly care of this weak frame of mine? "

Before Roger Chillingworth could answer, they heard the clear, wild
laughter of a young child's voice, proceeding from the adjacent
burial-ground. Looking instinctively from the open window,--for it was
summer-time,--the minister beheld Hester Prynne and little Pearl
passing along the footpath that traversed the enclosure. Pearl looked
as beautiful as the day, but was in one of those moods of perverse
merriment which, whenever they occurred, seemed to remove her entirely
out of the sphere of sympathy or human contact. She now skipped
irreverently from one grave to another; until, coming to the broad,
flat, armorial tombstone of a departed worthy,--perhaps of Isaac
Johnson himself,--she began to dance upon it. In reply to her mother's
command and entreaty that she would behave more decorously, little
Pearl paused to gather the prickly burrs from a tall burdock which
grew beside the tomb. Taking a handful of these, she arranged them
along the lines of the scarlet letter that decorated the maternal
bosom, 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 smiled
grimly down.

"There is no law, nor reverence for authority, no regard for human
ordinances or opinions, right or wrong, mixed up with that child's
composition," remarked he, as much to himself as to his companion. "I
saw her, the other day, bespatter the Governor himself with water, at
the cattle-trough in Spring Lane. What, in Heaven's name, is she? Is
the imp altogether evil? Hath she affections? Hath she any
discoverable principle of being? "

"None, save the freedom of a broken law," answered Mr. Dimmesdale, in
a 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 the
window, with a bright, but naughty smile of mirth and intelligence,
she threw one of the prickly burrs at the Reverend Mr. Dimmesdale. The
sensitive clergyman shrunk, with nervous dread, from the light
missile. Detecting his emotion, Pearl clapped her little hands, in the
most extravagant ecstasy. Hester Prynne, likewise, had involuntarily
looked up; and all these four persons, old and young, regarded one
another in silence, till the child laughed aloud, and shouted,--"Come
away, mother! Come away, or yonder old Black Man will catch you! He
hath got hold of the minister already. Come away, mother, or he will
catch you! But he cannot catch little Pearl! "

So she drew her mother away, skipping, dancing, and frisking
fantastically, among the hillocks of the dead people, like a creature
that had nothing in common with a bygone and buried generation, nor
owned herself akin to it. It was as if she had been made afresh, out
of new elements, and must perforce be permitted to live her own life,
and be a law unto herself, without her eccentricities being reckoned
to 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 of
hidden sinfulness which you deem so grievous to be borne. Is Hester
Prynne the less miserable, think you, for that scarlet letter on her
breast? "

"I do verily believe it," answered the clergyman. "Nevertheless, I
cannot answer for her. There was a look of pain in her face, which I
would gladly have been spared the sight of. But still, methinks, it
must needs be better for the sufferer to be free to show his pain, as
this poor woman Hester is, than to cover it all up in his heart. "

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

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

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

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

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

"Then, to speak more plainly," continued the physician, "and I crave
pardon, Sir,--should it seem to require pardon,--for this needful
plainness of my speech. Let me ask,--as your friend,--as one having
charge, under Providence, of your life and physical well-being,--hath
all the operation of this disorder been fairly laid open and recounted
to me? "

"How can you question it? " asked the minister. "Surely, it were
child'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 concentrated
intelligence, on the minister's face. "Be it so! But, again! He to
whom only the outward and physical evil is laid open, knoweth,
oftentimes, but half the evil which he is called upon to cure. A
bodily disease, which we look upon as whole and entire within itself,
may, after all, be but a symptom of some ailment in the spiritual
part. Your pardon, once again, good Sir, if my speech give the shadow
of offence. You, Sir, of all men whom I have known, are he whose body
is 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 hastily
rising from his chair. "You deal not, I take it, in medicine for the
soul! "

"Thus, a sickness," continued Roger Chillingworth, going on, in an
unaltered tone, without heeding the interruption,--but standing up,
and confronting the emaciated and white-cheeked minister, with his
low, dark, and misshapen figure,--"a sickness, a sore place, if we may
so call it, in your spirit, hath immediately its appropriate
manifestation in your bodily frame. Would you, therefore, that your
physician heal the bodily evil? How may this be, unless you first lay
open 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, and
with 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 one
Physician of the soul! He, if it stand with his good pleasure, can
cure; or he can kill! Let him do with me as, in his justice and
wisdom, he shall see good. But who art thou, that meddlest in this
matter? --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 to
himself, looking after the minister with a grave smile. "There is
nothing lost. We shall be friends again anon. But see, now, how
passion takes hold upon this man, and hurrieth him out of himself! As
with one passion, so with another! He hath done a wild thing erenow,
this pious Master Dimmesdale, in the hot passion of his heart! "

[Illustration: The Leech and his Patient]

It proved not difficult to re-establish the intimacy of the two
companions, on the same footing and in the same degree as heretofore.
The young clergyman, after a few hours of privacy, was sensible that
the disorder of his nerves had hurried him into an unseemly outbreak
of temper, which there had been nothing in the physician's words to
excuse or palliate. He marvelled, indeed, at the violence with which
he had thrust back the kind old man, when merely proffering the advice
which it was his duty to bestow, and which the minister himself had
expressly sought. With these remorseful feelings, he lost no time in
making the amplest apologies, and besought his friend still to
continue the care, which, if not successful in restoring him to
health, had, in all probability, been the means of prolonging his
feeble existence to that hour. Roger Chillingworth readily assented,
and went on with his medical supervision of the minister; doing his
best for him, in all good faith, but always quitting the patient's
apartment, at the close of a professional interview, with a mysterious
and puzzled smile upon his lips. This expression was invisible in Mr.
Dimmesdale's presence, but grew strongly evident as the physician
crossed the threshold.

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

It came to pass, not long after the scene above recorded, that the
Reverend Mr. Dimmesdale, at noonday, and entirely unawares, fell into
a deep, deep slumber, sitting in his chair, with a large black-letter
volume open before him on the table. It must have been a work of vast
ability in the somniferous school of literature. The profound depth of
the minister's repose was the more remarkable, inasmuch as he was one
of those persons whose sleep, ordinarily, is as light, as fitful, and
as easily scared away, as a small bird hopping on a twig. To such an
unwonted remoteness, however, had his spirit now withdrawn into
itself, that he stirred not in his chair, when old Roger
Chillingworth, without any extraordinary precaution, came into the
room. The physician advanced directly in front of his patient, laid
his 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 a
ghastly rapture, as it were, too mighty to be expressed only by the
eye and features, and therefore bursting forth through the whole
ugliness of his figure, and making itself even riotously manifest by
the extravagant gestures with which he threw up his arms towards the
ceiling, and stamped his foot upon the floor! Had a man seen old
Roger Chillingworth, at that moment of his ecstasy, he would have had
no need to ask how Satan comports himself, when a precious human soul
is lost to heaven, and won into his kingdom.

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

[Illustration]




[Illustration]

XI.

THE INTERIOR OF A HEART.


After the incident last described, the intercourse between the
clergyman and the physician, though externally the same, was really of
another character than it had previously been. The intellect of Roger
Chillingworth had now a sufficiently plain path before it. It was not,
indeed, precisely that which he had laid out for himself to tread.
Calm, gentle, passionless, as he appeared, there was yet, we fear, a
quiet depth of malice, hitherto latent, but active now, in this
unfortunate old man, which led him to imagine a more intimate revenge
than any mortal had ever wreaked upon an enemy. To make himself the
one trusted friend, to whom should be confided all the fear, the
remorse, the agony, the ineffectual repentance, the backward rush of
sinful thoughts, expelled in vain! All that guilty sorrow, hidden from
the world, whose great heart would have pitied and forgiven, to be
revealed to him, the Pitiless, to him, the Unforgiving! All that dark
treasure to be lavished on the very man, to whom nothing else could so
adequately pay the debt of vengeance!

The clergyman's shy and sensitive reserve had balked this scheme.
Roger Chillingworth, however, was inclined to be hardly, if at all,
less satisfied with the aspect of affairs, which Providence--using the
avenger and his victim for its own purposes, and, perchance, pardoning
where it seemed most to punish--had substituted for his black devices.
A revelation, he could almost say, had been granted to him. It
mattered little, for his object, whether celestial, or from what other
region. By its aid, in all the subsequent relations betwixt him and
Mr. Dimmesdale, not merely the external presence, but the very inmost
soul, of the latter, seemed to be brought out before his eyes, so that
he could see and comprehend its every movement. He became,
thenceforth, not a spectator only, but a chief actor, in the poor
minister's interior world. He could play upon him as he chose. Would
he arouse him with a throb of agony? The victim was forever on the
rack; it needed only to know the spring that controlled the
engine;--and the physician knew it well! Would he startle him with
sudden fear? As at the waving of a magician's wand, uprose a grisly
phantom,--uprose a thousand phantoms,--in many shapes, of death, or
more awful shame, all flocking round about the clergyman, and pointing
with their fingers at his breast!

All this was accomplished with a subtlety so perfect, that the
minister, though he had constantly a dim perception of some evil
influence watching over him, could never gain a knowledge of its
actual nature. True, he looked doubtfully, fearfully,--even, at times,
with horror and the bitterness of hatred,--at the deformed figure of
the old physician. His gestures, his gait, his grizzled beard, his
slightest and most indifferent acts, the very fashion of his garments,
were odious in the clergyman's sight; a token implicitly to be relied
on, of a deeper antipathy in the breast of the latter than he was
willing to acknowledge to himself. For, as it was impossible to assign
a reason for such distrust and abhorrence, so Mr. Dimmesdale,
conscious that the poison of one morbid spot was infecting his heart's
entire substance, attributed all his presentiments to no other cause.
He took himself to task for his bad sympathies in reference to Roger
Chillingworth, disregarded the lesson that he should have drawn from
them, and did his best to root them out. Unable to accomplish this, he
nevertheless, as a matter of principle, continued his habits of social
familiarity with the old man, and thus gave him constant opportunities
for perfecting the purpose to which--poor, forlorn creature that he
was, and more wretched than his victim--the avenger had devoted
himself.

While thus suffering under bodily disease, and gnawed and tortured by
some black trouble of the soul, and given over to the machinations of
his deadliest enemy, the Reverend Mr. Dimmesdale had achieved a
brilliant popularity in his sacred office. He won it, indeed, in great
part, by his sorrows. His intellectual gifts, his moral perceptions,
his power of experiencing and communicating emotion, were kept in a
state of preternatural activity by the prick and anguish of his daily
life. His fame, though still on its upward slope, already overshadowed
the soberer reputations of his fellow-clergymen, eminent as several of
them were. There were scholars among them, who had spent more years in
acquiring abstruse lore, connected with the divine profession, than
Mr. Dimmesdale had lived; and who might well, therefore, be more
profoundly versed in such solid and valuable attainments than their
youthful brother. There were men, too, of a sturdier texture of mind
than his, and endowed with a far greater share of shrewd, hard, iron,
or granite understanding; which, duly mingled with a fair proportion
of doctrinal ingredient, constitutes a highly respectable,
efficacious, and unamiable variety of the clerical species. There were
others, again, true saintly fathers, whose faculties had been
elaborated by weary toil among their books, and by patient thought,
and etherealized, moreover, by spiritual communications with the
better world, into which their purity of life had almost introduced
these holy personages, with their garments of mortality still clinging
to them. All that they lacked was the gift that descended upon the
chosen disciples at Pentecost, in tongues of flame; symbolizing, it
would seem, not the power of speech in foreign and unknown languages,
but that of addressing the whole human brotherhood in the heart's
native language. These fathers, otherwise so apostolic, lacked
Heaven's last and rarest attestation of their office, the Tongue of
Flame. They would have vainly sought--had they ever dreamed of
seeking--to express the highest truths through the humblest medium of
familiar words and images. Their voices came down, afar and
indistinctly, from the upper heights where they habitually dwelt.

[Illustration: The Virgins of the Church]

Not improbably, it was to this latter class of men that Mr.
Dimmesdale, by many of his traits of character, naturally belonged. To
the high mountain-peaks of faith and sanctity he would have climbed,
had not the tendency been thwarted by the burden, whatever it might
be, of crime or anguish, beneath which it was his doom to totter. It
kept him down, on a level with the lowest; him, the man of ethereal
attributes, whose voice the angels might else have listened to and
answered! But this very burden it was, that gave him sympathies so
intimate with the sinful brotherhood of mankind; so that his heart
vibrated in unison with theirs, and received their pain into itself,
and sent its own throb of pain through a thousand other hearts, in
gushes of sad, persuasive eloquence. Oftenest persuasive, but
sometimes terrible! The people knew not the power that moved them
thus. They deemed the young clergyman a miracle of holiness. They
fancied him the mouthpiece of Heaven's messages of wisdom, and rebuke,
and love. In their eyes, the very ground on which he trod was
sanctified. The virgins of his church grew pale around him, victims of
a passion so imbued with religious sentiment that they imagined it to
be all religion, and brought it openly, in their white bosoms, as
their most acceptable sacrifice before the altar. The aged members of
his flock, beholding Mr. Dimmesdale's frame so feeble, while they were
themselves so rugged in their infirmity, believed that he would go
heavenward before them, and enjoined it upon their children, that
their old bones should be buried close to their young pastor's holy
grave. And, all this time, perchance, when poor Mr. Dimmesdale was
thinking of his grave, he questioned with himself whether the grass
would ever grow on it, because an accursed thing must there be buried!

It is inconceivable, the agony with which this public veneration
tortured him! It was his genuine impulse to adore the truth, and to
reckon all things shadow-like, and utterly devoid of weight or value,
that had not its divine essence as the life within their life. Then,
what was he? --a substance? --or the dimmest of all shadows? He longed
to speak out, from his own pulpit, at the full height of his voice,
and tell the people what he was. "I, whom you behold in these black
garments of the priesthood,--I, who ascend the sacred desk, and turn
my pale face heavenward, taking upon myself to hold communion, in your
behalf, with the Most High Omniscience,--I, in whose daily life you
discern the sanctity of Enoch,--I, whose footsteps, as you suppose,
leave a gleam along my earthly track, whereby the pilgrims that shall
come after me may be guided to the regions of the blest,--I, who have
laid the hand of baptism upon your children,--I, who have breathed the
parting prayer over your dying friends, to whom the Amen sounded
faintly from a world which they had quitted,--I, your pastor, whom you
so reverence and trust, am utterly a pollution and a lie! "

More than once, Mr. Dimmesdale had gone into the pulpit, with a
purpose never to come down its steps, until he should have spoken
words like the above. More than once, he had cleared his throat, and
drawn in the long, deep, and tremulous breath, which, when sent forth
again, would come burdened with the black secret of his soul. More
than once--nay, more than a hundred times--he had actually spoken!
Spoken! But how? He had told his hearers that he was altogether vile,
a viler companion of the vilest, the worst of sinners, an abomination,
a thing of unimaginable iniquity; and that the only wonder was, that
they did not see his wretched body shrivelled up before their eyes, by
the burning wrath of the Almighty! Could there be plainer speech than
this? Would not the people start up in their seats, by a simultaneous
impulse, and tear him down out of the pulpit which he defiled? Not so,
indeed! They heard it all, and did but reverence him the more. They
little guessed what deadly purport lurked in those self-condemning
words. "The godly youth! " said they among themselves. "The saint on
earth! Alas, if he discern such sinfulness in his own white soul, what
horrid spectacle would he behold in thine or mine! " The minister well
knew--subtle, but remorseful hypocrite that he was! --the light in
which his vague confession would be viewed. He had striven to put a
cheat upon himself by making the avowal of a guilty conscience, but
had gained only one other sin, and a self-acknowledged shame, without
the momentary relief of being self-deceived. He had spoken the very
truth, and transformed it into the veriest falsehood. And yet, by the
constitution of his nature, he loved the truth, and loathed the lie,
as few men ever did. Therefore, above all things else, he loathed his
miserable self!

His inward trouble drove him to practices more in accordance with the
old, corrupted faith of Rome, than with the better light of the church
in which he had been born and bred. In Mr. Dimmesdale's secret closet,
under lock and key, there was a bloody scourge. Oftentimes, this
Protestant and Puritan divine had plied it on his own shoulders;
laughing bitterly at himself the while, and smiting so much the more
pitilessly because of that bitter laugh. It was his custom, too, as it
has been that of many other pious Puritans, to fast,--not, however,
like them, in order to purify the body and render it the fitter medium
of celestial illumination, but rigorously, and until his knees
trembled beneath him, as an act of penance. He kept vigils, likewise,
night after night, sometimes in utter darkness; sometimes with a
glimmering lamp; and sometimes, viewing his own face in a
looking-glass, by the most powerful light which he could throw upon
it. He thus typified the constant introspection wherewith he tortured,
but could not purify, himself. In these lengthened vigils, his brain
often reeled, and visions seemed to flit before him; perhaps seen
doubtfully, and by a faint light of their own, in the remote dimness
of the chamber, or more vividly, and close beside him, within the
looking-glass. Now it was a herd of diabolic shapes, that grinned and
mocked at the pale minister, and beckoned him away with them; now a
group of shining angels, who flew upward heavily, as sorrow-laden, but
grew more ethereal as they rose. Now came the dead friends of his
youth, and his white-bearded father, with a saint-like frown, and his
mother, turning her face away as she passed by. Ghost of a
mother,--thinnest fantasy of a mother,--methinks she might yet have
thrown a pitying glance towards her son! And now, through the chamber
which these spectral thoughts had made so ghastly, glided Hester
Prynne, leading along little Pearl, in her scarlet garb, and pointing
her forefinger, first at the scarlet letter on her bosom, and then at
the clergyman's own breast.

None of these visions ever quite deluded him. At any moment, by an
effort of his will, he could discern substances through their misty
lack of substance, and convince himself that they were not solid in
their nature, like yonder table of carved oak, or that big, square,
leathern-bound and brazen-clasped volume of divinity. But, for all
that, they were, in one sense, the truest and most substantial things
which the poor minister now dealt with. It is the unspeakable misery
of a life so false as his, that it steals the pith and substance out
of whatever realities there are around us, and which were meant by
Heaven to be the spirit's joy and nutriment. To the untrue man, the
whole universe is false,--it is impalpable,--it shrinks to nothing
within his grasp. And he himself, in so far as he shows himself in a
false light, becomes a shadow, or, indeed, ceases to exist. The only
truth that continued to give Mr. Dimmesdale a real existence on this
earth, was the anguish in his inmost soul, and the undissembled
expression of it in his aspect. Had he once found power to smile, and
wear a face of gayety, there would have been no such man!

On one of those ugly nights, which we have faintly hinted at, but
forborne to picture forth, the minister started from his chair. A new
thought had struck him. There might be a moment's peace in it.
Attiring himself with as much care as if it had been for public
worship, and precisely in the same manner, he stole softly down the
staircase, undid the door, and issued forth.

[Illustration]




[Illustration]

XII.

THE MINISTER'S VIGIL.


Walking in the shadow of a dream, as it were, and perhaps actually
under the influence of a species of somnambulism, Mr. Dimmesdale
reached the spot where, now so long since, Hester Prynne had lived
through her first hours of public ignominy. The same platform or
scaffold, black and weather-stained with the storm or sunshine of
seven long years, and foot-worn, too, with the tread of many culprits
who had since ascended it, remained standing beneath the balcony of
the meeting-house. The minister went up the steps.

It was an obscure night of early May. An unvaried pall of cloud
muffled the whole expanse of sky from zenith to horizon. If the same
multitude which had stood as eye-witnesses while Hester Prynne
sustained her punishment could now have been summoned forth, they
would have discerned no face above the platform, nor hardly the
outline of a human shape, in the dark gray of the midnight. But the
town was all asleep. There was no peril of discovery. The minister
might stand there, if it so pleased him, until morning should redden
in the east, without other risk than that the dank and chill night-air
would creep into his frame, and stiffen his joints with rheumatism,
and clog his throat with catarrh and cough; thereby defrauding the
expectant audience of to-morrow's prayer and sermon. No eye could see
him, save that ever-wakeful one which had seen him in his closet,
wielding the bloody scourge. Why, then, had he come hither? Was it but
the mockery of penitence? A mockery, indeed, but in which his soul
trifled with itself! A mockery at which angels blushed and wept, while
fiends rejoiced, with jeering laughter! He had been driven hither by
the impulse of that Remorse which dogged him everywhere, and whose own
sister and closely linked companion was that Cowardice which
invariably drew him back, with her tremulous gripe, just when the
other impulse had hurried him to the verge of a disclosure. Poor,
miserable man! what right had infirmity like his to burden itself with
crime? Crime is for the iron-nerved, who have their choice either to
endure it, or, if it press too hard, to exert their fierce and savage
strength for a good purpose, and fling it off at once! This feeble and
most sensitive of spirits could do neither, yet continually did one
thing or another, which intertwined, in the same inextricable knot,
the agony of heaven-defying guilt and vain repentance.

And thus, while standing on the scaffold, in this vain show of
expiation, Mr. Dimmesdale was overcome with a great horror of mind, as
if the universe were gazing at a scarlet token on his naked breast,
right over his heart. On that spot, in very truth, there was, and
there had long been, the gnawing and poisonous tooth of bodily pain.
Without any effort of his will, or power to restrain himself, he
shrieked aloud; an outcry that went pealing through the night, and
was beaten back from one house to another, and reverberated from the
hills in the background; as if a company of devils, detecting so much
misery and terror in it, had made a plaything of the sound, and were
bandying it to and fro.

"It is done! " muttered the minister, covering his face with his hands.
"The whole town will awake, and hurry forth, and find me here! "

But it was not so. The shriek had perhaps sounded with a far greater
power, to his own startled ears, than it actually possessed. The town
did not awake; or, if it did, the drowsy slumberers mistook the cry
either for something frightful in a dream, or for the noise of
witches; whose voices, at that period, were often heard to pass over
the settlements or lonely cottages, as they rode with Satan through
the air. The clergyman, therefore, hearing no symptoms of disturbance,
uncovered his eyes and looked about him. At one of the chamber-windows
of Governor Bellingham's mansion, which stood at some distance, on the
line of another street, he beheld the appearance of the old magistrate
himself, with a lamp in his hand, a white night-cap on his head, and a
long white gown enveloping his figure. He looked like a ghost, evoked
unseasonably from the grave. The cry had evidently startled him. At
another window of the same house, moreover, appeared old Mistress
Hibbins, the Governor's sister, also with a lamp, which, even thus far
off, revealed the expression of her sour and discontented face. She
thrust forth her head from the lattice, and looked anxiously upward.
Beyond the shadow of a doubt, this venerable witch-lady had heard Mr.
Dimmesdale's outcry, and interpreted it, with its multitudinous echoes
and reverberations, as the clamor of the fiends and night-hags, with
whom she was well known to make excursions into the forest.

Detecting the gleam of Governor Bellingham's lamp, the old lady
quickly extinguished her own, and vanished. Possibly, she went up
among the clouds. The minister saw nothing further of her motions.