THE SCARLET LETTER: CHAPTER FIVE. Hester Prynne’s term of confinement was now at an end. Her prison-door was thrown open, and she came forth into the sun
shine, which, falling on all alike, seemed, to her sick and morbid heart, as if meant for no other purpose than to reveal the scarlet letter on her breast. Perhaps there was a mo
re real torture in her first unattended footsteps from the threshold of the prison, than even in the procession and spectacle that have been described, where she was made the
common infamy, at which all mankind was summoned to point its finger. Then, she was supported by an unnatural tension of the nerves, and by all the combative energy
of her character, which enabled her to convert the scene into a kind of lurid triumph. It was, moreover, a separate and insulated event, to occur but once in her lifetime, and
to meet which, therefore, reckless of economy, she might call up the vital strength that would have sufficed for many quiet years. The very law that condemned her—a gian
t of stern features, but with vigor to support, as well as to annihilate, in his iron arm—had held her up, through the terrible ordeal of her ignominy. But now, with this unatten
ded walk from her prison-door, began the daily custom; and she must either sustain and carry it forward by the ordinary resources of her nature, or sink beneath it. She cou
ld no longer borrow from the future to help her through the present grief. To-morrow would bring its own trial with it; so would the next day, and so would the next; each it
s own trial, and yet the very same that was now so unutterably grievous to be borne. The days of the far-off future would toil onward, still with the same burden for her to ta
ke up, and bear along with her, but never to fling down; for the accumulating days, and added years, would pile up their misery upon the heap of shame. Throughout them
all, giving up her individuality, she would become the general symbol at which the preacher and moralist might point, and in which they might vivify and embody their ima
ges of woman’s frailty and sinful passion. Thus the young and pure would be taught to look at her, with the scarlet letter flaming on her breast,—at her, the child of honorabl
e parents,—at her, the mother of a babe, that would hereafter be a woman,—at her, who had once been innocent,—as the figure, the body, the reality of sin. And over her gr
ave, the infamy that she must carry thither would be her only monument. • It may seem marvellous, that, with the world before her,—kept by no restrictive clause of her con
demnation within the limits of the Puritan settlement, so remote and so obscure,—free to return to her birthplace, or to any other European land, and there hide her charact
er and identity under a new exterior, as completely as if emerging into another state of being,—and having also the passes of the dark, inscrutable forest open to her, where th
e wildness of her nature might assimilate itself with a people whose customs and life were alien from the law that had condemned her,—it may seem marvellous, that this wo
man should still call that place her home, where, and where only, she must needs be the type of shame. But there is a fatality, a feeling so irresistible and inevitable that it has
the force of doom, which almost invariably compels human beings to linger around and haunt, ghost-like, the spot where some great and marked event has given the color
to their lifetime; and still the more irresistibly, the darker the tinge that saddens it. Her sin, her ignominy, were the roots which she had struck into the soil. It was as if a new bi
rth, with stronger assimilations than the first, had converted the forest-land, still so uncongenial to every other pilgrim and wanderer, into Hester Prynne’s wild and dreary, bu
t life-long home. All other scenes of earth—even that village of rural England, where happy infancy and stainless maidenhood seemed yet to be in her mother’s keeping, like
garments put off long ago—were foreign to her, in comparison. The chain that bound her here was of iron links, and galling to her inmost soul, but could never be broken. • I
t might be, too,—doubtless it was so, although she hid the secret from herself, and grew pale whenever it struggled out of her heart, like a serpent from its hole,—it might be th
at another feeling kept her within the scene and pathway that had been so fatal. There dwelt, there trode the feet of one with whom she deemed herself connected in a union,
that, unrecognized on earth, would bring them together before the bar of final judgment, and make that their marriage-altar, for a joint futurity of endless retribution. Over
and over again, the tempter of souls had thrust this idea upon Hester’s contemplation, and laughed at the passionate and desperate joy with which she seized, and then strove
to cast it from her. She barely looked the idea in the face, and hastened to bar it in its dungeon. What she compelled herself to believe—what, finally, she reasoned upon, as her
motive for continuing a resident of New England—was half a truth, and half a self-delusion. Here, she said to herself, had been the scene of her guilt, and here should be the
scene of her earthly punishment; and so, perchance, the torture of her daily shame would at length purge her soul, and work out another pu
rity than that which she had lost; more saint-like, because the result of martyrdom. • Hester Prynne, therefore, did not flee. On the outskirts of
the town, within the verge of the peninsula, but not in close vicinity to any other habitation, there was a small thatched cottage. It had been bu
ilt by an earlier settler, and abandoned because the soil about it was too sterile for cultivation, while its comparative remoteness put it out of th
e sphere of that social activity which already marked the habits of the emigrants. It stood on the shore, looking across a basin of the sea at the for
est-covered hills, towards the west. A clump of scrubby trees, such as alone grew on the peninsula, did not so much conceal the cottage from view,
as seem to denote that here was some object which would fai n have been, or at least ought to be, concealed. In this little, lonesome dwelling, with so
me slender means that she possessed, and by the license of the magistrates, who still kept an inquisitorial watch over her, Hester established herself,
with her infant child. A mystic shadow of suspicion immediat ely attached itself to the spot. Children, too young to comprehend wherefore this woma
n should be shut out from the sphere of human charities, wou ld creep nigh enough to behold her plying her needle at the cottage-window, or stand
ing in the doorway, or laboring in her little garden, or coming forth along the pathway that led townward; and, discerning the scarlet letter on her br
east, would scamper off with a strange, contagious fear. • Lonel y as was Hester’s situation, and without a friend on earth who dared to show himself,
she, however, incurred no risk of want. She possessed an ar t that sufficed, even in a land that afforded comparatively little scope for its exercise,
to supply food for her thriving infant and herself. It was the art—then, as now, almost the only one within a woman’s grasp—of needlework. She
bore on her breast, in the curiously embroidered letter, a speci men of her delicate and imaginative skill, of which the dames of a court might gladly
have availed themselves, to add the richer and more spiritual adornment of human ingenuity to their fabrics of silk and gold. Here, indeed, in the sabl
e simplicity that generally characterized the Puritanic modes of dress, there might be an infrequent call for the finer productions of her handiwork. Yet
the taste of the age, demanding whatever was elaborate in co mpositions of this kind, did not fail to extend its influence over our stern progenitors,
who had cast behind them so many fashions which it might se em harder to dispense with. Public ceremonies, such as ordinations, the installation of
magistrates, and all that could give majesty to the forms in wh ich a new government manifested itself to the people, were, as a matter of policy, mark
ed by a stately and well-conducted ceremonial, and a sombr e, but yet a studied magnificence. Deep ruffs, painfully wrought bands, and gorgeous
ly embroidered gloves, were all deemed necessary to the of ficial state of men assuming the reins of power; and were readily allowed to individ
uals dignified by rank or wealth, even while sumptuary la ws forbade these and similar extravagances to the plebeian order. In the array of fun
erals, too,—whether for the apparel of the dead body, or to ty pify, by manifold emblematic devices of sable cloth and snowy lawn, the sorrow of
the survivors,—there was a frequent and characteristic dema nd for such labor as Hester Prynne could supply. Baby-linen—for babies then wore ro
bes of state—afforded still another possibility of toil and emolum ent. • By degrees, nor very slowly, her handiwork became what would now be termed
the fashion. Whether from commiseration for a woman of so miserable a destiny; or from the morbid curiosity that gives a fictitious value even
to common or worthless things; or by whatever other intangib le circumstance was then, as now, sufficient to bestow, on some persons, what others
might seek in vain; or because Hester really filled a gap which must otherwise have remained vacant; it is certain that she had ready and fairly requi
ted employment for as many hours as she saw fit to occupy with her needle. Vanity, it may be, chose to mortify itself, by putting on, for ceremonial
s of pomp and state, the garments that had been wrought by her sinful hands. Her needlework was seen on the ruff of the Governor; military me
n wore it on their scarfs, and the minister on his band; it de cked the baby’s little cap; it was shut up, to be mildewed and moulder away, in the co
ffins of the dead. But it is not recorded that, in a single instance, her skill was called in aid to embroider the white veil which was to cover the pure bl
ushes of a bride. The exception indicated the ever-relentless rigor with which society frowned upon her sin. • Hester sought not to acquire anything beyond a subsistence, of the plaine
st and most ascetic description, for herself, and a simple abundance for her child. Her own dress was of the coarsest materials and the most sombre hue; with only that one ornament,—t
he scarlet letter,—which it was her doom to wear. The child’s attire, on the other hand, was distinguished by a fanciful, or, we might rather say, a fantastic ingenuity, which served, indeed,
to heighten the airy charm that early began to develop itself in the little girl, but which appeared to have also a deeper meaning. We may speak further of it hereafter. Except for that small
expenditure in the decoration of her infant, Hester bestowed all her superfluous means in charity, on wretches less miserable than herself, and who not unfrequently insulted the hand that
fed them. Much of the time, which she might readily have applied to the better efforts of her art, she employed in making coarse garments for the poor. It is probable that there was an idea
of penance in this mode of occupation, and that she offered up a real sacrifice of enjoyment, in devoting so many hours to such rude handiwork. She had in her nature a rich, voluptuous, Or
iental characteristic,—a taste for the gorgeously beautiful, which, save in the exquisite productions of her needle, found nothing else, in all the possibilities of her life, to exercise itself upon. Wom
en derive a pleasure, incomprehensible to the other sex, from the delicate toil of the needle. To Hester Prynne it might have been a mode of expressing, and therefore soothing, the passion of her li
fe. Like all other joys, she rejected it as sin. This morbid meddling of conscience with an immaterial matter betokened, it is to be feared, no genuine and steadfast penitence, but something doubtful,
something that might be deeply wrong, beneath. • In this manner, Hester Prynne came to have a part to perform in the world. With her native energy of character, and rare capacity, it could not entirel
y cast her off, although it had set a mark upon her, more intolerable to a woman’s heart than that which branded the brow of Cain. In all her intercourse with society, however, there was nothing that ma
de her feel as if she belonged to it. Every gesture, every word, and even the silence of those with whom she came in contact, implied, and often expressed, that she was banished, and as much alone as if she
inhabited another sphere, or communicated with the common nature by other organs and senses than the rest of human kind. She stood apart from moral interests, yet close beside them, like a ghost that
revisits the familiar fireside, and can no longer make itself seen or felt; no more smile with the household joy, nor mourn with the kindred sorrow; or, should it succeed in manifesting its forbidden sympathy,
awakening only terror and horrible repugnance. These emotions, in fact, and its bitterest scorn besides, seemed to be the sole portion that she retained in the universal heart. It was not an age of delicacy; an
d her position, although she understood it well, and was in little danger of forgetting it, was often brought before her vivid self-perception, like a new anguish, by the rudest touch upon the tenderest spot. The
poor, as we have already said, whom she sought out to be the ob jects of her bounty, often reviled the hand that was stretched forth to succor them. Dam
es of elevated rank, likewise, whose doors she entered in the way of her occupation, were accustomed to distil drops of bitterness into her heart; somet
imes through that alchemy of quiet malice, by which women ca n concoct a subtle poison from ordinary trifles; and sometimes, also, by a coarser exp
ression, that fell upon the sufferer’s defenceless breast like a rough blow upon an ulcerated wound. Hester had schooled herself long and well; she neve
r responded to these attacks, save by a flush of crimson that rose irrepressibly over her pale cheek, and again subsided into the depths of her bosom.
She was patient,—a martyr, indeed,—but she forbore to pray for her enemies; lest, in spite of her forgiving aspirations, the words of the blessing shou
ld stubbornly twist themselves into a curse. • Continually, and in a thousand other ways, did she feel the innumerable throbs of anguish that had bee
n so cunningly contrived for her by the undying, the ever-active sentence of the Puritan tribunal. Clergymen paused in the street to address words of
exhortation, that brought a crowd, with its mingled grin and fr own, around the poor, sinful woman. If she entered a church, trusting to share the Sa
bbath smile of the Universal Father, it was often her mishap to find herself the text of the discourse. She grew to have a dread of children; for they
had imbibed from their parents a vague idea of something horrible in this dr eary woman, gliding silently through the town, with never any companion but one only child. Th
erefore, first allowing her to pass, they pursued her at a distance with shril l cries, and the utterance of a word that had no distinct purport to their own minds, but was none
the less terrible to her, as proceeding from lips that babbled it unconscious ly. It seemed to argue so wide a diffusion of her shame, that all nature knew of it; it could have
caused her no deeper pang, had the leaves of the trees whispered the dark story among thems elves,—had the summer breeze murmured about it,—had the wintry blast shrieked it aloud! Another peculiar tor
ture was felt in the gaze of a new eye. When strangers looked curiously at the scarlet letter,—a nd none ever failed to do so,—they branded it afresh into Hester’s soul; so that, oftentimes, she could scarcely refr
ain, yet always did refrain, from covering the symbol with her hand. But then, again, an accu stomed eye had likewise its own anguish to inflict. Its cool stare of familiarity was intolerable. From first to last, in
short, Hester Prynne had always this dreadful agony in feeling a human eye upon the token; the spot never grew callous; it seemed, on the contrary, to grow more sensitive with daily torture. • But sometime
s, once in many days, or perchance in many months, she felt an eye—a human eye—upon the ignominious brand, that seemed to give a momentary relief, as if half of her agony were shared. The next inst
ant, back it all rushed again, with still a deeper throb of pain; for, in that brief interval, she ha d sinned anew. Had Hester sinned alone? • Her imagination was somewhat affected, and, had she been of a softer
moral and intellectual fibre, would have been still more so, by the strange and solitary ang uish of her life. Walking to and fro, with those lonely footsteps, in the little world with which she was outwardly co
nnected, it now and then appeared to Hester,—if altogether fancy, it was nevertheless too potent to be resisted,—she felt or fancied, then, that the scarlet letter had endowed her with a new sense. She shu
ddered to believe, yet could not help believing, that it gave her a sympathetic knowledge of the hidden sin in other hearts. She was terror-stricken by the revelations that were thus made. What were the
y? Could they be other than the insidious whispers of the bad angel, who would fain have persuaded the struggling woman, as yet only half his victim, that the outward guise of purity was but a lie, and
that, if truth were everywhere to be shown, a scarlet letter would blaze forth on many a bosom besides Hester Prynne’s? Or, must she receive those intimations—so obscure, yet so distinct—as truth?
In all her miserable experience, there was nothing else so awful and so loathsome as thi s sense. It perplexed, as well as shocked her, by the irreverent inopportuneness of the occasions that brought it
into vivid action. Sometimes the red infamy upon her breast would give a sympathetic throb, as she passed near a venerable minister or magistrate, the model of piety and justice, to whom that age
of antique reverence looked up, as to a mortal man in fellowship with angels. “What ev il thing is at hand?” would Hester say to herself. Lifting her reluctant eyes, there would be nothing human with
in the scope of view, save the form of this earthly saint! Again, a mystic sisterhood wou ld contumaciously assert itself, as she met the sanctified frown of some matron, who, according to the rumor of
all tongues, had kept cold snow within her bosom throughout life. That unsunned sno w in the matron’s bosom, and the burning shame on Hester Prynne’s,—what had the two in common? Or, once
more, the electric thrill would give her warning,—”Behold, Hester, here is a compani on!”—and, looking up, she would detect the eyes of a young maiden glancing at the scarlet letter, shyly and asi
de, and quickly averted with a faint, chill crimson in her cheeks; as if her purity were somewhat sullied by that momentary glance. O Fiend, whose talisman was that fatal symbol, wouldst thou lea
ve nothing, whether in youth or age, for this poor sinner to revere?—such loss of fai th is ever one of the saddest results of sin. Be it accepted as a proof that all was not corrupt in this poor victim
of her own frailty, and man’s hard law, that Hester Prynne yet struggled to believe that no fellow-mortal was guilty like herself. • The vulgar, who, in those dreary old times, were always contribu
ting a grotesque horror to what interested their imaginations, had a story about the scarlet letter which we might readily work up into a terrific legend. They averred, that the symbol was not me
re scarlet cloth, tinged in an earthly dye-pot, but was red-hot with infernal fire, and could be seen glowing all alight, whenever Hester Prynne walked abroad in the night-time. • And we must nee
ds say, it seared Hester’s bosom so deeply, that perhaps there was more truth in the rumor than our modern incredulity may be inclined to admit.