La letra escarlata 📖🔥: El símbolo de la culpa y el arrepentimientovideo

📚 ¡Bienvenidos a un nuevo capítulo de *Ahora de Cuentos*! En este video, les traemos uno de los clásicos más emblemáticos de la literatura estadounidense: *La letra escarlata* de Nathaniel Hawthorne. 🌟

🌹 *La letra escarlata* es una obra que explora los oscuros rincones del alma humana, donde el pecado, la vergüenza y la redención se entrelazan a través de la historia de Hester Prynne. 🧐 Una mujer marcada por un pasado lleno de transgresiones, que lleva una vida de castigo en la sociedad puritana del siglo XVII.

🖋️ En esta obra, Hawthorne nos presenta temas profundos como la hipocresía, la moralidad y la lucha interna entre el pecado y la penitencia. Con una narrativa conmovedora y personajes complejos, *La letra escarlata* es una reflexión sobre el juicio social y el poder de la verdad.

👉 Si te apasiona la literatura clásica y los relatos de tensión moral, este libro es para ti. No olvides darle like 👍, suscribirte y activar la campanita 🔔 para más contenido literario.

💬 ¡Déjanos tus comentarios abajo sobre lo que más te impactó de la obra! ¿Qué piensas sobre el destino de Hester Prynne?

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The Scarlet Letter, written by Nathaniel Hawthorne, transports us to the puritan society of New England in the 17th century, where the young Hester Prynne is publicly punished for having committed a sin that defies the strict moral standards of her community. Throughout this play, we explore the themes of regret, honor , and guilt, as Hester struggles with the stigma of her action and the influence her sin has on her life and the lives of those around her. Chapter 1. THE PRISON DOOR. A crowd of bearded men, dressed in dark suits and hats with high, almost pointed, gray crowns, mixed with women, some with hoods and others with bare heads, were gathered in front of a wooden building whose heavy oak door was studded with iron spikes. The founders of a new colony, whatever the utopian dreams of virtue and happiness may have presided over their project, have always considered, among the most necessary things, to dedicate part of the virgin land to a cemetery, and another part to the erection of a prison. According to this principle, it can be assumed that the founders of Boston built the first jail in the vicinity of Cornhill, just as they laid out the first cemetery in the place that later became the nucleus of all the sepulchres crowded in the old holy ground of the King’s Chapel. It is true that fifteen or twenty years after the town was founded, the prison, which was made of wood, already showed all the external signs of having spent some winters there, which gave it a more gloomy appearance than it had in itself. The rust that covered the heavy ironwork of its door gave it an appearance of greater antiquity than anything else in the New World. Like everything that is related in one way or another to crime, it seemed to have never enjoyed youth. In front of this ugly building, and between it and the lanes or ruts of the street, there was a kind of meadow in which burdock and other weeds of the kind grew in abundance, which evidently found suitable ground in a place that had already produced the black flower common to a civilized society, the prison. But on one side of the door, almost on the threshold, was a wild rose bush that in this month of June was covered with delicate flowers that could be said to offer their fragrance and fragile beauty to the inmates who entered the prison, and to the condemned criminals who came out to suffer their punishment, as if nature took pity on them. The existence of this rose bush, by a strange coincidence, has been preserved in history; but we will not try to find out if it was simply a shrub that remained from the ancient primitive forest after the gigantic pines and oaks that provided it shade disappeared, or if, as tradition has it, it sprouted under the footsteps of Saint Anne Hutchinson13 when she entered prison. Whatever it may be, since we find it at the threshold of our narrative, so to speak, we cannot help but pluck one of its flowers and offer it to the reader, hoping that it symbolizes some peaceful moral lesson, whether it emerges from these pages, or whether it serves to mitigate the gloomy outcome of a story of human fragility and pain. Chapter 2. THE MARKET SQUARE. The meadow in front of the jail, of which we have made mention, was occupied about two hundred years ago, on a summer morning, by a large number of inhabitants of Boston, all with their eyes directed toward the iron-tipped oak door. In any other town in New England, or at a later period in its history, nothing good would have augured by the gloomy appearance of those bearded faces; It would have been said that it announced the upcoming execution of some notable criminal, against whom a court of justice had issued a sentence, which was nothing more than the confirmation of that expressed by public sentiment. But given the natural severity of the Puritan character in those times, such a deduction, basing it only on the appearance of the people gathered there: perhaps some lazy slave, or some disobedient son handed over by his parents to the civil authority, received a punishment in the pillory. It could also be that a Quaker or other individual belonging to a heterodox sect was going to be expelled from the city at the point of the whip; or perhaps some idle and vagabond Indian, who was rioting in the streets in a state of complete intoxication, thanks to the white people’s liquor, was going to be thrown into the forests with canes; or perhaps some sorceress, like old Mrs. Hibbins, the magistrate’s acerbic widow, was going to die on the scaffold. Be that as it may, there was in the spectators that air of gravity which perfectly befitted a people for whom religion and law were almost identical things, and in whose character both sentiments were found so completely amalgamated, that any act of public justice, however benign or severe, equally assumed an aspect of respectful solemnity. There was little or no compassion that a criminal on the scaffold could expect from such spectators. But on the other hand, a punishment that in our times would bring a certain degree of infamy and even ridicule to the guilty, was then clothed with a dignity as somber as capital punishment itself. It is worth noting that on the summer morning on which our story begins, the women who were mixed in the crowd seemed to have a special interest in witnessing the punishment whose imposition was expected. At that time customs had not acquired that degree of polish in which the idea of ​​social considerations could deter the female sex from invading public roads, and if the opportunity presented itself, from making way for their robust humanity through the crowd, to be as close as possible to the scaffold, when it was an execution. In those matrons and young maidens of ancient English stock and education there was, both morally and physically, something coarser and ruder than in their beautiful descendants, from whom they are separated by six or seven generations; because it can be said that each mother, since then, has successively transmitted to her offspring a less fiery color, a more delicate and less lasting beauty, a weaker physical constitution, and perhaps even a character of less strength and solidity. The women who were standing near the prison door on that beautiful summer morning showed plump, rosy cheeks, robust and well-developed bodies with broad shoulders; while the language used by the midwives had a forcefulness and ease that in our times would fill us with surprise, both because of the vigor of the expressions and the volume of the voice. “Honored wives,” said a fifty-year-old lady with hard features, “I’m going to tell you what I think.” It would be in the public interest if we, women of mature age, of good standing, and members of a church, would take it upon ourselves to deal with evildoers like this Ester Prynne. What do you think, friends? If this good piece had to be judged by us, the five of us here, would it come out as well as it does now with a sentence like the one handed down by the venerable magistrates? Not by the way! –Good people, said another, it is rumored that the Reverend Mr. Dimmesdale, your pious spiritual pastor, is deeply grieved that such a scandal has occurred in his congregation. “The magistrates are gentlemen full of fear of God, but extremely merciful, this is the truth,” added a third matron, already entering the maturity of her autumn. “At the very least they should have marked Esther Prynne’s forehead with an ember-shaped iron.” I assure you that Madam Ester would have known then what was good. But what does that bitch care about what they put on the back of her dress? She will cover it with her brooch, or with some other of those pagan decorations in vogue, and we will see her walking through the streets as fresh as if nothing had happened. “Ah!” said a young, married woman, who seemed naturally softer and she had a child by the hand,–let her cover that mark as she pleases; You will always feel it in your heart. “What are we talking about here about infamous marks or seals, whether on the bodice of the suit, on the back or on the forehead?” cried another, the ugliest as well as the most implacable of those who had constituted themselves as judges for themselves and before each other. “This woman has dishonored us all, and must die.” Isn’t there a law for this? Yes, by the way: there is it both in the Holy Scriptures and in the Statutes of the city. The magistrates who have not heeded her will have to blame themselves if their wives or daughters stray from the good path. –Heaven have mercy on us! good mistress,” exclaimed a man, “is there not perhaps more virtue in a woman than that due to the fear of the gallows?” Nothing worse could be said. Silence now, neighbors, because they are going to open the prison door and Madam Ester comes in person. The prison door indeed opened, and first appeared, like a black shadow emerging into the light of day, the grim and terrible figure of the sheriff of the town, with the sword at his belt and in his hand the staff, the symbol of his employment. The appearance of this character represented all the somber severity of the Puritan code of laws, which he was called upon to enforce to the last extremity. Extending the staff of his trade with his left hand, he placed his right hand on the shoulder of a young woman whom he pushed forward, until, at the threshold of the prison, she repelled him with a movement that indicated natural dignity and strength of character, and went out into the open air as if of her own free will. She was carrying in her arms a tender infant of about three months old, who closed his eyes and turned his little face to the side, avoiding the too much light of the day, a very natural thing since his existence until then had been spent in the darkness of a dungeon, or in another gloomy room of the prison. When that young woman, mother of the tender creature, found herself in the presence of the crowd, her first impulse was to press the little girl to her breast, not so much out of an act of maternal affection, but rather as if she wanted in this way to hide a certain sign carved or fixed on her dress. However, judging, perhaps wisely, that one proof of shame could not very well hide another, he took the little creature in his arms, and with a face full of blush, but with a haughty smile and eyes that did not allow himself to be humiliated, he looked at the neighbors who were around him. On the bodice of her suit, in a bright red cloth, and surrounded by exquisite embroidery and fantastic gold thread decorations, the letter A stood out. It was made so artistically, and with such luxury of capricious fantasy, that it had the effect of being the final and appropriate decoration of her dress, which had all the splendor compatible with the taste of that time, far exceeding what was permitted by the sumptuary laws of the colony. That woman was tall, perfectly formed and slender. His hair was abundant and almost black, and so lustrous that the sun’s rays reverberated: his face, in addition to being beautiful due to the regularity of its features and the softness of the color, had all the strength of expression communicated by well-marked eyebrows and intensely black eyes. The appearance was that of a lady characterized, as was usual in those times, rather by a certain dignity in her bearing, than by the delicate, evanescent and indescribable grace that is accepted today as an indication of that quality. And Esther never looked more like a true lady, according to the ancient meaning of this word, than when she left prison. Those who had known her before and expected to see her dejected and humiliated were surprised, almost astonished, to contemplate how her beauty shone, as if the misfortune and ignominy in which she was enveloped formed a halo. It is true that a sensitive observer would have perceived something mildly painful in his features. His suit, which was surely made by herself in prison for that day, using her own whim as a model, it seemed to express the state of her spirit, the desperate indifference of her feelings, judging by its extravagant and picturesque appearance. But what attracted all eyes, and what can be said to have transfigured the woman who wore it,–in such a way that those who had familiarly known Esther Prynne experienced the sensation that they were now seeing her for the first time–was THE SCARLET LETTER, so fantastically embroidered and illuminated that it was sewn to the body of her dress. Its effect was that of a magical amulet, which separated that woman from the rest of the human race and set her apart, in a world that was peculiar to her. –It cannot be denied that she has a very skillful needle, observed one of the spectators; but I very much doubt that there is another woman who has devised such a shameless way of making her skill evident. What does this amount to, ladies, if not mocking our pious magistrates, and boasting about what those worthy knights believed would be a punishment? “It would be good,” exclaimed the most bitter-hearted of those old women, “that we stripped Madam Ester of her beautiful dress, and instead of that red letter so exquisitely embroidered, we nailed one made from a piece of this flannel that I use for my rheumatism.” –Oh! Enough, neighbors, stop it,” murmured the youngest of the bystanders, “speak so that I don’t hear you. There is not a single stitch in the embroidery of that letter that you have not felt in your heart! The gloomy bailiff at this moment made a sign with his staff. –Good people, make a place; make a place in the name of the King! he exclaimed. Make way for it, and I promise you that Madam Ester will sit where everyone , man, woman or child, will be able to perfectly contemplate and enjoy the beautiful decoration from now until one in the afternoon. Heaven bless the just Colony of Massachusetts, where iniquity is forced to appear before the light of the sun. Come hither Madam Ester, and display your scarlet letter in the market place. Immediately there was a clear space through the crowd of spectators. Preceded by the bailiff, and accompanied by a retinue of hard-faced men and women with unsympathetic faces, Ester Prynne advanced to the place set for her punishment. A crowd of schoolchildren, attracted by curiosity and who did not understand what it was about, except that it gave them half a day off, ran ahead of her, turning their heads from time to time to fix their gaze either on her, now on the tender little creature, now on the ignominious handwriting that shone on the mother’s bosom. In those days the distance from the prison gate to the market place was not great; However, measuring it by what Esther experienced, it must have seemed very long to her, because despite the haughtiness of her bearing, each step she took in the middle of that hostile crowd was an unspeakable pain for her. It seemed that his heart had been thrown into the street for people to mock and trample on. But there is something in our nature, which participates in the wonderful and the compassionate, that prevents us from knowing the full intensity of what we suffer, thanks to the very effect of the torture of the moment, although we realize it later due to the pain that it leaves behind. Therefore , Esther suffered this part of her punishment with almost calm demeanor, and came to a small platform that stood at the western end of the market square, near the oldest church in Boston, as if it were part of it. In fact, this scaffold constituted a part of the penal machinery of that time, and although for two or three generations it has been simply historical and traditional among us, it was then considered as effective an agent for the preservation of the good morals of citizens, as the guillotine was later considered among the terrorists of revolutionary France. It was, in a word, the platform on which the pillory was: on it stood the framework of that instrument of discipline, constructed in such a way that, holding a person’s head in a hole, it was exposed to public view. In that frame of iron and wood was embodied the true ideal of ignominy; because I do not believe that a greater outrage can be done to human nature, whatever the faults of the individual, than to prevent him from hiding his face out of a feeling of shame, making that impossibility the essence of the punishment. With respect to Esther, however, as happened more or less frequently, the sentence ordered that she stand for a certain time on the platform, without inserting her neck into the ring or stocks that left her head exposed to the public’s gaze. Knowing well what he had to do, he climbed the wooden steps, and remained in sight of the crowd that surrounded the platform or scaffold. The scene did not lack that certain terrifying solemnity that the spectacle of guilt and shame will always produce in one of our fellow men, as long as society has not become sufficiently corrupted to make him laugh instead of shudder. Those who witnessed the disgrace of Hester Prynne were not in that case. They were severe and harsh people, to the point that they would have contemplated his death, if that had been the sentence, without a murmur or the slightest protest; but they could not have found material for jokes and jocularity in an exhibition like this of which we speak: and if there had been any disposition to turn the punishment into a matter of jokes, any attempt of this kind would have been repressed with the solemn presence of persons of such importance and dignity as the Governor and several of his advisors: a judge, a general, and the ministers of justice of the town, all of whom were sitting or standing on a balcony of the church that overlooked the platform. When people of such importance could attend such a spectacle, without risking the majesty or reverence due to their hierarchy and employment, it was easy to infer that the application of a legal sentence must have a meaning as serious as it was effective; and therefore the crowd remained silent and grave. The unfortunate culprit behaved as best as she could for a woman who felt a thousand implacable glances fixed on her, and concentrated on the scarlet letter of her dress . It was an unbearable torment. Esther finding herself endowed with an impetuous nature and letting herself be carried away by her first impulse, had resolved to face public contempt, no matter how poisoned her darts and cruel her insults were; but in the solemn silence of that crowd there was something so terrible that she would have preferred to see those rigid and severe faces broken by the mockery and sarcasm of which she had been the object; and if a general laugh had broken out in the midst of that crowd, in which men, women, and even children took part, Esther would have responded with a bitter and disdainful smile. But overwhelmed under the weight of the punishment she was condemned to suffer, at times she felt as if she had to scream at the top of her lungs and throw herself from the stage to the ground, or else go crazy. There were, however, intervals in which the whole scene, in which she played the most important part, seemed to vanish before her eyes, or at least, shone in an indistinct and vague manner, as if the spectators were a mass of imperfectly sketched or spectral-looking images . Her spirit, and especially her memory, had an almost supernatural activity, and led her to contemplate something very different from what surrounded her at that moment, far from that small city, in another country where she saw other faces very different from those that fixed their implacable gazes on her there. Reminiscences of the most insignificant nature, of his childhood games, of his school days, of his childish quarrels, of the domestic home, crowded into his memory mixed with the memories of what was most serious and serious in the subsequent years, a picture being precisely so vivid and animated like the other, as if they were all of equal importance, or all a simple game. Perhaps this was a resource that his spirit instinctively found to free himself, through the contemplation of these visions of his fantasy, from the overwhelming heaviness of present reality. But whatever it may be, the pillory platform was a kind of viewpoint that revealed to Ester the entire path she had traveled since the times of her happy childhood. Standing on that sad height, he saw again his native village in old England and his paternal home: a semi-ruined house of dark stone, with an appearance that revealed poverty, but which still preserved above the portal, as a sign of ancient nobility, a half-effaced coat of arms. He saw his father’s face, with a broad, bald forehead and a venerable white beard that fell over the ancient walloon of the time of Queen Elizabeth of England. She also saw her mother, with that look of love full of anxiety and care, always present in her memory and that, even after her death, frequently and in the form of a gentle reproach, had been a kind of preventive on her daughter’s path. He saw his own face, in the splendor of its youthful beauty and illuminating the opaque mirror in which he used to look at himself. There he saw another face, that of a man already advanced in years, pale, thin, with the physiognomy of someone who has dedicated himself to study, eyes cloudy and fatigued by the lamp by whose light he read so much powerful volume and meditated on them. However, those same tired eyes had a strange and penetrating power when the possessor wished to read human consciences. That figure was somewhat deformed, with one shoulder slightly higher than the other. Then he saw emerging in the gallery of pictures that his memory was presenting to him, the intricate and narrow streets, the tall and brownish houses, the enormous cathedrals and the public buildings of ancient date and strange architecture of a European city, where a new life awaited him, always interacting with the wise and ill-trained scholar. Finally, instead of these scenes and this kind of variable panorama, he was presented with the rude market square of a Puritan colony with all the people of the population gathered there and directing their stern glances at Hester Prynne,–yes, at herself,–who was on the platform of the pillory, with a tender child in her arms, and the letter A, scarlet in color, fantastically embroidered with gold thread, on her breast. Would that be true? She pressed the little creature against her breast with such force that it made her cry out: she then lowered her eyes and fixed her gaze on the scarlet letter, and even touched it with her fingers to be sure that both the little girl and the shame to which she was exposed were real. Yes: they were realities–everything else had vanished! Chapter 3. RECOGNITION. From this intense sensation and conviction of being the object of everyone’s severe and scrutinizing gaze, the woman with the scarlet letter finally emerged when she perceived, in the last rows of the crowd, a figure that irresistibly took over her thoughts. There stood an Indian dressed in the costume of his tribe; but copper-skinned men were not such rare visitors in the English colonies that the presence of one could attract Hester’s attention in those circumstances, much less distract her from the ideas that preoccupied her spirit. Next to the Indian, and evidently in his company, was a white man, dressed in a strange mixture of semi-civilized and semi-savage clothing. He was small in stature, with a face furrowed by numerous wrinkles and yet could not be called that of an old man. In the features of his physiognomy a remarkable intelligence was revealed, like that of someone who had cultivated his mental faculties in such a way that the physical part could not help but adapt to them and reveal itself by unmistakable features. Although thanks to an apparent disorder of his heterogeneous clothing he had tried to hide or disguise a certain peculiarity of his figure, It was evident to Esther that one of this individual’s shoulders was higher than the other. No sooner had he perceived that thin face and that slight deformity of the figure than he hugged the girl to his chest with such convulsive force that the poor little creature gave another cry of pain. But the mother didn’t seem to hear him. Since he arrived at the market place, and some time before she had seen him, that stranger had fixed his gaze on Esther. At first, in a careless manner, as a man accustomed to directing things mainly within himself, and for whom external things are a matter of little importance, unless they are related to something that preoccupies his spirit. Soon, however, the gazes became fixed and penetrating. A kind of horror can be said to have visibly twisted his physiognomy, like a snake that glided lightly over his features, pausing slightly and verifying all its convolutions in the light of day. His face darkened under the impulse of some powerful emotion that he was able to control instantly, thanks to an effort of his will, and in such a way that, except for a quick instant, the expression of his face would have seemed completely calm. After a brief moment, the convulsion was almost imperceptible, until at last it completely disappeared. When he saw that Esther’s gaze had focused on his, and noticed that she seemed to have recognized him, he slowly and calmly raised his finger, made a sign with it in the air, and brought it to his lips. Then, touching one of the people who were next to him on the shoulder, he spoke to him with the greatest courtesy, saying: “I beg you, good sir, to tell me who this woman is, and why are you exposing her to public shame in such a way?” –You. You have to be a recently arrived foreigner, my friend,” the man replied , directing at the same time a curious look at the one who asked the question and at his wild companion, “otherwise you would have heard about Lady Ester Prynne and her misdeeds. It has been the cause of a great scandal in the church of the holy man Dimmesdale. –Really, replied the other. I am a stranger here; and very much against my will I have been traveling the world, having suffered setbacks of all kinds by sea and land. I have remained in captivity among savages for a long time, and I come now in the company of this Indian to redeem myself. Therefore, would you be kind enough to tell me about the crimes of Ester Prynne, I think that’s her name, and tell me what led her to that stage? –With great pleasure, my friend, and it seems to me that you will be extremely happy , after all that you have suffered among the savages, said the narrator, to finally find yourself in a land where iniquity is persecuted and punished in the presence of the rulers and the people, as is practiced here, in our good New England. You should know, sir, that this woman was the wife of a certain wise man, an Englishman by birth, but who had lived for a long time in Amsterdam, from where years ago he thought of coming to settle his fate among us here in Massachusetts. For this purpose he first sent his wife, remaining in Europe while he settled certain matters. But in the two years or more that the woman has resided in this city of Boston, no news has been received from the learned gentleman Mr. Prynne; and his young wife, having been given over to her own lost direction…. –Ah! ah! I understand, the stranger interrupted with a bitter smile. A man as wise as the one you speak of should have also learned that from his books. And who do you say, my excellent sir, is the father of the little creature, who appears to be three or four months old, and which Mrs. Prynne is holding in her arms? –Actually, my friend, this matter continues to be an enigma, and someone who can decipher it is yet to be found, the interlocutor responded. Madam Ester refuses to speak at all, and the magistrates have racked their brains in vain. It would be nothing strange if the culprit was present contemplating this sad spectacle, unknown to men, but forgetting that God is seeing him. –The wise husband, said the stranger with another smile, should come to decipher this enigma. –It would be good for him to do it, if he is still alive, responded the neighbor. You should know ,
good friend, that the magistrates of our Massachusetts, taking into account that this woman is young and beautiful, and that the temptation that made her fall was undoubtedly too powerful, and considering, furthermore, that her husband lies at the bottom of the sea,–have not had the courage to make her feel all the rigor of our just laws. The punishment for that offense is the death penalty. But moved by pity and full of mercy, they have condemned Madam Ester to remain standing on the pillory platform for only three hours, and then, and throughout the entire time of her natural life, to wear a sign of ignominy on the body of her dress. “A very wise sentence,” observed the foreigner, bowing his head gravely. In this way he will be a kind of living sermon against sin, until the ignominious letter is engraved on the slab of his tomb. It pains me, however, that the companion of his iniquity was not, at least, at his side on that scaffold. But we’ll know who it is! You’ll know who it is! He politely greeted the communicative neighbor, and saying a few words in a low voice to his companion the Indian, they both made their way through the middle of the crowd. While this was happening, Esther had remained on her pedestal, with her gaze fixed on the stranger; So fixed was his gaze that it seemed that all the other objects of the visible world had disappeared, leaving him and her alone. That solitary interview would perhaps have been even more terrible than seeing him, as was happening now, with the hot midday sun burning her face and illuminating her shame; with the scarlet letter, as an emblem of ignominy, on the chest; with the girl, born in sin, in her arms; with the entire town, gathered there as if for a party, fixing their implacable gazes on a face, which should have been seen only in the soft glow of the domestic fire, in the shadow of a happy home, or under the bride’s veil in the church. But no matter how terrible her situation was, she knew, nevertheless, that the very presence of those thousands of witnesses was for her a kind of protection and shelter. It was preferable to be like this, with so many beings mediating between him and her, than not seeing each other face to face and alone. It may be said that he sought refuge in his very exposure to public shame, and that he feared the moment when that protection would fail him. Overwhelmed by such ideas, she barely heard a voice that echoed behind her and that repeated her name several times with such a vigorous and solemn accent that it was heard by the entire crowd. –Listen to me, Esther Prynne! said the voice. As has been said, directly above the platform on which Esther was standing , there was a kind of small balcony or open gallery, which was the place where the sides and orders were proclaimed with all the ceremony and pomp that were used on such occasions in those days. Here, as witnesses of the scene we are describing, was Governor Bellingham, with four maceros next to his chair, armed with halberds, who constituted his guard of honor. A dark-colored feather adorned his hat, his cape had embroidered edges, and under it he wore a green velvet suit. He was an elderly gentleman, with a wrinkled face that revealed a lot of bitter experience in life. He was a fit man to be at the head of a community that owes its origin and progress, and its present development, not to the impulses of youth, but to the severe and temperate energy of manhood and the somber sagacity of old age; having accomplished so much, precisely because he imagined and expected so little. The other eminent people who surrounded the Governor were distinguished by a certain dignity of bearing, typical of a period in which the forms of authority seemed invested with the sacredness of a divine institution. Were undoubtedly good, just and sane men; but it would hardly have been possible to choose, among the entire human family, an equal number of wise and virtuous men, and at the same time less capable of understanding the heart of a lost woman, and separating in it the good from the bad, than those sane people of severe demeanor, to whom Esther now turned her face. It can be said that the unfortunate woman was aware that if there was any compassion towards her, she must have expected it rather from the crowd, because when she looked at the little balcony, everyone trembled and turned pale. The voice that had caught his attention was that of the famous Reverend John Wilson, the senior clergyman of Boston, a great scholar, like most of his contemporaries of the same profession, and yet an affable and natural man. These latter qualities had not had, however, a development equal to that of his intellectual faculties. There he was with the locks of his hair, already quite gray, coming out from under the edges of his hat; while the brownish eyes , accustomed to the veiled light of his study, blinked like those of Esther’s girl before the brilliant clarity of the sun. He resembled one of those sombre portraits that we see engraved in old volumes of sermons; and to tell the truth, with as much aptitude for dealing with the guilt, passions and anguish of the human heart, as one of those portraits would have. –Esther Prynne, said the clergyman, I have been dealing with this young brother whose teachings you have had the privilege of enjoying,–and here Mr. Wilson put his hand on the shoulder of a pale young man who was at his side,–I have endeavored, I repeat, to persuade this pious young man to here, in the face of heaven and before these upright and wise authorities and this people gathered here, to address you and speak to you of the ugliness and blackness of your sin. Knowing better than I the temper of your spirit, I could also, better than I, know what reasons to use to overcome your hardness and obstinacy, so that you no longer hide the name of the one who has tempted you to this painful fall. But with the extreme softness typical of his youth, despite the maturity of his spirit, he replies to me that it would be going against the innate feelings of a woman, to force her to discover the secrets of her heart in the light of day, and in the presence of such a vast crowd. I have tried to convince him that shame lies in committing sin and not in confessing it. What do
you decide, Brother Dimmesdale? Do you want to address the soul of this poor sinner, or should I do it? A murmur was heard among the pompous and reverend occupants of the little balcony; and Governor Bellingham expressed the general desire, speaking with an accent of authority, though with respect, to the young clergyman to whom he addressed. –My good Lord Dimmesdale, he said, the responsibility for the salvation of this woman’s soul rests largely on you. Therefore, it belongs to you to exhort her to repentance and confession. The directness of these words attracted the eyes of the entire crowd to the Reverend Mr. Dimmesdale, a young clergyman who had come from one of the great English universities, bringing all the science of his time to our jungles and uncultivated lands. His eloquence and religious fervor had made him eminent in his profession. He was a person of remarkable appearance, with a white and high forehead, blue eyes, large and melancholic, and a mouth whose lips, unless kept closed almost by force, had a certain tendency to mobility, expressing at the same time a nervous sensitivity, a great self-control. Despite his many natural gifts and vast knowledge, there was something in the appearance of this young minister14 that denoted a scared, timid person, easily alarmed, as if he were a being who felt completely lost on the path of human life and without knowing which direction to take, feeling calm and satisfied only in a secluded place, chosen by himself. Therefore, as far as his obligations allowed, his existence slipped, as if we would say, in the darkness, having preserved all the simplicity and candor of childhood; emerging from that kind of shadow, when the occasion presented itself, with such a freshness, fragrance and purity of thought that, as people affirmed, they had the effect that the word of an angel would produce. Such was the young minister to whom the Reverend Mr. Wilson and the Governor had called the attention of the public, by asking him to speak, in the presence of all, of the mystery of a woman’s soul, so sacred even in the midst of her fall. The difficult and painful position that was thus created for him made the blood rush to his cheeks and made his lips tremulous. –Talk to that woman, brother, Mr. Wilson told him. It is of the greatest importance to her soul, and therefore, as our worthy Governor says, important also to yours, in whose charge that woman’s soul is. Urge her to confess the truth. The Reverend Mr. Dimmesdale bowed his head as if in prayer, and then stepped forward. –Ester Prynne,–he said, leaning on the balcony and fixing his gaze on that woman’s eyes,–you have already heard what this righteous man has said, and you see the responsibility that weighs on me. If you believe that it suits the peace of your soul, and that your earthly punishment will thus be more effective for your salvation, I ask you to reveal the name of your companion in guilt and suffering. Don’t misunderstood pity and compassion towards him make you remain silent ; because, believe me, Esther, even if he had to descend from a high position, and place himself next to you, on that same pedestal of shame, it would still be much better for him if this were to happen, than not to hide a guilty heart throughout his life . What can your silence do for that man but tempt him, yes, compel him to add hypocrisy to sin? Heaven has granted you public ignominy, so that in this way you can achieve a public triumph over whatever evil may be in you. Look what you are doing by denying, to someone who may not have the courage to take it for himself, the bitter but healthy cup that is now presented to your lips. The young minister’s voice, as he pronounced these words, was tremulously sweet, rich, deep, and breathy. The emotion that he so evidently expressed, rather than the meaning of the words, found deep resonance in the hearts of all those present, who felt moved by the same feeling of compassion. Even the poor little creature whom Hester held close to her bosom seemed affected by the same influence, for she looked towards Mr. Dimmesdale and raised her tender little arms with a half-pleasant, half-plaintive murmur. The people found the speech of the young minister so vehement that they all believed that Esther would pronounce the name of the accused, or that he himself, no matter how elevated or humble his position, would appear, moved by an internal and irresistible impulse, and would go up to the stage where the unhappy woman was. Esther shook her head in the negative. –Women! do not abuse the mercy of heaven,” exclaimed the Reverend Mr. Wilson, with an accent harsher than before. “That tender child with her feeble little voice has supported and confirmed the advice which you have heard from the lips of the Reverend Dimmesdale. Say the name! That, and your repentance, may serve to free you from the scarlet letter on your dress. –Never! “Never!” replied Ester, fixing her gaze, not on Mr. Wilson, but on the deep and troubled eyes of the young minister. –It is etched too deeply. You can’t start it. And if only I could suffer the agony that he suffers, as I endure mine! –Speak, woman, said another voice, cold and severe, which came from the crowd surrounding the stage. Speaks; and give your daughter a father. “I will not speak,” replied Esther, turning pale as a death, but responding to that voice that she had certainly recognized. “And my daughter will look for a heavenly father: she will never know an earthly one.” “He doesn’t want to talk!” murmured Mr. Dimmesdale, who, reclining on the little balcony, with her hand over her heart, she had been awaiting the result of her speech.–Wonderful strength and generosity of a woman’s heart! He doesn’t want to talk!… And he leaned back, breathing deeply. Understanding the state of the poor culprit’s spirit, the older minister, who had prepared himself for the case, addressed the crowd in a speech about sin in all its ramifications, frequently alluding to the ignominious letter. With such vigor he spread himself over this symbol, during the hour or more that his peroration lasted, that it filled with terror the imagination of the bystanders to whom it seemed that its scarlet brilliance came from the flames of the infernal abysses. Meanwhile Esther stood on her pedestal of shame, with a vacant look and a general appearance of weary indifference. He had suffered that morning as much as human nature can endure, and as his temperament was not one of those that can be freed from too intense suffering by fainting , his spirit could only find a certain relief under the layer of a marble insensitivity, as long as his bodily strength remained intact. In a similar condition, although the speaker’s voice thundered relentlessly, Esther’s ears perceived nothing. During the last part of the speech the girl filled the air with her screams and moans; The mother tried to silence her, mechanically, apparently without being affected by the little creature’s restlessness. With the same harsh indifference she was led back to her prison and disappeared from public view behind the iron door. Those who were able to follow it with their eyes said, in a very low voice, that the scarlet letter was spreading a sinister glow throughout the dark passage that led to the interior of the prison. Chapter 4. THE INTERVIEW. After her return to prison, Ester’s state of nervous agitation was such that the most assiduous vigilance became necessary to prevent her from attempting anything against her person, or from doing any harm to the poor little creature in a moment of outburst. As night approached , and seeing that it was not possible to reduce her to obedience either by reprimands or threats of punishment, the jailer thought it advisable to send for a doctor, whom he described as a man very expert in all the Christian arts of physical sciences, and who at the same time was familiar with everything that the savages could teach in the matter of medicinal herbs and roots that grow in the forests. In reality, not only Ester, but even more so the tender girl, urgently needed the help of a doctor; The child, who derived her sustenance from the maternal breast, seemed to have drunk all the anguish, despair, and agitation that filled her mother’s soul, and was now writhing in convulsions of pain. It was, on a small scale, a living image of the moral agony that Esther had gone through for so many hours. Closely following the jailer into that gloomy abode, entered the singular-looking individual whose presence in the crowd had made such a deep impression on the bearer of the scarlet letter. He had been lodged in jail, not because he was suspected of any crime, but because it was the most convenient and comfortable way to dispose of him until the magistrates had conferred with the Indian chiefs about the ransom. His name was said to be Roger Chillingworth. The jailer, after introducing him into the room, remained there for a moment, surprised at the comparative calm which his entrance had caused, for Esther had immediately become as calm as death, although the little creature continued to complain. –I beg you, friend, to leave me alone with the sick woman, said the doctor. Believe me, good jailer, there will soon be peace in this dwelling; and I promise you that Mrs. Prynne will henceforth show herself more docile to authority and more tractable than hitherto. –If your Lordship can do that, replied the jailer, I will consider you an undoubtedly skillful man. Truly, this woman has behaved as if it were possessed by the evil enemy; and I almost decided to cast Satan and lashes from his body. The foreigner had entered the room with the calm characteristic of the profession to which he claimed to belong. Nor did he change his appearance when the jailer’s retreat left him face to face with the woman who had recognized him in the middle of the crowd, and whose profound abstraction upon recognizing him indicated a great deal of intimacy between them. His first care was to attend to the tender little creature, whose cries, while he writhed in his bed, made it an absolute necessity to postpone all other matters to the task of calming his pains. He examined it carefully and then proceeded to open a leather bag, which he carried under his suit, and which seemed to contain medicines, one of which he mixed with a little water in a cup. –My ancient studies in alchemy, he said by way of observation, and my residence of more than a year among a people well versed in the properties of herbs, have made me a better doctor than many who have graduated. Hey, woman, the girl is yours, she has nothing of mine, nor will she recognize my voice or my face as those of a father. Therefore administer this potion to him with your own hands. Esther rejected the medicine that was presented to her, at the same time fixing her gaze with visible fear on the man’s face. –Would you try to take revenge on the innocent creature? he said quietly. –Crazy woman! The doctor responded with an accent between cold and soft. What good would it come to me from harming this poor, bastard creature? Medicine is good and beneficial; and if she were my daughter, my own daughter as well as yours, I could not do anything better for her benefit. As Ester was still hesitating, not really being in her right mind at that moment , the doctor took the girl in his arms and himself administered the potion, which soon made its effectiveness felt. The little patient’s moans subsided, her convulsions gradually ceased; and a few moments later, as is the custom of tender children after being free from pain, she was immersed in a deep sleep. The doctor, as he can rightfully be called, then turned his attention to the mother. Calmly and slowly he examined her, took her pulse, looked into her eyes; look that oppressed her heart and made her shudder, because it was so familiar, and yet so strange and cold,–and finally, satisfied with the results of his investigation, he proceeded to prepare another potion. –I do not know where to find the _leteo_ or the _nepentes_, he said, but I have learned many new secrets among the savages; and this recipe that an Indian gave me in exchange for some of my lessons, as old as Paracelsus, is one of those secrets. Drink this. It will, however, be less soothing than a clean and pure conscience; but I can’t give you that. It will calm, despite everything, the agitation of your chest and the waves of your passion, just as oil thrown on the waves of a stormy sea does. He presented the cup to Esther, who received it, staring at him in a slow and serious manner; not exactly with a look of fear, but one full of doubts, as if questioning him about what his intentions could be, and at the same time he also looked at the sleeping little girl. –I have thought about death, he said, I have desired it, I would have even prayed for it, if I could pray for something. However, if death is enclosed in this cup, I ask you to think about it before you see me drink it. Look: I have already brought it to my lips. –Drink, then, replied the doctor with the same air of calm and coldness as before. Do you know me so little, Ester? Could my purposes be so vain? Even if I imagined a means of revenge, what could better serve my purposes than to let you live, and to give you these medicines against everything that could endanger your life, so that that burning ignominy continues to shine in your bosom? As he spoke thus, he touched with his index finger the scarlet letter, which seemed to burn Esther’s chest as if it had indeed been an iron. glowing. The doctor noticed his involuntary gesture, and with a smile said: –Live, yes, live; and carry with you this sign before the eyes of men and women,–before the eyes of him whom you called your husband,–before the eyes of that little girl. And so that you can live, take this medicine. Without saying a word, Ester drained the cup, and obeying a signal from that man of science, she sat down on the bed where the little girl was sleeping, while he, taking the only chair in the room, sat down next to her. She could not help but tremble at these preparations, because she understood that, having already done everything that humanity, or duty, or if you will, a refined cruelty forced him to do to alleviate his physical pain, he was now going to treat her as a man whom he had offended in the most profound and irreparable way. –Esther, he said, I do not ask for what reasons, nor how you have fallen into the abyss, rather, you have risen to the pedestal of infamy on which I have found you. The reason is easy to find. It has been my madness and your weakness. I,–a man given to study, a true library moth,–a man already in the decline of his years, who used the best of his life to feed his devouring desire for knowledge,–what did I have to do with beauty and youth like yours? Warped since birth, how could I delude myself with the idea that intellectual gifts could in the fancy of a young maiden cast a veil over physical deformities? Men call me wise. If the wise were sane where they were concerned, I should have foreseen all this. I should have known that, upon leaving the vast and dark jungle to enter this town of Christians, the first object that my gaze would encounter would be you, Esther, standing like a statue of ignominy, exposed to the eyes of the people. Yes, from the moment we left the church, already united by the ties of marriage, I should have contemplated the burning flame of that scarlet letter shining at the end of our path. –You know, said Esther,–who, despite the state of dejection in which she was, could not suffer this last blow that reminded her of her shame,–you know that I was frank with you. I neither felt love, nor pretended to have any. –It’s true, the doctor replied: it was my madness! I have already said it. But, until that time in my life, I had lived in vain. The world had seemed so sad to me! My heart was like a dwelling large enough to accommodate many guests, but cold and lonely. I wanted to have a home, to experience its warmth. Despite how old, how distorted and gloomy it was, the idea that I could also enjoy this simple happiness, spread everywhere, and that all humanity can enjoy, did not seem like an extravagant dream to me. And
that is why, Esther, I sheltered you in the deepest part of my heart, and I tried to encourage yours with that flame that your presence had kindled in my chest. “I have wronged you greatly,” murmured Esther. –We have wronged each other, replied the doctor. The first error and grievance was mine, when I made your flourishing youth enter into a false relationship, contrary to nature, with my decadence. Therefore , as a man who has not thought or philosophized in vain, I do not seek revenge, I harbor no evil design against you. Between you and me the scales are perfectly balanced. But, Esther, the man who has wronged us both lives. Who is it? –Don’t ask me, Esther replied, looking firmly into his face. You will never know that . “Never, you say?” replied the doctor with a bitter smile of self-confidence. Will I never know? Believe me, Ester, there are few things, whether in the external world, or at a certain depth in the invisible sphere of thought, there are few things, I repeat, that remain hidden from the man who dedicates himself seriously and tirelessly to the solution of a mystery. You can hide your secret from the searching eyes of the crowd. You can also hide it from the investigations of the ministers and magistrates, as you did today when they tried to extract that name from your heart and give you a companion on your pedestal. But as for me, I will dedicate myself to research with senses that they do not possess. I will search for this man as I have searched for the truth in books; as I have searched for gold in alchemy. There is a hidden sympathy that will make me know it. I will see him tremble. When I see him myself, I will feel myself shudder suddenly and without knowing why. Sooner or later, it has to be mine. The doctor’s eyes, fixed on Ester’s face, shone with such intensity that she placed her hands on her heart as if fearing that she might discover the secret there at that very moment. –Don’t you want to reveal his name? However, I will know anyway ,” the doctor continued with a look full of confidence, as if fate had decreed it so. He doesn’t have any infamous letters embroidered on his suit, like you; but I will read it in your heart. But don’t be afraid for him. Do not think that I will meddle in the kind of retribution that heaven adopts, or that I will deliver him into the clutches of human justice. Don’t even imagine that I will try anything against his life; no, nor against his reputation if, as I judge, he is a man who enjoys a good reputation. I will let him live: I will let him wrap himself in the mantle of his external honor, if he can. However, it will be mine. –Your actions seem merciful, said Esther, bewildered and terrified, but your words make you horrible. –I will recommend one thing to you, who was my wife, said the wise man. You have kept your accomplice’s secret: keep mine too. Nobody knows me on this earth. Do not tell any human being that you once called me your husband. Here, on this strip of land I will pitch my tent; because having been a pilgrim wherever I want, and having lived far from human interests, I have found here a woman, a man, and a tender girl between whom and I exist the closest ties that can be imagined. It doesn’t matter whether they are love or hate, fair or unfair. You and yours, Esther, belong to me. My home is wherever you are and where he is. But don’t sell me! “For what purpose do you want it?” Esther asked him, refusing, without knowing why, to accept this secret agreement. Why don’t you go public and get rid of me already? –I could be moved to that, replied the doctor, not wanting to face the disgrace that stains the husband of an unfaithful wife. Other reasons could also move me . It is enough for you to know that it is my object to live and die unknown. Therefore, your husband must be to the world a man already dead, and of whom no news will ever be received. Do not recognize me by a word, nor by a sign, nor by a look. Don’t reveal your secret to anyone, especially the man you know. If you fail me in this… woe to you! Your fame and good name, your position, your life, will be in my hands! Beware of it! –I will keep your secret, as I keep his, said Esther. –Swear it, replied the other. And she took the oath. “And now, Esther,” said old Roger Chillingworth, as he was henceforth to be called, “I leave you alone: ​​alone with your daughter and with the scarlet letter.” What is that, Esther? Does the sentence force you to sleep with the letter? Aren’t you afraid of being attacked by nightmares and horrible dreams? “Why are you looking at me and smiling like that?” Ester asked him, all worried when she saw the expression in his eyes. “Are you perhaps like the Black Man who walks through the jungles that surround us?” Have you induced me to accept a pact that will result in the perdition of my soul? –Not that of your soul,–answered the doctor with another smile. No; not that of your soul! Chapter 5. ESTER NEEDLE IN HAND. After the period of imprisonment to which Esther was sentenced, the doors of the prison were opened and she emerged into the light of the sun, which, shining the same for everyone, nevertheless seemed to her morbid imagination to have been created for the sole purpose of revealing the scarlet letter she wore on the bosom of her dress. Perhaps she suffered more morally when, having crossed the threshold of the prison, she began to move freely and alone, rather than in the midst of the crowd and spectacle that is described, where her shame was made public and where everyone pointed the finger at her. At that time she was sustained by a supernatural tension of her nerves and all the fighting energy of her character, which helped her turn that scene into a kind of gloomy triumph. It was, furthermore, an isolated and singular event that would only occur once during his life; and to face it he had to expend all the vital force that would have been enough for many years of tranquility and calm. The same law that condemned her had sustained her during the terrible ordeal of her ignominy. But now, out of prison, alone and without company on the path of life, a new existence began for her, and she had to sustain herself and continue forward with the resources that her own nature provided her, or else, succumb. He couldn’t count on the future to cope with his present pain. Tomorrow would bring its share of sorrow, and the same would be true for the next and the following: each one would bring its own sorrow, which, in essence, was however the same one that now seemed so immensely painful. The years to come would follow one another, and she would have to continue carrying the same burden, without ever being able to shed it; for the succession of days and years would do nothing but accumulate misery upon ignominy. During all that time, Esther divesting herself of her own individuality, she would become the living example that the moralist and the preacher could use to enhance their images of feminine fragility and sinful passion. I would tell the young and the pure to contemplate the scarlet letter that shone on her breast,–to look at that woman, the daughter of honest parents,–the mother of a little creature who later would also be a woman,–to remember that she had once been innocent–and to now see in her the image, the incarnation, the reality of sin; and on her grave, the infamy that had accompanied her in life, would also be her only monument. It will seem surprising, that with the world open before her, without any restriction in her sentence that would prevent her from leaving that dark and remote Puritan colony and returning to the place of her birth, or to any other European country, and hiding her person and her identity there, under a new exterior, as if she were completely beginning another existence,–and also having within her reach the shadowy and almost impenetrable forests, where the impetuousness of her spiritual being could be assimilated to the people whose customs and life had nothing in common with the law that had condemned her;–it will seem surprising, I repeat, that this woman could still give the name of home to that place where she was to be the type of ignominy. But there is a kind of fatality, a feeling so irresistible and inevitable, that it has all the force of destiny, that it almost invariably compels men to remain and wander, like ghosts, in the very place where a great and notable event has influenced the course of their life, and which is all the more irresistible the more somber its influence has been. Her sin, her ignominy, were the roots that held her in that soil, which had become Esther’s permanent and final home. All the other places in the world, even that village in England where he spent his happy childhood and immaculate youth, had become strange things. The ties that tied her to this new soil were made of iron links that penetrated the most intimate part of her soul, without ever breaking. It could also be – and without a doubt it was, although she hid it from herself , and turned pale when she struggled to get out of her heart like a snake from its hole – it could also be that another feeling made her remain in the place that had been so fatal to her. There lived, there spent her existence someone to whom she considered herself united with ties that, although not recognized on earth, would take them together before the court of final judgment, where they would be linked to a common future of inextinguishable retribution. The tempter of mankind had repeatedly presented this idea to Esther’s mind, and laughed at the passionate joy, at the same time full of despair, with which she at first welcomed it, and then endeavored to reject it. I barely entertained such an idea when I already wanted to destroy it. What she finally wanted to believe, what she herself considered the supreme reason for continuing to live in that place, was partly true and partly an illusion with which she tried to deceive herself. Here, he said to himself, I committed my fault, and here my earthly punishment must be carried out; and perhaps in this way the tortures of his daily ignominy will finally purify his soul, giving it a new purity in exchange for the one he had lost, more sacred since it would be the result of martyrdom. Consequently Esther did not move from there. On the outskirts of the town, although not in the immediate vicinity of any dwelling, there was a hut or cabin, built by one of the first settlers, and abandoned because the land was too barren for cultivation. Its isolation and distance from the population put it outside the circle of social activity that was already noticeable in the customs of the settlers. That small room was on the seashore, half hidden by a grove of not very tall trees; and in that solitary place, with the few resources she had, and thanks to the permission of the magistrates who still exercised a kind of inquisitorial surveillance over Ester, she settled with her little girl. A vague idea of ​​something mysterious and unknown was immediately associated with that place . The children, too tender to understand why that woman was separated from the rest of her fellow men, crawled as close as possible to see her busy with her needle sitting at the window of her cabin, or standing at the door of it, or working in the little garden, or walking on the path that led to the town; and upon seeing the scarlet letter on the bosom of her dress, they began the race with a strange and contagious fear. Despite the loneliness of Esther’s situation, and although she did not have a friend on earth who dared to visit her, she was not at risk of suffering shortages. She possessed an art that was sufficient to support herself and her little daughter, even in a country that offered comparatively few opportunities for its exercise. An art that at that time, like today, was almost the only one available to women: sewing. She carried in her bosom, in the exquisitely embroidered letter, a sample of her delicate skill and inventiveness, of which the ladies of the Court themselves would have been glad to be able to take advantage of to add to their rich fabrics of silk and gold the even more precious ornaments of human art. It is true that, given the simplicity of the black suit that generally characterized the Puritan fashions of that time, there would not be many occasions in which Esther could display her talents with the needle; However , the taste of the time, which took pleasure in what was complicated in this kind of work, could not help but exert its influence on those severe Puritans, our ancestors, who had given up so many things that today seem very difficult for us to renounce. Public ceremonies, such as the installation of magistrates, and whatever might add majesty to the way in which a new governor presented himself to the people, were distinguished by imposing ceremonial and a somber but studied magnificence. Large collars or collars, intricately worked sashes, and luxuriously embroidered gloves were an absolute necessity for high officials when they took charge of the reins of power; and its use was also allowed to individuals distinguished by their position or wealth, although the sumptuary laws prohibited these and other similar luxuries to commoners. At funerals, either on the dress of the deceased, or to express the pain of death through a variety of emblematic signs of black cloth and white lawn. Among the survivors, there was also a frequent demand for the kind of labor that Esther could supply. Diapers and skirts for children, since at that time children of tender age wore formal dresses, also offered the opportunity for delicate needlework. Little by little, although not very slowly, Esther’s works became fashionable, as they say today, either out of compassion for a woman whose fate had been so unfortunate, or because of the morbid curiosity that gives a fictitious value to things that are common or have none, or because then, as now, certain people were granted , for whatever reason, what others ask in vain, or because Esther really filled a void that was felt; It is true that he found frequent and well-paid employment for his needle. Perhaps vanity chose, as a means of mortification, to wear to the pomps and ceremonies of the State the ornaments carved by its sinful hands. Their work could be seen on the necks of the Governor; the military showed it on their bands and sashes; the minister of the altar also showed her in his severe suit; It adorned the hats of newborns, and even the coffins of those being buried. But not a single case is remembered in which Esther’s skill was requested to embroider the white veil that was to cover the modest face of a bride led to the altar. This exception indicated the inextinguishable rigor with which society condemned his sin. Esther did not try to acquire more than what was necessary for her subsistence, this being of the simplest and most ascetic nature that could exist as far as she was concerned; and for her daughter, very simple foods, albeit in abundance. The dresses she wore were made of the coarsest fabrics and the darkest color, with only one ornament, the scarlet letter, which she was condemned to always wear. The girl’s little dress , on the contrary, was distinguished by a certain capricious cut and decorations, or rather, fantastic ones, which served to enhance a kind of airy charm that began to be noticed very early on in the little creature, who also showed signs of profound seriousness. We will talk about this later. Except for the small sum that Esther dedicated to adorning her daughter, the rest was used in works of charity, on unfortunate people less unfortunate than her, and who frequently insulted the hand that helped them. Much of the time that could have been spent on more productive work was spent making clothes from coarse cloth for the poor. It is probable that she associated an idea of ​​penance with this type of occupation, and that by dedicating so many hours to this rough work, she offered them as a kind of sacrifice to other enjoyments. In Esther’s nature there was something of the rich and voluptuous oriental nature, a taste for everything that was splendidly beautiful, and which, except in the exquisite productions of her needle, she found in no means to exercise it. Women find in the delicate work of the needle a pleasure incomprehensible to the stronger sex. For Ester it was perhaps a way to express the passion of her life, and therefore to calm it. Like all other enjoyments, he rejected this passion as a sin. Such a morbid intervention of conscience in minor things could very well be considered an indication of a penance that was neither genuine nor constant, but rather something dubious, and that was ultimately not what it should be. In this way Hester Prynne had her part to play in the world. Thanks to the natural energy of her character, and her rare intelligence, it was not possible to completely segregate her from society, although it had marked her with a mark more intolerable to the heart of a woman than the one engraved on Cain’s forehead. In all her relations with that society, however, there was nothing that made her understand that she belonged to it. Every gesture, every word, and even the very silence of those with whom she came into contact, frequently implied and expressed the idea that she was banished, and as isolated as if she were. lived in another sphere. She found herself separated from the moral interests of her fellow men, despite being so close to them, like a spirit that returns to visit the domestic home without being able to make itself seen or felt; without participating in their joys, nor being able to take part in their pains; and that, if he were to express the feelings that were forbidden to him, it would have only aroused terror and horrible repugnance. And in reality this, and the bitterest disdain, seemed to be the only thing there was for her in the hearts of her fellow citizens. That was not a time of delicacy and refinement in customs; and although Esther was exactly aware of her position, and there was no danger of her forgetting it, they very often made her feel very rude, and when she least expected it. The poor, as we have already said, whom he had made the object of his kindness and beneficence, often depressed the hand that was extended to help them. The high-topped ladies whose homes she entered to carry out her sewing work used to distill drops of acibar into their hearts; Sometimes, thanks to that secret and refined alchemy with which a woman can infiltrate a subtle poison extracted from the most trivial things; and on other occasions, with a rudeness of expression that fell on the defenseless chest of that unfortunate woman like a blow dealt to an ulcerated wound. Esther had long been trained in the art of suffering in silence: she never responded to these attacks except with the blush that irresistibly reddened her pale cheek and then disappeared into the depths of her soul. She was patient, a true martyr; but he refrained from praying for his enemies, for fear that, despite his good intentions, the words with which he implored a blessing for them would inevitably become a curse. Continuously, and in a thousand ways, she experienced the innumerable torments that the imperishable sentence of the Puritan court had devised for her. The ministers of the altar stopped in the middle of the street to address her with words of exhortation, which attracted an implacable crowd around the poor sinner. If she entered church on Sundays, trusting in the mercy of the Universal Father, it was often, due to her bad luck, to find herself the subject of the sermon. She became truly terrified of the children, who had conceived, thanks to their parents’ conversations, a vague idea that there was something horrible about that sad woman who was sliding silently through the streets of the town, with no other company than her only girl. Therefore , letting her pass at first, they then pursued her to a certain distance with shrill cries, pronouncing a word whose exact meaning they could not understand, but which was no less terrible for Esther, for coming from lips that uttered it unconsciously. It seemed to indicate such a diffusion of his ignominy, as if it were known to all nature; and it would not have caused him deeper sorrow if he had heard the leaves of the trees tell each other the somber story of their fall, and the summer breezes tell it in whispers, or the winter breezes proclaim it with their stormy voices. Another kind of peculiar torture that the poor woman experienced was when she saw a new face, when strange people fixed their gaze with curiosity on the scarlet letter, which none of them stopped doing and it was for her as if a hot iron was being applied to her heart. Then he could barely contain the impulse to cover the fatal symbol with his hands, although he never managed to do so. But people accustomed to contemplating that sign of ignominy could also make her suffer intense agony. From the first moment that the letter formed an integral part of her dress, Hester had experienced the secret terror that a human eye was always fixed on the sad emblem: her sensitivity in that particular, far from diminishing with the time, he was getting older, thanks to the daily torment he suffered. But from time to time, perhaps with an interval of many days or perhaps several months, I had the feeling that a look–a compassionate look–was fixed on the ignominious handwriting; and this seemed to give her a momentary relief, as if someone shared half her agony. But a moment later this was doubled with renewed pain, because in that brief moment he had sinned again. Had Esther sinned alone? His imagination was somewhat affected, and had he possessed less intellectual and moral fiber, he would have been even more affected, as a result of the loneliness and continuous anguish in which he lived. Going to the small outside world with which she was in contact and returning to her home, and always solitary on those walks, Esther believed, or imagined she believed, that the scarlet letter had endowed her with a new meaning. He shuddered to think, and he could not help but think, that it gave him a kind of intuitive knowledge of the secret faults of other souls. The revelations that were thus presented to her eyes filled her with terror. And what were they? But what could they be but the insidious insinuations of the evil angel, who would have liked to persuade that woman, who was struggling and was only his half-victim, that the outward appearance of purity was nothing but a lie, and that if the truth were known, the scarlet letter would shine on more than one breast, and not only on Hester Prynne’s? Should she perhaps receive those dark insinuations as if they were a real and positive thing? This kind of supernatural sense with which she believed herself endowed was the most terrible and unbearable thing she had experienced in the course of her unfortunate existence. It filled her with perplexity and discomfort, because sometimes that red mark of infamy on the breast of her dress seemed as if it throbbed and shook when Esther passed by a venerable ecclesiastic or magistrate, models of piety and justice, whom the world looked upon as if they were the companions of angels. –What evil man is passing by me? Esther said to herself. And raising his head in disgust he saw that in those surroundings there was no other human being than that man whom everyone considered a saint. At other times she believed she had a sister in her guilt, and when she raised her eyes she encountered the form of a devout and harsh matron, whose heart, according to public belief, had been a piece of ice all her life. That ice on the matron’s chest and Esther’s burning ignominy, what did they have in common? Other times the electric thrill gave her the signal, as if to say: Esther, there you have a companion, and when she raised her eyes, she saw a young maiden who was secretly contemplating the scarlet letter, and quickly walked away with a slight blush on her cheeks, as if her purity had been tarnished by that instantaneous glance. Such lack of faith in the virtue of others is one of the saddest consequences of sin. But a proof that in this poor victim of her own frailty and the harshness of man’s laws, corruption had not made much progress, consisted in the constant struggle of her spirit to believe that no mortal was as guilty as herself. The common people, who in those rude times always added the element of the grotesque to everything that struck their imagination, had invented a story about the scarlet letter, which we could easily turn into a terrible legend. They affirmed that this symbol was not simply a scarlet cloth, dyed with a color that was the work of man, but that the burning red was produced by the fire of hell, and it could be seen shining with all its brilliance when Esther walked alone, near her dwelling, during the night. Chapter 6. PEARL. So far we have barely talked about the girl; of the little creature whose innocent life seemed like a beautiful and immortal flower sprouted in the midst of the excessive bloom of a criminal passion. How strange that seemed girl in the eyes of the sad woman, as she contemplated the development and beauty, increasingly brilliant, and the intelligence that illuminated with its tremulous rays the delicate features of her daughter, her Pearl! Such was the name Esther had given him, not because it had any analogy with his appearance, for it had none of the white, calm , cold luster that the comparison might indicate; but he called her Pearl, because he had obtained it at a great price, because he had actually bought it with everything he owned, with what was his only treasure. How unique all this was! The man had made this woman’s fault evident by means of a scarlet letter endowed with such great and disastrous effectiveness that it prevented her from being the object of human sympathies, except from equally guilty people. But nature, in compensation for this fault that man had punished, endowed her with a charming girl, who rested in that same womb disgraced by the law, to forever put the mother in relationship with the human race, and so that she would finally become a chosen soul in heaven. However, these ideas filled Esther’s mind with feelings of fear rather than hope. He knew that his action had been evil, and therefore he could not believe that its results were good. With increasing shock he contemplated the development of the creature, always fearing to discover some dark and strange peculiarity, which corresponded to the fault to which the being owed. There was no physical defect in the girl: due to her perfect form, her vigor and the natural agility in the use of her tender limbs, she was worthy of having been born in Eden; of having been left there to play with the angels, after the expulsion of our first parents. She possessed an innate grace that does not always accompany perfect beauty : her dress, despite its simplicity, aroused in those who saw her the idea that it was precisely the one that best suited her. But tender Perlita was not dressed in wild herbs. Her mother, thanks to a certain morbid tendency, which will be better understood later , had bought the richest fabrics that could be obtained and gave free rein to her creative fantasy in the arrangement and adornment of the girl’s dresses, every time she appeared in public. That little creature looked so magnificently dressed in that way, and such was the splendor of Pearl’s own beauty, shining through the showy costumes that could have extinguished a much less radiant beauty, that it can be said that a circle of brilliant light was formed around her on the floor of the dark cabin. Pearl’s appearance had a charm of infinite variety: in that girl many children were summarized and summarized, ranging from the wildflower-like beauty of a peasant child to the pomp, on a smaller scale, of a little princess. In all of her, however, there was something passionate, a certain intensity of color that was never shed; and if in any of its changes that color had become weaker or paler, it would have ceased to be her, it would not have been Pearl. This external mobility indicated and fully expressed the various conditions of his inner life. It seemed that in his nature depth was twinned with variety; but, unless Esther’s fears deceived her, we would say that she lacked the ability to adapt to the world into which she had been born. The girl could not submit to fixed rules. By giving it existence, a great moral law had been broken, and the result was a being whose elements were perhaps beautiful and brilliant, but in disorder, or with an order that was peculiar to them, making it difficult, or almost impossible, to discover where the variety and arrangement began or ended. Ester could only realize Pearl’s character, and that in a vague and imperfect way, remembering what she herself had been during that critical period in which the girl’s soul and body were being formed. The state of passionate agitation in which he was The mother had served to transmit to the little creature to be born the rays of her moral life; and however clear and pure they were originally, they had acquired certain tints, now lively and brilliant, now intense and somber. But above all, that violent struggle that reigned in the spirit of Ester had been perpetuated in Pearl’s soul , who could recognize in her daughter the same free, restless, provocative and desperate spirit, and the same lightness of her character, and even something of the same despondency that had taken hold of her heart. Now all that was illuminated by the rays of dawn that gilded the sky of childhood, but later on in the day of earthly existence, it could be fertile in whirlwinds and storms. Family education was much more severe in those times than it is now. The scolding, the harsh reprimand and the application of the strap or rods were not intended only to punish faults committed, but were used as a healthy means for the development of all childhood virtues. However, Esther, the solitary mother of her only daughter, was in little danger of sinning by being too severe. Being fully aware of his own errors and misfortunes, he tried from very early on to exercise strict surveillance over the tender soul whose destinies were in his charge. But this task was beyond his strength, or his ability. After trying both the smile and the frown, and seeing that nothing exerted any notable influence, he finally decided to let the girl obey her own impulses. Of course the restriction or compulsion produced its effect while it was in force; but every other kind of moral discipline, whether directed at his intelligence or at his heart, gave or did not give results depending on the capricious disposition of his mind at the time. When Pearl was still very tender, her mother had observed a certain peculiar expression of her physiognomy, which was a sign that then everything done to make the girl obey her orders would be in vain. That expression was so intelligent, and yet so inexplicable, so perverse, and sometimes so evil, although generally accompanied by a great exuberance of extravagant good humor, that Ester could not help but wonder if Pearl was really a human creature. He seemed more like an aerial spirit who, after having had fun with his fantastic games on the floor of the cabin, would disappear into the air with a mocking smile. Whenever her deeply black and brilliant eyes took on that expression, the girl seemed like an intangible being of indefinable strangeness. It seemed that it was hovering in the air and that it could vanish like a light that we do not know where it comes from or where it will go. Then Ester was forced to throw herself at the girl, to chase her in the race that the little elf invariably took, and to hold her to her breast, covering her with kisses and caresses, not so much out of an effect of excessive love, but to make sure that she was the same Pearl in the flesh, and not a completely illusory form. But Pearl’s laughter when she saw herself trapped, although harmonious and overflowing with content, only resulted in increasing her mother’s doubts. Wounded in the heart by this kind of indecipherable and disconcerting mystery that so often came between her and her only treasure, so dearly acquired, and which was her entire universe, Esther sometimes burst into bitter tears. Then, and without knowing why, Pearl frowned, clenched her fist, and gave her small face a hard, severe expression of dry discontent; or he would burst out again into laughter, louder than before, as if he were a being incapable of feeling and understanding human sorrow; or perhaps, although very rarely, he experienced convulsions of pain, and in the midst of sobs and broken words he expressed his love for his mother, and it seemed that he wanted to prove that he had a heart by breaking it into pieces. However, Esther did not trust much in that excess of tenderness, which passed so quickly as it had been presented. Thinking about all these things, the mother found herself in the position of a person who has evoked a spirit, as we read in fantastic stories, but who ignores the magic word with which she must keep that mysterious power under her command and control it. His only hours of complete tranquility were when the girl lay in the repose of sleep. Then she was completely sure of the little creature, and she enjoyed delicious and peaceful happiness until, perhaps with that perverse expression that could be glimpsed under her half-open eyelids, Pearl woke up. How soon!–and really, how strangely quickly!–Pearl reached an age when she was able to hear something more than the almost meaningless words with which a mother speaks to her little girl. And what happiness it would have been for Ester then to be able to hear Pearl’s clear and sonorous voice mixed with the tumult of other children’s voices, and to distinguish and recognize the sounds emitted by her beloved treasure among the confusing mixture of the shouting of a group of playful children! But such joy was forbidden to him. Perla, since she was born, was an outcast from the children’s world. Being an engraftment of evil, an emblem and product of sin, he had no right to be among baptized children. The instinct with which the little girl understood her loneliness and the destiny that had drawn an inviolable circle around her was very remarkable ; in a word, everything peculiar to his position with respect to other children. Never since leaving prison had Ester faced the public without being accompanied by Pearl. On all his visits to the town, Pearl also went: first, when she was a tender child, he carried her in his arms; Then, older, she went like her mother’s little companion, holding on to one finger and jumping. I saw the children of the town now on the grass that grew on the sidewalks of the streets, now on the thresholds of the doors of their houses, playing in the way that their Puritan education allowed them, that is: playing at going to church; or to pull out scalps in simulated combat with the Indians; or scaring each other with something in which they tried to imitate acts of sorcery or witchcraft. Perla saw everything, contemplated everything intensely, but she never tried to make acquaintances with any of the children. If they spoke to him, he did not respond. If the children surrounded her, as sometimes happened, Pearl became truly terrible in her childish anger, picking up stones to throw at them, accompanying the action with incoherent and penetrating screams and exclamations that made her mother tremble, because they resembled the accents of a curse uttered by a sorceress in some unknown language. The truth of the matter was that these puritans in agraz, like worthy offspring of the most intolerant breed that ever existed, entertained a vague idea that there was something strange, mysterious and out of the ordinary and everyday in both the mother and the daughter, and therefore they despised them in the depths of their hearts, and frequently insulted them from the top of their voices. Pearl resented the offense, and took revenge with all the hatred of which a child’s breast can be supposed capable. These explosions of a violent nature had some value and even served as a consolation to the mother, since at least they revealed a certain understandable seriousness in that way of feeling, which did not happen with the fantastic whims that so often filled her with surprise and that she could not explain in some of her daughter’s manifestations. It terrified her, however, to discern here and there a kind of reflection of the evil that had existed in herself. All these feelings of enmity and anger had been inherited by Pearl from her mother: in the same state of exclusion from all social interaction, the mother and daughter found themselves; and in the nature of the latter it seemed that all those elements of restlessness that agitated Ester so much before the birth of the girl, and which had afterwards begun to calm down thanks to the beneficial influence of motherhood, were perpetuated . Next to her mother, in the domestic home, Pearl did not need much social interaction. Her imagination lent the attributes of life to thousands of inanimate objects, like a torch that lights a flame wherever it is applied: the branch of a tree, a few rags, a flower, were the toys in which Pearl’s creative magic was exercised; and without undergoing any external change, they adapted to all the needs of his fantasy. He lent his childish voice to a multitude of imaginary beings, old and young, with whom he thus engaged in lively dialogues. The ancient pine trees, black and solemn, which emitted a kind of growl and other melancholy murmurs when the breeze stirred them, easily became Puritan clerics in Pearl’s eyes; the ugliest herbs in the garden were his children; herbs that the girl trampled and uprooted without mercy. It was actually surprising the vast variety of ways in which his intelligence indulged itself, without order or concert, always in a state of supernatural activity, succeeding one another like the capricious emanations and displays of the northern lights. In the mere exercise of fantasy and the festive disposition of a developing mind, there was perhaps not much more than could be observed in other children gifted with brilliant faculties, except that Pearl, being deprived of playmates, resorted, to replace them, to the resources that her imagination lent her. The unique thing about the case consisted of the hostile attitude that the girl displayed towards these creatures, daughters of her fantasy and her heart. She never created a friend, but always, in imitation of Cadmus in the fable, she seemed to sow the dragon’s teeth to the right and left, from which battalions of armed enemies sprang forth, against whom the girl immediately declared war. It was extremely sad to observe in such a tender being this constant idea of ​​an adverse world, and the fierce display of energy that prepared her for the struggles of the world; and it is easy to imagine the intense pain that all this would produce in his mother, who found the cause of that phenomenon in her own heart. Contemplating Pearl, Esther frequently let the sewing fall into her lap, and burst into tears with an affliction that she would have liked to hide, and which manifested itself with sobs and broken words exclaiming:–O Father who art in heaven! If you are still my Father, what creature is this that I have brought into the world? – And Pearl, upon hearing this exclamation, or upon perceiving those sobs of anguish, turned her lively and precious face towards her mother, smiled sweetly and continued her game. It remains for us to talk about one peculiarity of this little girl. The first thing he noticed in his life was not the mother’s smile responding to what, as in other children of tender age, can be taken for a smile, or rather, the embryo of a smile. No: the first object that seems to have caught Pearl’s attention was the scarlet letter on Esther’s breast . One day, as she leaned over the cradle, the little girl’s eyes were fixed on the shine of the gold embroidery that surrounded the letter, and she extended her little hands and tried to grasp it, smiling no doubt, although with a strange expression that made her face look like that of a much older child. Then Esther, trembling and convulsed, pressed the fatal sign with her hand, as if she instinctively wanted to tear it from her breast. So intense was the torture that the action of that little creature caused him! And as if the agony that the mother’s face revealed had no other purpose than to amuse her, the little girl fixed her gaze on her and smiled. From that time on, except when Perla was sleeping, Ester never had a moment of security, nor a moment in which she calmly enjoyed her daughter’s company. It is true that sometimes whole weeks passed without the little creature’s gaze being fixed on the scarlet letter; but it is also true that the opposite happened when it was least expected, and always with that smile peculiar and the strange expression of the eyes of which we have already spoken. Once, while Esther was contemplating her own image in her daughter’s eyes, as is the custom of mothers, that singular and fantastic expression shone in them; and since women who live alone and whose hearts are restless are subject to innumerable illusions, he suddenly imagined that he saw, not his own miniature image, but another face that was reflected in Pearl’s black eyes. It was an enemy’s face, full of evil smiles, but which nevertheless bore a great resemblance to features he had known very well, although they were rarely animated by a smile and never by a malevolent expression. It seemed that an evil spirit had taken possession of the girl, and it showed itself in her eyes. After that event, Esther was tormented several times with the same illusion of her senses, although not with as much force. On the afternoon of a certain summer day, when Pearl had grown enough to be able to walk alone, the girl amused herself by collecting wild flowers, throwing them one by one into her mother’s lap; and performing a kind of dance every time one of the flowers hit the scarlet letter. Esther’s first movement was to cover the letter with both hands; But whether it was pride or resignation, or the idea that the punishment to which she had been condemned would satisfy her sooner through this unspeakable pain, she resisted the impulse and stood upright in her seat, pale as death, looking with deep sadness at Pearl whose eyes shone in an unusual way. And the girl continued throwing the flowers at her that invariably hit the letter, filling her maternal chest with wounds for which she could not find balm in this world, nor did she know how to look for it in the other. Finally, when she finished throwing the flowers, the girl remained standing looking at Ester precisely like that mocking image of the enemy that the mother believed she saw in the unfathomable abyss of her daughter’s black eyes. “My daughter, who are you?” exclaimed the mother. –Oh! I am your little Pearl, he responded. But while Pearl was saying this, she began to laugh and began to dance with the petulant gesticulation of a little goblin, whose next whim would be to escape through the chimney. –Are you really my daughter? Esther asked him. And it was not an idle question that he asked, but, at that moment, that’s how he felt; because Pearl’s wonderful intelligence was such that her mother even imagined that the girl knew the secret history of her existence and would reveal it to her now. –Yeah; I am your little Pearl, the girl repeated, continuing her capers. –You are not my daughter! You are not my Pearl! said the mother with a semi -smiling air, because frequently in the midst of the deepest pain festive impulses came to her. “Tell me, then, who you are and who sent you here.” “Tell me, my mother,” replied Pearl with a grave accent, approaching Ester and hugging her knees, “tell me, mother, tell me.” –Your Heavenly Father sent you, answered Esther. But he said it with a hesitation that did not escape the girl’s keen intelligence; which, either moved by her ordinary petulance, or because an evil spirit inspired her, raising her little index finger and touching the scarlet letter, exclaimed with an accent of conviction: -No; He didn’t send me. I don’t have a Heavenly Father. –Silence, Pearl, silence! “You shouldn’t talk like that,” the mother responded, suppressing a moan. Heavenly Father has sent us all to this world. He has even sent me, your mother; and with much more reason to you. And if not, where have you come from, singular and capricious girl? “Tell me, tell me,” Pearl repeated, no longer with her serious face, but laughing and jumping on the ground. You are the one who must tell me. But Esther could not resolve the question, finding herself in a labyrinth of doubts. She remembered, half laughing and scared, the talk of the townspeople who, searching in vain for the girl’s paternity, and observing some of her peculiarities, had said that Pearl came from a demon, as had already happened more than once on earth; Nor was Pearl the only one to whom the Puritans of New England imputed such a sinister origin. Chapter 7. THE GOVERNOR’S ROOM. One day Esther went to Governor Bellingham’s home to bring him a pair of gloves that she had trimmed and embroidered by his order, and that she was to wear in a certain official ceremony, because although she no longer held the high position she had before, she still occupied an honorable and influential position in the colonial magistracy. But something more important than the delivery of a pair of embroidered gloves forced Ester to request an interview with a person of such power and so active in the business of the colony. A rumor had reached her that some of the main inhabitants of the town were trying to deprive her of her daughter, wishing for more rigid principles to prevail in matters of religion and government. Assuming these good people, as has already been said, that Pearl was of diabolical lineage, they believed that for the greater benefit of the mother’s soul, it was advisable to remove that obstacle from her path; adding, that if the girl was really capable of a religious and moral education, and had in her the elements of her future salvation, she would undoubtedly enjoy all these advantages if she were separated from her mother and her education were entrusted to a better and saner person. It was also said that among the promoters of this idea, the Governor was one of the most active. It will seem strange, and even ridiculous, that a matter of this nature has been a publicly discussed issue, in which several eminent people of the government took part for and against. But in that time of pristine simplicity, businesses of less public importance, and of less significance than the well-being of Esther and her daughter, had a place in the deliberations of the legislators and in the acts of the State; and it is even reported that a dispute regarding the right to own a pig gave rise, at a time prior to the one in which our story takes place, to heated debates in the legislative body of the colony, and caused important modifications in the way of being of the Legislature. Full, then, of fears, although with such complete conviction of her right that the fight between the public on one side and a solitary woman on the other did not seem unequal to her , Ester set out, leaving her cabin accompanied, as expected, by Pearl. She had already reached an age that allowed her to run alongside her mother, and since she was always in constant movement from morning to night, she could have done a much longer day. However, sometimes, more out of whim than necessity, she asked to be carried; But after a few moments she wanted to be allowed to walk, and she continued with Ester, jumping and stumbling every moment. We have spoken of Pearl’s singular beauty, a beauty of bright and deep tints, a brilliant complexion, eyes that possessed both brilliance and meditative intensity, and hair of a chestnut color, lustrous, soft, and which later would be almost black. All of her was fire and seemed the fruit of a moment of unpremeditated passion. The mother, in devising her daughter’s costume , had given free rein to the showy tendencies of her imagination, and dressed her in a tunic of crimson velvet, of a peculiar cut, abundantly adorned with whimsical embroidery and flourishes of gold thread. Such a luxury of colors, which would have given a pale and haggard appearance to less brilliant cheeks, admirably adapted to the beauty of Pearl, and made her the most brilliant flame that ever moved upon the earth. But it was a notable peculiarity of this costume, and indeed of the general appearance of the girl, that it inevitably brought to the memory of the beholder the memory of the sign that Esther was condemned to wear on her dress. It was the scarlet letter in another form: the scarlet letter endowed with life. The mother herself,–as if that red ignominy would have been deeply engraved in her brain so that all her ideas clothed its appearance,–the mother herself had found that similarity, spending many hours of morbid ingenuity in finding an analogy between the object of her affection and the emblem of her fault and her torment. But since in reality Pearl was both one thing and another, Ester could perfectly imagine that the girl’s appearance bore complete resemblance to the scarlet letter. When the mother and daughter arrived at the edge of the town, the Puritan children , in the middle of their games, or what passed for play among those somber children, fixed their gazes on them and said: -Here comes the woman with the scarlet letter; and at his side comes jumping what also looks like a scarlet letter. Let’s throw mud at them. But Pearl, who was a fearless girl, after frowning, stamping her little foot on the ground and clenching her fist with various threatening gestures, suddenly launched herself against the group of her enemies and put them all to flight. At the same time he screamed and shouted with such violence that the hearts of the fugitives trembled with fear. Once her victory was over, Pearl calmly returned to her mother’s side, to whom she gave a smiling look. Without another adventure they arrived at the Governor’s residence. This was a large wooden house, made in the style of those still seen in the streets of our oldest cities; now covered with moss, collapsing, and with a melancholy appearance, mute witnesses of the sorrows or joys of which its dark rooms were theater. Then, however, there was on its exterior the freshness of youth, and in its windows, illuminated by the sun, that contentment that reigns in human dwellings where death has not yet entered seemed to shine. The Governor’s house had, in truth, a very cheerful appearance: the walls were covered with a kind of stucco with innumerable fragments of glass, so that when the sun illuminated the building obliquely, it shone and sparkled as if diamonds had been thrown on it by the hand, which made it seem more suitable for Aladdin’s palace than for the mansion of an old and serious Puritan chief. It was also adorned with strange and apparently cabalistic figures and diagrams, in accordance with the rare taste of the time, which had been drawn on the stucco when it was finished, and had hardened with time, no doubt so that they would serve as an admiration for future ages . Pearl, when she saw this kind of wonderful house, began to clap her hands and dance, and requested with a determined accent that the entire radiant front of the building be torn off, and given to her to play with. –No, my dear Perlita, her mother told her. You yourself have to provide your sun rays; I have nothing to give you. They approached the door, which had the shape of an arch, and was flanked on each side by a narrow tower or projection of the building, with wire-lattice windows and wooden shutters. Raising the iron knocker, Esther gave a blow to which one of the Governor’s servants, an Englishman by birth and free, but who at that time had been a slave for seven years, responded. During that time he had to be his master’s property, just as if he were an ox. The servant wore the blue suit which was the ordinary dress of the servants of that time, as it was also long before in the ancient manors of England. –Is His Honor Governor Bellingham at home? Esther asked. –Certainly yes, answered the servant, contemplating the scarlet letter with large eyes, since having recently arrived in the country, he had not seen it yet. Yes, His Lordship is at home; but with him there are a couple of pious ministers, and at the same time a doctor: I don’t think you can see him now. “I will go in, however,” replied Esther. And the servant, judging perhaps by the decisive tone with which he pronounced these words, and the brilliant symbol that he wore on his breast, which was a great lady of the country, did not put up any resistance. Mother and daughter were, therefore, admitted into the hall. The Governor, taking into account the nature of the construction materials available, as well as the difference in the climate and social customs of the colony, had drawn up the plan of his new residence in imitation of those of the gentlemen of moderate means in his native country. There was therefore a wide and elevated hall that extended to the back of the house and served as a means of more or less direct communication with all the other rooms. At one end this spacious room was illuminated by the windows of the two towers; and in the other, although protected by a curtain, it was protected by a large vaulted window, provided with a cushioned seat, in which there was a folio volume, probably of the Chronicles of England or other similar literature. The furniture consisted of some massive chairs, on the backs of which were carved garlands of oak flowers; In the center was a table of the same style as the chairs, all from the time of Queen Elizabeth of England, or perhaps earlier, and brought from the Governor’s paternal house. And on the table, as proof that the old hospitality had not died, a large pewter mug at the bottom of which the curious might have seen the foam of the recently drunk beer. On the wall hung a row of portraits depicting the ancestors of the Bellingham line, some dressed in breastplates and armor, others in ruffed collars and talar clothing. As a characteristic feature, they all had that severity and rigidity that invariably exists in ancient portraits, as if instead of paintings they were the spirits of illustrious men, already dead, who were contemplating with harshness and intolerance, criticizing them, the actions and pleasures of the living. Towards the center of the oak boards that covered the walls of the hall was suspended a coat of mail and its accessories , not an hereditary relic, like the portraits, but of more modern date, made by a skilful armorer of London in the very year in which Governor Bellingham came to New England. There was a helmet, a cuirass, a gorget, and greaves, with a pair of mittens, and hanging beneath it a sword; everything, and especially the helmet and breastplate, so perfectly burnished, that they shone with a radiant white, illuminating the pavement. This brilliant panoply did not serve as a simple ornament, but the Governor had endorsed it on him more than once, especially at the head of a regiment in the war against the Indians, because although by education and profession he was a lawyer, the demands of the new country had made him a soldier and a Ruler. Perlita, who was pleased by the resplendent armor as much as by the brilliant frontispiece of the house, spent some time looking at the polished surface of the breastplate that shone as if it were a mirror. –Mother! He shouted, mother, I see you here. Look! look! Esther, to please her little daughter, took a look at the breastplate, and saw that, due to the peculiar effect of this convex mirror, the scarlet letter seemed reproduced in exaggerated and gigantic proportions, in such a way that it became the most prominent thing on her entire person. In fact, it seemed as if Esther was hiding behind the letter. Pearl also drew her attention to another similar figure in the helmet, smiling at her mother with that kind of pixie expression so common to her intelligent face. This look of mischievous joy was also reflected in the mirror, with such proportions and such intensity of effect, that Ester did not believe that it could be the image of her own daughter, but rather that of some goblin or goblin that was trying to conform to Pearl’s form . –Come on, Pearl, said the mother, taking her with her. Come see this beautiful garden. Perhaps there are flowers in it more beautiful than those in the forests. Pearl went to the vaulted window at the back of the hall, and He looked along the streets of the garden, carpeted with freshly cut grass, and adorned with a few bushes, not many, as if the owner had given up his idea of ​​perpetuating on this side of the Atlantic the English taste in gardens. Cabbages were growing in plain sight, and a pumpkin plant, planted at some distance, had spread across the intervening space, depositing one of its gigantic products directly under the indicated window. There were, however, a few rose bushes, and a number of apple trees, probably from those planted by the first settlers. Pearl, upon seeing the rose bushes, began to cry out for a red rose, and did not want to be quiet. –Shut up, girl, shut up, said the mother emphatically. Don’t cry, my dear Pearl. I hear voices in the garden. The Governor approaches accompanied by several gentlemen. Be quiet. In fact, along the garden avenue a certain number of people could be seen heading towards the house. Pearl, ignoring her mother’s attempts to quiet her, gave a very piercing cry, and then remained silent; not due to a feeling of obedience, but to the lively and mobile curiosity of his nature that caused all his interest to be concentrated on the appearance of these new characters. Chapter 8. THE ELF GIRL AND THE MINISTER. Governor Bellingham, dressed in a house suit, which consisted of a loose-fitting robe and cap, opened the procession and seemed to be showing his property to those who accompanied him, explaining the improvements he planned to introduce. The vast circumference of a carefully made lettuce neck, which projected beneath his gray beard, according to the fashion of ancient times, contributed to giving his head a resemblance to that of Saint John the Baptist at the fountain. The impression produced by his rigid and severe countenance, through which some autumns had passed, was not in harmony with everything that surrounded him there and he seemed destined for the enjoyment of earthly things. But it is a mistake to suppose that our grave grandparents,–although accustomed to speaking of human existence and thinking of it as if it were a mere test and a constant struggle, and although they were prepared to sacrifice property and life when duty required it–made it a point of conscience to reject all those comforts, and even gifts, that were within their reach. Such a doctrine was never taught, for example, by the venerable pastor of souls John Wilson, whose snow-white beard was visible over Governor Bellingham’s shoulder, as he told him that pears and peaches could become acclimatized in New England, and that purple grapes could flourish if they were protected by garden walls more directly exposed to the sun. The old minister had a legitimate and long-standing taste for all the good things and all the comforts of life; and however severe he was in the pulpit in his public disapproval of such transgressions as those of Hester Prynne, yet the benevolence which he displayed in private life had won him a greater amount of affection than was bestowed upon any other of his colleagues. Behind the Governor and Mr. Wilson came two other guests: one the Reverend Arthur Dimmesdale, whom the reader may remember as having played, not voluntarily, a small part in the scene of Esther’s public punishment; and at his side, as if he were his intimate companion, old Roger Chillingworth, a person of great skill in medicine, who two or three years ago had taken up residence in the colony. It was said that this wise old man was at the same time the doctor and the friend of the young ecclesiastic, whose health had lately deteriorated greatly due to his boundless self-denial and his complete consecration to the works and duties of his sacred ministry. The Governor, ahead of his guests, climbed two or three steps, and opening one of the panes of the large window in the hall, he found himself near Pearl. The shadow of the curtain hid partially to the mother. “What do we have here?” said the Governor, looking at the little scarlet figure that was in front of him. I confess that I have not seen anything like it since the days of my vanities, back in my youthful days, when I considered it an inestimable favor to be admitted to the costume balls of the Court. There were then a swarm of these little apparitions on festival days. But how did this guest enter my antechamber? –Yes, indeed, exclaimed the good old Mr. Wilson, what little scarlet bird could this be? I think I have seen something similar when the sun shines through the panes of a window of various colors, and draws images of gold and crimson on the ground. But that was back in our old country. Tell me, girl, who are you, and what has moved your mother to dress you in such a strange way? Are you a Christian girl? Do you know the catechism? Or are you perhaps one of those petulant goblins or goblins that we thought we had left forever in cheerful England? –I am my mother’s daughter, answered the scarlet vision, and my name is Pearl. –Pearl?–more like Ruby, or Coral, or at least a fiery Rose, judging by your color, the old minister responded, extending his hand, uselessly, to caress Pearl’s cheek.–But where is your mother? Ah! I understand, he added; and addressing the Governor he said in a low voice:–This is precisely the girl we have talked about; and see there that unhappy woman, Esther Prynne, her mother. –Is that what you say? exclaimed the Governor. Yes, we should have thought that the mother of such a girl had to be a scarlet woman, and a type worthy of Babylon. But the time comes, and we will deal with this matter immediately. The Governor entered the antechamber followed by his three guests. –Ester Prynne, he said, fixing his naturally severe gaze on the bearer of the scarlet letter, a lot has been said about you these days . We have discussed calmly and sensibly whether we, who are people of authority and influence, fulfill our duty by entrusting the direction and guidance of an immortal soul, like that of this creature, to whom he has stumbled and fallen in the midst of the snares and networks of the world. Speak, you who are the mother of this girl. Don’t you think it would be better, both for the temporal well-being and for the eternal life of your little one, to be deprived of her care, and dressed in a less showy manner, educated in obedience, and instructed in the truths of heaven and earth? What can you do for your daughter in this regard? “I can instruct my daughter according to the teaching I have received from this,” answered Esther, touching the scarlet letter with her finger. –Woman, that is your badge of shame, replied the stern magistrate. Precisely as a result of the lack indicated by that letter, we wish that your daughter passes into the care of other hands. –However, said the mother calmly, although becoming increasingly pale, this insignia has given me, and gives me daily, and even at this moment, lessons that will make my daughter saner and better, even if they are no longer useful to me. –Now we will know, said the Governor, and we will decide what to do. My good Lord Wilson, I beg you to examine this Pearl, since that is her name, and see if she has the Christian education that befits a girl of her age. The old ecclesiastic sat down in an armchair and made an effort to attract Pearl between his knees. But the girl, accustomed only to the familiar touch of her mother and not to that of another person, escaped through the open window and stood on the highest step, then looking like a wild tropical bird, with brilliant plumage, ready to take flight in the spaces. Mr. Wilson, not a little surprised at this, for he was a sort of favorite patriarch of the children, nevertheless attempted to proceed with the examination. –Pearl, he told her with great solemnity, you have to receive instruction so that, in due time, you can carry in your womb a pearl of great price. Can you say, my daughter, who created you? Pearl knew perfectly well what to respond, because Esther being the daughter of a pious family, shortly after the conversation she had had with her daughter about her Heavenly Father, she had begun to speak to her about those truths that the human spirit, whatever its state of development, hears with intense interest. Therefore, Pearl, although she was only three years old, could have successfully taken an exam in some religious subjects; but the perversity more or less common to all children, and of which the girl had a good dose, took hold of her at the most inopportune moment, and made her close her lips or utter words that were irrelevant. After putting her finger in her mouth, and many refusals to answer the good Mr. Wilson’s questions, the girl finally announced that she had not been created by anyone, but that her mother had picked her from a wild rose bush that grew next to the prison door. This fantastic response was probably suggested to him by the proximity of the Governor’s rose bushes, which he had in view, and by the memory of the wild rose bush in the prison, which he had passed on his way to Bellingham’s residence. Old Roger Chillingworth, with a smile on his lips, murmured a few words in the ear of the young ecclesiastic. Ester looked at the man of science, and even though her fate was hanging in the balance, she was surprised to notice the change in Rogerio’s features, which had become much uglier, his complexion darker , and his figure less well formed than in the times when she had known him more familiarly. Their eyes met for a moment, but he immediately had to pay all his attention to what was happening regarding his daughter. “This is horrible!” exclaimed the Governor, slowly returning from the astonishment that Pearl’s response had caused him. Here is a three-year-old girl, who does not know who created her. There is no doubt that he is in the same ignorance regarding his soul, his current perversity and his future destiny. It seems to me, gentlemen, that there is no need to proceed any further. Esther then took Pearl and embraced her in her arms, looking at the old Puritan magistrate with almost a ferocious expression in her eyes. Alone in the world, thrown from it like rotten fruit, and with this only treasure that was the consolation of her heart, she was aware that she possessed indestructible rights against the pretensions of the world, and she was willing to defend them at all costs. –God has given me this girl, he exclaimed. He has given it to me in return for everything that I have been robbed of by you. It is my happiness, and at the same time my torment. Pearl is the one who keeps me alive in this world. Pearl punishes me too. Don’t you see that she is the scarlet letter, capable only of being loved and endowed with an infinite power of retribution for my lack? You will not take it from me: first I will die. –Poor woman, the old ecclesiastic said with some kindness, the girl will be very well cared for, perhaps better than what you can do. –God entrusted her to my care, Esther repeated, straining her voice. I won’t hand her over. And then, as if on a sudden impulse, he turned to the young ecclesiastic, Mr. Dimmesdale, whom until then he had barely looked at, and exclaimed: “Speak for me!” You were my shepherd, and you had my soul in your charge, and you know me better than these men. I don’t want to lose my daughter. Speak for me: you know,–because you are endowed with the compassion that these men lack,–you know what is in my heart, and what the rights of a mother are, and that they are much more powerful when that mother has only her daughter and the scarlet letter. Look at her! I don’t want to lose the girl. Look at her! At this frantic and singular appeal, which indicated that Esther’s present position had almost deprived her of her judgment, the young ecclesiastic came forward, pale and placing his hand on his heart, as was his custom. custom whenever his nervous temperament put him in a state of extreme agitation. He seemed now more full of anxiety and more exhausted than when we described him in the scene of Esther’s public ignominy; and whether due to his broken health or any other cause, his large black eyes revealed a world of pain in the restless and melancholic expression of his gaze. –There is much truth in what this woman says,–began Mr. Dimmesdale in a sweet and tremulous, yet vigorous voice, which resonated in all areas of the hall;–there is truth in what Ester says, and in the feelings that inspire her. God has given him the girl, and at the same time an instinctive knowledge of the nature and needs of that tender being, which seem very peculiar, a knowledge that no other mortal can possess. And furthermore, isn’t there something immensely sacred between the relationships of this mother and this girl? –Ah! How is that, good Mr. Dimmesdale? – the Governor interrupted – – I beg you to clarify this point. “This must be the case,” continued the young ecclesiastic, “because, if we think otherwise, would it not imply that the Heavenly Father, the Creator of all things in this world, has thought little of a sinful action, and has not given much importance to the difference that exists between a pure love and an impure one?” This daughter of the father’s guilt and the mother’s shame has come, sent by God, to influence in various ways the heart of the one who now so vehemently and with such bitterness claims the right to keep her at her side. She was created for a blessing, for the only happiness of her life. It was undoubtedly created, as the mother herself has told us, to also be a retribution; a torment of all hours; a dart, a heartbreak, an always latent agony in the midst of a passing joy. Has she not expressed this thought in the poor girl’s dress, which so effectively reminds us of the red symbol that burns her breast? –Well said, well said! exclaimed the good Mr. Wilson. I feared that the woman was only thinking about making her daughter a mountebank. –Oh! no no; Dimmesdale continued. The mother, believe me, recognizes the solemn miracle that God has worked in the existence of that creature. May I also understand, which is an indisputable truth for me, that this gift, above all, has the purpose of preserving the soul of the mother in a state of grace and freeing her from the deep abysses of sin into which Satan would otherwise have plunged her. Therefore, it is a good thing for this poor sinful woman to have in her charge an infant soul, a being capable of eternal happiness or eternal pain,–a being that is educated by her in the paths of justice, that at every moment reminds her of her fall, but that at the same time makes her keep in mind, as if it were a sacred promise from the Creator, that if the mother educates the girl for heaven, the girl will also take her mother there. And in this, the sinful mother is happier than the sinful father. Therefore, for the benefit of Hester Prynne, no less than for that of the poor girl, let us leave them as Providence has seen fit to place them. “You speak, my friend, with strange vehemence,” old Rogerio told him with a smile. “And what my young brother has said has great weight,” added the Reverend Mr. Wilson. What does the very worthy Governor say? Hasn’t he defended the poor woman’s rights well? “Surely so,” replied the magistrate, “and he has adduced such reasons that we will leave the matter as it is; at least, as long as the woman is not the object of scandal. We must take care, however, that the girl is instructed in catechism with you, good Mr. Wilson, or with the Reverend Mr. Dimmesdale. Furthermore, in due time it is necessary to see to it that he goes to school and church. When the young minister finished speaking, he moved a few steps away from the group, and remained with his face partially hidden by the heavy folds of the window curtains, while the shadow of his body, which the sunlight caused to project on the floor, was all tremulous. with the vehemence of his speech. Pearl, with the capricious liveliness that characterized her, went towards him, and taking one of his hands in hers, she rested her cheek on it: a caress so tender, and at the same time so natural, that Ester, looking at it, said to herself: Is that my Pearl? He knew, however, that his daughter’s heart was capable of love, although it almost always revealed itself in a passionate and violent way; and in the course of his few years he had scarcely appeared twice as softly and tenderly as now. The young minister–for except the looks of a woman who idolizes herself, there is nothing as sweet as these spontaneous caresses of a child, which are an indication that there is in us something truly worthy of being loved–the young minister cast a glance around him, put his hand on the girl’s head, hesitated for a moment, and kissed her on the forehead. This tender caprice, so unusual in Pearl’s character, did not last long: she burst out laughing, and went along the hall , jumping so lightly that old Mr. Wilson wondered if she had touched the pavement with her toes. “This little thing has something of sorcery in it,” he said to Dimmesdale: it doesn’t need an old woman’s broomstick to fly. –Strange girl!–observed old Rogerio. It’s easy to see what’s in her about her mother. Do you believe, gentlemen, that it is beyond the power of a philosopher to analyze the nature of the girl, and from her appearance and manner of being, to guess who the father is? “No: in such a matter it would be sinful to adhere to profane philosophy ,” said Mr. Wilson. It is better to devote yourself to fasting and prayer to solve the problem; and much better still, leave the mystery as it is, until Providence reveals it when it is in its power. Therefore
, every good Christian has the right to show the kindness of a father towards this poor abandoned child. The business being resolved in a manner satisfactory to Ester, she left with her daughter for her cabin. When they were descending the stairs, it is said that the shutter of the window of one of the rooms opened, revealing the face of Mrs. Hibbins, the Governor’s irate sister, the same one who some years later was executed as a witch. –Hey! Hey! he said,–revealing an ominous face that contrasted with the cheerful appearance of the house. Do you want to come with us to the jungle tonight ? We will have very happy people there; and I have promised the Black Man that Ester Prynne would take part in the party. “Please excuse me,” Esther responded with a triumphant smile. I have to go back to my house and take care of my Perlita. If they had taken it from me, then I would have gladly gone into the jungle in your company, signing my name in the Black Man’s book, and that with my own blood. “We’ll have you there before long,” said the witch lady, frowning and retreating. But here,–if we assume that this dialogue between Mrs. Hibbins and Ester is authentic, and not a fable,–here we already have proof of the reason that the young ecclesiastic had in opposing the cutting of the ties that bind a delinquent mother to the fruit of her fragility. Already on this occasion the girl’s love saved her mother from Satan’s snares . Chapter 9. THE DOCTOR. As the reader will remember, the name of Roger Chillingworth concealed another name, the former possessor of which he had resolved never to mention . It has already been mentioned that in the middle of the crowd that witnessed the ignominious punishment of Esther, an individual of advanced age, recently arrived from the lands occupied by the Indians, suddenly contemplated, exposed to the eyes of the public, as if she were a living image of sin, the woman in whom he had hoped to find incarnated the joy and warmth of home. He saw his wife’s honor trampled by everyone around him. His infamy palpitated there, in the public square. If the news ever reached the ears of relatives and companions of that woman’s childhood, what else would they have left but the contagion of her dishonor, all the greater the more intimate and sacred their kinship relations had been? And as for him, whose ties with the delinquent woman had been the closest and most sacred that could exist, why come forward to claim such an unappetizing inheritance? He resolved, therefore, not to allow himself to be exposed to the pillory of infamy next to what was once his wife. Unknown to everyone except Esther, and possessing the means of keeping her silent, he chose to erase his name from the list of the living, to consider his former ties and interests completely dissolved, and, in a word, to consider himself segregated from the world as if he really lay at the bottom of the ocean, where public rumor had long since consigned him. Once this plan was carried out, new interests would immediately arise and at the same time a new object to which he would devote his energy, dark, it is true, and perhaps criminal, but a sufficiently absorbing incentive for him to dedicate all the force of his faculties to its realization . To carry out this project, he established his residence in the Puritan city, under the assumed name of Roger Chillingworth, with no other recommendation than his scientific knowledge and his intelligence, of which he possessed an unusual sum. As the studies he had done in other times had familiarized him with the medical science of the day, he introduced himself as a physicist, and as such he was cordially received. In the colony, men skilled in medicine or surgery were very rare. The health of the residents of the good city of Boston, at least as far as medicine was concerned, had until then been entrusted to the guardianship of an elderly deacon and pharmacist, whose piety and rectitude were more convincing testimonies in his favor than those he could have presented in the form of a proper diploma. The only surgeon was an individual who combined the casual exercise of that noble profession with the daily and habitual handling of the razor. For such a faculty, Roger Chillingworth was a brilliant acquisition. He soon expressed his familiarity with the powerful and imposing machinery of ancient medicine, in which each remedy contained a multitude of extraordinary and heterogeneous ingredients, composed with as much work and care as if it were a question of obtaining the Elixir of Life. During his captivity among the Indians, he had acquired a remarkable knowledge of the properties of indigenous herbs and roots ; Nor did he conceal from his patients that these simple medicines, which wise nature had made known to the uncultured savage, deserved their confidence in the same degree as the pharmacopoeia of the Europeans, in the formation of which so many centuries and so many wise doctors had been spent. This foreign scholar was an exemplary person, at least as to the external forms of religion, and soon after his arrival in the colony he chose the Reverend Mr. Dimmesdale as his spiritual guide. The young ecclesiastic, who had completed his studies at the University of Oxford, where his memory was respectfully preserved, was regarded by his most ardent admirers almost as an apostle consecrated by heaven and destined, if he could work and live the ordinary term of human existence, to do much for the benefit of the Church of New England. At the present period of our history, his health, however, had evidently begun to decline. Those who were most familiar with Dimmesdale’s habits and customs believed that the pallor of his cheeks was the result of his intense zeal for study, of the scrupulous performance of his religious duties, and above all of the fasts and vigils which he so frequently practiced to prevent earthly matter from dimming or dimming the brightness of his spiritual lamp. Some declared that if Mr. Dimmesdale was really about to die so young, it was because the world was not worthy of being trodden under his feet. By On the other hand, he himself, with characteristic humility, said that if Providence deemed it appropriate to take him from this world, it would be because of his lack of merit to carry out the most humble mission on earth. But despite the divergence of opinions on the matter, the truth was that his health was very broken. He had lost a lot of weight; His voice, although still sonorous and sweet, had a certain melancholy expression of decay; He was frequently seen, at the slightest noise or accident of little importance, to put his hand to his heart, with a sudden redness of his face, followed by pallor, a sign of pain. Such was the condition of young Dimmesdale, and so imminent the danger of that nascent light of the world being extinguished before its time, when Roger Chillingworth arrived in the city. Its first appearance on the scene, without knowing where it came from, whether it had fallen from the sky or whether it came from the lower regions, gave it a certain aspect of mystery, which easily became something almost miraculous. It was known that he was a skilled and intelligent man; It had been observed that he gathered herbs and wild flowers, that he pulled out roots, that he cut branches from the trees of the forest, as a person familiar with the hidden virtues of that which had no value in the eyes of the common people. He had been heard to speak of Sir Kenelm Digby15 and of other famous men, whose knowledge in scientific matters was considered almost supernatural, with whom he had associated or corresponded. Why, occupying such a high position in the world of science, had he come to the colony? What could this man whose sphere of action was in the big cities look for in a semi-wild country? In response to this question, a rumor then began to circulate, to which, however absurd it was, even sensible people gave credence. It was said that the sky had performed a true miracle by transporting through the air, from a University in Germany, an eminent Doctor of Medicine, depositing him at the door of Mr. Dimmesdale’s study. People who were much more sensible in matters of faith, and who knew that heaven achieves its ends without what is called miraculous intervention, were inclined to see something providential in the timely arrival of Roger Chillingworth. Giving consistency to this idea was the great interest that the physicist, as it was said in those times, showed from the beginning for the young ecclesiastic, to whom he became attached as one of his parishioners; and despite his natural reserve, he tried to gain his friendship and trust. He expressed great alarm at the state of his pastor’s health, and also great desire to try if he could cure him, and he did not despair of achieving it if the work was undertaken in time. The officials of Mr. Dimmesdale’s church, as well as the married ladies and the beautiful young ladies, his parishioners, urged him to take advantage of the skill of the doctor, who had so generously offered to serve him. Mr. Dimmesdale gently refused their requests. –I don’t need medicine, he said. But how could the young minister speak thus, when with each passing Sunday his cheeks became paler, his face thinner, and his voice more tremulous; And when it had become a constant habit to press your heart with your hand? Were you tired of your work? Did you want to die? These questions were solemnly put to Mr. Dimmesdale by the elder ministers of Boston, and by the dignitaries of his own church, who, to use their own language, admonished him of the sin he committed in rejecting the help which Providence so manifestly presented to him. He listened to them in silence and finally promised to consult the doctor. “If it were the will of God,” said the Reverend Mr. Dimmesdale, when in fulfillment of his promise he asked old Roger Chillingworth for the help of his profession, “I would be content that my labors, and my sorrows, and my sins, should soon end with my existence, and that which is earthly in me should be buried in my grave, and that which is spiritual will accompany me to my eternal home, rather than put your ability to the test for my benefit. –Ah!–replied the doctor with that calmness that, natural or imposed, distinguished all his manners,–this is how a young ecclesiastic usually speaks. Youth, because it has not yet taken deep roots, easily renounces life. And devout and good men who follow God’s precepts on earth would gladly leave this world to be at his side in the New Jerusalem. “No,” replied Dimmesdale, putting his hand to his heart, with a quick redness on his forehead and a contraction of pain on his face, “if I were more worthy of going there, I would have more satisfaction in working here.” “Good men always form too mean an idea of ​​themselves ,” said the doctor. In this way the mysterious Roger Chillingworth became the Reverend Mr. Dimmesdale’s medical advisor. As not only the illness aroused the doctor’s interest, but also the character and qualities of his patient, these two men, so different in age, gradually came to spend a lot of time together. For the benefit of the ecclesiastic’s health, and to facilitate the doctor in the best way to collect the plants with medicinal properties that were necessary, they took long walks along the seashore or through the forest, mixing their varied conversation with the murmur and cadence of the waves, and the solemn murmur of the wind in the treetops. Often, too, one was the guest of the other; and for the young minister there was a kind of fascination in the society of the man of science, in whom he recognized an intellectual development of an uncommon scope and depth, together with a liberality and breadth of ideas that he would try in vain to seek in the members of his profession. In truth , he was surprised, if not scandalized, to discover this last quality in the doctor. Mr. Dimmesdale was a true priest, in the broad meaning of this word: a truly religious man, with the feeling of reverence highly developed, and with a kind of intelligence that obliged him not to deviate from the narrow paths of faith, which became deeper in him every day. In no state of society would he have been what is called a man of liberal ideas; He would always have needed, for the peace of his spirit, to feel that faith surrounded him on all sides, supporting him and at the same time enclosing him in an iron circle. Despite this, although with tremulous joy, he experienced a kind of temporary relief in being able to contemplate the universe through an intelligence completely different from those with which he was usually in contact. It was as if a window had been opened through which purer air could penetrate into the dense and suffocating atmosphere of his study, where his life was consumed by the light of the lamp, or by the rays of the sun that penetrated there with difficulty, and where he inhaled only the musty smell that comes from books. But that air was too thin and cold to be breathed safely for long; Consequently, the ecclesiastic, as well as the doctor, once again entered the limits allowed by the church in order not to fall into heresy. In this way he examined his patient with the greatest care and care, not only as he saw him in his daily life, without deviating from the path of the ideas and feelings that were habitual to him, but also as he presented himself to him when, in a different medium, both moral and intellectual, the novelty of that medium gave expression to something that was equally new in its nature. It seems that he considered it essential to know the man before attempting to cure him; because wherever heart and intelligence exist combined, they have a certain influence on the diseases of the body. Arthur Dimmesdale’s imagination and brain were so active , and his sensitivity so intense, that his physical ailments surely had their origin in them. Therefore, Roger Chillingworth,–the skillful man, the benevolent and friendly doctor,–tried to first probe the heart of his patient, tracing his ideas and principles, scrutinizing his memories, and testing everything with a cautious hand, like one searching for treasure in a gloomy cavern. Few secrets can escape the investigator who has the opportunity and the license to dedicate himself to such an enterprise, and has the sagacity to carry it out. The man who feels overwhelmed under the weight of a grave secret should especially avoid the intimacy of his doctor; because if he is found endowed with natural sagacity and I don’t know what, in the manner of intuition; if it does not show importunate vanity, nor unpleasant characteristic qualities; If he has the innate faculty of establishing such an affinity between his intelligence and that of his patient, that the latter comes to speak, plainly and carelessly, what he imagines he has only thought; if such revelations are received in silence, with a simple look of sympathy, or at most with one or another word in which it is understood that everything has been understood; And if these qualities necessary for a confidant are combined with the advantages provided by the circumstance of being a doctor, then, at an inevitable moment, the patient’s soul will open, discovering its most hidden mysteries in the light of day . Roger Chillingworth possessed all, or almost all, of the conditions enumerated above. However, time passed; A kind of intimacy, as we have already said, had been established between these two educated and intelligent men; They discussed all topics related to moral or religious matters, as well as public or private affairs ; Each one also talked a lot about matters that seemed purely personal; and yet no secret, such as the doctor imagined must exist, escaped the young minister’s lips. He had, however, a suspicion that not even the exact nature of Mr. Dimmesdale’s bodily illness had been revealed to him. It was a strange reservation! After some time, due to an indication from the doctor, Mr. Dimmesdale’s friends arranged things so that the two would stay under the same roof, so that the doctor would have more opportunities to look after the health of the young ecclesiastic. This arrangement caused great joy in the city. It was believed to be the best thing for Mr. Dimmesdale’s well-being; unless, as those in authority had repeatedly advised him, he decided to choose as his wife one of the many young ladies who were spiritually addicted to him. But at present there was no hope that Arthur Dimmesdale would decide to do so; He had responded with a refusal to all indications of this nature, as if priestly celibacy were one of his articles of faith.16 Things being in such a state, it seemed that this old, sagacious, experienced and benevolent doctor, especially if one also took into account the paternal love and respect he professed for the young minister, was the only person and the most suitable person to be constantly at his side and within reach of his voice. The two friends established their new home in the house of a pious widow, of good social standing, who assigned Mr. Dimmesdale a room facing the street, bathed in the sun, but with thick curtains on the window that softened the light when desired. The walls were hung with tapestries that were said to come from the Gobelins, and represented the story of David and Bathsheba, and that of the prophet Nathan, as referred to in the Bible, with still vivid colors that gave the beautiful female figures in the painting the appearance of horrible prophetesses of misfortune . Here the pale ecclesiastic deposited his library, rich in enormous folio books covered in parchment, which contained the works of the Holy Fathers, the science of the Rabbis and the erudition of the monks, whose writings the Protestant clerics were forced to frequently use, even though they disdained them and they even vilified. At the back of the house the old doctor arranged his study and laboratory, not as a modern scientific man would consider it tolerably complete, but equipped with a distilling apparatus and the necessary gadgets to prepare drugs and chemical substances, which the practical alchemist knew how to make good use of. With such a comfortable situation, these two wise people each settled into their seats in their respective domain, but passing familiarly from one room to another, each one expressing great interest in the other’s business, without, however, reaching the limits of curiosity. The most sensible friends of the Reverend Arthur Dimmesdale, as we have already indicated, imagined, very well, that the hand of Providence had done all this with the object, demanded in so many prayers, both public and private, of restoring the health of the young minister. But it must also be said that a certain part of the community had lately begun to consider in a different way the relations between Mr. Dimmesdale and the mysterious old doctor. When an ignorant crowd tries to see things with their own eyes, at their own risk and expense, they are in grave danger of deceiving themselves. However, when he forms his judgment, as is commonly the case, guided by the teachings of a great soul, the conclusions he reaches are often so profound and so exact that they may be said to have the character of supernaturally revealed truths. The people, in the case we are dealing with, could not justify their prevention against Roger Chillingworth with reasons not worth refuting. It is true that an old craftsman who had lived in London thirty years before the events we narrate, claimed to have seen the doctor, although under a different name, which he did not remember, in the company of Doctor Forman, the famous old magician involved in the affair of the murder of Sir Thomas Overbury, which occurred at that time and caused what is today called a great sensation. Two or three individuals said that the physician, during his captivity among the Indians, had increased his medical knowledge by taking part in the incantations or magical ceremonies of the wild priests; who, as was known, were powerful sorcerers who sometimes performed almost miraculous cures thanks to their expertise in Black Magic. A large number of individuals, many of them sensible, and practical observers, whose opinions on other matters would have been very valuable, asserted that the outward appearance of Roger Chillingworth had undergone a remarkable change since he had settled in the town, and especially since he had lived under the same roof with Dimmesdale. The calm, meditative, study-like expression on his face that characterized him at the beginning had been replaced by something malignant and unpleasant, which had not been noticed before, but whose intensity was increasing as he was observed more closely and more frequently. According to the vulgar idea, the fire that burned in his laboratory came from hell, and was fed with infernal substances; and therefore, as expected, his face also became blacker and blacker with the smoke. To summarize, we will say that the belief took shape that the Reverend Arthur Dimmesdale, like many other characters of special holiness in all periods of the Christian religion, was tempted by Satan himself, or by an emissary of his in the person of old Roger Chillingworth. This diabolical agent had divine permission to enjoy the intimacy of the young ecclesiastic for a time, and to conspire against the salvation of his soul; although no sensible man could doubt for a moment on which side the victory would rest. The people waited, with unwavering faith, to see the minister emerge from that struggle transfigured with the glory that his inevitable triumph would bring him. Meanwhile, it was nevertheless very sad to think of the mortal agony through which he had to go through before emerging victorious. Oh! Judging by the sadness and terror that were revealed in the poor ecclesiastic’s eyes, the battle was being very rough without it being possible to say that victory was certain. Chapter 10. THE DOCTOR AND HIS PATIENT. The old doctor had been throughout his life a man of calm and benevolent temperament, although not of very warm affections, and always pure and honest in all his dealings with the world. An investigation had now begun with the severe and impartial integrity of a judge, as he imagined, desirous only of finding the truth, as if it were a geometric problem, and not of the human passions and offenses of which he was the victim. But as he proceeded in his work, a kind of terrible fascination, an imperious and inescapable need took hold of the old Roger, and left him no peace or rest until he had done everything he believed to be his duty. He now probed the poor minister’s heart like a miner digs the earth in search of gold; or a gravedigger a grave in search of a jewel buried with a corpse, to finally find only bones and corruption. Would that, for the benefit of his soul, this had been what Chillingworth sought! Sometimes an ominous glow shone in the doctor’s eyes like the reflection of an infernal bonfire, as if the terrain in which this gloomy miner worked had given him clues that made him conceive well-founded hopes of finding something valuable. –This man,–he said to himself at such moments–this man, as pure as they judge him, who seems like a spirit, has inherited a very strong, animal nature from his father or mother. Let’s delve a little deeper in this direction. Then, after thoroughly searching the soul of the young clergyman, and discovering many precious materials in the form of high aspirations for the welfare of the human race, fervent love of souls, pure feelings, natural piety strengthened by meditation and study, and illuminated by revelation,–all of which, although gold of many carats, had no value to the medical scrutinizer,–he, although discouraged, began their investigations in another direction. He crept stealthily, with steps as cautious and with an appearance as cautious as a thief who enters a bedroom where there is a man half asleep, or perhaps completely awake, with the aim of stealing the very treasure that this man guards like the apple of his eye. Despite all his precautions and care, the pavement creaked from time to time; their clothes made a slight noise; The shadow of his figure, in an impermissible proximity, almost enveloped his victim. Mr. Dimmesdale, whose nervous sensibility was often to him a kind of spiritual intuition, sometimes had a vague idea that something, an enemy to his peace, had stood in his way. But the old doctor also had perceptions that were almost intuitive; and when the minister then gave him a look of astonishment, the doctor sat quietly without saying a word like his benevolent friend, watchful and affectionate, though not importunate. However, Mr. Dimmesdale would perhaps have realized more perfectly the character of this individual, if a certain morbid feeling, to which sick souls are exposed, had not caused him to conceive suspicion of the entire human race. Not trusting in the friendship of any man, he could not recognize an enemy when he really appeared. Therefore, he continued to maintain his familiar relationship with the doctor, receiving him daily in his study, or visiting him in his laboratory, and, for pleasure, paying attention to the procedures by which herbs were converted into powerful drugs. One day, with his forehead resting on his hand, and his elbow on the window sill that overlooked a cemetery near the house, he was talking to the doctor, while he was examining a bunch of ugly-looking plants. “Where,” he said, looking at the plants out of the corner of his eye, since he rarely He now looked in front of no object, whether human or inanimate,–where, good Doctor, have you collected those herbs with such black and lank leaves? –In the nearby cemetery,–the doctor responded, continuing with his occupation. They are new to me. They grew on a grave without a tombstone, nor without any other sign that preserves the memory of the dead, except for these ugly herbs. They seem to spring from his heart, as if they symbolized some horrible secret buried with him and which he would have done much better to confess during his lifetime. “Perhaps,” replied Mr. Dimmesdale, “he ardently desired it, but it was not given him to do it.” “And why?” said the doctor, “why not do it, when all the forces of nature demand the confession of guilt in such a way that even these black herbs have come out of a buried heart, so that a crime that was not revealed is revealed?” –That, good sir, is nothing more than a fantasy of yours. If I am not mistaken, only the power of Divinity is able to discover, whether through spoken words, or by sign, or emblem, the secrets that could be buried in a human heart. The heart that becomes guilty of such secrets must preserve them until the day when all hidden things will be revealed. Nor have I read or interpreted the Holy Scriptures in such a way as to make me understand that the discovery of human facts or thoughts, which is then to be verified, must form part of the retribution. This would surely be a very superficial way of looking at things. No; These revelations, unless I am very mistaken, serve only to increase the intellectual satisfaction of all rational beings who on that day will be waiting to see the explanation of the somber problem of life. For the resolution of this problem to be complete in all its parts, a knowledge of the hearts of men will be necessary. And I believe, furthermore, that the hearts that contain those sad secrets of which you speak will make them known on that last day, not with repugnance, but with inexplicable joy. “Then why not reveal them here?” asked the doctor, looking sideways and calmly at the minister, “why don’t the guilty take advantage of this unspeakable joy as soon as possible?” “Most of them do,” said Dimmesdale, putting his hand to his chest as if seized by sudden pain. More than one unhappy soul has deposited its secret in me, not only on the deathbed, but in the fullness of existence and the enjoyment of a good reputation. And always, after such a confession, oh! What an aspect of internal tranquility I have seen reflected on the faces of those brothers who had erred in the path of duty! And how could it be otherwise? Why would a man guilty, for example, of murder, prefer to keep the corpse buried in his own heart, rather than cast it away from him once and for all, for the world to take for its own? “Yet some men bury their secrets this way,” observed the calm doctor. –Yes, it is true; “There are such men,” answered Mr. Dimmesdale. But, without presenting other more obvious reasons, it could be that they do not open their lips because of the very constitution of their nature. Or–why not suppose it?–however guilty they may be, as they still harbor true zeal for the glory of God and the well-being of their fellow men, perhaps they are afraid of the idea of ​​presenting themselves stained and guilty before the eyes of men, since they fear that in the future nothing good will be expected of them, nor will they be able to redeem through good works the evil they have done. Therefore, to their own unspeakable torment, they move among their fellows, seemingly pure as new-fallen snow, while their hearts are all sooty and stained with iniquity that they cannot rid themselves of. “These men deceive themselves,” said the doctor with a little more vehemence than was natural to him, and making a light sign with his index finger,–they fear bringing upon themselves the ignominy that rightfully belongs to them. Their love for men, their zeal in the service of God, all these holy impulses, may or may not exist in their hearts on a par with the iniquities to which their faults have given rise, and which will necessarily engender in them infernal products. But do not raise your impure hands to heaven if you try to glorify God. If you want to serve your fellow men, do so by clearly showing the power and reality of conscience, voluntarily humiliating yourself and doing penance. Will you make me believe, oh wise and pious friend! that a false exterior can do more for the glory of God or the well-being of men than the pure and simple truth? Believe me, those men deceive themselves. “Perhaps so,” said the young minister with an indifferent air, as if avoiding a discussion that he considered irrelevant or not very reasonable; for he possessed to a high degree the ability to ignore a subject that agitated his overly nervous and sensitive temperament. Maybe so, he continued, but now I want to ask my skilled doctor if he really believes that the kind care he has been taking of this weak human machine of mine has been of benefit to me. Before the doctor could respond, they heard the clear, crazy laughter of a child’s lip in the adjoining cemetery. Instinctively looking through the half-open window, since it was summer, the young minister saw Esther and Pearl on the path that crossed the tomb. Pearl looked as beautiful as the light of dawn, but she was precisely in one of those fits of evil joy, which when they occurred, seemed to completely segregate her from everything that was human. He was jumping without any respect from grave to grave, until he reached a cover with a large tombstone on which a coat of arms had been engraved, and he began to dance on it. In response to her mother’s admonitions, the girl stopped for a moment to pluck the thorny buds of a teasel that grew next to the grave. Taking a handful of cocoons, he pinned them along the lines of the scarlet letter that decorated his mother’s chest, to which they remained tenaciously attached. Esther did not tear them off. The doctor, who had meanwhile approached the window, glanced at the cemetery and smiled bitterly. “In the nature of that girl,” he said both to himself and to his companion, “there is neither law, nor reverence for authority, nor consideration for the opinions and customs of others, whether good or bad.” Days ago I saw her sprinkle water on the Governor himself in the cattle trough. What in heaven’s name is this girl, anyway? Is he a completely evil goblin? Do you have affections of any kind? Does it have any patent principles? “None, except the freedom that comes from the breaking of a law,” answered Mr. Dimmesdale with a calm accent, as if he had been discussing the matter with himself. If he is capable of anything good, I don’t know. The girl probably heard the voices of these men, because raising her eyes toward the window with an intelligent and malicious smile, she threw one of the thorny cocoons at the Reverend Mr. Dimmesdale, who with a nervous hand and a certain fear tried to dodge the projectile. Pearl, noticing his concern, clapped her hands with the most extravagant joy. Esther had also involuntarily raised her eyes; and all these four people, old and young, looked at each other in silence, until the girl burst out laughing, and shouted: -Let’s go, mother; Let’s go, or that old Black Man over there will get you. It has already taken over the minister. Let’s go, mother, let’s go, or he ‘ll catch you too. But he can’t catch Perlita. He made his mother leave, jumping, dancing, frolicking fantastically among the mounds of the dead, like a creature who had nothing in common with the generations buried there, not even the most remote kinship with them. It seemed as if it had been created anew elements, therefore necessarily having to live a separate existence, with their own special laws, without their eccentricities being considered a crime. “There goes a woman,” the doctor continued after a pause, “who, whatever her faults, has none of that mysterious hidden corruption that you think must be so hard to bear.” Do you think that Esther Prynne is less unhappy because of that scarlet letter she wears on her bosom? “I think so,” replied the minister. However, I cannot vouch for her. There is an expression of pain on his face, which I wish I had not seen. I believe, however, that it is much better for the patient to be free to show his pain, as is the case with this poor Esther, than not to have it hidden in his heart. There was another pause; and the doctor began again to examine and arrange the plants he had collected. –You asked me, not long ago, he said, my opinion about your health. “So I did,” answered Dimmesdale, “and I should be glad to meet her.” I beg you to speak frankly, whatever your sentence may be. “Well, quite frankly and bluntly,” said the doctor, still busy arranging his herbs, but observing Mr. Dimmesdale circumspectly, “the disease is very strange; not so much in itself, or in its way of manifesting itself externally, at least as far as I can judge from the symptoms that I have been able to observe. Seeing you daily, my good sir, and having studied for months the changes in your physiognomy, I could perhaps consider you a rather sick man, although not so sick that an educated and vigilant doctor would not hope to cure you. But–I don’t know what to say–the disease seems to be familiar to me, and yet I don’t know it. –You are speaking in riddles, my learned sir, said the pale minister, looking out the window. –Then, to speak more clearly,–continued the doctor, and I ask your pardon, if it is necessary that I be forgiven for the frankness of my language,–permit me to ask you,–as your friend, in whose charge Providence has placed your life and physical well-being,–whether you have fully explained and related to me all the effects and symptoms of this disease. “How can you ask me such a question?” replied the minister. It would certainly be child’s play to call a doctor and hide the sore. “You give me to understand, then, that I know everything,” said Roger Chillingworth with a deliberate accent and fixing a perceptive gaze on the minister, full of intense and concentrated intelligence. That’s what it will be like; But he who is exposed only to physical and external evil, sometimes knows only half of the evil for which he has been called to cure. A disease of the body, which we consider a complete whole in itself, may perhaps be nothing more than the symptom of some purely spiritual disturbance. I ask your forgiveness again, my good friend, if my language offends you in the slightest; But of all the men I have known, in none, as in you, the physical part is so completely amalgamated and identified, if I may use the expression, with the spiritual part of which it is the mere instrument. “In that case I don’t need to ask you any more questions,” said the minister, rising somewhat hastily from his seat. I do not believe that you are in charge of the care of souls. “This,” the doctor continued, without altering his voice or paying attention to the interruption, but standing up in front of the exhausted and pale minister, “makes an illness, a sore place, if we can call it that, in your spirit, immediately have its proper manifestation in your corporeal form. Would you like your doctor to cure physical illness ? But how can he do it without first letting him see the wound or sorrow of your soul? –No!–not to you!–not to an earthly doctor!–exclaimed Mr. Dimmesdale with the greatest agitation and fixing his wide-open, brilliant eyes, and with a kind of ferocity, on old Roger. Chillingworth. Not to you! But if it is a disease of the soul that I have, then I will put myself in the hands of the only Physician of the soul; He can heal or kill as he deems most convenient. Do with me in your justice and wisdom what you think is good. But who are you, who are involved in this matter? You, who dare to come between the patient and his God? And with a furious gesture he hurried out of the room. “I’m glad I took this step,” the doctor said to himself, following the minister with his gaze and with a serious smile. Nothing is lost. We will be friends again and soon. But see how anger takes hold of this man and drives him crazy! And the same thing that happens with one feeling happens with another. This pious Mr. Dimmesdale has heretofore committed a fault, in a moment of ardent outburst. It was not difficult to reestablish the intimacy of the two companions, in the same state and condition as before. The young minister, after a few hours of solitude, understood that the disorder of his nerves had caused him to incur an explosion of anger, without there having been anything in the doctor’s words that could excuse him. He marveled at the violence with which he had treated the kind old man, when he was doing nothing more than expressing an opinion and giving advice which were part of his duty as a doctor, and which he himself had expressly requested. Filled with these ideas of repentance, he lost no time in giving him the most complete satisfaction, and in begging his friend to continue with his work and care, which, if they did not completely restore his health, had undoubtedly been a part of prolonging his weak existence until that hour. The elderly Rogerio easily agreed, and continued his medical surveillance, doing everything he could for the benefit of the minister, with the greatest good faith, but always leaving the patient’s room, after an optional interview, with a mysterious and strange smile on his lips. This expression was invisible in Dimmesdale’s presence , but grew more intense as the doctor crossed the threshold. “A strange case!” he muttered. I need to look deeper into it. Rare sympathy between soul and body! If only for the benefit of science, I have to investigate this matter thoroughly . Shortly after the scene referred to above, it happened that the Reverend Mr. Dimmesdale, at noon, and entirely unexpectedly, fell into a profound sleep while, seated in his armchair, he was reading a folio volume which lay open on the table. The intensity of the minister’s rest was all the more notable because he was one of those people whose sleep was usually light, uncontinuous, and easy to be interrupted for the slightest reason. But his spirit was not so profoundly lethargic that it prevented him from moving in the chair when the old doctor, without any extraordinary precautions, entered the room. Chillingworth addressed his sick friend without hesitation, and placing his hand on the latter’s bosom, he threw aside the dress that had always kept him covered, even in the eyes of the doctor. That’s when Mr. Dimmesdale shuddered and even moved slightly. After a brief pause the doctor left. But with what fierce look of surprise, joy and horror! With what sinister pleasure, too intense to find full expression in his looks and features, and which therefore spread throughout the ugliness of his face and body, manifesting itself through extravagant gestures and gestures, now raising his arms towards the sky, now stamping his feet on the ground! If someone had been able to see old Roger Chillingworth in that moment of ecstasy , they would not have to wonder how Satan behaves when he manages to lose a precious soul for heaven and win it for hell. But what distinguished the doctor’s ecstasy from that which Satan would experience was the expression of amazement that accompanied it. Chapter 11. THE INTERIOR OF A HEART. After the event lately referred to, the relations between Dimmesdale and the doctor, although apparently the same, were in reality of a different character from what they had had before. The doctor now saw a very simple path to follow, although not precisely the one he had outlined for himself. Despite how calm, peaceful and cold he seemed, it was to be feared that there existed in him a background of malignancy, until then latent, but now active, which impelled him to imagine a more intimate revenge than any other mortal had ever taken on his enemy. He aspired to become the faithful friend to whose heart he would confide all the fear, the remorse, the agony, the useless repentance, the repeated invasion of sinful ideas that he had tried in vain to reject. All that guilty pain, hidden from the eyes of the world and for which it would have pitied and forgiven him, had to be revealed to him, the Implacable, to him, who would never forgive. All that dark secret had to be shown precisely to the man to whom nothing else could satisfy, like this and in such a complete way, the desire for revenge! The natural reserve and elusiveness of the young minister had been an obstacle to this plan. The doctor, however, was not willing to be satisfied with the aspect that, almost providentially, the matter took in place of the black plans he had drawn up. He could tell that a revelation had been made to him; and it mattered little to him whether his origin was heavenly or infernal. Thanks to that unexpected revelation, in all his subsequent relationships with Mr. Dimmesdale, it seemed that the most hidden part of the young minister’s soul was visible to the doctor’s eyes so that he could observe and study his most intimate emotions. From then on he became, not only a spectator, but also a main actor in what was happening in the deepest recesses of the poor minister’s chest. He could do with it whatever he wanted. If he wanted to wake him with a sensation of agony, there was his victim on the rack of torment. He only needed to move certain springs in his soul, which the doctor knew perfectly well. Did I want to shake him with sudden fear? As if obeying the rod of a prodigious magician, a thousand visions of different shapes arose, which revolved around the unhappy ecclesiastic with his fingers pointing at his chest. All this he performed with such perfect subtlety that the minister, although constantly with a vague perception that something evil was watching him, was never able to realize exactly its true nature. It is true that he looked with doubt and fear, and sometimes even with horror and intense aversion, at the old doctor. His gestures, his movements, his gray beard, his most insignificant and indifferent actions, even the cut and fashion of his dress, were hateful to him: all a sign of an antipathy in the heart of the minister deeper than he was willing to confess to himself. And as it was impossible to assign a cause to such distrust and aversion, Mr. Dimmesdale, conscious that the poison of some morbid point in his spirit was infecting his whole heart, attributed all his presentiments to this. He therefore insisted on curing himself of his antipathies towards the old doctor, and without stopping to think about what he should have deduced from them, he did everything he could to eliminate them. Finding it impossible to achieve this, he continued his habits of family relations with the old man, thus providing him with constant opportunities for the vengeful doctor, a poor and wretched creature more unhappy than his victim, to achieve the end to which he had devoted all his energy. While suffering in body, with his soul corroded and tormented by some dark cause, and completely given over to the machinations of his most mortal enemy, the Reverend Mr. Dimmesdale had been achieving brilliant popularity in his sacred ministry. In large part he surely obtained it thanks to his sufferings. His intellectual gifts, His moral perceptions, his ability to communicate to others the emotions he himself experienced, kept him in a state of supernatural activity due to the anguish and restlessness of his daily life. His fame, although still constantly rising, had already left in the shadow the less brilliant reputations of some of his colleagues, among whom were men who had spent many more years in acquiring their theological knowledge than Mr. Dimmesdale was of age, and who must therefore be found much more full of solid science than his young companion. There were others endowed with more tenacious determination, of greater weight and gravity, qualities that, together with a certain dose of theological knowledge, constitute an efficient and highly respectable, although unkind, variety of the clerical species. There were others, true Holy Fathers, whose faculties had developed with the patient, constant and tireless study of books, and whose purity of life could be said to have put them in spiritual communication with a higher world. But all these men lacked that divine gift that descended upon the disciples of the Lord in tongues of flame on the day of Pentecost, symbolizing not only the ability to speak in strange and unknown languages, but also the ability to address the entire human race in the language of the heart. All these ministers, otherwise very apostolic, lacked that divine gift of a tongue of flames. They would have tried in vain, if they tried, to express the most sublime truths through familiar voices and images. Probably to this class Mr. Dimmesdale belonged both by temperament and education. He would have risen to the high peaks of faith and holiness, had he not been prevented from doing so by the weight of crime, anguish, or whatever, which was dragging him down. This weight, despite being a man of ethereal attributes whose voice perhaps the angels themselves had heard, kept him at the level of the most humble; but at the same time it put him in a more intimate relationship with sinful humanity, so that his heart vibrated in unison with its, understanding their pains, and making thousands of hearts share his own, through his melancholic and persuasive, although sometimes terrible, eloquence. The guilty people knew the power that moved them in such a way. The people thought that the young minister was a miracle of holiness: they imagined that heaven spoke through his mouth, either to console them, or to reproach them, or to tell them words of love or wisdom. In his eyes, the ground he walked on was hallowed. The young maidens of his church became increasingly pale around him, victims of a passion so full of religious sentiment that they imagined it was all just religion, and they offered it publicly at the foot of the altars as the most acceptable of sacrifices. The elderly members of his parish, contemplating the delicate physical constitution of Mr. Dimmesdale, and comparing it with the vigor of their own, in spite of the difference in age, believed that he would precede them on their journey to the heavenly region, and recommended that their children bury his old remains next to the holy grave of the young minister. And meanwhile, when the unfortunate Mr. Dimmesdale thought of his grave, he wondered if it were possible for grass to grow over it, since a cursed thing was to be buried there. The anguish with which this public veneration filled him is inconceivable! To worship the truth was a genuine impulse in him, as was to consider empty, vain, and completely devoid of all weight and value, that which was not enlivened by the truth. What was he then? Something corporeal, or the most impalpable of shadows? He longed, therefore, to speak once and for all from the top of his pulpit, and to say aloud, before everyone , what he really was:–I, whom you see dressed in this black robe of the priesthood;–I, who ascend to the sacred pulpit and I raise my pale face towards heaven, trying to put myself in relationship, in your name, with the Almighty;–I, in whose daily life you believe you discern the holiness of Enoch;–I, whose footsteps, as you suppose, leave a luminous footprint on my earthly path, which will serve the pilgrims who come after me to guide them to the region of the blessed;–I, who have placed the water of baptism on the head of your children;–I, who have repeated the last prayers for the souls of those who have departed forever;–I, your shepherd, whom you so revere and in whom you trust so much, I am nothing but a lie and a profanation. More than once the Reverend Dimmesdale had ascended the pulpit with the firm intention of not descending until he had uttered words like the above. More than once he had cleared his throat, and taken a long, deep, trembling breath to free himself from the dark secret of his soul. More than once–no, more than a hundred times–he had actually spoken. Spoken! But how? He had told his listeners that he was a completely abject being, the most abject of the abject, the worst of sinners, an abomination, a thing of incredible iniquity; and that the only thing worthy of surprise was that they did not see his miserable body charred in their presence by the burning anger of the Almighty. Could there be clearer language than this? Would not the listeners rise from their seats, by simultaneous impulse, and make him descend from the pulpit that he was contaminating with his presence? No; no way. Everyone heard that, and everyone revered him even more. They had not the slightest suspicion of the terrible significance of these words with which he condemned himself. “The excellent young man!” they said to each other. The saint on earth! Oh! If in the ermine purity of his soul he can perceive such iniquity, what horrible spectacle will he not see in yours or mine! Dimmesdale, a subtle but remorseful hypocrite , knew well how this vague confession would be regarded. He had tried to create a kind of illusion, exposing to the public the spectacle of a guilty conscience, but he only succeeded in burdening himself with a new sin, and adding a new shame to the old, without even obtaining the momentary consolation of deceiving himself . He had spoken the pure truth, yet transformed it into the most complete falsehood. And despite this, by instinct, by education, by principles, he loved the truth and hated lies like few men. But first of all, and most of all, he hated himself . His intimate anxieties had led him to adopt practices more in harmony with those of the Catholic Church, than with those of the Protestant one in which he had been born and educated. Locking himself in his bedroom, under lock and key, he devoted himself to the use of discipline on his sick body. This Protestant and Puritan minister had frequently applied them behind his back, laughing bitterly at himself at the same time, and lambasting himself even more relentlessly because of this bitter laughter. Like many other pious Puritans, he had the habit of fasting; although not like them to purify the body and make it more worthy of heavenly inspiration, but in a rigorous manner, until his knees trembled, and as an act of penitence. He also spent night after night awake, sometimes in complete darkness; others illuminated only by the flickering light of a lamp; and others contemplating his face in a mirror illuminated by the strongest light he could obtain, thus symbolizing the constant internal examination with which he tortured himself, but with which he could not purify himself. In these prolonged vigils his brain became troubled, and then he believed he saw visions floating before his eyes; Perhaps he perceived them confusedly in the weak light that radiated from them, in the most remote and dark part of his room, or more distinctly, and at his side, reflected in the mirror. It was already a herd of diabolical forms that They made faces at the pale minister, mocking him and inviting him to follow them; and a group of brilliant angels that soared to heaven, full of pain, becoming more ethereal as they ascended. Or it was the friends of his youth, now dead, and his father, with a white beard, frowning piously, and his mother, who turned her face at him as she passed by him. Spirit of a mother! I think he would have cast a look of compassion at his son. And then, through the room that made these spectral visions so horrible, Esther Prynne glided, leading Perlita by the hand, in her scarlet dress, and pointing with her index finger, first at the letter that shone on her bosom, and then at the chest of the young ecclesiastic. None of these visions ever completely deceived him. At any moment, with an effort of his will, he could convince himself that they were not corporeal substances but creations of his restless imagination; but in spite of everything, in a certain sense, they were the truest and most real things that the poor minister now had to do. In a life as false as his, the most unspeakable pain was that the realities that surround us, destined by heaven for the sustenance and joy of our spirit, were deprived of what constitutes their own life and essence. For the false man, the entire universe is false, impalpable, and everything he touches becomes nothing. And he himself, showing himself under a false appearance, becomes a shadow, or perhaps ceases to exist. The only truth that continued to give Mr. Dimmesdale a real existence in this world, was the latent agony in the recesses of his soul, and the undisguised expression of the same in all his outward aspect. If he had once found the power to smile, and present a cheerful face, he would not have been the man he was. On one of those terrible nights which we have tried in vain to describe, the minister rose startled from his seat. A new idea had occurred to him. There might be a moment of peace in your soul. Dressing with the same care as if he were going to carry out his sacred ministry, and in precisely the same way, he descended the stairs without making a sound, opened the door and went out into the street. Chapter 12. THE MINISTER’S VIGIL. Walking as if in a dream, and perhaps really under the influence of a kind of somnambulism, Mr. Dimmesdale reached the place where, years before, Hester had suffered the first hours of her public ignominy. The same platform, black and damaged by the rains, suns and storms of seven long years, with the steps worn by the footsteps of the many prisoners who had climbed them since that time, stood there under the balcony of the church or meeting house. The minister ascended the steps. It was a dark night at the beginning of May. The sky was covered in its entirety with a thick blanket of clouds. If the same crowd that witnessed the punishment of Hester Prynne could have been summoned now, it would not have been possible to distinguish the features of any face on the stage, nor hardly the outlines of a human form in the deep darkness of midnight. But the entire population was given over to sleep. There was no danger that its inhabitants would discover anything. The minister could remain standing there, if he liked, until the morning turned the east red, without running any other risk than the damage that the cold and humid night air could cause to his body. No eye would be able to see him, except the One, always alert and awake, who had seen him when he was locked in his secluded bedroom, flogging himself with bloody disciplines. Why then had he gone there? Was this perhaps a parody of penitence? Yes, a parody, but in which his soul deceived itself while the angels shed sad tears and the enemy of men rejoiced. He had gone there driven by the impulses of Remorse, which harassed him everywhere , and whose companion was that Cowardice that invariably plagued him. made him retreat at the very moment when he was about to open his lips. Poor, unhappy man! What right did he have to burden shoulders as weak as his own under the weight of crime? Crime is for the strong who can either endure it in silence, or get rid of it by unloading their conscience once and for all if they find the burden too serious. But this extremely weak and sensitive soul could do neither one nor the other, but continually vacillate between the two extremes, becoming more and more entangled in the inextricable ties of the agony of a useless repentance and a hidden crime. And so, while he was on the stage, engaged in the task of this vain token of atonement, Dimmesdale found himself overcome with great horror, as if the entire universe were beholding a scarlet mark on his bare breast, precisely above the region of the heart. And in that place, in truth, was, and had been there for a long time, the rodent and poisoned tooth of physical pain. Without any effort of his will to prevent it, and without being able to control himself, he let out a piercing, high-pitched scream, which echoed from house to house, and which was returned by the distant hills, as if a troupe of evil spirits , knowing how much horror and misery that scream contained, had amused themselves by making the sound bounce from one side to the other. There is no remedy now! – exclaimed the ecclesiastic, covering his face with his hands – – the entire city will wake up and rush out into the street and find me here. But it wasn’t like that. The scream perhaps resonated in his frightened ears with greater force than it really had. The population did not wake up; or if some woke up, they attributed it to something horrible that happened in a dream, or to the noise of witches or sorceresses whose voices, at that time, were frequently heard in lonely places when they crossed the air in the company of Satan. Mr. Dimmesdale, therefore, hearing nothing to indicate general alarm, removed his hands from his face , and looked around him. In one of the windows of the Governor’s house, which was at some distance, he saw the figure of the old magistrate wrapped in a white nightgown, with a lamp in his hand and a night cap on his head. She seemed like a ghost conjured up at a bad time. The scream had evidently frightened him. In another window of the same house, old Mrs. Hibbins, the Governor’s sister, appeared, also with a lamp that, even at the distance at which she was, showed the listless and hard expression on the lady’s face. She stuck her head out of the shutter and looked up with some anxiety. Surely the venerable sorceress had also heard Mr. Dimmesdale’s cry and believed that it was, with the multitude of its echoes and repercussions, the clamor of the demons and nocturnal witches with whom, as is known, she was in the habit of making excursions to the forest. Upon noticing the light of the Governor’s lamp, the old lady promptly turned off hers and probably disappeared into the clouds. The minister did not see her again. The magistrate, after a scrupulous observation of the darkness, in which he would otherwise have been able to distinguish nothing, withdrew from the window. The minister then calmed down somewhat. He soon distinguished, however, the brightness of a distant light that was gradually approaching, and which allowed him to recognize one object there, another here, such as the arched door of a house, with an iron knocker, a water pump, etc., which fixed his attention, although he was firmly convinced that as that light approached, which would soon hit his face fully, the moment was also approaching when his fate would be decided and the fateful revelation revealed. secret hidden for so long. When the light was nearer, he could distinguish the figure of his brother in religion, or, to speak more properly, of his spiritual father as well as his very dear friend, the Reverend Mr. Wilson, who, as Mr. Dimmesdale rightly surmised, had been praying at the bedside of a dying man. The good old minister came precisely from the mortuary chamber of Governor Winthrop, who had just passed away, and was now heading towards his house, lighting himself with a lantern. The brilliance of this had made Mr. Dimmesdale imagine that he saw good Father Wilson surrounded by a halo or radiant crown like that of the holy men of other times, which gave him an appearance of glorious beatitude in the midst of this somber night of sin. Dimmesdale smiled, or rather began to laugh, at the ideas suggested by the light of the lantern, and wondered if he had gone mad. As the Reverend Mr. Wilson passed the stage, wrapping himself tightly in the folds of his Genoese cloak with one hand, while holding the lantern in the other, Mr. Dimmesdale could scarcely suppress the desire to speak. –Good evening, venerable Father Wilson; I beg you to come up and spend some time in my company. Heavens! Had Mr. Dimmesdale really spoken? He himself believed so for a moment; but those words were spoken only in his imagination. The venerable Father Wilson continued slowly on his way, taking the greatest care to avoid getting stained with the mud of the street, and without even turning his head towards the fateful stage. When the light of his lantern had completely faded in the distance, the young minister realized, by the kind of faintness that overcame him, that the last moments had been for him a crisis of terrible anxiety, although his spirit had made an involuntary effort to get out of it with the kind of semi-jocular apostrophe addressed to Mr. Wilson. Shortly afterward the feeling of the grotesque crept back into Dimmesdale in the midst of the solemn visions that his brain was forging. He thought his legs were getting stiff with the cold of the night, and he began to imagine that he would not be able to descend the steps of the stage. Meanwhile, morning was approaching and he would be there: the neighbors would begin to get up. The earliest riser, going out in the semi-darkness of twilight, would perceive a vague figure standing in the place dedicated to atoning for crimes and crimes; and almost out of his mind, moved by fright and curiosity, he would call from door to door to the entire town to come and contemplate the specter,–as he would imagine it,–of some deceased criminal. In this, the morning light would grow increasingly intense: the elderly patriarchs of the population would get up hastily, each one wrapped in their flannel robe, and the respectable matrons without stopping to change their sleeping clothes. The entire congregation of decent and decorous people, who had never before been seen with a single disheveled hair, would now appear with their hair and clothing in the greatest disarray. Old Governor Bellingham would come out with a stern face wearing his lechuguilla collars backwards; and Mrs. Hibbins, his sister, would come with some branches of the jungle pinned to her dress, and with a face more sour than ever, as if she had barely been able to sleep a minute after her nightly walk; and good Father Wilson would also appear, after having spent half the night at the bedside of a dying man, without much liking to have his sleep disturbed so early. The dignitaries of Mr. Dimmesdale’s church and the young virgins who idolized their spiritual pastor and had erected an altar to him in their pure hearts would also come . Everyone would arrive hastily, stumbling and stumbling, and directing their gazes with fear and horror towards the fateful stage. And who would they perceive there in the reddish light of dawn? To whom but the Reverend Arthur Dimmesdale, half-frozen with cold, overwhelmed with shame, and standing where Hester Prynne had been! Moved by the grotesque horror of this scene, the minister, forgetting his infinite anxiety and alarm, burst into laughter, which was responded immediately by a light, airy, childish laugh, in which with a tremor of heart–which he did not know if it was from intense pain, or from extreme pleasure–he recognized little Pearl’s accent. –Pearl! “Perlita!” he exclaimed after a moment’s pause; and then, in a lower voice, he added:–Ester, Ester Prynne, are you there? –Yeah; “It is Esther Prynne,” she replied with an accent of surprise; “and the minister heard her footsteps approaching. –It’s me and my little Pearl. “Where do you come from, Esther?” asked the minister. What has brought you here? “I have been watching over a dying man,” answered Esther, “I have been at Governor Winthrop’s deathbed, I have taken the measurements for his suit, and now I am going to my room.” –Come up here, Esther; You come with Perlita, said the Reverend Mr. Dimmesdale. You have both been here before now, but I was not at your side. Come up here one more time, and the three of us will be together. Esther ascended the steps in silence, and remained standing on the platform, holding Pearl by the hand. The minister took the girl’s other hand in his. As soon as he did it, it seems as if a new life had penetrated his being, invading his heart like a torrent and spreading through his veins. It seemed that mother and daughter were communicating their vital warmth to the half-frozen nature of the young ecclesiastic. The three formed an electric chain. –Minister!–whispered little Pearl. “What do you mean, child?” asked Mr. Dimmesdale. “Do you want to be here tomorrow at noon with my mother and me?” Pearl asked. –No; Not like that, my Perlita,–answered the minister; because with the new energy acquired at that moment, all the old fear of public revelation that for so long had been the agony of his life took hold of him, and he was already trembling, although with a mixture of strange joy, as he looked at the situation in which he currently found himself. “No, not like that, my child,” he continued. I will stand with you and your mother another day; yes, another day; but not tomorrow. Perla laughed and tried to free the hand that the minister was holding, but he held her firm. “One more moment, my girl,” he said. “But do you want to promise me that tomorrow at noon you will take my mother and me by the hand ?” Perla asked him. –No, not tomorrow, Pearl,-said the minister,-but another day. “What day?” the girl persisted. –On the great day of the Last Judgment,–murmured the ecclesiastic, who felt obliged to respond in this way to the girl in his sacred capacity as minister of the altar.–Then, and there before the Supreme Judge, he continued, your mother, you and I will have to appear at the same time. But the sunlight of this world will not see us reunited. Perla started to laugh again. But before Mr. Dimmesdale had finished speaking, a light shone across the length of the dark horizon. It was undoubtedly one of those meteors that the nocturnal observer can often see, which ignite, shine, and quickly extinguish in the regions of space. So intense was its splendor that it completely illuminated the dense mass of clouds between the firmament and the earth. The celestial vault shone in such a way that it showed the street as if it were illuminated by midday light, but with the strangeness that always gives familiar objects an unusual clarity. The wooden houses, with their protruding floors and their curious pointed trestles; the stairs of the doors and the doorposts with the first grasses of spring that were beginning to sprout nearby ; the earthen banks of the gardens that seemed black with the recently removed earth;–everything became visible, but with a singularity of appearance that seemed to give the objects a different meaning than they had before. And there was the minister with his hand placed over his heart; and Esther Prynne, with the embroidered letter shining on her bosom; and the little Pearl that was itself itself a symbol and the bond of union between those two beings. There they stood in the glow of that strange and solemn light, as if it were the one that would reveal all the secrets, and was also the dawn that would gather together all those who belonged to each other. There was a certain mysterious expression in Pearl’s eyes, and on her face, when she raised it to look at the minister, that malicious smile that made her compare it to a goblin. He withdrew his hand from Mr. Dimmesdale’s, and pointed across the street. But he crossed his hands over his chest and looked up at the sky. Nothing was so common in those times as interpreting all meteoric appearances, and all other natural phenomena, which occur with less regularity than the rising and setting of the sun and the moon, as so many other revelations of supernatural origin. So a bright spear, a flaming sword, a bow, or a bundle of arrows predicted a war with the Indians. It was known that a shower of crimson light indicated an epidemic. We very much doubt that anything remarkable has happened in New England, from the first days of its colonization to the time of the Revolutionary War, that the inhabitants had not had prior warning by a spectacle of this nature. Sometimes he had been seen by the crowd; but much more frequently, everything rested on the mere saying of a solitary spectator who had contemplated the wonderful phenomenon through the disturbing magnifying glass of his imagination, later giving it a more precise form. It was undoubtedly a grandiose idea to think that the destiny of nations should be revealed in these amazing hieroglyphs in the celestial vault. Among our ancestors it was a widespread belief, indicating that their nascent community was under the special custody of heaven. But what will we say when an individual discovers a revelation in that same mysterious book addressed to him alone? In that case, it would only be the symptom of a profound alteration of the spirit, if a man, as a result of prolonged, intense and secret pain, and the morbid habit of constantly studying himself, has come to associate his personality with all of nature, to the extent that the firmament becomes nothing more than an adequate page for the history of the future destiny of his soul. Therefore, to this illness of his spirit we attribute the idea that the minister, when directing his gaze towards the sky, believed he saw in it the figure of an immense letter,–the letter A,–drawn with contours of dark red light. In that place, and burning opaquely, only one meteor had been seen through a veil of clouds; but not with the form that his guilty imagination lent it, or at least, in such an ill-defined way that another delinquent conscience could have seen in it another different symbol. There was a special circumstance which characterized Mr Dimmesdale’s psychological state at that time. The whole time he was looking at the zenith, he was fully aware that Pearl was pointing her finger in the direction of old Roger Chillingworth, who was standing not far from the stage. The minister seemed to see him with the same look with which he discerned the miraculous letter. As with the other objects, the meteoric light gave a new expression to the doctor’s features ; Or it could happen that he did not take care on this occasion, as he always did, to hide the malevolence with which he regarded his victim. Certainly, if the meteor illuminated space and made the earth visible with a solemn brilliance that forced the clergyman and Esther to remember the day of the Last Judgment, in that case Roger Chillingworth must have seemed to them the great enemy of the human race, who appeared there with a menacing smile demanding what belonged to him. So vivid was that expression, or so intense was the minister’s perception of it, that it seemed to him that it remained visible in the darkness, even after the light of the meteor had faded, as if the street and everything else had completely disappeared. “Who is that man, Esther?” asked Dimmesdale with a trembling voice, overcome with terror. “I shudder to see him.” Do you know that man? I hate him, Ester. She remembered her oath and remained silent. “I repeat to you that my soul trembles in his presence,” the minister murmured again. “Who is he?” Who is it? Can’t you do anything for me? That man inspires unspeakable horror in me. –Minister, Perlita said, I can tell you who it is. –Soon, girl, soon,–said the minister, leaning his ear next to Pearl’s lips.–Soon, and as low as possible. Pearl murmured something in his ear that sounded like human language, when in reality it was nothing more than the unintelligible and meaningless gibberish that children sometimes use to amuse themselves when they are together. In any case, he did not communicate any secret news about the old doctor. It was a language unknown to the learned clergyman, which only served to increase the confusion of his spirit. The girl then burst into laughter. “Are you making fun of me now?” said the minister. “You haven’t been brave, you haven’t been sincere,” replied the girl, “you didn’t want to promise me that you would hold my mother and me by the hand tomorrow at noon.” –Worthy sir!–exclaimed the doctor who had advanced to the foot of the platform,–pious Mr. Dimmesdale, is it really you? Yes, yes, surely yes. Oh! Oh! We, men of study, who have our heads stuck in our books, need to be watched. We daydream, and we walk around sleeping. Come, good sir and dear friend; Let me take you to your house. “How did you know I was here?” Dimmesdale asked fearfully. –Actually, really, the doctor responded, I didn’t know anything about this. Much of the night I have spent at the bedside of the worthy Governor Winthrop doing for his benefit what my little ability allowed me. He has departed for a better world, and I was heading towards my home, when that extraordinary light shone. I beg you to come, reverend sir; Otherwise you will not be in a state to fulfill your duties tomorrow Sunday. Ah! See how books disturb the brain! These books, these books! You must study less, good sir, and find some recreation, if you do not want these things to be repeated. “I will go with you to my house,” said Mr. Dimmesdale. Completely dejected, with a feeling of cold, like someone waking up from a nightmare, he accompanied the doctor, and they left together. The next day, Sunday, however, he preached a sermon that was considered the best, the most vigorous and the most full of heavenly anointing that his lips had ever uttered until then. It was said that more than one soul felt regenerated by the effectiveness of that speech, and that there were many who swore eternal gratitude to Mr. Dimmesdale for the good he had done them. But, when he came down from the pulpit, the old sacristan stopped him, presenting him with a black glove that the minister recognized as his own. “He was found this morning,” said the sacristan, “on the stage where evildoers are exposed to public shame.” Satan dropped him there, doubtless wishing to play a trick on his Reverence. But he has proceeded with the same mistake and lightness as always. A clean and pure hand does not need a glove to cover it. –Thank you, good friend,–said the minister gravely, but very startled, because his memories were so confused that he almost believed that the events of last night were just a dream.–Yes, he added, it seems that it is my glove. –And since Satan has seen fit to steal it from you, from now on Your Reverence must treat that enemy without any regard whatsoever . Hard on him;–said the old sexton with a horrible smile. But, has Your Reverence heard about the portent that was seen last night? It is said that a large red letter, the letter A, appeared in the sky. we have interpreted it means Angel. And since our good Governor Winthrop also died last night, and was turned into an angel, it was surely thought appropriate to publish the news in some way. –No; “I have heard nothing about that particular,” answered the minister. Chapter 13. ANOTHER WAY OF JUDGING ESTHER. In her last and singular interview with Mr. Dimmesdale, Esther was completely surprised to see the state to which the minister was reduced . His nerves seemed completely ruined: his moral strength was that of a child: he walked with dragging steps, even when his intellectual faculties preserved their pristine strength, or had perhaps acquired a morbid energy, which only the illness could have given them. Knowing the whole chain of circumstances which were a profound secret to others, she could infer that, in addition to the legitimate action of her own conscience, a terrible and mysterious machinery had been employed, and was still employed against the repose and well-being of Mr. Dimmesdale . Also knowing what this poor man, now fallen, had been like in other times, his soul was filled with compassion as he remembered the deep feeling of terror with which he asked her, the despised woman, to protect him against an enemy that he had instinctively discovered; and decided that the minister had the right to expect all possible help from him. Unaccustomed , in her long isolation and state of segregation from society, to measuring her ideas of what was just or unjust according to the common standard, Ester saw, or thought she saw, that there was in her a responsibility towards Dimmesdale, greater than that which she had towards the entire world. The ties that bound her to the latter, whatever their nature, were all destroyed. On the contrary, with respect to the minister there was the iron bond of mutual crime, which neither he nor she could break, and which, like all other bonds, brought with it inescapable obligations. Esther no longer occupied precisely the same position as in the early days of her ignominy. The years had gone by, and Pearl was now seven years old. His mother, with the scarlet letter on her breast, shining with its fantastic embroidery, was now a well-known figure in the town; and since she did not get involved in anyone’s public or private affairs , in anything or for anything, a kind of general consideration for Esther had been forming . In honor of human nature it can be said that, except when selfishness intervenes, it is more disposed to love than to hate. Hatred, through a silent and gradual procedure, can even be transformed into love, as long as it is not opposed by new causes that keep the first feeling of hostility alive. In the case of Ester Prynne, nothing had happened to aggravate it, because she never declared herself against the public, but rather submitted, without complaint, to everything it wanted to do, without demanding anything in return for her sufferings. We must add the immaculate purity of her life during all these years in which she had been segregated from social treatment and declared infamous, and that circumstance had a great influence in her favor. Having now nothing to lose to the world, and without hope, and perhaps even without desire to gain something, his return to the austere path of duty could only be attributed to a true love of virtue. It had also been noted that although Esther never claimed the slightest participation in the goods and benefits of the world, except to breathe the air common to all and earn a living for Perlita and herself with the labor of her hands,–nevertheless, she was always ready to serve her fellow men, when the opportunity presented itself. There was no one who with such alacrity and good will shared his meager provisions with the poor, even when the latter, in reward for the food brought regularly to his door, or the clothes worked by those fingers that could have embroidered the mantle of a monarch, repaid him with sarcasm or an offensive word. In times of general calamity, epidemic, or scarcity, there was no one as full of self-denial as Esther: into homes invaded by misfortune, she entered there, not as an intrusive and inopportune guest, but as one who has the full right to do so; as if the shadows that pain spreads were the most appropriate means to deal with his fellow men. There the scarlet letter shone as a light that spreads comfort and well-being: a symbol of sin everywhere, at the bedside of the sick it was an emblem of charity and commiseration. In such cases, Esther’s nature showed itself with all the warmth that was innate to her, and with that tenderness and softness that never failed to produce the desired effect on the afflicted who came to her. Her bosom, with the sign of ignominy that it bore, can be said to have been the lap where the head of the unfortunate man could rest in calm. She was a sister of charity, ordained by herself, or rather, ordained by the rough hand of the world, when neither it nor she could foresee such a result. The scarlet letter was the symbol of his vocation. Esther became so useful, displayed such a faculty of doing good and identifying with the pains of others, that many people refused to give the scarlet _A_ its primitive meaning of Adulteress, and said that it actually meant–Abnegation. Such were the virtues manifested by Esther Prynne! Only the mansions in which misfortune had cast a gloomy veil were those that could retain it; From the moment the rays of happiness began to illuminate them, Esther disappeared. The charitable and helpful guest departed, without even a farewell glance in which to collect the tribute of gratitude that was due him, if any existed in the hearts of those whom he had served with such zeal. When he met them on the street, he never raised his head to receive their greeting; and if anyone addressed her resolutely, then he silently indicated the scarlet letter with a finger, and continued on his way. This could be attributed to pride, but it was so similar to humility that it produced in the public spirit all the conciliatory effect of this virtue. The temperament of the public is generally despotic, and capable of denying the most obvious justice, when it is demanded with too much demand as of right; but he frequently grants more than is asked, if, as happens with despots, his generosity is appealed entirely to. Interpreting Esther’s conduct as an appeal of this nature, society was inclined to treat its former victim with greater kindness than she herself desired or perhaps deserved. The rulers of that community took longer than the people to recognize the influence of Esther’s good qualities. The concerns that they shared in common with him acquired greater strength in them thanks to a series of reasoning that made the task of ignoring said preventions extremely difficult. However, day after day, their sour and rigid faces became unwrinkled and acquired something that, with the passage of time, could be taken for an expression of benevolence. This was also the case with men of high pompadour, who considered themselves the guardians of public morality . Private individuals had already completely forgiven Hester Prynne her frailty; Furthermore, they had begun to consider the scarlet letter, not as the sign that denounced a fault, so long and hard atoned for, but as the symbol of their many good actions. “Do you see that woman with the embroidered motto?” they said to the strangers. She is our Esther, the Esther of our population, so compassionate with the poor, so helpful with the sick, so comforting to the afflicted. It is true that then the propensity of human nature to report bad things when it concerns another, also impelled them to quietly recount the scandal of other times. And despite everything, it was a It was a real fact that in the eyes of the same people who spoke in this way, the scarlet letter produced an effect similar to that of the cross on the chest of a nun, communicating to the wearer a kind of sanctity, which allowed her to pass safely through any kind of danger. If she had fallen among thieves, I would have protected her. It was said, and many believed it, that an Indian once shot an arrow at the letter, and that, upon touching it, the arrow fell to the ground in pieces, without having caused the slightest damage to the letter. The effect of the motto, or rather, of the position it indicated with respect to society, was powerful and peculiar on Esther’s mind. All the grace and lightness of her spirit had disappeared under the influence of this disastrous letter, leaving only something ostensibly rude and coarse, which could even have been repulsive to her friends or companions, had she had them. The physical attractions of his person had undergone an equal change; perhaps due in part to the seriousness of his dress, and in part to the dryness of his manner. It was also a sad transformation that his beautiful and splendid hair underwent, which had either been cut off or was so completely hidden under his cap that not even a single curl could be seen. As a result of all these causes, but even more due to something unknown, it seemed that there was nothing in Esther’s face that could attract the glances of love; There was nothing in the figure of Esther, although majestic and statue-like, that would awaken in passion the desire to embrace her in his arms; There was nothing in Ester’s heart that could respond to the loving beats of another heart. Something had disappeared in her, something entirely feminine, as often happens when a woman has undergone trials of a peculiar severity: for if she is all tenderness, it will cost her her life; and if he survives these tests, then that tenderness must either be completely extinguished, or be concentrated so deeply in the heart that it can never be shown again. Perhaps the latter is the most accurate. She who once was a true woman, and has ceased to be so, can at any moment recover her feminine attributes, if only the magical touch comes to effect the transfiguration. We’ll see if Ester Prynne later received that magical touch and was transfigured. Much of the marble coldness with which Esther seemed to be endowed must be attributed to the circumstance that a great change had taken place in her life, thought now reigning where passion and feelings previously reigned. Being alone in the world, alone as to depend on society, and with little Pearl to guide and protect,–alone and without hope of improving her position, although she would not have disdained such an idea–she threw away the fragments of a broken chain. The universal law was not the law of his spirit. He lived, moreover, at a time when human intelligence, recently emancipated, had displayed greater activity and entered into a vaster sphere of action than it had done for many centuries. Nobles and thrones had been overthrown by the men of the sword; and old worries had been destroyed by men even more daring than those. Esther had imbibed this purely modern spirit, adopting a freedom of speculation, common then on the other side of the Atlantic, but which, had our ancestors heard about it, they would have considered a more mortal sin than the one they stigmatized with the scarlet letter. In her solitary cabin, on the seashore, she was visited by ideas and thoughts such as could not possibly have dared to enter any other abode in New England: invisible guests, who would have been as dangerous to those who allowed them entry into their spirits, as if they had been seen in familiar contact with the enemy of the human race. It is worthy of note that the people who indulge in the most daring mental speculations are often also those who most They calmly conform to the external laws of society. The thought is enough for them, without trying to convert it into action. This is what seems to have happened with Esther. However, if he had not had Pearl, things would have been very different. Then perhaps her name would shine today in History as the founder of a religious sect on a par with Anne Hutchinson:17 perhaps she would have been a kind of prophetess; but probably the severe courts of the time would have sentenced her to death for attempting to destroy the foundations on which the Puritan colony rested. But in the education of his daughter, the boldness of his thoughts had largely subdued her enthusiastic flight. In the person of her little girl, Providence had assigned Esther the task of making the most worthy attributes of woman germinate and flourish, in the midst of great difficulties. Everything was against the mother: the world was hostile to her; The very nature of the girl had something perverse in its essence, which made her continually remember that guilt had presided at her birth, the result of the mother’s disordered passion, and Esther repeatedly asked herself bitterly whether this little creature had come into the world for better or for worse. It is true that the same question was asked regarding the human race in general. Was existence worth accepting, even to the happiest among mortals? As for herself, she had long since answered in the negative, considering the point completely finished. The tendency to speculation, although it can bring calm to the spirit of a woman, as it happens to a man, nevertheless makes her sad, because perhaps she sees before her an unrealizable task. Firstly, the entire social edifice has to be torn down, and rebuilt all over again; Therefore, the nature of man must be essentially modified before woman is permitted to occupy what appears to be a just and proper position; and, finally, even after all other difficulties have been overcome, the woman will not be able to take advantage of all these preliminary reforms until she herself has undergone a radical change, in which, perhaps, the ethereal essence, which constitutes the truly feminine soul, would have completely evaporated. A woman never solves these problems with the mere use of thought: they are unsolvable, or can only be solved in one way. If by chance the heart prevails, the problems fade away. Esther, whose heart, so to speak, had lost its regular and healthy rhythm, wandered wandering, without light to guide her, in the dark labyrinth of her spirit; and sometimes the terrible doubt would take hold of her as to whether it would not be better to send Pearl to heaven as soon as possible , and also present herself to accept the destiny to which Eternal Justice believed her worthy. The scarlet letter had not filled the object for which it was intended. Now, however, her interview with the Reverend Mr. Dimmesdale on the night of his vigil had given her new matter for reflection, presenting to her perspective an object worthy of every kind of effort and sacrifice to achieve it. He had witnessed the intense torture under which the minister struggled, or, to speak more properly, he had ceased to struggle. He saw that he was on the verge of madness, if his reason had not already collapsed. It was impossible to doubt that, however painfully effective a stinging and secret remorse might be, a much more deadly poison had been administered to him by the same hand that sought to cure him. Under the cloak of friend and favoring doctor, there was constantly at his side a secret enemy who took advantage of the opportunities that thus presented themselves to touch, with evil intention, all the resources of Mr. Dimmesdale’s delicate nature. Esther could not help but wonder if it was not from the beginning a lack of courage, sincerity and loyalty on her part, allowing the minister to find himself in a situation in which nothing good, and much bad, came. could be expected. Her only justification was the impossibility of finding another means of freeing him from a ruin even more terrible than the one that had befallen her. The only thing possible was to access Rogerio Chillingworth’s disguise plan. Moved by this idea, she then decided, as she now understood, on the worst side she could have adopted. He determined, therefore, to remedy his error as far as possible. Strengthened by years of harsh trials, she no longer felt as incapable of fighting with Rogerio as she did on the night when, despondent by sin, and half crazy by the ignominy to which she had just been exposed, she had the interview with him in the prison room. Since then, his spirit had been soaring to greater heights; while the old doctor had been descending to the level of Esther, or perhaps much below her, thanks to the idea of ​​revenge with which he was possessed. In a word, Esther resolved to have a new interview with her former husband, and to do everything in her power to save the victim of whom she had evidently taken possession. The opportunity did not take long to present itself. One afternoon, walking with Pearl in a secluded place near their cabin, she saw the old doctor with a basket in one hand, and a cane in the other, looking for herbs and roots to make his remedies and medicines. Chapter 14. ESTHER AND THE DOCTOR. Ester told Pearl to run along the seashore and play with the shells and seaweed, while she talked for a while with the man who was gathering herbs at a distance; Therefore , the girl left like a bird, and, taking off her little feet, she began to walk along the humid shore of the sea. Here and there he stopped next to a pool of water left by the tide, and began to look at himself in it as if it were a mirror. Reflected in the puddle was the image of the little girl with shiny black curls and the smile of a pixie, whom Pearl, not having another partner to play with, invited her to take her hand and race with her. The image repeated the same signal as if to say :–This is a better place: come here ;–and Pearl, entering the water up to her knees, contemplated her little white feet at the bottom while, even deeper, she saw a vague smile floating in the agitated water. Meanwhile the mother had approached the doctor. “I would like to speak a word to you,” said Ester, “a word that interests us both.” –Hello! “Is it Mrs. Ester who wishes to speak a word with old Roger Chillingworth?” answered the doctor, rising slowly. “With all my heart,” he continued; Come on, lady, I hear only good news from you everywhere. Without going any further, yesterday afternoon, a magistrate, a wise and God-fearing man, was discussing your affairs with me, Mrs. Ester, and told me that the Council had been discussing whether that scarlet letter that you wear could be removed from your chest, without the community suffering . I swear to you on my life, Esther, that I earnestly begged the worthy magistrate to have this done without loss of time. “It does not depend on the will of the magistrates to take this insignia from me,” answered Esther calmly. “If I were worthy of being free of it, it would have fallen off by itself, or it would have been transformed into something of a very different significance.” “Take her, then, if you please,” replied the doctor. “A woman must follow her own whim as regards the adornment of her person.” The letter is beautifully embroidered, and looks great on your chest. While they were talking thus, Ester had been staring at the old doctor, and she was surprised and at the same time frightened, when she noticed the change that had taken place in him in the last seven years; not because he had aged, for although the traces of age were visible, he seemed to still retain his vigor and former liveliness of spirit; but that aspect of an intellectual and studious man, calm and peaceful, which was what she remembered best, had completely disappeared, replaced by an anxious, searching, almost ferocious, yet reserved expression. It seemed that his desire and purpose were to hide that expression under a smile, but it sold him, because it wandered so ridiculously across his face that the viewer could, thanks to it, better discern the blackness of his soul. From time to time his eyes shone with a sinister brilliance, as if the old man’s soul were caught in a fire, which manifested itself only from time to time by a rapid explosion of anger and momentary flare. The doctor repressed this as soon as possible, and then tried to appear as calm as if nothing had happened. In a word, the old doctor was an example of the extraordinary ability that man has to transform himself into a demon, if he wants to carry out his office for a certain time. Such a transformation had occurred in the doctor, for having dedicated himself for seven years to the constant analysis of a heart full of agony, finding his pleasure in that task, and adding, so to speak, fuel to the horrible tortures that he analyzed and in whose analysis he found such intense pleasure. The scarlet letter burned Hester Prynne’s bosom. Here was another ruin for which she was partly responsible. “What do you see in my face, that you contemplate with such seriousness of expression?” asked the doctor. “Something that would make me cry, if I had tears strong enough to do so,” answered Esther; “but let’s not talk about that.” That unfortunate man is the one I would like to talk about. “And what about him?” asked the doctor anxiously, as if the subject were very much to his liking, and he was glad to find an opportunity to discuss it with the only person with whom he could do so. “To tell the truth, my Lady Ester, my thoughts were precisely now occupied with that gentleman: therefore, speak freely, and I will answer you.” –When we last spoke to each other, said Esther, about this about seven years ago, you were pleased to extract from me a promise to keep a secret about the relations that once existed between us. As the minister’s life and good name were in your hands, there was nothing left for me to do but remain silent in accordance with your wish. However, not without grave forebodings, I forced myself to do so; because finding myself detached from all obligations towards other human beings, I was not so towards him; and there was something murmuring in my ears that by pledging my word that I would obey your command, I was betraying him. Since then, no one like you is as close to him: you follow each of his steps; you are at his side, awake or asleep; you search their thoughts; you undermine and ulcerate his heart; his life is in your clutches; You are killing him with a slow death, and he still doesn’t know you, he doesn’t know who you are. By allowing this, I have acted falsely towards the only man with whom I had a duty to be honest. “What other path was left for you?” asked the doctor. –If I had pointed my finger at this man, he would have been thrown from his pulpit into a dungeon–and from there perhaps to the scaffold. “It would have been preferable,” said Ester. “What harm have I done to that man?” asked the doctor again. ” I assure you, Esther Prynne, that with the largest and most valuable fees that a monarch could have paid to a physician, all the care and attention that I have devoted to this unfortunate ecclesiastic would not have been achieved. ” But for me, his life would have been extinguished in the midst of torment and agony in the first two years that followed the perpetration of his crime and yours. Because you know, Esther, that his soul lacks the strength of yours to bear, as you have done, a weight similar to that of your scarlet letter. Oh! I could reveal a secret worth knowing! But enough about this point. What science can do, I have done for your benefit. If you still breathe and drags in this world, he owes it to me alone. “It would be better for him to have died once and for all,” said Esther. “Yes, woman, you are right,” exclaimed old Rogerio, making all the infernal fire of his heart shine in his eyes; “it would be better for him to have died once and for all.” No mortal has ever suffered what this man has suffered…. And all, all, in the sight of his worst enemy. He has had a vague suspicion about me: he has felt that something was always hanging over him like a curse; He knew instinctively that the hand that probed his heart was not a friendly hand, and that there was an eye that watched him, seeking only iniquity, and it has found it. But I didn’t know that hand and eye were mine! With the superstition common to his class, he imagined himself handed over to a demon to torment him with horrible dreams, with terrible thoughts, with the sting of remorse, and with the belief that he will not be forgiven, all in anticipation of what awaits him beyond the grave. But it was the constant shadow of my presence, the proximity of the man whom I had most vilely offended, and who lives only thanks to this perpetual poison of the most intense desire for revenge. Yeah; yes indeed! He was not wrong, he had an implacable enemy next to him. A mortal, once endowed with human feelings, has become a demon for his special torment. The unfortunate doctor, as he uttered these words, raised his arms with a look of horror, as if he had seen some frightful form, which he could not recognize, and was usurping the place of his own image in a mirror. It was one of those rare moments when the moral aspect of a man is revealed with complete fidelity to the eyes of his soul. He had probably never seen himself as he saw himself now. “Haven’t you tortured him enough?” Esther asked him, noticing the expression on the old man’s face. “Hasn’t he paid you everything with usury?” –No! No! “Your debt has increased,” answered the doctor, and as he continued, his face lost its fierce expression, becoming more and more somber. “Do you remember, Ester, what I was like nine years ago?” Even then I was in the autumn of my days, and not at the beginning of autumn. But my whole life had consisted of quiet years of severe study and meditation, devoted to increasing my knowledge, and also, faithfully, to the progress of the well-being of the human race. No life had been as peaceful and innocent as mine: few, so rich in conferred benefits. Don’t you remember what I was? Although cold in appearance, was I not a man who thought of the good of others, without thinking much about himself; kind, sincere, fair, and constant in his affections, even if they are not very ardent? Wasn’t I all this? “All this, and more,” said Esther. –And what am I now?–asked the old man, looking intently at her face, and letting all the perversity of his soul be portrayed in his physiognomy.–What am I now? I have already told you what I am: an implacable enemy: a demon in human form. Who made me like this? “I have been,” exclaimed Esther, shuddering. “I have been, as much or more than he.” Why haven’t you taken revenge on me? “I have left you handed over to the scarlet letter,” replied Rogerio. “If that has not avenged me, I cannot do more.” And he put a finger on the letter, with a smile. “He has avenged you!” Esther replied. “That’s what I thought,” said the doctor. “And now what do you want from me regarding that man?” “I have to reveal the secret to you,” Esther answered firmly, “you have to see and know what you really are.” I don’t know what the consequences will be. But this debt of mine to him, whose ruin and torment I have been, must finally be satisfied. In your hands is the destruction or preservation of his good name and social status, and perhaps even his life. Nor can I, who the scarlet letter has made understand the value of truth, although making it penetrate the soul as with a hot iron, no, nor can I perceive the advantage that he report of living that life of misery and horror for longer, to lower myself before you and implore you for compassion towards your victim. No; do with it what you want. There is nothing good to look forward to for him–nor for me–nor for you–not even for my little Pearl. There is no path that takes us out of this sad and gloomy labyrinth. “Woman, I could almost pity you,” said the doctor, who could not contain a movement of admiration, since there was a certain majesty in the desperation with which Esther expressed herself. “There were great qualities in you; and if you had found in your early years a more suitable love than mine, none of this would have happened. I pity you for all the good that has been lost in you. “And I to you,” answered Esther, “for all the hatred that has transformed a just and wise man into an infernal monster.” Do you want to get rid of that hatred and become a human creature again? If not for him, at least for you. Sorry; and leaves its further punishment to the Power to whom it belongs. I said now that nothing good could be expected of him, nor you, nor I, who are wandering together in this dark labyrinth of evil, stumbling at every step against the guilt that we have spread along our path. It’s not like that. There may be something good for you; yes, for you alone, because you are the deeply offended one, and you have the privilege of being able to forgive. Do you want to give up that only privilege? Do you want to reject that advantage of incomparable value? “Enough, Esther, enough,” replied the old doctor with grim integrity. “It is not granted to me to forgive.” There is not that faculty in me that you speak of. My old faith, long forgotten, takes hold of me again and explains everything we do and everything we suffer. The first wrong step you took sowed the germ of evil; but since that moment everything has been a fatal necessity. You who have offended me in such a way are not guilty, except in a kind of illusion; nor am I the infernal enemy who has robbed the great enemy of the human race of his office. It is our destiny. Let it unfold as it will. Continue on your path, and do as you please with that man. He made a sign with his hand and continued collecting herbs and roots. Chapter 15. ESTHER AND PEARL. In this way, Roger Chillingworth, old, deformed, and with a face that remained engraved in men’s memories longer than they would have liked, said goodbye to Esther and continued on his way on earth. He was picking a herb here, pulling out a root there, and putting it all in the basket he carried on his arm. His gray beard almost touched the ground as he stooped forward. Ester looked at him for a moment, with a certain strange curiosity, to see if the tender grasses of early spring would not wither under her feet, leaving a black and dry trail through the cheerful greenery that covered the ground. He wondered what kind of herbs those were that the old man collected with so much care. Wouldn’t the earth, quickened for evil, by virtue of the influence of his evil gaze, offer him poisonous roots and herbs of hitherto unknown species that would sprout at the touch of his fingers? Or wouldn’t that same contact be enough to turn the healthiest products from the bosom of the earth into something deleterious and deadly? Did the sun, which shone with such splendor wherever it wanted, really shed its beneficial rays on him? Or perhaps, as it rather seemed, a circle of fateful shadow surrounded him that moved alongside him wherever he directed his steps? And where was he going now? Would it not suddenly sink into the earth, leaving a barren and charred place that in the course of time would be covered with deadly nightshade , henbane, hemlock, hemlock, and every other kind of noxious weed that the climate produced, growing there in horrible abundance? Or perhaps it would spread enormous bat wings, and, flying into space, it would appear even uglier the higher it ascended towards the sky? “Whether or not it is a sin,” Esther said bitterly and with her gaze fixed on the old doctor,–I hate that man! She scolded herself for that feeling, but she could neither overcome it nor reduce its intensity. To achieve this, he thought of those days, now very distant, when Rogerio used to leave his study room at dusk, and come to sit by the fire of the hearth, in the rays of light of her wedding smile. He said then that he needed to warm himself to the radiance of that smile, so that the cold produced by so many solitary hours spent among his books would disappear from his scholarly heart . Similar scenes once seemed to him invested with a certain happiness; but now, contemplated through subsequent events, they had become her bitterest memories. He marveled that there had been such scenes; and above all, that she had allowed herself to be induced to marry him. He considered that the greatest crime that he had to repent of, as well as having responded to the cold pressure of that hand, and having allowed the smile on his lips and eyes to mix with those of that man. And it seemed to her that the old doctor, by persuading her, when her inexperienced heart knew nothing of the world, by persuading her to imagine herself happy at his side, had committed a greater offense than anything that had been done to him. –Yes, I hate him!–Esther repeated with more intense resentment than before.–He has deceived me! He did me a much greater harm than what I have inflicted on him! Let the man tremble who wins the hand of a woman, if at the same time he does not completely obtain all the love of her heart! Otherwise, what will happen to Roger Chillingworth, when an accent more powerful and eloquent than his awakens the dormant passions of the woman; then they will blame even that peaceful contentment, that cold image of happiness that she was made to believe was the warm reality. But Esther should have forgotten this injustice a long time ago. What did it mean? Had the seven long years of torture with the scarlet letter produced unspeakable pain without remorse having penetrated his soul? The emotions of those brief moments, in which she was contemplating the distorted figure of old Rogerio, shed a light on Ester’s spirit, revealing many things that, otherwise, she herself would not have realized. Once the doctor had disappeared, he called his little daughter. –Pearl! Pearl! where are you? Pearl, whose spiritual activity never wavered, had not been without distractions while her mother spoke with the old herbalist. At first he amused himself by contemplating his own image in a puddle of water; Then he made small boats of birch bark and loaded them with sea shells, most of them capsizing; Then he insisted on taking between his fingers the white foam that the waves left when they retreated, and scattered it to the wind; Then noticing a flock of little riverside birds fluttering along the beach, the mischievous girl filled her apron with small pebbles, and sliding from rock to rock in pursuit of these little birds, she displayed remarkable skill in stoning them. A little brown bird with a white breast was hit by a pebble, and fluttered away with its broken wing. But then the girl stopped playing, because it caused her great pain for having hurt that little creature as capricious as the sea breeze or Pearl herself. Her last occupation was to gather seaweed of various kinds, making with them a kind of band or mantle and an ornament for her head, which gave her the appearance of a little mermaid. Pearl had inherited from her mother the ability to devise costumes and decorations. As a final touch to her mermaid dress, she took some seaweed and put it on her chest , imitating, as best she could, the letter A that shone on her mother’s breast and whose sight was so familiar to her, with the difference that this A was green and not scarlet. The little girl leaned her little head on her chest and looked at this ornament with strange interest, as if the only thing to that it had been sent to the world was to unravel its hidden significance. –I would like to know if my mother will ask me what this means?– Pearl thought. Just then he heard his mother’s voice, and running with the same lightness as the little river birds fluttered, he appeared before Ester, dancing, laughing, and pointing with his finger at the ornament that had been fixed on his chest. –My Perlita,–said the mother after a moment of silence,–the green letter has no purpose in your childish womb. But do you know, my daughter, what the letter that your mother has to wear means? –Yes, mother,–said the girl,–it is the capital A. You have shown it to me in the primer. Esther looked at her intently; but although in the girl’s black eyes there was the singular expression that he had so often noticed in them, he could not discover if that symbol really had any meaning for Pearl , and he experienced a morbid curiosity to find out. –Do you know, my daughter, why your mother has this letter? “Yes, I know,” answered Pearl, fixing her intelligent gaze on her mother’s face , “for the same reason that the minister puts his hand on his heart.” “And what is that cause?” Ester asked, half smiling at first at the girl’s absurd response, but turning pale a moment later. “What does the letter have to do with any heart, except mine?” –Nothing, mother; “I have said everything I know,” answered Pearl with more seriousness than was usual. “Ask that old man with whom you have been talking.” Maybe he can tell you. But tell me, my dear mother, what does that scarlet letter mean? And why do you carry it on your chest? And why does the minister put his hand on his heart? Saying this, he took his mother’s hand between his two and fixed his gaze on her face with a serious and calm expression, unusual in his restless and capricious character. The idea occurred to Ester that perhaps the girl was really trying to identify with her with childlike confidence, doing what she could and in the most intelligent way she could, to establish a closer bond of affection between the two. Pearl showed herself to him in an aspect that he had not seen until then. Although the mother loved her daughter with the intensity of a unique affection, she had tried to content herself with the idea that she could only expect very little in return: a passing, vague affection, with bursts of passion, petulant in its best hours, which chills us more often than it caresses us, which shows itself by kissing the cheeks with dubious tenderness, or playing with the hair, or in some other similar way, only to fade the immediate moment and continue with its usual games . And this was what a mother thought about her little daughter, for strangers would have seen only a few unkind features, making them appear even blacker. But now the idea seized Ester that Pearl, with her remarkable precocity and insight, had already reached the age at which she could become a friend and confide in her much of what caused the pain of her maternal heart, as far as was possible taking into account the consideration due to the girl and the father. In the little chaos of Pearl’s character there was doubtless in embryo an indomitable courage, a tenacious will, a haughty pride that could turn into self-respect , and a contempt for many things that, properly examined, would be seen to be tainted with falsehood. She was also endowed with affections that, although not very tender, had all the rich aroma of unripe fruits. With all these high qualities, Esther believed that this girl would become a noble and excellent woman, unless the bad part inherited from her mother was too great. Pearl’s inevitable tendency to occupy herself with the enigma of the scarlet letter seemed to be an innate quality in the girl. Esther had often thought that Providence, in endowing Pearl with this marked propensity, made her moved by an idea of ​​justice and retribution; but never, Until now, it had occurred to him to wonder if, linked to this idea, there might not also be that of benevolence and forgiveness. If he treated Pearl with faith and trust in her, considering her a spiritual messenger as well as an earthly creature, would it not be his destiny to soften and finally fade away the pain that had turned his mother’s heart into a tomb? Would it not also serve to help her overcome passion, once so impetuous, and even today neither dead nor asleep but only imprisoned in that tomb of her heart? Such were some of the thoughts that boiled in Ester’s mind , with such vividness as if some mysterious being had actually whispered them in her ear. And there Pearl was all this time, shaking her mother’s hand between her little hands, with her gaze fixed on her face, while she repeated the same questions over and over again . –What does the letter mean, my mother? and why are you wearing it? And why does the minister put his hand on his heart? –What shall I tell him?–Esther asked herself.–No! If this is to be the price of my daughter’s affection, I cannot buy it at such a cost. Then he spoke out loud. “Silly thing,” he said, “what questions are those?” There are many things in this world that a girl should not ask. What do I know about the minister’s heart? And as for the scarlet letter, I wear it because of how beautiful its gold threads look. In all the seven years that had already elapsed, Esther had never shown any falsehood regarding the symbol on her breast, except at that moment, as if, despite her constant vigilance, a new moral illness had penetrated her heart, or some other of ancient date had not been completely expelled. As for Pearl, the seriousness of her face had already disappeared. But the girl did not give up on the matter of the scarlet letter; and two or three times, while they were returning to their home, and many more times during dinner, and when her mother was putting her to bed, and even once after she seemed to be already sleeping, Pearl, with a certain malignancy in the look of her black eyes, continued her question: – Mother, what does the scarlet letter mean? And the next morning, the first sign the girl gave of being awake was to lift her little head from the pillow and ask the other question that she had so strangely associated with the scarlet letter: – Mother, mother, why does the minister always have his hand over his heart? “Shut up, naughty girl,” the mother responded with a harshness that she had never used until that moment. “Don’t mortify me anymore, or I’ll lock you in a dark room.” Chapter 16. A WALK IN THE FOREST. Esther remained steadfast in her resolve to make the Reverend Mr. Dimmesdale know the true character of the man who had taken her confidence, whatever the consequences of his revelation. For several days, however, he looked in vain for the opportunity to speak to him on one of the solitary walks that the minister was accustomed to take, all meditative, along the coast or in the forest-covered hills of the neighboring countryside. There would undoubtedly have been nothing scandalous or particular, nor any danger to the good reputation of the minister, if Esther had visited him in his own study where so many penitents, before now, had confessed guilt perhaps even more serious than that accused by the scarlet letter. But whether she feared the secret or public intervention of Roger Chillingworth, or whether her conscience made her fear that a suspicion might arise , which no one else would have imagined, or that both the minister and she needed more space to be able to breathe freely while they spoke together,–or perhaps all these reasons combined, the truth is that Esther never thought of speaking to him in any other place than in the face of heaven, and by no means within four walls. Finally, one night when he was assisting a sick person, he learned that the Reverend Mr. Dimmesdale, whom they had gone to look for to help him well, dying, he had left to visit the apostle Eliot, there in his residence among his converted Indians, and that he would return probably the next day at noon. As the appointed hour approached, he took Pearl, his constant companion, by the hand , and set out in search of Mr. Dimmesdale. The road was nothing more than a path that got lost in the mystery of a virgin jungle, so thick that the sky could barely be glimpsed through the treetops. Esther compared it to the loneliness and moral labyrinth in which she had been wandering for so long. The day was cold and dark: thick, ashy clouds covered the firmament, slightly moved by the breeze, allowing from time to time a ray of sun to be glimpsed playing on the narrow path. This faint and wavering light was always perceived at the farthest extremity, visible through the jungle, and it seemed to fade or move away as the solitary travelers advanced in its direction, leaving the places where it shone even more gloomy, for the very reason that they had expected to find them luminous. –Mother,–said Pearl,–the sunlight does not love you. He runs and hides, because he is afraid of something in your chest. Look now: there he is playing, a good distance from us. Stay here, and let me run to get it. I’m just a girl. He won’t run away from me because I still don’t have anything on my chest. “And I hope you never wear it, my daughter,” said Esther. “And why not, mother?” asked Pearl, stopping just as she was about to start the race. Won’t that come of itself when I’m a grown woman? “Run, my daughter,” answered the mother, “and catch the sun’s ray, for it will soon be gone.” Pearl began the race in a hurry and soon found herself in the middle of the sunlight, laughing, all illuminated by its splendor, and with her eyes shining with joy. It seemed as if the sun’s ray had stopped around the solitary girl, rejoicing in playing with her, until the mother came close enough to almost penetrate the magic circle as well. “Now he will go,” Pearl said, shaking her head. –Look,–said Ester smiling,–now I can reach out and catch something. But when he tried, the sunbeam disappeared; Or, judging by the brilliance with which Pearl’s face radiated, her mother could have imagined that the girl had absorbed it, and would later return it by illuminating the path where they were going, when they again entered the shadowy places of the jungle. None of the attributes of her tender daughter made as much impression on the mother as that constant vivacity of spirit, perhaps a reflection of the energy with which Ester had struggled to combat her intimate pain before Pearl’s birth. It was certainly a dubious charm, which gave the girl’s character a certain hard, metallic luster. He needed deep pain to humanize himself and become capable of feeling compassion. But Pearl had plenty of time for that. “Come, my daughter,” said Esther; “let’s sit in the forest and rest for a while.” “I’m not tired, mother,” replied the girl; but you can sit down if you want, and in the meantime tell me a story. –A story, girl,–said Ester,–and what kind of story? –Ah! something about the history of the Black Man,” he responded, grabbing her dress and looking at her with an expression between serious and malicious. “Tell me how he walks through this forest carrying a large, heavy book under his arm, with iron clasps; and how this Black and ugly Man offers his book and an iron pen to all who find him here among the trees, and how everyone also has to write their names with their own blood. And then he makes a sign on their chest. Have you ever found the Black Man, mother? “And who told you this story, Pearl?” asked the mother, recognizing a very common superstition at that time. “That old lady who was sitting in a corner by the fireplace in the house where you were watching last night,” said the girl. She thought I was asleep while I was talking about it. He said that a thousand and a thousand people had found him here, and had written in his book, and had his mark on their chest. And one of those who have seen it is that bad-tempered woman, old Mrs. Hibbins. And, mother, he also said that that scarlet letter that you have is the sign that the Black Man gave you, and that it shines like a red flame when you see it at midnight, here, in this dark forest. Is that true, mother? And is it true that you go to see him at night? “Have you ever woken up without seeing me next to you?” Ester asked him. –I don’t remember,–said the girl.–If you are afraid to leave me alone in our hut, you must take me with you. I would be very happy to accompany you. But, mother, tell me now, is there such a Black Man? And have you ever seen it? And is this your sign? “Do you want to leave me alone, if I tell you once and for all?” his mother asked him. “Yes, if you tell me everything,” replied Pearl. “Well, once in my life I met the Black Man,” said the mother. “This scarlet letter is his sign.” Conversing thus, they entered the forest far enough to be sheltered from the glances of any casual passer-by, and sat down on the worm-eaten trunk of a pine which in other times would have been a gigantic tree and was now only a mass of moss. The place where they sat was a small hollow, crossed by a stream that ran over a bed of tree leaves. The fallen branches of these trees interrupted the current of the stream from time to time, which formed small whirlpools here and there, while in other places it slid like a channel over a bed of pebbles and sand. Following the course of the water with one’s eyes one could sometimes see the reflection of sunlight on its surface, but it was soon lost in the midst of the labyrinth of trees and bushes that grew along its banks: here and there one stumbled upon a large rock covered with lichen. All these trees and these granite rocks seemed destined to make a mystery of the course of this stream, perhaps fearing that its incessant talkativeness would reveal the stories of the ancient jungle. Constantly, it is true, as the stream continued to slide forward, it let out a soft, peaceful and calm murmur, although full of sweet melancholy, like the accent of a child who spent the first years of his life without companions of his age with whom he could play, and did not know what it was to be happy, living among sad relatives and even sadder events. –O stream! Oh crazy and annoying little stream!–exclaimed Pearl after listening to its murmurs for a while.–Why are you so sad? Take heart and don’t be sighing and murmuring all the time! But the stream, in the course of its existence among the trees of the jungle, had undergone an experience so solemn that it could not help but express it with the murmur of its waves, and it seemed that it had nothing else to say. Pearl was similar to the stream, in that the current of her life had sprung from a source that was also mysterious, and had slipped between very gloomy scenes. But, the complete opposite of the stream, the girl danced, and had fun and chatted as her life went by. “What does this sad little stream say, mother?” asked the girl. “If you had any sorrow that overwhelmed you, the stream would tell you,” answered the mother, “just as it tells me about mine.” But now, Pearl, I hear footsteps on the road and the noise made by moving the branches of the trees aside; Go play and let me talk for a while with the man who comes from afar. “Is it the Black Man?” Pearl asked. “Go play,” the mother repeated, “but don’t go too far into the forest, and be careful to come the moment I call you.” “Yes, mother,” answered Pearl, “but if it were the Black Man, wouldn’t you allow me to stay a while to look at him with his big book under his arm?” “Go play, silly,” said the mother impatiently, “it’s not the Black Man.” Now you can see it through the trees. It’s the minister. –Yes, he is,–said the girl.–And he has his hand on his heart, mother. That’s because when the minister wrote his name in the book, the Black Man put the sign on his chest. And why doesn’t he carry it like you do off his chest? “Go play now, girl, and torment me later as much as you want,” exclaimed Ester. “But don’t go too far away.” Stay where you can hear the chatter of the stream. The girl walked away singing along the current of the stream, trying to mix some happier accents with the melancholic cadence of its waters. But the little stream did not want to be consoled and continued, as before, telling its unintelligible secret of something very sad and mysterious that had happened, or prophetically lamenting something that was going to happen in the shadowy forest; But Pearl, who had had enough shade in her brief existence, left the moaning stream and began to gather violets and anemones and some little scarlet flowers that she found growing in the interstices of a high rock. When the girl had left, Ester took a couple of steps towards the path that crossed the jungle, although still remaining under the thick shadow of the trees. He saw the minister advancing alone, leaning on a branch he had cut along the way. His appearance was that of a haggard and weak person, and a dejection was revealed in his entire being, which had never been noticed in him to such a degree, neither in his walks through the town, nor in any other occasion in which he believed that it could be observed. Here, in the intense solitude of the jungle, it was painfully visible. In his way of walking there was a kind of tiredness, as if he saw no reason to take another step, nor did he experience the desire to do so, but rather with great pleasure, if anything could give him pleasure, he would have preferred to throw himself at the foot of the nearest tree and lie down there to rest forever. The leaves could cover him, and the ground would gradually rise and form a mound over his body, regardless of whether it was animated by life or not. Death was too definite an object for him to long for it or wish to avoid it. To Ester, judging from what she could see, the Reverend Arthur Dimmesdale did not present any visible symptoms of a real and deep suffering, except that, as Pearl had already noticed, he always put his hand to his heart. Chapter 17. THE PASTOR OF SOULS AND HIS PARISHIONER. Despite how slowly the minister walked, he had almost passed her by before Esther had been able to make herself heard and attract his attention. He finally got it. –Arthur Dimmesdale!–he said at first with a barely perceptible voice, but which grew in strength, although somewhat hoarse,–Arthur Dimmesdale! –Who is calling me?–answered the minister. Rising quickly, he remained in that position, like a man caught in an attitude in which he did not wish to have been seen. Directing his gaze anxiously towards the place from which the voice came, he vaguely perceived under the trees a shape dressed in such a dark suit, and which stood out so little in the midst of the gloom that reigned among the thick foliage, that it barely gave way to the midday light, that he could barely distinguish whether it was a shadow or a woman. He took a step towards her and discovered the scarlet letter. –Ester! Ester Prynne!–he exclaimed–is that you? Are you alive? –Yes,–he answered,–with the life with which I have lived these last seven years! And you, Arthur Dimmesdale, are you still alive? It should come as no surprise that they questioned each other if they were really alive, and even doubted their own bodily existence. In such a strange way they met in the twilight of that jungle, that it seemed as if it were the first interview that two spirits who had been intimately associated in their earthly life had had beyond the tomb , but who now found themselves trembling, full of mutual love. fear, without having yet become familiar with their present condition, nor accustomed to the company of souls deprived of their bodies. Each one was a spirit that contemplated, full of amazement, the other spirit. They also experienced a strange sensation about themselves, because at that moment each of them was represented, in a vivid and intense way, their entire intimate history and all the bitter experience of life, as happens only in such moments in the course of our existence. The soul contemplates itself in the mirror of that fugitive moment. With fear then, and tremulously, as if driven by inescapable necessity, Arthur Dimmesdale extended his hand, cold as death, and touched the icy hand of Hester Prynne. Despite the frigid contact of those hands, they finally felt like they were inhabitants of the same sphere, disappearing what was strange and mysterious in the interview. Without speaking a single word, without one or the other serving as a guide to their companion, but with silent and mutual agreement, they slipped into the shadows of the forest from which Esther had emerged, and sat down on the same moss-covered tree trunk on which she and Pearl had been sitting before. When at last they were able to find a voice with which to speak to each other, they at first uttered only the observations and questions that any two acquaintances might have made, about the gloom of the sky, the bad weather that threatened, and then about each other’s health. They then proceeded, so to speak, step by step, and with many detours, to deal with the topics that most deeply interested them and were closest to their heart. Separated for such a long time by fate and circumstances, they needed something light, casual, almost indifferent to occupy themselves, before beginning to give vent to the ideas and thoughts that really filled their souls. After a while, the minister fixed his eyes on Esther’s. –Esther, he said, have you found peace of soul? She smiled sadly, looking at his chest. “Have you found it?” she asked him in turn. –No no; only desperation,” answered the minister. “What else could I expect, being what I am, and leading a life like the one I lead? If I were an atheist, if I were a man devoid of conscience, a wretch with rude and brutal instincts, I would have found peace long ago: or rather, I would never have lost it. But such as my soul is, whatever capacity may have originally existed in me for good, all the gifts of God, the most select and chosen, have become so many reasons for spiritual torture. Ester, I am immensely unhappy! “The people revere you,” said Esther, “and certainly your words do much good among the people.” Doesn’t this give you comfort? –More suffering, Esther, only more suffering!–answered Dimmesdale with a bitter smile.–As for the good that I can apparently do, I have no faith in it. What can a lost soul like mine do for the redemption of other souls? Nor what can a stained soul do for the purification of other souls? And as for the reverence of the people, I wish it would turn into hatred and contempt! Do you think, Esther, that it can be a consolation for me to have to go up to my pulpit, and there expose myself to the gaze of so many who direct their eyes at me, as if the light of heaven were shining on my face? Or have to contemplate my spiritual flock thirsting for truth and hearing my words as if they were spoken by one of the Eternal’s chosen ones, and then contemplate myself to see only the sad and black reality that they idolize? Ah! I have laughed with intense bitterness and agony of spirit at the contrast that exists between what I seem and what I truly am! And Satan laughs too! –You are unfair to yourself in this,–said Esther sweetly.–You have deeply and bitterly repented. Your lack has been relegated to an era that has long since passed forever. Your present life is not less holy, in reality truly, than it appears to the sight of men. Does the penance to which they have put a seal and to which your good works bear witness, perhaps have no force ? And why shouldn’t they bring peace to your spirit? “No, Esther, no!” replied the minister. “There is no reality in it: it is cold, inanimate, and cannot do me any good.” I have had many ailments ; penitence, none. Otherwise, I should have long since put aside this garment of apparent sanctity, and presented myself before men as they will see me on the day of Judgment. Happy are you, Esther, who wear the scarlet letter exposed on your breast! Mine burns me secretly! You don’t know how great a relief it is, after a seven-year fraud, to look into eyes that see me as I am. If I had a friend,–or even if he were my worst enemy–to whom, when I feel sick with the praise of all other men, I could open my chest daily so that he would see me as the vilest of sinners, I believe that with that I would regain new strength. Even that part of truth, even if it was so little, would save me…. But now, everything is a lie!–everything is vanity!–everything is death! Esther looked at him, wanted to speak, but hesitated. However, as the minister gave vent to his long-repressed emotions, and with the vehemence that he did, his words offered Esther the opportunity to say what she had sought him out to say. He conquered his fears, and spoke. –A friend like the one you have now desired,–he said,–with whom you can cry about your lack, you have in me, the accomplice of that lack. He hesitated again, but at last he pronounced these words with great effort: – As for an enemy, you have had him for a long time, and you have lived with him, under the same roof. The minister stood up, looking for air to breathe, and putting his hand to his heart as if he wanted to tear it out of his chest. –As! “What are you saying?” he exclaimed. “An enemy!” And under my same roof! What do you mean, Esther? Ester Prynne now perfectly understood the immense evil done to this unfortunate man, and for which she was responsible, by allowing him to remain for so many years, nay, for a single moment, at the mercy of a man whose purpose and object could not be other than perverse. The mere proximity of this enemy, under whatever mask he wanted to hide, was enough to disturb a soul as delicately sensitive as Arthur Dimmesdale’s. There was a certain time when Esther did not fully realize all this; or perhaps, in deep contemplation of her own misfortune, she left the minister to endure what she might imagine to be a more tolerable fate. But lately, since that night of his vigil, he felt deep compassion towards him, because he could now read more correctly in his heart. He did not doubt that the continued presence of Roger Chillingworth,–infecting the air around him with the poison of his malignancy–and his authorized intervention, as a doctor, in the minister’s physical and spiritual ailments, he did not doubt, no, that all those opportunities had been taken advantage of for evil purposes. Yes, those opportunities had allowed him to keep his patient’s consciousness in a state of constant irritation, not to cure him through pain, but to disorganize and corrupt his spiritual being. Its result on earth would undoubtedly be madness; and beyond this life, that eternal estrangement from God and the Truth, of which madness is perhaps the terrestrial type. To such a state of misfortune and misery had she brought the man she had once—and, why not say it?—still passionately loved! Esther understood that the sacrifice of the ecclesiastic’s good name and even death itself, as she had told Roger Chillingworth, would have been infinitely preferable to the alternative that she had been forced to choose. And now, rather than having to confess this fatal error, he would have liked to throw himself on the leaves of the jungle and die there at the feet of Arthur Dimmesdale. –Oh Arthur!–exclaimed Esther,–forgive me! In all things in this world I have tried to be sincere and stick to the truth. The only virtue I could have clung to, and to which I clung strongly to the last extremity, was truth; In all circumstances I did it, except when it was about your good, your life, your reputation; So I consented to the deception. But a lie is never good, even when death threatens us. Don’t you guess what I’m going to say?… That old man,–that doctor,–the one they call Roger Chillingworth…was my husband! Arthur Dimmesdale looked at her for a moment with all that violent passion which, intertwined in more than one way with his other higher, pure and serene qualities, was in reality the part at which the enemy of the human race directed his attacks, and by means of which he tried to gain all the rest. Never was there an expression of anger on his face so dark and ferocious as that which Esther then saw. For the short time it lasted, it was truly a horrible transformation. But Dimmesdale’s character had been so weakened by suffering, that even these bursts of energy of a lower degree could not last but a quick moment. He threw himself on the ground and buried his face in his hands. –I should have known him!–he murmured.–Yes: I knew him. Didn’t the intimate voice of my heart reveal that secret to me from the first time I saw him, and then how many times have I seen him since then? Why didn’t I understand it? Oh Esther Prynne! how little, how little you know all the horror of this! And the shame!… the shame!… the horrible ugliness of exposing a sick and guilty heart to the gaze of the man who was to rejoice so much in it!… Woman, woman, you are responsible for this!… I cannot forgive you! –Yes, yes; “You have to forgive me,” Esther exclaimed, throwing herself down next to him on the leaves of the ground. “God punish me, but you have to forgive me!” And with a quick and desperate burst of tenderness she put her arms around his neck and pressed his head against her bosom, not caring whether the minister’s cheek rested on the scarlet letter. Dimmesdale, although in vain, tried to free himself from the arms that were thus clasping him. Esther did not want to let go of him for fear that he would fix her with a severe look. The whole world had rejected her, and for seven long years had frowned upon this poor lonely woman,–and she had suffered it all, without returning even a glance to the world from her firm, though sad, eyes. The sky had also frowned upon her, and she had not succumbed however. But the frown of this pale, weak, sinful man, whom grief so depressed, was what Esther could not bear and continue living. –Don’t you want to forgive me? Don’t you want to forgive me?–he repeated over and over again .–Don’t reject me! Do you want to forgive me? “Yes, I forgive you, Esther,” the minister finally replied, with a deep accent coming from an abyss of sadness, but without anger. “I forgive you now with all my heart.” May God forgive us both. We are not the blackest sinners in the world, Esther. There is one who is even worse than this contaminated minister of the altar! That old man’s revenge has been blacker than my sin. In cold blood he has violated the sanctity of a human heart. Neither you nor I, Ester, ever did it. “No: never, never,” she answered in a low voice. What we did had its consecration in itself, and that is how we understood it. We told each other. Have you forgotten? –Silence, Esther, silence,–said Arthur Dimmesdale, rising from the ground;–no: I have not forgotten it. They sat side by side again on the mossy trunk of the fallen tree, their hands intertwined. Darker hour than life had ever brought them in the course of years: it was the point towards which their paths had been approaching for so long, growing darker and darker as they advanced, and yet it all had a singular charm that made them pause for a moment. instant, and another, and then another, and still another. Dark was the forest that surrounded them, and the branches of the trees creaked, agitated by violent gusts, while a solemn and old tree complained piteously as if it were telling another tree the sad story of the couple who had sat there, or were announcing future evils. And there they stayed even longer. How gloomy seemed to them the path that led to the town, where Esther Prynne would again bear the weight of her ignominy and the minister would put on the mask of his good name! And they remained like that for a moment longer. No ray of light, however golden and brilliant, had ever been as precious as the darkness of this dark jungle. Here, seen only by the eyes of the minister, the scarlet letter did not burn on the bosom of the fallen woman. Here, seen only through the eyes of Esther, Minister Dimmesdale, false before God and false to men, could be sincere for a brief moment. Dimmesdale was startled by a thought that suddenly occurred to him. –Esther!–he exclaimed–here is a new horror! Roger Chillingworth knows your purpose in revealing his true character to me. Will you then continue to keep our secret? What will now be the new face that takes its revenge? “There is a strange discretion in his nature,” replied Esther thoughtfully, “born perhaps of his hidden schemes of revenge.” I do not believe that he will publish the secret, but rather that he will look for other means to satisfy his dark passion. “And how can I live longer breathing the same air that this my mortal enemy breathes?” exclaimed Dimmesdale, all trembling, and nervously putting his hand to his heart, “what had already become an involuntary act in him.” Think for me, Esther; you are strong. Solve for me. “You must no longer live under the same roof with that man,” said Esther slowly and resolutely. “Your heart must no longer remain exposed to the malignity of his gaze.” “It would be worse than death,” replied the minister, “but how can we avoid it?” What choice do I have left? Will I lie down again on these dry leaves, where I threw myself when you told me who I was? Shall I sink here and die once and for all? –Ah! What misfortune were you prey to!–said Esther, her eyes filled with tears.–Do you want to die from pure weakness of spirit? There is no other cause. “The judgment of God has fallen on me,” said the ecclesiastic whose conscience was as if struck by lightning. “It is too powerful to fight against.” “Heaven will have mercy on you!” exclaimed Esther. I wish you had the strength to take advantage of it! “Be strong for me,” answered Dimmesdale. Advise me what I should do. “Is the world so narrow?” exclaimed Esther, fixing her deep gaze on the minister’s eyes, and instinctively exercising a magnetic power over a spirit so annihilated and submissive that it could barely keep it standing. “Is the universe reduced to the limits of that population, which a short time ago was nothing more than a desert, as lonely as this jungle in which we find ourselves?” Where does that path lead? Back to the population, you say. Yes: from that side, it leads to it; but on the opposite side, it goes deeper and deeper into the solitude of the forests, until a few miles from here the yellow leaves no longer reveal any trace of man’s footprint. There you are free! Such a brief journey will take you from a world, where you have been so intensely unhappy, to another in which you could still be happy. Is there not, in all this limitless jungle, a place where your heart can be hidden from the eyes of Roger Chillingworth? –Yes, Esther; “but only under the fallen leaves,” replied the minister with a sad smile. “There is also the vast path of the sea,” Esther continued: “he brought you here; If you want, he will take you back to your home. In our native land, whether in some remote village, or in vast London,–or surely, in Germany, in France, in Italy,–you will find yourself far from the power and knowledge of that man. And what have you to do with all these iron-hearted men or their opinions? They have kept in abject servitude, for too long, what is best and noblest in you. –It can’t be,–the minister responded as if he were asked to do it sleepily.–I don’t have the strength to go. Miserable and sinful as I am, no other idea has animated me than that of dragging my earthly existence into the sphere in which Providence has placed me. Even though my soul is lost, I will still continue to do what I can to benefit the health of other souls. I do not dare abandon my post, even though I am an unfaithful sentinel, whose sure reward will be death and disgrace when I have finished my sad watch. “These seven years of misfortune and misfortune have overwhelmed you with their weight,” replied Esther, determined to give him courage with her own energy. “But you have to leave all that behind you.” It should not slow down your steps if you choose the jungle path and want to get away from the town; nor should you put your weight on the ship, if you prefer to cross the ocean. Leave these wrecks and ruins here, where they happened. Put all that aside. Start it all over again. Have you perhaps exhausted all possibilities of action in the failure of a single test? No way. The future is still full of other tests, and finally of good success. There is still happiness to enjoy! There is still much good to do! Change this false life you lead for one of sincerity and truth. If your spirit inclines you to that vocation, be the teacher and apostle of the indigenous race, OR–since perhaps it is more suited to your nature–be a wise man and a scholar among the wisest and most renowned in the world of letters. Preach: write: be a man of action. Do anything except lie down and let yourself die. Put aside your name of Arthur Dimmesdale, and create for yourself a new one, an exalted name, such as you can bear without fear or shame. Why must you endure for one more day the torments that have so devoured your existence,–that have made you weak for will and action,–and which will even deprive you of the strength to repent?–Courage; up, and forward. “Oh Esther!” exclaimed Arthur Dimmesdale, whose eyes shone for a moment, then immediately lost their shine under the influence of that woman’s enthusiasm. “Oh Esther!” You are talking about taking the race to a man whose knees waver and tremble. I have to die here! I no longer have the strength, courage, or energy to throw myself into a strange, immense world, bristling with difficulties, and throw myself out alone. This was the last expression of the despondency of a broken spirit. He lacked the energy to take advantage of the most favorable fortune that seemed within his reach. He repeated the word. –Alone, Esther! “You will not go alone,” answered Esther with a deep accent. And with this, everything was said. Chapter 18. A TORRENT OF LIGHT. Arthur Dimmesdale fixed his eyes on Esther with looks in which hope and joy shone, surely, although mixed with a certain fear and a kind of horror, at the intrepidity with which she had expressed what he vaguely indicated and did not dare to say. But Esther Prynne, with a spirit full of innate courage and activity, and for a long time not only segregated, but banished from society, had become accustomed to a freedom of speculation completely foreign to the way of being of the ecclesiastic. Without a guide or rule of any kind he had been wandering in a kind of spiritual desert; as vast, as intricate, as dark and jungle as that forest in which they were now holding a dialogue that was going to decide their fate. Ester’s heart and intelligence can be said to have been at their element in the desert places where she roamed as freely as wild Indians roamed their forests. For years I had contemplated the human institutions, and everything established by religion or laws, from a point of view that was peculiar to it; criticizing everything with as little reverence as the jungle Indian would experience for the judicial robe, the pillory, the scaffold, or the church. Both his destiny and the events of his life had tended to set his spirit free. The scarlet letter was her passport to enter regions that other women did not dare approach. Shame, Despair, Loneliness: such had been his teachers; rude and severe, but they had made her strong, although leading her into error. The minister, on the contrary, had never gone through such an experience as would lead him to question generally accepted laws; well that on only one occasion he had broken one of the most sacred. But this had been a sin committed by passion, not the consequences of determined principles, or even of a purpose. Since that ill-fated time, he had observed with morbid zeal and thoroughness, not his actions, because these were easy to fix, but every emotion, no matter how slight, and even every thought. Finding himself at the head of the social system, as the ecclesiastic was at that time, he found himself for that very reason more chained by its rules, its principles and even its unjust preventions. As a minister of the altar that he was, the mechanism of the institution’s system inevitably compressed him. As a man who had committed a crime once, but who kept his conscience alive and painfully sensitive, thanks to the constant rubbing of a wound that had not healed, he could be supposed to be safer from sinning again than if he had never committed a crime. Thus we seem to observe that, as for Esther, the seven years of ignominy and social exile had been only a preparation for this hour. But what about Arthur Dimmesdale? If this man commits a crime again, what excuse could be presented to mitigate his crime? None, unless it was worth something to say that his strength was broken by long and intense suffering; that his spirit was darkened and confused by the remorse that gnawed at him; that between the alternative of fleeing as a confessed criminal or remaining a hypocrite, it would be difficult to find the fairest decision; that it is human nature to avoid the danger of death and infamy and the subtle machinations of an enemy; and, finally, that this poor pilgrim, weak, sick, unhappy, unexpectedly saw shining, on his deserted and gloomy path, a ray of human affection and sympathy, a new life, full of sincerity, in exchange for the sad and heavy life of atonement that he was now leading. And let the following bitter truth also be told: the gap that crime has once opened in the human soul is never completely closed as long as we preserve our mortal condition. It must be watched and guarded, so that the enemy does not penetrate the fortress again, and perhaps choose other means of entry than those used before. But the open wall is always there, and next to it the artificial enemy who, cautiously and stealthily, tries to obtain a more complete victory again. The struggle, if there was any, need not be described; Suffice it to say that Dimmesdale resolved to take flight, and not alone. –If in all these past seven years, he thought, I could remember a single moment of peace or hope, I would still endure everything trusting in the mercy of Heaven; but since I am irremediably condemned, why not enjoy the solace granted to the condemned man before his execution? Or if this path, as Esther tries to persuade me, is the one that leads to a better life, why not follow it? Nor can I live any longer without the company of Esther, whose strength to sustain me is so vigorous, as is also her power to calm the anguish of my soul. Oh You to whom I do not dare to look up!– will you forgive me? “You will leave,” said Ester with a calm accent as she met their gazes. of Dimmesdale. Once the decision was made, the glow of a strange joy spread its wavering splendor over the minister’s restless face. It was the animating effect experienced by a prisoner, who has just freed himself from the dungeon of his own heart, when breathing the free and stormy atmosphere of a jungle region, without laws and without restraint of any kind. His spirit rose, as if in one fell swoop, to loftier heights than he had been able to reach during all the years that misfortune had kept him nailed to the earth; and as he was of an extremely religious temperament, there was inevitably something spiritual in his present animation. –Do I feel joy again?–he asked himself, surprised at himself .–I believed that the germ of all contentment had died in me. Oh
Esther, you are my good angel! It seems to me that I threw myself, sick, contaminated by guilt, crushed by pain, upon these leaves of the jungle, and that I have arisen a completely new man, and with new strength to glorify Him who has been so merciful. This is already a better life. Why haven’t we met before? “Let’s not look back,” answered Esther, “what’s past is past: why stop at it now? Look! With this symbol I undo everything done and proceed as if it had never existed. And saying this, he unfastened the clasps that secured the scarlet letter, and tearing it from his breast, threw it to a great distance among the dry leaves. The mystical symbol fell on the very bank of the stream, and would have done so in a little while in the water that would have carried it in its melancholic current, adding a new pain to the story that it was constantly recounting in its murmurs. But the embroidered letter remained there, shining like a lost jewel that some ill-fated traveler might pick up, perhaps later haunted by strange dreams of crime, despondency of heart, and unparalleled misfortune . Once the fatal insignia had been thrown away, Esther gave a long and deep sigh with which her spirit was freed from the shame and anguish that had oppressed her. Oh exquisite relief! He hadn’t known his true weight until he felt free of it. Moved by another impulse, she took off the cap that imprisoned her hair, which fell on her back, rich, black, with a mixture of light and shadow in its abundance, communicating to her face all the charm of a soft expression. A tender and radiant smile played on her lips and shone in her eyes , which seemed to have its origin in her feminine heart. The cheeks, so pale until then, looked animated with rosy color. Her sex, her youth, and all the richness of her beauty seemed to have arisen anew from what is called the irrevocable past, and gathered around her with her virginal hope and a hitherto unknown happiness, and all within the magic circle of this hour. And as if the darkness and sadness of the earth and the firmament had only been the reflection of what was happening in the hearts of these two mortals, they also vanished with their pain. Suddenly, as if with a sudden smile from heaven, the sun made a kind of irruption into the dark jungle, pouring out a torrent of splendor, brightening each green leaf, turning the yellowish ones into gold, and shining between the blackish trunks of the solemn trees. The objects, which until then had scattered only shadows, were now luminous bodies. The course of the stream could be traced, thanks to its joyful murmur, far away in the mysterious center of that jungle that had become witness to an even more mysterious joy. Such was the sympathy of Nature with the happiness of these two spirits. Love, whether it sprouts for the first time, or arises from almost extinguished ashes, always has to create a ray of sunshine that fills the heart with such splendors that they spread throughout the inner world. If the jungle had still preserved its sad darkness, it would have seemed without However brilliant in the eyes of Esther, and equally brilliant in those of Arthur Dimmesdale. Esther gave him a look filled with the light of a new joy. “You have to meet Perla,” he told her, “our Perlita!” You have seen it,–yes, I know,–but you will see it now with different eyes. She is a unique girl. I barely understand her. But you will love her dearly, as I do, and you will advise me on how to handle her. “Do you think the girl will be happy to meet me?” the minister asked, visibly disturbed. “I have always distanced myself from children, because they often show a certain distrust, a kind of shrinking from entering into family relationships with me.” I have always feared Pearl! “That was sad,” answered the mother, “but she will love you tenderly and you will love her too.” It’s not far away. I’m going to call her. Pearl! Pearl! “I see it from here,” observed the minister. “There it is, in the middle of the sunlight, on the other side of the stream.” So you think the girl will love me? Esther smiled and called again to Pearl, who was visible from a distance, as the minister had said, and looked like a brilliant vision illuminated by a ray of sunlight that fell on her through the branches of the trees. The lightning waved from side to side, making the girl seem more or less confused, now like a human creature, now like some kind of spirit, as the splendor disappeared and returned. He heard his mother’s voice, and he went towards her, slowly crossing the jungle. Pearl had not found the time long or tedious while her mother and the minister were talking. The great jungle, which appeared so dark and severe to those who brought the guilt and anguish of the world there, became a companion in the games of this lonely girl. It seemed that, to amuse her, he had adopted the most captivating and flattering manners: he offered her exquisite reddish berries, which the girl picked, delighting in their wild flavor. The little inhabitants of that solitude barely left the girl’s path. It is true that a partridge, followed by ten pellets, advanced towards her with a threatening air, but it soon repented of its ferocity and calmly returned to the side of its tender offspring, as if telling them not to be afraid. A young pigeon, which was alone on a low branch, allowed Pearl to approach it, and made a sound that could have been a greeting or a cry of alarm. A squirrel, from the top of the tree where it had its dwelling, was chattering in a tone of anger or joy, because a squirrel is such an angry and capricious little animal that it is very difficult to know if it is angry or in a good mood, and threw a nut at its head. A fox, startled by the light noise of the girl’s footsteps on the leaves, looked curiously at Pearl as if wondering what would be better, to get away from there, or to continue her nap as before. It is said that a wolf, but here the story has already degenerated into the improbable, approached Pearl, sniffed the girl’s dress and bent its ferocious head so that she could caress it with her little hand. However , what seems to be the truth is that the jungle, and all these wild creatures it supported, recognized in that girl a human being with a nature as free as their own. The girl also displayed a softer and sweeter character here than in the grassy streets of the town, or in her mother’s home. The flowers seemed to know her, and in a whisper they were saying to her when she passed by them: Adorn yourself with me, pretty girl, adorn yourself with me;–and to please them , Pearl picked violets, and anemones, and columbinas, and some green bouquets, and she adorned her hair, and surrounded her waist, becoming a child nymph, a tender dryad, or something that harmonized with the ancient forest. He had adorned himself in such a way when he heard his mother’s voice and he slowly addressed her. Slowly, yes, because he had seen the minister. Chapter 19. THE GIRL BY THE STREAM. “You will love her tenderly,” Esther repeated as she and Dimmesdale looked at Pearl. “Don’t you find her beautiful?” And look with what natural art he has turned those simple flowers into decoration. If he had collected pearls, and diamonds, and rubies in the forest, they would not suit him better. She is a splendid girl! But I know well what front yours resembles. “Do you know, Esther,” said Arthur Dimmesdale with a restless smile, “that this dear girl, who is always jumping at your side, has caused me more than one alarm?” It seemed to me… oh Esther!… what a thought that is, and how terrible the idea!… It seemed to me that the features of my features were partially reproduced in her face, and that everyone could recognize them. Such is their likeness! But more than anything it is your image. –No, it’s not like that,–answered the mother with a tender smile. Wait a while, not too long, and you won’t need to be scared at the thought of her showing whose daughter she is. But how singularly beautiful she looks with those wild flowers with which she has adorned her hair! It seems that one of the fairies that we have left in our beloved England has dressed her up to come out to meet us. With a feeling that neither of them had ever experienced before , they watched Pearl’s slow march. The bond that united them was visible in her . In these seven years that had passed, the girl was to the world a living hieroglyph in which the secret that they tried to hide in such a way was revealed: in this symbol everything was written, everything was evident in a simple way, if there had been a prophet or a skillful magician capable of interpreting its characters of fire. Whatever the past evil, how could they doubt that their earthly lives and their future destinies were intertwined, when they saw before them both the material union and the spiritual idea in which they were both fused, and in which they were to dwell together immortally? Thoughts of this nature, and perhaps others that were not confessed or described, clothed the girl with a kind of mysterious solemnity as she moved forward. “May she see nothing strange, nothing passionate, nor any anxiety in your way of receiving her and addressing her,” Ester said to the minister in a low voice. “Our Pearl is sometimes like a fantastic and capricious elf.” He especially cannot tolerate strong emotions, when he does not fully understand the cause or object of them. But the girl is capable of intense affections. He loves me and he will love you. “You have no idea,” said the minister, looking askance at Esther, “how much I fear this interview, and at the same time how much I long for it.” But the truth is, as I have already told you, that I do not easily win the will of children. They don’t get on my knees, they don’t chat in my ear, they don’t respond to my smile; but they stay away from me and look at me in a strange way. Even newborns cry loudly when I hold them in my arms. However, Perla has been affectionate towards me twice in her life. The first time… you know when it was! The last one, when you took her with you to the house of the severe and old Governor. “And when you pleaded so bravely on behalf of her and me,” the mother responded. “I remember it perfectly, and Pearl should remember it too.” Don’t be afraid of anything! At first she may seem strange and even unsociable, but she will soon learn to love you. Pearl had already reached the bank of the stream, and there she remained silently contemplating Esther and the minister, who remained sitting together on the mossy trunk of the old tree, waiting for her to come. Precisely where the girl had stopped, the stream formed a puddle so smooth and calm that it reflected a perfect image of her little body, with all the picturesque brilliance of its beauty, which enhanced its decoration of flowers and leaves, although more spiritualized and delicate than in reality. This image, almost so identical to what Pearl was, seemed to communicate something of its intangible and floating quality to the girl herself. The way Pearl stood there, staring at them. Through the semi-darkness of the jungle, it was really strange; illuminated, however, by a ray of sunlight attracted there by a certain hidden sympathy. Esther herself felt in a vague and mysterious way as if she were distant from her daughter; as if she, on her solitary walk through the jungle, had completely separated herself from the sphere in which both she and her mother lived together, and were now trying to return, although in vain, to their lost home. And in this sensation there was both truth and error: daughter and mother now felt mutual strangers, but because of Ester, not Pearl. While the girl was walking alone, another being had been admitted into the sphere of the mother’s feelings, modifying the appearance of things in such a way that Pearl, upon returning from her walk, could not find her usual position and barely recognized her mother. “A singular idea has taken hold of me,” said the sickly minister. “It seems to me that this stream forms the boundary between two worlds, and that you will never find your Pearl again.” Or is she perhaps a kind of elf or enchanted spirit who, as we were told in the stories of our childhood, are forbidden to cross a stream of water? I beg you to hurry, because this delay has already shaken my nerves. –Come, dear girl,–said Ester encouraging her and extending her arms towards her.–Come: how slow you are! When, before now, have you been so lazy? Here is a friend of mine who also wants to be your friend. From now on you will have twice as much love as your mother alone can give you. Jump over the stream and come towards us. You can jump like a deer. Pearl, without responding in any way to these honeyed expressions, remained on the other side of the stream, fixing her bright eyes now on her mother, now on the minister, or sometimes including both in the same gaze, as if she wanted to discover and explain what was common between the two. For an inexplicable reason, when Arturo Dimmesdale felt the girl’s gaze fixed on him, he placed his hand on his heart with the gesture that was so habitual to him and that had become an involuntary action. At last, assuming a certain singular appearance of authority, Pearl extended her hand, evidently pointing with her index finger at her mother’s breast. And below, in the glass of the stream, you could see the bright and flower-filled image of Pearl, also pointing with her little finger. “Singular girl, why don’t you come where I am?” Esther exclaimed. Pearl still had her index finger extended, and she frowned, which conveyed a more notable meaning, considering the childish features that such an appearance took on. As her mother continued to call her, her face full of unusual smiles, the girl stamped her foot on the ground with even more imperious gestures and looks, which were also reflected by the stream, as well as the extended finger and the girl’s imperious gesture. “Hurry up, Pearl, or I will be uncomfortable,” cried Hester, who, accustomed to such a manner of conduct on the part of her daughter on other occasions, naturally desired somewhat better behavior in the present circumstances. “Jump the stream, naughty girl, and run this way: otherwise I will go to where you are.” But Pearl did not pay attention to her mother’s threats, as she had not paid attention to her affectionate words, but instead burst into a fit of anger, gesticulating violently and shaking her little body with the most extravagant contortions, accompanying this explosion of anger with high-pitched screams that echoed through the jungle everywhere; so that despite how alone she was in her childish and incomprehensible fury, it seemed that a hidden crowd accompanied her and even encouraged her in her actions. And in the water of the stream was reflected once again the angry image of Pearl, crowned with flowers, stamping her foot on the ground, gesturing violently and pointing her index finger at Ester’s breast. “I know what this girl wants,” Esther murmured to the minister, and turning pale, despite a great effort to hide her displeasure and mortification, he said:–children do not allow the slightest change in the accustomed appearance of the things they see daily. Perla misses something she has always seen me wear. “If you have any means of appeasing the girl,” said the minister, “I beg you to do it immediately.” Except the fury of an old sorceress, like Mrs. Hibbins,” he added, trying to smile, “there is nothing that frightens me as much as an outburst of anger like this in a child. In the tender beauty of Pearl, as well as in the wrinkles of the old sorceress, this outburst has something supernatural. Appease her, if you love me. Ester addressed Pearl again, her face flushed, giving the minister a sidelong glance, and then heaving a deep sigh; and even before he had time to speak, the color of his cheeks turned to a mortal pallor. –Perla,–he said sadly,–look at your feet…. There… in front of you… on the other side of the stream. The girl looked at the indicated point, and there she saw the scarlet letter, so close to the edge of the stream that the gold embroidery was reflected in the water. “Bring her here,” said Esther. –You come and look for her,–Pearl responded. “You have never seen a girl like that before!” Esther observed the minister aside. “Oh!” I have to tell you a lot about her. But in truth, in the matter of this odious symbol, he is right. I must suffer this torment for some time, a few more days, until we have left this region and look at it as a country of which we have dreamed. The jungle cannot hide it. The ocean will receive the letter from my hands, and will swallow it forever! Saying this he went forward to the bank of the stream, picked up the scarlet letter and fixed it again on his chest. A moment before, when Esther spoke of throwing her into the bosom of the ocean, there was a feeling of well-founded hope in her; Upon receiving this deadly symbol again from the hand of fate, she experienced the sensation of an irrevocable sentence weighing on her. He had thrown it into infinite space,–he had breathed the air of freedom for an hour–and here again the scarlet letter was here with all its torture, shining in the usual place. In the same way, a bad action always takes on the character of inescapable destiny. Esther immediately gathered the thick braids of her hair and hid them under her cap. And as if there were a curse on the sad letter, her beauty and everything that was feminine in her disappeared, like a ray of sunlight that fades, and as if a shadow had spread over her entire being. Once the terrible change was made, he extended his hand to Pearl. “Do you know your mother now, girl?” he asked her with an accent of reproach, although in a moderate tone. Do you want to cross the stream, and come to where your mother is, now that her ignominy has set in again ,–now that she is sad? “Yes, now I want to,” answered the girl, crossing the stream and hugging her mother to her chest. Now you are really my mother, and I am your Perlita. And with a tenderness that was not common to her, she drew her mother’s head towards her and kissed her on the forehead and cheeks. But then,–out of a kind of necessity that always drove her to mix in the contentment it provided a part of pain–Pearl also kissed the scarlet letter. “That’s not good,” said Esther, “when you’ve shown me a little love, you mock me.” “Why is the minister sitting there?” asked Pearl. “He is waiting to greet you,” replied his mother. “Go and ask for his blessing.” He loves you, my Perlita, and he also loves your mother. Won’t you love him the same? See: he wants to caress you. “Does he really love us?” said Pearl, looking at her mother with an expression of lively intelligence. “Will he go with us, holding our hands, and will the three of us enter the town together?” “Not now, my dear daughter,” answered Esther. –But in a few days we will go together hand in hand, and we will have a home and a house of our own, and you will sit on his knees, and he will teach you many things and love you very tenderly. You’ll love it too, won’t you? –And will you always keep your hand on your heart? “What question is that, crazy?” exclaimed the mother: come and ask for her blessing. But whether she was influenced by the jealousy that seems instinctive in all spoiled children, in the presence of a dangerous rival, or whether it was a whim of her singular nature, Pearl did not want to show any signs of affection to Arthur Dimmesdale. Only, and by force, did her mother take her to the minister, and that while staying behind and expressing her reluctance with strange expressions, of which, from her earliest childhood, she had a numerous variety, being able to transform her mobile physiognomy in various ways, and always with a more or less perverse expression. The minister, painfully disconcerted, but hoping that a kiss might be a kind of talisman that would win him the girl’s good will, leaned toward her and kissed her forehead. Immediately Pearl managed to free herself from her mother’s hands, and running towards the stream, she stopped on the shore and washed her forehead in its waters, until she believed the reluctantly received kiss had completely erased. Then he remained on one side silently contemplating Esther and the minister, while they conversed together and made the arrangements suggested by their new position and by the purposes they were soon to accomplish. And now this fateful interview was over. That place where they were would remain abandoned in its solitude among the shadowy and ancient trees of the jungle that, with their numerous languages, would whisper at length what had happened there, without any mortal being saner for that. And the melancholy brook would add this new story to the mysterious tales it already knew, and would continue its ancient murmur, certainly no happier than it had been for centuries and centuries. Chapter 20. THE MINISTER LOST IN A LABYRINTH. ARTURO DIMMESDALE left first, ahead of Ester and Pearl, and at some distance he looked back, as if he expected to discover only some faint features or the outlines of the mother and the girl slowly fading in the semi-darkness of the forest. An event of such importance in his existence, he could not conceive that it was real. But there was Esther, dressed in her brown dress , still standing next to the trunk of the tree that some stormy wind blew down in time immemorial, all covered with moss, so that those two predestined beings, with their souls overwhelmed with sorrow, could sit there together and find a single hour of rest and solace. And there was Pearl too, dancing happily on the banks of the stream, now that that strange intruder was gone, and he left her to occupy her old position next to her mother. No: the minister had not fallen asleep, nor had he dreamed. In order to make the vagueness and confusion of his impressions disappear from his mind, which made him experience a strange restlessness, he began to remember in a precise and definite manner the plans and projects that he and Ester had outlined for their departure. It had been agreed between the two that the Old World, with its populous cities, would offer them better shelter and greater opportunity to go unnoticed than the jungles of New England or all of America, with their alternatives of one or another Indian hut or the few sparsely populated European cities , scattered here and there along the coasts. All this without mentioning the poor health of the minister, who certainly did not lend himself to enduring the work and hardships of forest life, when his natural gifts, his culture and the development of all his faculties adapted him to live only among peoples of advanced civilization. So that they could carry out what they had determined, chance led them to find a ship in the port, one of those boats of dubious character, something very common in those times, who without really being pirates, nevertheless traveled the seas with very little respect for the laws of property. This ship had recently arrived from the Sea of ​​the Antilles, and was to set sail within three days for Bristol in England. Ester, whose vocation as Sister of Charity had put her in contact with the captain and crew of the ship, would take care of securing the passage of two individuals and a girl, with all the secrecy that circumstances made more than necessary. The minister had asked Esther, with no little interest, the precise date on which the ship was to leave. It would probably be four days from now. Happy coincidence!–he said to himself. Why the Reverend Arthur Dimmesdale considered it a happy coincidence, we hesitate to reveal. However, so that the reader knows everything, we will say that within three days he had to preach the election sermon; and as such an act formed an honorable time in the life of a New England ecclesiastic, Mr. Dimmesdale could not have chosen a more convenient opportunity to end his professional career. At least, they will say of me, thought this exemplary man, that I have not neglected to perform any public duty, nor have I performed it poorly. Sad it is, undoubtedly, to see that a person who could make such a deep and thorough examination of himself , was deceived to such an extent! We have already said, and still have to say, worse things about him; but none so pitifully weak; none that gave such irrefutable proof of the subtle illness that had, for some time, undermined the true basis of his character. No man can wear two faces for a long time, so to speak : one in public and the other in front of his conscience, without finally coming to not know which one is true. The agitation that Mr. Dimmesdale experienced upon returning from his interview with Ester gave him an unusual physical energy, and made him walk toward the town with a rapid pace. The path through the forests seemed to him wilder, rougher with its natural obstacles, and less trodden by human feet, than when he followed it in the opposite direction. But it jumped over the marshy places, entered through the leafy branches, climbed when it found slopes to climb, or descended into the hollows; In a word, he overcame all the difficulties that came his way, with a tireless activity that surprised him himself. He could not help but remember how tiringly, and with how many stops to catch his breath, he had traveled that same path just two days before. As he approached the city, he began to believe that he noticed a change in the objects that were most familiar to him, as if not only two or three days had passed since he left the town, but many years. Certainly the streets presented the same appearance as before, as he remembered them, and the houses had the same peculiarities, with their multitude of eaves and a weather vane precisely in the place where his memory indicated it. However, the idea of ​​change harassed him at every moment, the same phenomenon happening with the familiar people he saw, and with all those who were familiar to him in the small town. I found them neither younger nor older now; The beards of the old people were no whiter, nor could the child who walked on all fours yesterday move today using his feet: it was impossible to say how they differed from the people whom he had seen before leaving; and yet something within seemed to suggest to him that a change had been effected . He received an impression of this nature, in the most notable manner, as he passed by the church which was in his charge. The building presented itself to him with an appearance at once so strange and so familiar, that Mr. Dimmesdale was hesitating between these two ideas: either that until then he had seen it only in a dream, or that it was now just dreaming. This phenomenon, in the various forms it took, did not indicate an external change, but rather a change so sudden and important in the spectator himself, that the space of a single day’s interval had been for him equivalent to the passage of several years. The will of the minister and that of Esther, and the destiny that weighed on them, had brought about this transformation. It was the same city as before; but it was not the same minister who had returned from the jungle. He could have said to his friends who greeted him: I am not the man you take me for. I have left it there in the jungle, retired in a hidden valley, next to a mossy tree trunk, not far from a melancholic stream. Go: look for your minister, and see if his exhausted body, his emaciated cheeks, and his pale forehead furrowed with wrinkles from pain, have not been thrown there like a garment that one throws off. Without a doubt his friends would have insisted, saying: You are the same man; but the error would have been on the part of his friends and not the minister. Before Mr. Dimmesdale arrived at his home, his intimate being gave him other proofs that a revolution had taken place in his way of thinking and feeling. In truth, only a complete and total revolution of that nature could be attributed to the impulses that agitated the unfortunate minister. At every step he felt moved by the desire to do something strange, unusual, violent or perverse, with the conviction that it would be both involuntary and intentional and in spite of himself , but emanating from a deeper feeling than that which opposed the impulse. For example, he met one of the deacons of his church, a good old man who greeted him with the paternal affection and patriarchal air to which he was entitled due to his years, his virtues and his position, and at the same time with the deep respect, almost veneration, that the public and private character of the minister demanded. Never has there been a more beautiful example of how the majesty and wisdom of the years can be combined with the obedience and respect that a lower social category and intelligence owe to a person superior in those qualities. Well, during a conversation of a few moments between the Reverend Mr. Dimmesdale and this excellent old deacon, only by the most careful circumspection and almost to violence, the minister avoided uttering certain heretical reflections that occurred to him on various religious points. He trembled and turned pale, fearing that his lips, in spite of himself, would emit some of the horrible thoughts that crossed his mind. And yet, although his heart was filled with such terror, he could not help but smile when he imagined how stupefied the holy man and patriarchal deacon would have been at the impiety of his minister. We will refer to another incident of the same nature. Hurrying down the street, the Reverend Mr. Dimmesdale bumped into one of the oldest members of his church, an old lady, the most pious and exemplary that could be found: poor, widowed, alone, and with her heart full of reminiscences of her husband and children, now dead, as well as of her long-dead friends. However, all this, which otherwise would have been intense pain, had almost become for this pious soul a solemn joy, thanks to the religious consolations and the truths of the Holy Scriptures, with which it can be said that he had been continuously nourished for more than thirty years. Since the Reverend Mr. Dimmesdale took her into his charge, the good lady’s main earthly consolation consisted in seeing her spiritual pastor, now by deliberate purpose, now by chance, and feeling comforted in her soul with a word that breathed the consoling truths of the Gospel, and that coming from those revered lips, penetrated her poor but attentive ear. But on the present occasion, when the Reverend Mr. Dimmesdale wanted to open his lips, it was not possible for him to remember a single text of the Holy Scriptures. Scriptures, and the only thing he could say was something brief, energetic, which, as it seemed to him then, amounted to an irrefutable argument against the immortality of the soul. The mere insinuation of such an idea would probably have made this old lady fall senseless to the ground , as if from an infusion of intensely deadly poison. What the minister actually said, he could never remember. Perhaps there was a certain obscurity in his words that prevented the good widow from understanding exactly the idea that Dimmesdale wanted to express, or perhaps she interpreted them in her own way. The truth is that when the minister looked back, he noticed on the holy woman’s face an expression of ecstasy and divine gratitude, as if he were illuminated by the radiance of the divine city. We will still refer to a third example. After separating from the old widow, he found the youngest of his parishioners. She was a tender maiden to whom the sermon preached by the Reverend Mr. Dimmesdale, the day after the night spent awake on the platform, had exchanged the transitory joys of the world for the heavenly hope that would gain brilliance as the shadows of existence increased , and that would finally convert the last darkness into waves of glorious light. She was as pure and as beautiful as a lily that had bloomed in Paradise. The minister knew perfectly well that his image was venerated in the immaculate sanctuary of the maiden’s heart, which mixed her religious enthusiasm with the sweet fire of love, and communicated to love all the purity of religion. Surely the enemy of the human race had that day separated the young maiden from her mother’s side, to put her in the path of this man who we can call lost and hopeless. As the young woman approached the minister, the evil spirit murmured in his ear to condense in the briefest form, and pour into the tender heart of the virgin, a germ of evil that would soon produce black flowers and even blacker fruits. The conviction of his influence on this virginal soul, which was thus entrusted to him, was such that the minister knew very well that it was his power to wither this entire garden of innocence with a single perverse look, or to make it flourish in virtues with a single good word. Consequently, after having a stronger struggle with himself than he had already had, he covered his face with his cloak and quickened his pace without realizing that he had seen her, leaving the poor girl to interpret his rudeness as she pleased. She scrutinized her conscience, full of small innocent actions, and the unfortunate woman reproached herself for a thousand imaginary faults, and the next day she was carrying out her domestic chores with her head down and with teary eyes. Before the minister had had time to celebrate his victory over this last temptation, he experienced another impulse, no longer ridiculous, but almost horrible. It was, we are ashamed to say, nothing less than stopping in the street and teaching some very bad words to a group of Puritan children, who were just beginning to speak. Having resisted this impulse as completely unworthy of the suit he wore, he found a drunken sailor from the crew of the ship in the Sea of ​​Antilles of which we have spoken; and this time, after having so bravely rejected all the other perverse temptations, poor Mr. Dimmesdale desired, at last, to shake hands with this tarry rascal, and to amuse himself with some of those bad jokes of which sailors have such a store, seasoned all with a barrage of suits and oaths capable of shaking the heavens. It was not so much his good principles that stopped him, but rather his innate modesty and the decent customs acquired under his ecclesiastical garb. “What is it that persecutes me and tempts me in this way?” asked the minister to himself, stopping in the street and striking his forehead. “Am I crazy, or am I completely in the power of the bad enemy? Did I make a pact with him in the jungle and sign it with my own blood? And now you ask me to fulfill it, suggesting that I carry out all the iniquities that your perverse imagination can conceive? At the time when the Reverend Mr. Dimmesdale was thus reasoning with himself, and striking his forehead with his hand, it is said that old Mrs. Hibbins, the lady reputed to be a witch, passed by, dressed in a rich velvet dress, fantastically coiffed, and with a beautiful collar of lechuguilla, all of which gave her the appearance of a person of many bells. As if the sorceress had read the minister’s thoughts, she stopped before him, fixed her gaze shrewdly on his face, smiled maliciously, and, although not very given to talking to people from the church, had the following dialogue with him: “So, Reverend Sir, you have paid a visit to the jungle,” observed the sorceress, tilting her large hairstyle towards the minister. “Next time you go, I beg you.” Let us know in time, and I will consider myself very honored to accompany you. Without wishing to exaggerate my importance, I believe that a word from me will serve to provide any strange gentleman with an excellent reception from that potentate you know. “I assure you, madam,” the minister responded with respectful greeting, as the lady’s high hierarchy demanded, and as her good education demanded it of her, “I assure you, under my conscience and honor, that I am completely in the dark about the meaning of your words.” I have not gone to the jungle to look for any potentate; nor do I intend to make a future visit there in order to gain the protection and favor of such a character. My only object was to greet my pious friend the apostle Eliot, and rejoice with him over the many precious souls he has rescued from idolatry. –Ha! ha! ha!–exclaimed the old witch, always tilting her high hairdo towards the minister.–Well, well: we need not talk about this during the day; but at midnight, and in the jungle, we will have another conversation together. The old sorceress continued on her way with her usual majesty, but from time to time she looked back and smiled, exactly as one who wanted to imply that a secret and mysterious intimacy existed between her and the minister. “Have I sold myself,” the minister asked himself, “to the evil spirit whom, if what is said is true, this old, yellowish witch, dressed in velvet, has chosen to be her prince and lord?” Unhappy minister! He had made a pact very similar to the one he was talking about. Hallucinated by a dream of happiness, he had deliberately given in, as he had never done before, to the temptation of what he knew to be a mortal sin; and the infecting poison of that sin had spread rapidly throughout his moral being; lulling all his good impulses to sleep, and awakening in him all the bad ones to lively life. Hatred, contempt, malignancy without any provocation, the gratuitous desire to be perverse, to ridicule everything good and holy, awoke in him to tempt him at the same time as they filled him with dread. And his meeting with the old sorceress Hibbins, if it had really happened, only showed him his sympathies and his companionship with perverse mortals and with the world of perverse spirits. By this time he had arrived at his home, near the cemetery, and hurriedly climbing the stairs he took refuge in his study. The minister was very happy to finally find himself in this asylum, without having sold himself by committing one of those strange and malignant eccentricities, to which he had been continually exposed, while passing through the streets of the town. He entered his room, and looked around, examining the books, the windows, the fireplace, and the tapestries, experiencing the same feeling of strangeness that had plagued him during the journey from the jungle to the city. In this room he had studied and written; here he had fasted and spent the sleepless nights, until he was almost half dead from fatigue and weakness; here he had made an effort to pray; here he had suffered a thousand and a thousand torments and agonies. There was her Bible, in the rich ancient Hebrew, with Moses and the Prophets speaking to her constantly, and the voice of God resounding throughout it. There, on the table, with the pen at his side, was a sermon to finish, with an incomplete sentence just as he left it when he left to make his visit two days before. He knew that he was the same, the thin, pale-cheeked minister who had done and suffered all these things, and he was well into his election sermon. But it seemed as if he were apart, contemplating his former self with a certain disdainful, compassionate, half-envious curiosity. That ancient being had disappeared, and another man had returned from the jungle: wiser, endowed with a knowledge of hidden mysteries that the simplicity of the first could never have achieved. Bitter knowledge indeed! While he was engaged in these reflections, there was a knock at the study door, and the minister said: Come in—not without some fear that it might be an evil spirit. And so it was! It was old Roger Chillingworth. The minister stood up, pale and mute, with one hand on the Holy Scriptures and the other on his chest. –Welcome, Reverend Sir!–said the doctor.–And how have you found that holy man, the apostle Eliot? But it seems to me, my dear sir, that you are pale; as if the journey through the jungles had been very painful. Don’t you need my help to strengthen yourselves somewhat, so that you can preach the election sermon? “No, I don’t think so,” replied the Reverend Mr. Dimmesdale. –My trip, and the sight of the holy apostle, and the free and pure air that I have breathed there, after such a long confinement in my study, have done me much good. I believe that I will no longer need your drugs, my benevolent doctor, despite how good they are and being administered by a friendly hand. During all this time old Roger had been contemplating the minister with the serious and fixed gaze of a doctor towards his patient; but in spite of these appearances, the minister was almost convinced that Chillingworth knew, or at least suspected, of his interview with Esther. The doctor knew, therefore, that for his patient he was no longer an intimate and loyal friend, but rather his most bitter enemy; Therefore, it was natural that a part of those feelings took visible form. It is, however, a singular fact that sometimes so much time passes before certain thoughts are expressed in words, and thus we see how surely two people, who do not wish to discuss the matter closest to their heart, approach to its very limits and withdraw without touching it. For this reason, the minister did not fear that the doctor would treat in a clear and distinct way the true position in which both of them found themselves. However, old Roger, in his usual dark manner, came considerably closer to the subject of the secret. –Wouldn’t it be better, he said, if you made use of my little ability tonight ? Truly, my dear sir, we must strive and do everything possible so that you are strong and vigorous on the day of the election sermon. The public expects great things from you, fearing that when another year arrives their shepherd will have left. “Yes, to another world,” replied the minister with pious resignation. –Heaven grant me a better world, because, in truth, I hardly believe that I will be able to remain among my parishioners through the rapid seasons of another year. And as for your medicines, good sir, in the current state of my body, I do not need them. “I am very glad to hear it,” replied the doctor. “It could be that my remedies, administered for so long in vain, are now beginning to take effect.” I would consider myself happy if that were the case, since I would deserve the gratitude of New England if I could effect such a cure. “I thank you with all my heart, vigilant friend,” said the Reverend Mr. Dimmesdale with a solemn smile.–I thank you, and I can only repay your good services with my prayers. “The prayers of a good man are the most valuable reward,” answered the old doctor as he said goodbye. “They are the gold coins current in the New Jerusalem, with the bust of the King engraved on them.” When he was alone, the minister called a servant of the house and asked him for something to eat, which he brought, and it can be said that he sent it off with a voracious appetite; and throwing into the flames what he had already written of his sermon, he immediately began to write another, with such an influx of thoughts and emotions that he believed himself truly inspired, only wondering that heaven wanted to transmit the great and solemn music of his oracles through a channel as unworthy as he considered himself. Leaving, however, that mystery to resolve itself , or remain eternally unsolved, he continued his work with determination and enthusiasm. And so the night was spent until morning appeared, casting a golden ray into the study, where it surprised the minister, pen in hand, with countless pages written and scattered wherever he wanted. Chapter 21. THE HOLIDAY IN THE NEW ENGLAND. Very early, on the morning of the day on which the new Governor was to be elected by the people, Esther and Pearl went to the market square, which was already filled with artisans and other commoners who lived in the city in considerable numbers. Among these were many rough-looking individuals, whose dresses, made of deerskin, made it known that they belonged to some of the establishments located in the jungles that surrounded the small metropolis of the colony. On this festive day, as on all other occasions during the last seven years, Esther wore a dress of coarse gray cloth, which not so much because of its color as because of a certain indescribable peculiarity of her court, resulted in relegating her person to darkness, as if it made her disappear from the eyes of everyone, while the scarlet letter, on the contrary, made her emerge from this kind of twilight or gloom, presenting her to the world under the moral aspect of its own brilliance. His face, familiar for so long to the people of the city, revealed the marble calm that they were accustomed to contemplating. It was a kind of mask; or rather, it was the frozen calm of the features of a woman already dead, and this sad resemblance was due to the circumstance that Esther was in reality dead, so far as she could claim any sympathy or affection, and to the fact that she had completely segregated herself from the world with which she still seemed to mingle. Perhaps on this special day it could be said that there was an expression on Esther’s face not seen until then, although in reality not so marked that it could be easily noticed, except by an observer endowed with such powers of penetration who read, first, what was happening in the heart, and then had sought a corresponding reflection in the face and general appearance of that woman. Such an observer, or rather a soothsayer, could have thought that, after Esther had held the gaze of the crowd for seven long and ill-fated years, enduring them as a necessity, a penance, and a kind of severe religion, now, for the last time, she faced them freely and voluntarily to also turn what had been a prolonged agony into a kind of triumph. Look for the last time at the scarlet letter and at the one who wears it!–the victim of the people seemed to be telling them.–Wait a little and I will be free of you. A few hours, no more, and the mysterious and deep ocean will receive into its bosom, and hide in it forever, the symbol that you have made shine for so long in my chest! Nor would it be too great an inconsistency if we assumed that Esther experienced a certain feeling of regret in those very moments when she was about to be free of the pain, which could be said to have become deeply incarnated in her being. Wouldn’t there perhaps be in her an irresistible desire to finish for the last time, and in large gulps, the glass of the bitter absinth and acibar that she had been drinking for almost all the years of her youth? The liquor that he would henceforth bring to his lips would surely have to be rich, delicious, life-giving and in a polished glass of gold; or else it would produce an inevitable and tedious languor, coming after the dregs of bitterness that until then he had drained as a cordial of intense potency. Pearl was dressed happily. It would have been impossible to guess that this brilliant and luminous apparition owed its existence to that woman in a sombre suit; or that the fantasy, so splendid, and at the same time so delicate, that devised the girl’s dress, was the same one that carried out the task, perhaps more difficult, of giving Esther’s simple dress the peculiar and remarkable appearance that it had. Her dress suited Perlita in such a way that it seemed like the emanation or the inevitable development and the external manifestation of her character, as impossible to separate from her, as the wing of a butterfly can shed its variegated brilliance, or the petals of a splendid flower can shed their radiant color. On this extraordinary day, however, there was a certain restlessness and singular agitation in the girl’s entire being, similar to the brilliance of diamonds that shine and sparkle in time with the heartbeats of the chest on which they are displayed. Children always participate in the agitations of those people with whom they are in intimate relationship; They always experience discomfort due to any imminent upset or disorder, of any kind, in the domestic home; and therefore Pearl, who was then the jewel of the mother’s restless heart, revealed in her very vivacity the emotions that no one could discover in the marble impassibility of Ester’s forehead. This effervescence made her move like a bird, rather than walk at her mother’s side, continually bursting into inarticulate, sharp, penetrating exclamations. When they reached the market square, she became even more restless and feverish when she noticed the bustle and movement that reigned there, since usually that place had the appearance of a lonely meadow in front of a village church, and not that of the business center of a town. “What does this mean, mother?” cried the girl. “Why has everyone abandoned their work today?” Is it a holiday for everyone? Look, there ‘s the blacksmith. He has washed his dirty face and put on his Sunday clothes, and it seems that he would like to be happy and cheerful, if only there were someone who would teach him how to be so. And here is Mr. Brackett, the old jailer, who smiles with me and greets me. Why do you do it, mother? “He remembers when you were very little, my daughter,” Esther responded. “That horrible old man, black and ugly, shouldn’t smile at me or greet me,” said Pearl. “Let him do it with you, if he wants, because you’re dressed in a dark color and you’re wearing the scarlet letter.” But look, mother, how many strange people, and among them Indians and also sailors! Why have all those men come to the market place? “They are waiting for the procession to pass to see it,” said Esther, “because the Governor and the magistrates are to come, and the ministers, and all the notable and good people are to march with music and soldiers at their head.” “And will the minister be there?” asked Pearl, “and will he extend both hands toward me, as he did when you took me to his side from the stream?” –Yes, he will be,–answered his mother,–but he will not greet you today, nor should you greet him. “What a sad and strange man the minister is!” said the girl as if she were speaking partly alone and to herself. “In the middle of the night he calls us and shakes your hands and mine, like when we were together with him on the stage.” And in the forest, where only the ancient trees can hear one, and where only a little piece of sky can see us, He starts talking to you sitting on a tree trunk. And he kisses my forehead so that the stream can barely erase his kiss. But here, in the sunlight, and in the midst of all these people, he does not know us, nor should we know him. Yes, a strange and sad man with his hand always over his heart! “Don’t talk anymore, Pearl,” her mother told her, “you don’t understand these things.” Don’t think about the minister now, but look at what is happening around you and you will see how happy everyone seems today. Children have come from their schools, and grown people have left their shops, their workshops and the fields in order to have fun; because today a new Governor begins to govern them. As Ester said, there was great contentment and joy that shone on the faces of everyone present. On such a day, as happened afterwards for the better part of two centuries, the Puritans indulged in all the public rejoicing and merriment that they considered permissible for human frailty; dissipating only in the space of a holiday, that gloomy cloud in which they were always enveloped, but in such a way that they hardly appeared less serious than other communities in times of general mourning. But perhaps we exaggerated the somber aspect that undoubtedly characterized the way of being at that time. The people who were in the market square of Boston were not all heirs of the dour and sad Puritan character. There were individuals there, natives of England, whose parents had lived in the time of Queen Elizabeth, when English social life, taken as a whole, appears to have been as magnificent, lavish, and gay as the world could ever have witnessed. Had they followed their hereditary taste, the settlers of New England would have celebrated all events of public interest with bonfires, banquets, civic processions, all with great pomp and splendor. Nor would it have been difficult to combine, in the observation of the majestic ceremonies, joyful recreation with solemnity, as if the great gala dress that a nation dresses in such festivities were adorned in a brilliant and grotesque manner . There was something similar to this in the way of celebrating the day that began the political year of the colony. The vague reflection of a magnificence that lived in memory, a pale and weak imitation of what they had witnessed in old London, we will not say of a royal coronation, but of the festivities with which the Lord Corregidor of that great capital is inaugurated, could be traced in the customs that our ancestors observed at the annual installation of their magistrates. The fathers and founders of the Republic, the statesman , the priest and the soldier, believed it was their duty to clothe themselves on this occasion with all the pomp and majestic apparatus that, according to ancient traditions, was considered the indispensable adjunct of public or social eminence. They all came to be part of the procession that was to parade before the eyes of the people, thus communicating a certain dignity to the simple structure of a government so recently constituted. On such occasions the people were allowed, and even encouraged, to relax and abandon their various jobs and industries, to which they seemed at all times to be applied with the same rigidity and severity as to their austere religious practices. Of course, nothing similar to what would have been seen in the popular festivals of England in the time of Queen Elizabeth could be expected here; nor rude theatrical performances; nor ministers with their harps and legendary ballads; nor traveling musicians with a monkey dancing to the music; nor hand players and puppeteers with their luck and sorcery devices; nor clowns and acrobats trying to cheer up the crowd with their jokes, perhaps several centuries old, but always having a good effect, because they address universal feelings disposed to joy and good humor. All this kind of Professors of the different branches of amusement and entertainment had been severely suppressed, not only by the rigid discipline of the law, but by the general sanction which is what constitutes the vitality of the laws. However, even lacking all this, the honest and good face of the people smiled, perhaps with a certain harshness, but also with bated breath. Nor should it be said that there was a lack of games and recreation of the kind that the colonists had witnessed many years before, at the country fairs of England, in which they perhaps took part, and considered it would be advisable to preserve in these new lands; For example, arm-wrestling between different classes was seen here and there in the market square; In one corner there was a friendly club fight; And what most attracted attention, on the pillory platform to which reference has already been made several times in these pages, two masters of arms were beginning to demonstrate their skills with buckler and broadsword. But to the great disappointment and disgust of the spectators, this entertainment was suspended through the intervention of the city sheriff, who did not want to allow the majesty of the law to be violated with such abuse of one of its consecrated places. Although the colors of the picture of human life displayed in the market square were generally gloomy, they were nevertheless animated with a variety of shades. There was a band of Indians in curiously embroidered deerskin suits, with red and yellow belts, feathers on their heads, and armed with bows, arrows, and flint-tipped spears, who stood apart, as if separated from the whole world, with faces of inflexible gravity, which not even that of the Puritans could surpass. But despite everything, they were not these colorfully painted savages who could be presented as a type of the most violent or licentious of the people who were gathered there. Such an honor, if there is one, could be claimed with more reason by some of the sailors who were part of the crew of the ship from the Caribbean Sea, who had also come ashore to have fun on election day. They were men who had put their souls on their backs, with faces tanned by the sun and large, thick beards; His pants, short and wide, were held up by a belt, which sometimes closed with gold plates or buckles, and from which always hung a large knife, and in some cases a saber. Beneath the wide brims of his straw hats, one could see shining eyes that, even in moments of joy and good humor, had a kind of instinctive ferocity. Without fear or scruple of any kind, they violated the rules of good behavior to which all the others were subject, smoking right under the nose of the town’s sheriff, although each puff of smoke would have cost a good sum of reales, by way of a fine, to every other resident of the city, and without any compunction downing drinks of wine or brandy in flasks that they took out of their pockets, and which they offered liberally to the astonished crowd. surrounded them. Nothing so characterizes the half-hearted morality of those times, which today we describe as rigid, as the license that was allowed to the sailors, we are not only talking about their misdeeds when they were on land, but even more so in the case of their acts of violence and plunder when they were in their own element. The sailor of that time would today run the risk of being accused of being a pirate in court. For example, there could be little doubt that the crew of the ship of which we have spoken, although not the worst of their kind, had been guilty of depredations against Spanish commerce of such a nature that they would put their lives at risk in a modern court of justice. But in those ancient times the sea rioted, swelled and rippled, according to its whim, or was subject only to the stormy winds , with hardly any attempt having been made to establish any code to regulate the actions of those who sailed it. The buccaneer He could abandon his profession and become, if he so desired, an honest and pious man, leaving the waves and settling on land; and not even in the midst of his stormy existence was he considered an individual with whom it was not decent to have dealings or a social relationship, even casually. Consequently, the old Puritans with their black cloaks and pointed hats could not help but smile at the boisterous and rude manner of behavior of these cheerful sailors; It did not excite surprise, nor give rise to criticism, to see a person as respectable as old Roger Chillingworth enter the market place in intimate and friendly conversation with the captain of the ship of dubious reputation. It can be said that among all that crowd gathered there there was no figure as showy and bizarre in appearance, at least in terms of costume, as that of that captain. Her dress was profusely covered with ribbons, a gold braid on her hat that surrounded a chain, also made of gold, and also adorned with a feather. He had a sword at his belt, and he had a gash on his forehead that, thanks to a certain special arrangement of his hair, he seemed more eager to show than to hide. A citizen who had not been a sailor would hardly have dared to wear that suit and show that face, with such casualness and arrogance, knowing that he was exposing himself to suffering a severe interrogation before a magistrate, probably incurring a heavy fine or a few days in jail: but in the case of a ship captain, everything was considered to belong to the trade, just as the scales are part of a fish. After separating from the doctor, the captain of the ship bound for Bristol began to walk slowly through the market square, until , approaching by chance the place where Esther was, he seemed to recognize her and did not hesitate to speak to her. As usually happened wherever Esther was, a short empty space was formed around her, a kind of magic circle in which, although the people were rubbing shoulders and trampling each other at a very short distance, no one ventured or felt willing to enter. She was a living example of the moral loneliness to which the scarlet letter condemned its wearer, due partly to Esther’s reserve, and partly to the instinctive alienation of her fellow citizens, although they had long ago ceased to show themselves uncharitable towards her. Now, more than ever, it served him admirably, for it gave him a way of speaking to the sailor without danger of the bystanders finding out about their conversation; and such a change had occurred in the reputation that Esther enjoyed in the eyes of the public, that the most eminent matron of the colony in terms of rigid morality, could not have allowed herself that interview, without giving room for scandal. “So, madam,” said the captain, “I must order my steward to prepare another cabin, in addition to the ones you have hired.” What is on this trip there will be no fear of scurvy or typhus; Because with the surgeon on board, and this other doctor, our only danger will be the pills or drugs that they administer to us, since I have a good supply of medicines on the ship that I bought from a Spanish ship. –What are you saying?–Esther asked with greater alarm than she wanted to have shown.–Do you have another passenger? –As! “Don’t you know,” exclaimed the captain of the ship, “that the doctor of this place, Chillingworth as he says his name is, is willing to share my chamber with you?” Yes, yes, you must know, for you have told me that you are one of the company, and also a close friend of the gentleman of whom you spoke, who is in danger here in the hands of these old and harsh Puritan rulers. “Yes, they know each other intimately,” replied Esther with a serene countenance, although all filled with the deepest consternation, “they have lived together for a long time. ” Nothing else happened between the sailor and Esther. But at that same moment she saw old Rogerio standing in the most remote corner of the Plaza del market, smiling at him; smile that,–across that vast space of land, and in the midst of so much talk, joy, bustle and animation, and so much diversity of interests and feelings,–contained a secret and terrible significance. Chapter 22. THE PROCESSION. Before Hester had been able to realize what was happening, and consider what could be done in view of this new and unexpected aspect of the matter, the sounds of military music were heard approaching through one of the adjoining streets, indicating the march of the procession of magistrates and citizens in the direction of the church, where, according to an ancient custom adopted in the early days of the colony, the Reverend Lord Dimmesdale was to preach the election sermon. Soon the head of the procession was seen, proceeding slowly and majestically, turning a corner and making its way through the crowd that filled the market square. First came the music band, composed of a variety of instruments, perhaps imperfectly adapted to each other, and played without much art; However , the great object that the harmony of the drums and the bugle must produce in the multitude was achieved; that is, to cover the scene that unfolded before view with a more heroic and elevated aspect. Pearl, at first, began to clap her hands, but then, for a moment, she lost the feverish agitation that had kept her in a state of continuous effervescence all morning: she silently contemplated what was happening, and it seemed as if the sounds of the music, snatching away her spirit, made her, like an aquatic bird, hover over those waves of harmony. But he returned to his old agitation when he saw the weapons and brilliant trappings of the soldiers who came immediately after the music band, and formed the honor escort of the procession, shine in the sun’s rays . This military body,–which still subsists as an institution, and continues its old existence with ancient and honorable fame,–was not composed of salaried men, but of knights who, animated with martial ardor, desired to establish a kind of College of Arms where, as in an Association of Knights Templar, they could learn the science of war and the practices thereof, as far as their usual peaceful occupations permitted. The high esteem in which the military was held at that time could be seen in the majestic bearing of each of the individuals who formed the company. Some, indeed truly, by their services in the Netherlands and on other battlefields, had perfectly won the right to use the name of a soldier with all the pomp and prosopopoeia of the office. That entire column dressed in breastplates of shining steel and shiny bells crowned with plumes of feathers, presented a sight whose splendor no deployment of modern troops can match. And yet the men of civil eminence, who marched immediately after the military escort, were even more worthy of the observation of a thinking person. His external appearance had a certain seal of majesty that made the warrior’s haughty appearance seem vulgar and even absurd next to him . That was a century in which talent deserved less esteem than it does now, reserving this to a greater degree for solid qualities that denoted firmness and dignity of character. The people, by inheritance, were respectful and deferential; and the English colonists who had established their homes on these harsh coasts, leaving behind them a king, nobles, and the entire scale of the social hierarchy, although with the idea of ​​respect and obedience still deeply rooted in them, they reserved it for the gray hairs and the heads that the years made venerable; for integrity to all tests; for the solid wisdom and bitter experience of life; In short, for all those qualities that indicate weight, maturity, and are understood under the general qualification of respectability. Therefore, those primitive statesmen, such as Bradstreet, Endicott, Dudley, Bellingham and their companions, who were elevated to power by popular election, do not seem to have belonged to that class of men who today are called brilliant, but rather to have been distinguished as persons of maturity and weight, rather than of lively and extraordinary intelligence. They had strength of mind and confidence in their own strength, and in difficult or dangerous times, when it came to the well-being of the public, they were like a wall of rocks against the onslaught of the stormy waves. The character traits indicated here were perfectly manifested in their almost square faces and in the great physical development of the new colonial magistrates; and as regards bearing and natural authority, the mother country would not have been ashamed to admit these men into the House of Peers or into the Council of the Sovereign. After the magistrates came the young and eminent ecclesiastic whose lips were to deliver the religious speech in celebration of the solemn act. At the time we are talking about, the profession he practiced lent itself much more than politics to the deployment of intellectual faculties. Those who now saw Mr. Dimmesdale observed that he never showed so much energy in his appearance, and even in his gait, as he displayed in the procession. His step was not hesitant, as on other occasions, but firm; He did not go with his body almost bent, nor did he put his hand to his heart as usual. However, well considered, his vigor did not seem corporal but spiritual, as if it were due to the special favor of the angels; or perhaps it was the animation coming from an intelligence absorbed by serious and profound thoughts; Or perhaps his sensitive temperament was invigorated by the penetrating sounds of music that, ascending to heaven, dragged him and made him move with unusual vivacity. However, such was the abstraction of his glances, that one might think that Mr. Dimmesdale did not even hear the music. There was his body marching forward with unaccustomed vigor. But where was his spirit? There in the depths of his being, occupied with extraordinary activity in coordinating the legion of majestic thoughts that were soon to pour out his lips; and consequently he neither saw, nor heard, nor had any idea of ​​anything that surrounded him; but the spiritual part took hold of that weak fabric and dragged it forward with it, unconsciously, and also converted into spirit. Men of uncommon intelligence, who have acquired a certain morbid condition, sometimes possess this faculty of making a powerful effort in which they invest the vital force of many days, only to remain exhausted for a long time afterwards. Esther, with her eyes fixed on the minister, felt dominated by sad ideas, without knowing why or what they came from. He had imagined that a glance, even a quick one, had to be exchanged between the two. He remembered the dark forest with its lonely meadow, and the love and anguish that he had witnessed; and the moldy trunk of the tree where, sitting, holding hands, they mixed their sad and passionate words with the melancholic murmur of the stream. How profound knowledge they then acquired of what each other really were! And was this the same man? I barely knew him now. Was he, that man who passed proudly to the beat of the beautiful music, in the company of the venerable and majestic magistrates, he, so inaccessible in his social position, and even more so as he now saw him there, given over to the unsympathetic thoughts that worried him? Esther’s heart was saddened by the idea that everything had been an illusion, and that no matter how vivid her dream had been, there could be no true bond of union between her and the minister. And there was such a sum of feminine sentiment in Esther that I could hardly forgive her,–and even less than ever now when the footsteps of Destiny approaching at a rapid pace could almost be heard, ever closer–no, I could not forgive her for being able to abstract herself in such a way. of the world that was common to both of them, while she, lost in the darkness, extended her frozen hands searching for him, without being able to find him. Pearl either saw and responded to her mother’s intimate thoughts, or she herself also felt the minister’s distance and thought she noticed the kind of inaccessible barrier that separated them. As the procession passed, the girl was restless, moving and swaying like a bird about to take flight; But when it was all over, he looked Esther in the face and said, “Mother, is that the same minister who kissed me by the brook?” “Shut up now, my dear Pearl,” her mother answered in a low voice, ” we must not always talk in the market square about what happens to us in the jungle.” “I can’t be sure it’s him, he seems so different to me!” continued the girl; “otherwise I would have run up to him and asked him to kiss me now, in front of everyone, like he did there, under those shadowy trees.” What would the minister have said, mother? Had he put his hand on his heart, scolding me and ordering me away? “What else could I have said, Pearl,” answered her mother, “except that this was not the occasion to kiss anyone, and that kisses should not be given in the market square?” You did perfectly, foolish thing, in not speaking to him. There was another person who similarly expressed his thoughts about Mr. Dimmesdale. This person was Mrs. Hibbins, whose eccentricities, or rather, madness, led her to do what few of the population would have dared to do, that is: hold a conversation, in front of the public, with the bearer of the scarlet letter. Dressed with great magnificence, with a triple collar, embroidered waist, robe of rich velvet and leaning on a cane with a gold handle, she had gone out to see the civic procession. As this old lady had the reputation that later cost her her life of being a main part in all the works of necromancy that were continually being carried out, the crowd gave her a free way and moved away from her, seeming to fear the contact of her dresses, as if they carried the plague hidden in their exquisite folds. Seen together with Ester Prynne,–despite the feeling of benevolence with which many regarded the latter,–the terror that Mrs. Hibbins inspired in itself increased and gave rise to a general distancing from that place where the two women were. “What mortal imagination could conceive him?” said the old woman in a low voice, confidentially, to Esther. “That religious man, that saint on earth as the people believed him to be, and as he really seems to be!” Who who saw him now in the procession could think that not long ago he left his study, I would bet muttering some phrases from the Bible in Hebrew, to take a walk through the jungle? Ah! We, Ester Prynne, know what that means. But, really, really, I can’t bring myself to believe that this is the same man. I have seen marching behind the music more than one ecclesiastic who has danced with me when Someone, whom I do not want to name here, played the violin, and who may be an Indian sorcerer or a Lappish sorcerer who greets us and shakes hands on other occasions. But that’s nonsense, for those who know what the world is like. But this minister? Can you tell me for sure, Esther, if it is the same man you met on the jungle path ? “Madam, I don’t know what you are talking about,” answered Esther, knowing, as she did, that Lady Hibbins was not in her right mind, but extremely surprised, and even frightened, to hear the confidence with which she affirmed the personal relations that existed between so many individuals, including Esther herself and the evil enemy. “It is not my place to speak lightly of a minister as pious and wise as the Reverend Mr. Dimmesdale. –Ha! ha! “woman!” exclaimed the old lady, raising her finger and moving it in a significant way. –Do you think that after having gone I went to the jungle so many times, wouldn’t it be possible for me to meet those who have also been there? Yeah; although not a single leaf of the wild garlands with which they decorated their heads while dancing had remained in their hair. I know you, Esther; for I see the sign that distinguishes you among all the others. We can all see it in the sunlight; but in the darkness it shines like a reddish flame. You take it to the face of the world; so there is no need to ask you anything about this matter. But this minister!… Let me whisper it in your ear! When the Black Man sees one of his own servants, who has the mark and seal of his, and who is as cautious in not wanting the ties that bind him to be known, as is the case with the Reverend Mr. Dimmesdale, then he has a means of arranging things so that the mark will be displayed in the light of day and visible to the eyes of everyone. What is it that the minister tries to hide with his hand always over his heart? Ah! Esther Prynne! “What is he hiding, good Mrs. Hibbins?” Pearl asked vehemently. “Have you seen him?” –Nothing, dear girl,–answered Mrs. Hibbins, bowing deeply to Pearl.–You will see it yourself some day. They say, girl, that you are descended from the Prince of the Air. Do you want to come with me on a beautiful night to visit your father? Then you will know why the minister always puts his hand on his heart. And laughing so loudly that everyone in the market place could hear her, the old sorceress left Esther. While this was going on, the preliminary prayer had been said in the church, and the Reverend Mr. Dimmesdale had begun his address. An irresistible feeling kept Esther close to the temple. As the sacred building was so full that it could not accommodate any more people, he placed himself next to the pillory platform, being close enough to the church to be able to hear the whole sermon as if it were a vague but varied murmur, like the weak accent of the minister’s peculiar voice. Mr. Dimmesdale’s vocal organ was in itself a rich treasure, so that the listener, although he understood nothing of the language in which the speaker spoke, could nevertheless be carried away by the simple sound and cadence of the words. Like all other music, they breathed passion and vehemence, and awakened emotions, whether tender or elevated, in a language that everyone could understand. Despite the indistinct nature of the sounds, Ester listened with such attention and with such deep sympathy that the sermon had its own meaning for her, completely personal, and without being related in any way to the words; which , if he could have heard them more clearly, would have only been a materialized medium that would have obscured his spiritual sense. I could already hear the low notes like the wind that calms down as if to rest; now it rose with the sounds, as if ascending by progressive gradations, now soft, now loud, until the volume of the voice seemed to surround it in an atmosphere of respectful awe and solemn grandeur. And yet, despite how imposing that voice sometimes became, there was always something essentially plaintive about it. There was in her an expression of anguish, now slight, now acute, the murmur or cry, however you want to conceive it, of suffering humanity, which arose from a heart that suffered and was going to hurt the sensitivity of other hearts. Sometimes the only thing that was perceived was this inarticulate expression of deep feeling, like a sob that could be heard in the midst of deep silence. But even at the moments when the minister’s voice gained more strength and vigor, ascending in an irresistible manner, with greater amplitude and volume, filling the church in such a way that it seemed to want to break through the walls and diffuse into the spaces,–even then, if the listener paid careful attention, with that determined object, he could also discover the same cry of pain. What was that? The complaint of a human heart, overwhelmed with sorrow, perhaps guilty, who revealed his secret, whatever it may be, to the great heart of humanity, asking for its sympathy or its forgiveness,–at every moment–in every accent–and never in vain. This deep and dominant note was what gave the minister much of his power. During all this time Esther remained, like a statue, nailed to the foot of the fateful platform. If the minister’s voice had not kept her there, there would still have been an inevitable magnetism in that place, where the first hour of her life of ignominy began. The vague, confused idea reigned in Esther, although it weighed heavily on her spirit, that the entire orbit of her life, both before and after that date, was related to that place, as if it were the point that gave unity to her existence. Pearl, meanwhile, had left her mother and was playing as she saw fit in the market square, cheering up that somber crowd with her movements and liveliness, like a bird with brilliant feathers that illuminates an entire tree with dark foliage, jumping from one side to the other, half visible and half hidden in the shadow of the thick leaves. She had undulating movements, sometimes irregular, that indicated the restlessness of her spirit, much greater on that day because it reflected that of her mother. Wherever Pearl saw something that excited her curiosity, always alert, she quickly went there, and it could be said that the girl took full possession of whatever it was, as if she considered it her property. The Puritans looked at her and smiled; but they were no less inclined to believe that the girl was the offspring of an evil spirit, judging by the indescribable charm of beauty and eccentricity that shone throughout her little body and was manifested in her activity. He went towards the wild Indian and stared into his face, until the Indian was aware that he was dealing with a being more jungle than himself. From there, with innate audacity, but always with characteristic reserve, she ran into the middle of a group of brown-cheeked sailors, those savages of the ocean, as the Indians were of the land, who with surprise and admiration contemplated Pearl as if a foam from the sea had taken the shape of a little girl, and was endowed with a soul with that phosphorescence of the waves that can be seen shining at night under the bow of the ship that cuts through the waters. One of these sailors, probably the captain, who had spoken with Ester, was so taken with Pearl’s appearance that he tried to grab her and kiss her; But seeing that this was as impossible as catching a hummingbird in the air, he took the gold chain that adorned his hat and threw it at the little girl. Pearl immediately put it around her neck and waist, with such skill that, upon seeing it, it seemed like it was part of her and it was difficult to imagine her without that ornament. “Is that woman over there with the scarlet letter your mother?” said the captain. –Do you want to bring him a message from me? “If the message pleases me, I will do it,” said Pearl. “Then tell her,” replied the captain, “that I have spoken again with the old dark-faced doctor, and that he undertakes to bring his friend, the gentleman she knows, on board my ship.” Consequently, your mother only has to think about her and you. Do you want to tell her this, little witch girl? “Mrs. Hibbins says that my father is the Prince of the Air,” exclaimed Pearl with an evil smile. “If you call me a witch again, I will tell her, and she will chase your ship with a storm.” Crossing the market square, the girl returned to her mother and told her what the sailor had told her. Ester, despite her strong, calm, determined, and constant spirit in the face of adversity, was on the verge of fainting upon hearing this news, a precursor of inevitable disaster, precisely at the moment when a way seemed to have been opened for her and the minister to escape from the labyrinth of pain and anguish in which they were lost. Her spirit overwhelmed and filled with terrible perplexity with the news that the captain of the ship communicated to her, she also found herself subjected at that moment to another kind of test. There were present many individuals from the surrounding places, who had frequently heard of the scarlet letter, and for whom it had become something terrifying due to the thousands of false or exaggerated stories that circulated about it, but who had never seen it with their own eyes; who, after having exhausted all other kinds of distractions, crowded around Esther in a rudely indiscreet manner. But despite how unscrupulous they were, they could not reach more than a few rods away from her. There they stopped, thanks to the kind of repulsive force of repugnance that the mystical symbol inspired in them. The sailors, observing the crowd of spectators, and learning what the scarlet letter meant, came with their faces blackened by the sun, and like men of broken souls, to also form part of the circle that surrounded Esther; and even the Indians found themselves infected with the curiosity of the whites, and sliding through the crowd, they fixed their black eyes, like a snake, on the poor woman’s breast, perhaps believing that the bearer of this brilliantly embroidered emblem had to be a person of high standing among their people. Finally, the residents of the town, although they no longer felt any interest in this matter, also went to that place and tormented Esther, perhaps much more than all the rest of the bystanders, with the cold and indifferent gaze that they fixed on the insignia of her shame. Esther saw and recognized the same faces of that group of matrons who had been waiting for her release at the prison door seven years before; They were all there, except the youngest and the only compassionate one among them, whose funeral vestment he made after that event. In that final hour, when he believed that he was soon going to throw away the burning letter forever, it had singularly become the center of the greatest attention and curiosity, burning his breast more painfully than at any time since the first day he carried it. While Esther remained within that magical circle of ignominy where the cruelty of her sentence seemed to have fixed her forever, the admirable orator contemplated from his pulpit an audience subjugated by the power of his word to the most intimate fibers of his multiple being. The holy minister in the church! The woman with the scarlet letter in the market place! What imagination could find itself so lacking in reverence that it would have suspected that both were marked with the same burning stigma? Chapter 23. THE REVELATION OF THE SCARLET LETTER. The eloquent voice that had captured the souls of the listeners, making them shake as if they were rocked by the waves of a turbulent ocean, finally ceased to resonate. There was a moment of silence, profound as that which would have to reign after the words of an oracle. Then there was a murmur, followed by a kind of tumultuous noise: it seemed that the bystanders, seeing themselves now free from the influence of the magical charm that had transported them to the spheres in which the spirit of the speaker hovered, were returning to themselves again, although still full of the admiration and respect that he instilled in them. A moment later, the crowd began to leave through the doors of the church; and since everything had now ended, they needed to breathe an atmosphere more appropriate to the terrestrial life to which they had descended, than that to which the preacher elevated them with his words of fire. Once in the open air, the listeners expressed their admiration in various ways: the street and the market square resounded from end to end with the praise lavished on the minister, and the bystanders found no rest until each had told his neighbor what he had said. I thought I remembered or knew better than him. According to universal testimony, no man had ever spoken with such a wise, elevated, and holy spirit as the minister that day; nor were there ever mortal lips so evidently inspired as his. It could be said that this inspiration descended upon him and took possession of his being, constantly elevating him above the written discourse that lay before his eyes, filling him with ideas that must appear to him as wonderful as to his audience. From what the crowd spoke, the subject of the sermon had been the relationship between the Divinity and human societies, with special reference to the New England which they had founded in the desert; and as he approached the end of his speech, a spirit of prophecy descended upon him, forcing him to continue on his theme as happened with the ancient prophets of Israel, with this difference, however, that while they announced the ruin and desolation of his country, Dimmesdale predicted a great and glorious destiny to the people gathered there. But in all his speech there was a certain deep, sad, dominant note, which could only be interpreted as the natural and melancholic feeling of one who must soon leave this world. Yes: their minister, whom they loved so much, and who loved them all so much, that he could not depart towards heaven without exhaling a sigh of pain, had the presentiment that a premature death awaited him, and that he would soon leave them bathed in tears. This idea of ​​his temporary sojourn on earth gave the last touch to the effect which the preacher had produced; It seemed that an angel, as it passed through the firmament, had shaken its luminous wings for an instant over the people, producing at the same time shadow and splendor, and spilling a rain of truths on the audience. Thus came to the Reverend Mr. Dimmesdale,–as it comes to most men in their various spheres of action, though often too late,–an era of life more brilliant and full of triumphs than any other in the course of their existence, or could ever hope for. At that moment he was at the height to which the gifts of intelligence, erudition, oratory, and a name of impeccable purity, could elevate an ecclesiastic in the early days of New England, when a career of that kind was in itself a high pedestal. Such was the position the minister occupied, when he bowed his head on the edge of the pulpit at the conclusion of his speech. Meanwhile, Hester Prynne remained at the foot of the pillory platform with the scarlet letter still burning her heart. The sounds of music were heard again and the measured step of the military escort leaving through the door of the church. The procession was to go to the town hall, where a solemn banquet was to complete the day’s ceremonies. Therefore, once again the procession of venerable and majestic fathers of the city began to move in the free space left by the town, respectfully standing on either side, when the Governor and the magistrates, the elderly and sane men, the holy ministers of the altar, and everything that was eminent and renowned in the population, advanced through the midst of the spectators. When they arrived at the market place, their presence was greeted with a general acclamation; that although it could be attributed to the feeling of loyalty that the people felt towards their rulers at that time, it was also the irresistible explosion of enthusiasm that had been awakened in the souls of the listeners by the elevated eloquence that still vibrated in their ears. Each one felt the impulse in himself and almost instantly this impulse became unanimous. Inside the church he could hardly repress himself; but beneath the vault of the sky it was not possible to contain its manifestation, more grandiose than the roars of the hurricane, the thunder or the sea, in that powerful wave of so many voices gathered in one great voice by the universal impulse that forms one from many hearts. Never before had such a clamor resounded on the soil of New England. Never on the soil of New England had a man been seen so honored by his fellow citizens as the preacher was now. And what happened to him? Weren’t the bright particles of a halo around his head perchance visible in the air ? Having become so ethereal, his admirers having made his apotheosis, did his feet tread in the dust of the earth when he marched in the procession? As the ranks of militia men and civil magistrates advanced, all eyes were directed to where Mr. Dimmesdale was marching. The acclamation was turning into a murmur as one part of the spectators after another managed to spot him. How pale and weak he seemed in the midst of all this triumph of his! The energy–or, rather, the inspiration that sustained him while he pronounced the sacred message that his own strength communicated to him, as if coming from heaven–had already abandoned him after having so faithfully fulfilled his mission. The color that previously seemed to burn his cheeks had died out like a flame that is irremediably extinguished among the last embers. The deathly pallor of his face was such that it barely resembled that of a living man; Nor could he who walked with such unsteady steps as if he were going to collapse at every moment, without doing so, hardly be taken for a living being either. One of his ecclesiastic brothers,–the venerable John Wilson,–observing the state in which Mr. Dimmesdale was after he had delivered his speech, hastened forward to offer him his support; but the minister, all trembling, although in a determined manner, moved away the arm that his elderly colleague presented to him. He continued walking, if you can call it walking, which seemed more like the hesitant effort of a child at the sight of his mother’s arms, extended to encourage him to move forward. And now, almost imperceptibly despite the slowness of her last steps, she found herself facing that stage, the memory of which was never erased from her memory, that stage where, many years before, Ester Prynne had had to endure the ignominious gazes of the world. There was Esther holding Pearl’s hand! And there was the scarlet letter on his chest! The minister stopped here, although the music continued playing the majestic and lively march to which the procession was parading. Forward!–the music told him–forward, to the banquet! But the minister stood there as if riveted. Governor Bellingham, who for the last few moments had had his anxious eyes fixed on the minister, now abandoning his place in the procession, came forward to give him assistance, believing, from the appearance of Mr. Dimmesdale, that otherwise he would fall to the ground. But in the expression of the minister’s eyes there was something that made the magistrate recoil, although he was not a man who would easily yield to the vague intimations of another. Meanwhile the crowd watched all this with respectful fear and admiration. This earthly fainting was, they believed, only another facet of the minister’s heavenly strength; Nor would it have been considered a miracle that was too surprising to see it ascend into space, before their eyes, becoming more and more transparent and brighter, until finally seeing it disappear in the clarity of the heavens. The minister approached the stage and extended his arms. –Esther!–he said,–come here! Come here too, Perlita! The look he gave them was gloomy, but there was, at the same time, a certain tenderness, a strange expression of triumph. The girl, with her bird-like movements, which were one of her characteristic qualities, ran towards him and clasped the minister’s knees in her tender little arms. Esther, as if impelled by inevitable destiny, and against all her will, also approached Dimmesdale, but was stopped before arriving. At this moment old Roger Chillingworth made his way through the crowd, or, so gloomy, evil and restless was his look, that perhaps he emerged from an infernal region to prevent his victim from carrying out his purpose. But whatever you want, the old doctor quickly advanced towards the minister and grabbed his arm. –Fool, stop! “What are you trying to do?” he said in a low voice. ” Signal to that woman to move away!” Make this girl leave too! Everything will be fine. Do not tarnish your good name, nor die dishonored! I can still save you! Do you want to cover your sacred profession with ignominy ? –Ah! tempting! It seems to me that you are coming too late,” the minister responded, fixing his gaze on the doctor’s eyes, with fear, but firmly. “Your power is not what it was before. With the help of God I will now free myself from your clutches. And he extended his hand again to the woman with the scarlet letter. –Esther Prynne,–she cried with penetrating vehemence,–in the name of Him so terrible and so merciful, who at this last moment grants me the grace to do what, with grave sin and infinite agony, I have refrained from doing seven years ago, come here now and help me with your strength. Lend me your help, Esther, but let it be guided by the will that God has granted me. This perverse and aggrieved old man opposes it with all his power, with all his own power and that of the evil enemy. Come, Esther, come! Help me climb that platform. The greatest confusion reigned in the crowd. The men of rank and dignity who were closest to the minister were so surprised and perplexed about what what they saw meant, so incapable of understanding the explanation that most easily presented themselves to them, or imagining any other, that they remained mute and calm spectators of the judgment that Providence seemed about to pronounce. They saw the minister, leaning on Esther’s shoulder and supported by the arm with which she surrounded him, approach the stage and climb its steps, holding in his hands those of that little girl born in sin. Old Roger Chillingworth followed him, as a person intimately connected with the drama of guilt and pain in which they had all been actors, and therefore with a good right to be present in the final scene. “If you had searched the whole earth,” he said, looking at the minister with gloomy eyes, “you would not have found a place so secret, neither so high nor so low, where you could have gotten rid of me,” like this scaffold on which you are now. –Thanks be given to Him who has brought me here!–answered the minister. He trembled, however, and turned to Esther with an expression of doubt and anxiety in his eyes that could easily be distinguished, as it was accompanied by a faint smile on his lips. “Isn’t this better,” he murmured, “than what we imagined in the jungle?” –I don’t know! I don’t know!–she responded quickly.–Better? Yes: I wish we could both die here, and Perlita with us! –Regarding you and Pearl, whatever God orders!-said the minister,-and God is merciful. Let me do now what He has made plain before my eyes, because I am dying, Esther. Let me, therefore, hasten to take upon my soul the share of shame that corresponds to me. Partly supported by Esther, and holding Pearl by the hand, the Reverend Mr. Dimmesdale turned to the worthy and venerable magistrates, to the sacred ministers who were his brothers in the Lord, to the people whose great soul was completely dismayed, although full of painful sympathy, as if he knew that a vital and profound matter, which if full of guilt was also full of anguish and repentance, was now going to be made manifest to the sight of all. The sun, which had already passed its meridian, shed its light on the minister and made his figure stand out perfectly, as if he had detached himself from the earth to confess his crime before the court of law. Eternal Justice. “People of New England!” he exclaimed with a voice that rose above all the bystanders, high, solemn and majestic, “but which was always somewhat tremulous, and at times seemed like a cry that arose struggling from an unfathomable abyss of remorse and pain, “you, he continued, who have loved me, “you who have believed me.” holy,–look at me here, look at the greatest sinner in the world. At last, at last I am standing in the place where I should have been seven years ago: here, with this woman, whose arm, more than the little strength with which I have dragged myself here, supports me in this terrible moment and prevents me from falling face down to the ground! See there the scarlet letter that Esther wears! You have all shuddered at his sight. Wherever this woman has gone, wherever, under the weight of so much misfortune, she might have hoped to find rest, that letter has spread around her a sad glow that inspired fear and disgust. But in your midst there was a man, before whose mark of infamy and sin you have never shuddered! At this point, it seemed that the minister had to leave the rest of his secret in silence; but he fought against his physical weakness, and even more against the weakness of spirit that tried to subjugate him. He then got rid of all bodily support, and took a step forward resolutely, leaving the woman and the girl behind him. “He had that mark!” he continued with a kind of fierce outburst. He was so determined to reveal everything!–The eye of God saw her! The angels were always pointing out her! The evil enemy knew her very well and constantly rubbed her with his red-hot fingers! But he cunningly hid it from the eyes of men, and moved among you with a sad face, like that of a very pure man in such a sinful world; and sad, because he missed his heavenly companions. Now, in the last moments of his life, he appears before you; asks you to contemplate again the scarlet letter of Esther; and he tells you that, with all its mysterious horror, it is but the pale shadow of that which he carries in his own breast; and that even this red mark that I have here, this red mark of mine, is only the reflection of the one that is burning the most intimate part of your heart. Is there anyone here who can question God’s judgment on a sinner? Behold! Behold a terrible testimony of that trial! With a convulsive movement he tore the ecclesiastical band he was wearing on his chest. Everything was revealed! But it would be irreverent to describe that revelation. For a moment the gazes of the horrified crowd were focused on the gloomy miracle, while the minister stood with a triumphant expression on his face, like that of a man who in the midst of a crisis of the most acute pain has achieved a victory. Then he fell collapsed on the scaffold. Esther partially lifted him and made him rest his head on her breast. Old Rogerio knelt at his side with a gloomy, disconcerted appearance, with a face in which life seemed to have been extinguished. –You have managed to escape from me!–he repeated frequently.–You have managed to escape from me! –May God forgive you!–said the minister. –You have also sinned gravely! He turned his dying gaze away from the old man, and fixed them on the woman and the girl. “My little Pearl!” he said weakly, and a sweet and tender smile illuminated his face, like that of a spirit that is entering into deep rest; rather, now that the weight that was weighing down his soul had disappeared, it seemed that he wanted to play with the girl,–my dear Perlita, will you kiss me now? You didn’t want to do it in the jungle! But now you will. Pearl kissed him on the mouth. The charm was undone. The great scene of pain in which the erratic girl had her part had matured all her feelings and affections at once; and the tears she shed on her father’s cheeks were a sign that she would grow between sorrow and joy, not to always be in struggle against the world, but to be a true woman in it. Also with respect to her mother, Pearl’s mission, as a messenger of pain, had been fully fulfilled. –Esther,–said the minister,–goodbye! “Will we not meet again?” Esther murmured, bowing her head next to that of the minister. “Will we not spend our immortal life together?” Yes, yes, with all this pain we have rescued each other. You are looking far away, there in eternity, with your bright and dying eyes. Tell me, what do you see? –Silence, Esther, silence!–said the minister with tremulous solemnity.–The law that we broke,–the guilt so terribly revealed,–be your only thoughts. I fear!… I fear!… Perhaps since we forgot our God, since we violated the mutual respect that we owed to our souls, it was already in vain to hope to be able to associate ourselves after this life in a pure and everlasting union. God only knows and He is merciful. He has shown his compassion, more than ever, in the midst of my afflictions, by giving me this burning torture that I carried in my chest; with sending me to that terrible and gloomy old man, who always kept that torture more and more alive; with bringing me here, to end my life with this death of triumphant ignominy before the eyes of the people. If any of these torments had been missing, I would be lost forever! Praise be his name! His will be done! Bye bye! With the last word, the minister also breathed his last. The crowd, silent until then, burst into a strange and deep murmur of fear and surprise that could find no other expression than in that murmur that resonated so gravely after that soul had departed. Chapter 24. CONCLUSION. After many days, when the people were able to coordinate their ideas about the scene we have just described, there was more than one version of what had happened on the pillory stage. Most of the spectators claimed to have seen a SCARLET LETTER printed on the flesh of the unhappy minister’s chest, which was the exact reproduction of the one Esther had on her dress. Various explanations were given regarding its origin, all of which were simply conjectures. Some claimed that the Reverend Mr. Dimmesdale, on the same day that Esther Prynne first wore her ignominious motto, had begun a series of penances, which he then continued in various ways, inflicting upon himself horrible corporal torture. Others claimed that the stigma had not occurred until much later, when old Roger Chillingworth, who was a powerful necromancer, made her appear with his magical arts and poisonous drugs. There were others,–and these were the most apt to appreciate the exquisite sensitivity of the minister and the wonderful influence that his spirit exerted on his body—who thought that the terrible symbol was the effect of the constant and gnawing remorse that was harbored in the most intimate part of the heart, finally manifesting the inexorable judgment of Heaven by the visible presence of the letter. The reader can choose among these theories the one he likes the most. It is singular, however, that several individuals, who were spectators of the whole scene, and maintained that they had not taken their eyes for a moment from the Reverend Mr. Dimmesdale, absolutely denied that any mark had been seen on his chest. And judging by what these same people said, the last words of the dying man did not admit, not even remotely, that there had been, on his part, the slightest connection with the guilt that forced Esther to wear the scarlet letter for so long. According to these witnesses, worthy of the greatest respect and consideration, the minister, who was aware that he was dying and also that the reverence of the crowd already placed him among the number of saints and angels, had desired, exhaling his last breath in the arms of the fallen woman, to express before the face of the world how completely vain was what is called virtue and perfection of man. Having ended his life with his efforts for the spiritual good of humanity, he had converted his manner of dying into a kind of living parable, in order to impress upon the minds of his admirers the powerful and sad teaching that, compared to the Infinite Purity, we are all equally sinners; to also teach them that the most immaculate among us has only been able to rise above his peers as much as is necessary to discern more clearly the mercy that contemplates us from above, and to more absolutely repudiate the ghost of human merit that directs his gaze upward. Without wishing to dispute the truth of this statement, we must be permitted to consider this version of Mr. Dimmesdale’s story , only as an example of the tenacious fidelity with which the friends of a man, and especially of an ecclesiastic, defend his reputation, even when proofs as clear as the light of the sun at noon illuminating the scarlet letter, proclaim him an earthly creature, false and stained with sin. The authority which we have mainly followed,–that is, a manuscript of very ancient date, drawn up in view of the verbal testimony of several persons, some of whom had known Esther Prynne, while others had heard her story from the lips of eyewitnesses ,–fully confirms the opinion adopted in the preceding pages. Among many moral conclusions that can be deduced from the poor minister’s painful experience, and that crowd our minds, we choose this one:–Be sincere! Be honest! Be honest! Show the world, without hesitation, if not the worst of your nature, at least some trait from which the worst can be inferred. There was nothing that attracted so much attention as the change that took place almost immediately after the death of Mr. Dimmesdale, in the appearance and manner of the old man known under the name of Roger Chillingworth. All his vigor and energy, all his vital and intellectual force, seemed to abandon him at once, to the point that he actually wasted away, shriveled, and even disappeared from the sight of mortals, like a grass uprooted that dries up in the burning rays of the sun. This unhappy man had made the pursuit and systematic exercise of revenge the primary object of his existence; and once the most complete triumph was obtained, the evil principle that animated him no longer had anything to do with it, and there being no diabolical work to perform on earth, there was nothing left for that inhuman mortal to do, but to go where his Master provided him with sufficient work, and rewarded him with the due salary. But we want to be merciful to all those impalpable beings who have been our acquaintances for so long, both to Roger Chillingworth and to his companions. It is a matter worth investigating to know to what extent hate and love are really the same thing. Each of these feelings, in its most complete development, presupposes a deep and intimate knowledge of the human heart; Each of these feelings also presupposes that an individual depends on another for the satisfaction of his affections and his spiritual life; Each of these sensations leaves the passionate lover or the no less passionate hater in helplessness and desolation, from the moment the object of hate or love disappears. Therefore , philosophically considered the two feelings of which we speak, they become in their essence one and the same, except that love is contemplated in the light of a celestial splendor, and hatred in the reflection of a somber and lugubrious flame. In the spiritual world, the old doctor and the young minister, having both been mutual victims, have perhaps found the sum of their earthly hatred and antipathy transformed into love. But leaving this discussion aside, we will communicate to the reader some news of a different nature. Upon the death of the elderly Rogerio Chillingworth, which occurred within a year, was seen by his last will and testament, of which Governor Bellingham and the Reverend Mr. Wilson were executors, who had bequeathed a considerable fortune, both in New England and in the mother country, to Perlita, the daughter of Hester Prynne. Consequently, Pearl, the goblin girl, the offspring of the devil as some people still persisted in considering her, became the richest heiress of her time in that part of the New World; and probably this circumstance produced a very notable change in public estimation, and if the mother and daughter had remained in the town, little Pearl, upon reaching the age of being able to marry, would have mixed her impetuous blood with that of the lineage of the most devout Puritans of the colony. But not long after the doctor’s death, the bearer of the scarlet letter disappeared from the city and with her Pearl. For many years, although vague rumors used to reach from time to time across the seas, no authentic news of the mother and daughter was received. The story of the scarlet letter became legend; The fascination it exerted remained powerful for a long time, and both the fateful platform and the cabin next to the seashore where Esther lived, continued to be the object of a certain respectful fear. Several children who were playing one afternoon near the aforementioned cabin saw a tall woman, in a dark-colored dress, approach the door; it had not been opened even once in many years; But whether the woman opened it, or whether the door gave way to the pressure of her hand, because the wood and iron were in a state of decomposition, or whether she slipped like a ghost through any obstacle, the truth is that that woman entered the deserted and abandoned cabin. She stopped at the threshold and looked around her, because perhaps the idea of ​​entering alone, and after so many changes, into that house where she had also suffered so much, was something sadder and more horrible than she could bear. But his hesitation, although it lasted but a moment, was long enough to reveal a scarlet letter on his chest. Esther Prynne had, therefore, returned and taken up again the badge of her ignominy, long forgotten. But where was Perlita? If he was still alive, he was undoubtedly in all the brilliance and flowering of his early youth. No one knew, nor was it ever known for certain, whether the goblin girl had descended into an early grave, or whether her tumultuous and exuberant nature had calmed and softened, making her capable of experiencing the peaceful happiness of a woman. But during the rest of Esther’s life, there were indications that the recluse of the scarlet letter was the object of the love and interest of some inhabitant of other lands. Letters were received stamped with a coat of arms unknown in English heraldry. In the aforementioned cabin there were objects and articles of various kinds, even luxury, that Ester never thought of using, but that only a rich person could have bought, or of which only affection for her could have thought. There were trifles, ornaments, charms, beautiful presents that indicated a constant memory and that must have been made by delicate fingers, at the impulse of a tender heart. Esther was once seen embroidering a little boy’s dress of tender years, with such a profusion of gold, that it would have almost given rise to a riot, if a tender infant had appeared in the streets of Boston wearing a dress of such quality. In short, the wives of that time believed, and the customs administrator Mr. Pue, who investigated the matter a century later, believed equally, – and one of his recent successors in the same job also believes with a closed fist, that Pearl not only lived, but was married, was happy, and remembered her mother, and that with the greatest joy she would have had with her and celebrated that sad and lonely woman in her home. women. But for Ester Prynne there was a more real life in New England, not in the unknown region where Pearl had settled. His guilt was committed in New England: this was where he suffered; and here where he still had to do penance. Therefore he had returned, and again carried on his chest, as a result of his own will, since not even the most severe magistrate of that rigid period would have imposed it on him, the symbol whose somber history we have related, without it ever ceasing to shine on his bosom afterwards . But as the years of work, meditation, and works of charity that constituted Esther’s life went by, the scarlet letter ceased to be a stigma that attracted the malevolence and sarcasm of the world, and became an emblem of something that produced sadness, which was regarded with a certain fearful amazement and yet with reverence. And since Esther Prynne had no selfish feelings, nor did she in any way live thinking only of her own well-being and personal satisfaction, people went to confide in her all their pains and tribulations and asked her for advice, like a person who had undergone very severe trials. Especially the women, with the eternal history of souls wounded by affections that were poorly rewarded, or poorly placed, or not well appreciated, or as a consequence of wrong or guilty passion,–or overwhelmed under the serious weight of an inflexible heart, which no one had requested or appreciated,–these women were the ones who especially went to Esther’s cabin to consult her, and ask her why they felt so unhappy and what was the remedy for their sorrows. Esther consoled and advised them as best she could, also reassuring them of her very firm belief that some day, when the world is in a state to receive her, a new doctrine will be revealed that will establish the relations between man and woman on a more solid and surer basis of mutual happiness. In the early part of her life Esther had imagined, although in vain, that she herself could be the prophetess chosen by destiny for such a work; But I had long recognized the impossibility of the mission of making known such a divine and mysterious truth, being entrusted to a woman stained with guilt, humiliated with the shame of that guilt, or overwhelmed with a lifelong pain. The angel, and at the same time the apostle of the future revelation, must undoubtedly be a woman, but exalted, pure and beautiful; and also wise and sane, not as a result of gloomy sorrow, but of the gentle warmth of joy, demonstrating how happy holy love can make us, by the example of a life dedicated to that end with complete success. Thus said Ester Prynne, directing her sad glances at the scarlet letter. And after many, many years, a new grave was opened, near another already old and sunken one, in the city cemetery, leaving a space between them, as if the dust of the two sleeping people did not have the right to mix; but the same tombstone served for both graves. Around them were monuments on which coats of arms were sculpted; and on this simple slab, as the curious researcher will still be able to discern, even if he remains confused about its meaning, there was something similar to a coat of arms. He carried a motto whose heraldic terms could serve as an epigraph and be like the summary of the legend to which we are ending: somber, and clarified only by a luminous point, sometimes more gloomy than the shadow itself:– The Scarlet Letter is not only a story about punishment and condemnation, but also a profound reflection on human nature and the consequences of personal decisions. As this story concludes, we are invited to question social norms and morality, understanding that the secrets and judgments we impose can have a lasting impact on a person’s life. A classic that is still relevant today.