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In her late singular interview with Mr. Dimmesdale, Hester Prynne
was shocked at the condition to which she found the clergyman reduced. His nerve
seemed absolutely destroyed. His moral force was abased into more than childish
weakness. It grovelled helpless on the ground, even while his intellectual
faculties retained their pristine strength, or had perhaps acquired a morbid
energy, which disease only could have given them. With her knowledge of a train
of circumstances hidden from all others, she could readily infer, that, besides
the legitimate action of his own conscience, a terrible machinery had been
brought to bear, and was still operating, on Mr. Dimmesdale’s well-being and
repose. Knowing what this poor, fallen man had once been, her whole soul was
moved by the shuddering terror with which he had appealed to her,—the outcast
woman,—for support against his instinctively discovered enemy. She decided,
moreover, that he had a right to her utmost aid. Little accustomed, in her long
seclusion from society, to measure her ideas of right and wrong by any standard
external to herself, Hester saw—or seemed to see—that there lay a responsibility
upon her, in reference to the clergyman, which she owed to no other, nor to the
whole world besides. The links that united her to the rest of human kind—links
of flowers, or silk, or gold, or whatever the material—had all been broken. Here
was the iron link of mutual crime, which neither he nor she could break. Like
all other ties, it brought with it its obligations.
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Hester Prynne was shocked by how different the clergyman had seemed
in her recent encounter with him. He had lost his nerve almost completely. His
moral strength had been reduced to that of a child, begging and crawling around
on the ground. At the same time, his mind was as strong as ever, perhaps even
energized by the sickness of his soul. Hester, with the knowledge of certain
secret circumstances, could easily guess what had happened to him. In addition
to the deserved pain his own conscience caused him, a terrible machine had been
set to work on Mr. Dimmesdale. That machine was destroying his well-being and
good health. Knowing what this poor, diminished man had once been, Hester’s soul
was moved by the desperate way he had begged her—her, the outcast!—for aid
against the enemy he had instinctually discovered. She decided he had a right to
her help. In her long isolation, Hester had come to measure right and wrong by
her own standards, rather than those of the world. She saw that she had a
responsibility to the minister that she did not have to anyone else. The links
that bound her to the rest of humankind had been broken—whether they be links of
flowers, silk, gold, or some other material. But her link to the minister was
the iron link of a shared crime, and neither he nor she could break it. And like
all other ties, it came with obligations.
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Hester Prynne did not now occupy precisely the same position in which we
beheld her during the earlier periods of her ignominy. Years had come, and gone.
Pearl was now seven years old. Her mother, with the scarlet letter on her
breast, glittering in its fantastic embroidery, had long been a familiar object
to the townspeople. As is apt to be the case when a person stands out in any
prominence before the community, and, at the same time, interferes neither with
public nor individual interests and convenience, a species of general regard had
ultimately grown up in reference to Hester Prynne. It is to the credit of human
nature, that, except where its selfishness is brought into play, it loves more
readily than it hates. Hatred, by a gradual and quiet process, will even be
transformed to love, unless the change be impeded by a continually new
irritation of the original feeling of hostility. In this matter of Hester
Prynne, there was neither irritation nor irksomeness. She never battled with the
public, but submitted uncomplainingly to its worst usage; she made no claim upon
it, in requital for what she suffered; she did not weigh upon its sympathies.
Then, also, the blameless purity of her life, during all these years in which
she had been set apart to infamy, was reckoned largely in her favor. With
nothing now to lose, in the sight of mankind, and with no hope, and seemingly no
wish, of gaining any thing, it could only be a genuine regard for virtue that
had brought back the poor wanderer to its paths.
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Hester Prynne was not in quite the same position as she had been in the
earlier years of her shame. Years had passed. Pearl was now seven years old.
Hester, with the scarlet letter glittering on her breast, had long been a
familiar sight. The townspeople now thought of her with the sort of respect
afforded prominent people who do not interfere with either public or private
affairs. It is a credit to human nature that it is quicker to love than hate,
unless its selfishness is provoked. Even hatred itself will gradually give way
to love, unless that original hatred is continually irritated. But Hester Prynne
didn’t irritate or irk anyone. She never fought against public opinion. Instead,
she submitted without complaint to the worst it could offer. She did not claim
that the public owed her any compensation for her suffering. She never begged
for sympathy. And she was widely admired for the sinless purity of her life
during the many years of her public shame. With nothing to lose in the eyes of
the public—and nothing, it seemed, to gain either—it must have been a genuine
desire for virtue that had altered her life’s path.
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It was perceived, too, that, while Hester never put forward even the humblest
title to share in the world’s privileges,—farther than to breathe the common
air, and earn daily bread for little Pearl and herself by the faithful labor of
her hands,—she was quick to acknowledge her sisterhood with the race of man,
whenever benefits were to be conferred. None so ready as she to give of her
little substance to every demand of poverty; even though the bitter-hearted
pauper threw back a gibe in requital of the food brought regularly to his door,
or the garments wrought for him by the fingers that could have embroidered a
monarch’s robe. None so self-devoted as Hester, when pestilence stalked through
the town. In all seasons of calamity, indeed, whether general or of individuals,
the outcast of society at once found her place. She came, not as a guest, but as
a rightful inmate, into the household that was darkened by trouble; as if its
gloomy twilight were a medium in which she was entitled to hold intercourse with
her fellow-creatures. There glimmered the embroidered letter, with comfort in
its unearthly ray. Elsewhere the token of sin, it was the taper of the
sick-chamber. It had even thrown its gleam, in the sufferer’s hard extremity,
across the verge of time. It had shown him where to set his foot, while the
light of earth was fast becoming dim, and ere the light of futurity could reach
him. In such emergencies, Hester’s nature showed itself warm and rich; a
well-spring of human tenderness, unfailing to every real demand, and
inexhaustible by the largest. Her breast, with its badge of shame, was but the
softer pillow for the head that needed one. She was self-ordained a Sister of
Mercy; or, we may rather say, the world’s heavy hand had so ordained her, when
neither the world nor she looked forward to this result. The letter was the
symbol of her calling. Such helpfulness was found in her,—so much power to do,
and power to sympathize,—that many people refused to interpret the scarlet A by
its original signification. They said that it meant Able; so strong was Hester
Prynne, with a woman’s strength.
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It was noted, too, that Hester never claimed even the smallest share of
worldly privileges. She worked for her freedom and the daily earnings for little
Pearl and herself, and that was all she asked for. And she readily acknowledged
her kinship with all of human kind when it came to public service. No one was as
willing as she to give what little she had to the poor, even though the needy
would often mock the woman who brought food to their door or made them plain
clothes with hands skilled enough to stitch for kings. When disease swept
through the town, no one was more devoted to the sick than Hester. Indeed,
whenever disaster struck, whether it was widespread or fell on one individual,
the outcast found her rightful place. It was as though times of sadness and
turmoil provided the only means for Hester to commune with the rest of society.
In that gloomy twilight, the unearthly glow of the embroidered letter was a
comfort. It may be the token of sin in most places, but it shined like a candle
in the homes of the sick. There, Hester was able to show her rich and warm
nature. She was a wellspring of human tenderness, never failing to meet every
real demand no matter how large. Her badge of shame only made her bosom softer
for the head that needed rest. She had ordained herself a Sister of Mercy. Or
perhaps I should say that the world’s heavy hand had ordained her, when neither
she nor the world expected it. The scarlet letter became the symbol of her
calling. She was so helpful, with so much power to aid and to sympathize, that
many refused to recognize the A for its original meaning. They
said that it stood for “able,” so strong a woman was Hester Prynne.
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