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After many days, when time sufficed for the people to arrange their
thoughts in reference to the foregoing scene, there was more than one account of
what had been witnessed on the scaffold.
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After several days, when enough time had passed for people to
gather their thoughts, there was more than one account of what they had seen on
the platform.
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Most of the spectators testified to having seen, on the breast of the unhappy
minister, a scarlet letter—the very semblance of that worn by Hester
Prynne—imprinted in the flesh. As regarded its origin, there were various
explanations, all of which must necessarily have been conjectural. Some affirmed
that the Reverend Mr. Dimmesdale, on the very day when Hester Prynne first wore
her ignominious badge, had begun a course of penance,—which he afterwards, in so
many futile methods, followed out,—by inflicting hideous torture on himself.
Others contended that the stigma had not been produced until a long time
subsequent, when old Roger Chillingworth, being a potent necromancer, had caused
it to appear, through the agency of magic and poisonous drugs. Others, again—and
those best able to appreciate the minister’s peculiar sensibility, and the
wonderful operation of his spirit upon the body,—whispered their belief, that
the awful symbol was the effect of the ever active tooth of remorse, gnawing
from the inmost heart outwardly, and at last manifesting Heaven’s dreadful
judgment by the visible presence of the letter. The reader may choose among
these theories. We have thrown all the light we could acquire upon the portent,
and would gladly, now that it has done its office, erase its deep print out of
our own brain; where long meditation has fixed it in very undesirable
distinctness.
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Most of the crowd claimed to have seen a scarlet letter on the breast of the
sorrowful minister—looking exactly the same as the one worn by Hester
Prynne—imprinted in his flesh. There were many explanations for it, none better
than a guess. Some said that the Reverend Mr. Dimmesdale, on the very day when
Hester Prynne first wore her badge of shame, had begun a regimen of penance by
inflicting a series of hideous tortures upon himself. Others said that the mark
appeared much later, when old Roger Chillingworth—a powerful sorcerer—produced
it with his magic drugs. Others, who could best appreciate the minister’s
peculiar sensitivity and the way his spirit worked on his body, whispered that
the awful symbol was the effect of his constant remorse. They said the remorse
had gnawed outward from his heart until finally the letter rendered Heaven’s
dreadful judgment visible upon his breast. You are free to choose among these
stories. I have learned all that I could about the symbol. Now that it has had
its effect, I would be glad to erase its deep mark from my own brain. I have
thought about the sign for so long that it is now uncomfortably distinct in my
mind.
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It is singular, nevertheless, that certain persons, who were spectators of the
whole scene, and professed never once to have removed their eyes from the
Reverend Mr. Dimmesdale, denied that there was any mark whatever on his breast,
more than on a new-born infant’s. Neither, by their report, had his dying words
acknowledged, nor even remotely implied, any, the slightest connection, on his
part, with the guilt for which Hester Prynne had so long worn the scarlet
letter. According to these highly respectable witnesses, the minister, conscious
that he was dying,—conscious, also, that the reverence of the multitude placed
him already among saints and angels,—had desired, by yielding up his breath in
the arms of that fallen woman, to express to the world how utterly nugatory is
the choicest of man’s own righteousness. After exhausting life in his efforts
for mankind’s spiritual good, he had made the manner of his death a parable, in
order to impress on his admirers the mighty and mournful lesson, that, in the
view of Infinite Purity, we are sinners all alike. It was to teach them, that
the holiest among us has but attained so far above his fellows as to discern
more clearly the Mercy which looks down, and repudiate more utterly the phantom
of human merit, which would look aspiringly upward. Without disputing a truth so
momentous, we must be allowed to consider this version of Mr. Dimmesdale’s story
as only an instance of that stubborn fidelity with which a man’s friends—and
especially a clergyman’s—will sometimes uphold his character; when proofs, clear
as the mid-day sunshine on the scarlet letter, establish him a false and
sin-stained creature of the dust.
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Still, it is curious that several people who witnessed the whole scene, and
claimed to have never taken their eyes off the Reverend Mr. Dimmesdale, denied
that there was a mark at all on his breast. They said he was as bare as a
newborn. They also said his dying words never acknowledged, nor even implied,
any connection with the guilty act for which Hester Prynne had worn the scarlet
letter all this time. These highly respectable witnesses said that the minister,
knowing that he was dying and that the people thought him the equal of saints
and angels, had breathed his last in the arms of that sinful woman as a way of
expressing the futility of human righteousness. After spending his life working
for mankind’s spiritual good, he had made his death into a parable. He wished to
impress upon his admirers the strong, sorrowful message that, in the view of the
pure God, we are all equally sinners. He tried to teach them that even the
holiest among us has only learned enough to understand more clearly the scope of
divine mercy and to completely abandon the illusion of human goodness in the
eyes of God. While I don’t want to dispute the truth of such a powerful lesson,
more than anything that version of Mr. Dimmesdale’s story provides evidence of
the stubborn lengths to which a man’s friends—and especially a clergyman’s
friends—will sometimes go to defend his character against even the clearest
proofs that he is a deceitful, sinful man.
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The authority which we have chiefly followed—a manuscript of old date, drawn
up from the verbal testimony of individuals, some of whom had known Hester
Prynne, while others had heard the tale from contemporary witnesses—fully
confirms the view taken in the foregoing pages. Among many morals which press
upon us from the poor minister’s miserable experience, we put only this into a
sentence:—“Be true! Be true! Be true! Show freely to the world, if not your
worst, yet some trait whereby the worst may be inferred!”
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In telling this story, I have mostly relied on an old manuscript drawn from
the testimony of individuals. Some of these people had known Hester Prynne,
while others had heard the story from contemporary witnesses. The document fully
confirms the view that I have taken in these pages. Among many morals that I
could draw from the tale, I choose this: “Be true! Be true! If you will not show
the world your worst, at least show some quality that suggests to others the
worst in you!”
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Nothing was more remarkable than the change which took place, almost
immediately after Mr. Dimmesdale’s death, in the appearance and demeanour of the
old man known as Roger Chillingworth. All his strength and energy—all his vital
and intellectual force—seemed at once to desert him; insomuch that he positively
withered up, shrivelled away, and almost vanished from mortal sight, like an
uprooted weed that lies wilting in the sun. This unhappy man had made the very
principle of his life to consist in the pursuit and systematic exercise of
revenge; and when, by its completest triumph and consummation, that evil
principle was left with no further material to support it,—when, in short, there
was no more Devil’s work on earth for him to do, it only remained for the
unhumanized mortal to betake himself whither his Master would find him tasks
enough, and pay him his wages duly. But, to all these shadowy beings, so long
our near acquaintances,—as well Roger Chillingworth as his companions—we would
fain be merciful. It is a curious subject of observation and inquiry, whether
hatred and love be not the same thing at bottom. Each, in its utmost
development, supposes a high degree of intimacy and heart-knowledge; each
renders one individual dependent for the food of his affections and spiritual
life upon another; each leaves the passionate lover, or the no less passionate
hater, forlorn and desolate by the withdrawal of his object. Philosophically
considered, therefore, the two passions seem essentially the same, except that
one happens to be seen in a celestial radiance, and the other in a dusky and
lurid glow. In the spiritual world, the old physician and the minister—mutual
victims as they have been—may, unawares, have found their earthly stock of
hatred and antipathy transmuted into golden love.
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After Mr. Dimmesdale’s death, a remarkable change took place in the appearance
and personality of the old man known as Roger Chillingworth. All his strength
and energy, all his physical and intellectual force, seemed to leave him at
once. He withered up, shriveled away, and almost vanished from human sight, like
an uprooted weed that wilts in the sun. This sad man had made the pursuit of
revenge the one mission in his life. When that evil aim had achieved its
ultimate end—when there was no more Devil’s work left for him on earth—there was
nothing for that inhuman man to do but return to his master. But I would like
show some mercy to Roger Chillingworth, as I would to all of these characters
that I have known for so long now. The question of whether hatred and love are
not, in the end, the same is worth investigation. Each requires a great deal of
intimacy to reach full development. Each requires that one person depend on
another for their emotional and spiritual life. Each leaves the passionate
lover—or the passionate hater—abandoned and depressed when his subject departs.
And so, considered philosophically, the two passions seem essentially the same.
One is thought of with a heavenly glow, while the other seems dark and
disturbing. But they are remarkably similar. Perhaps, in the afterlife, the old
doctor and the minister—each the victim of the other—found their earthly hatred
transformed into golden love.
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