Scene III
—The same as in Scene I of this act. Dimsdell asleep upon a garden bench, half reclining. Enter Roger Prynne, called Chillingworth.
Roger. To kill were easy; aye, but—to stretch his life
As on a rack—were that not better still?
Dead, I’d bury with him my revenge;
But while he lives the old account will stand
At daily usury.
I’ll tent his agony, prolong it here,
Even here where I may feed upon it;
Not send him hence beyond my reach. Aye!
I’ll fight with death to keep him for mine own.
But, now—
O, I must calm myself or miss my aim!
For, like a hunter when first he sees the buck,
My nerves are all unstrung. This weakling trick
Of overearnestness betrays the fool
In me; and yet we know it, though we profit not,
The eager hand doth ever spill the cup
That lifted carefully would quench our thirst.
I must assume a wise placidity;
As he puts on—Ah! damnéd hypocrite!—
The air of purity. (Approaches Dimsdell.)
I’ll drink dissimulation at the source;
I’ll study him.—Thus might an angel look
When, wearied with the music of the spheres,
He laid him down upon a roseate bank
To dream of holiness!—He hath not stirred.—
’Twas well I did not speak to Bellingham,
For we have not been noted. Good, so far.
All eyes are busy with their own affairs;
I’ll wake him now and foil discovery.
Takes vial from pocket medicine case.
Our native drugs are balanced well; one plant
Sucks in the beams the sleepy moon sends down,
Another drinks the waking draught of dawn.
That made him sleep, but this—Ah!
A mouldy mummied corse that in the tomb
A thousand years had lain, would wake once more,
If but three drops of this should touch its lips.
I’ll give you, sir, but two.
Drops liquid into glass and fills with wine.
There, swallow it.
Administering to Dimsdell.
Now, let me see—he must not know how long
He slept,—and by the sun it is not long—
I have’t; I’ll make him think he merely lost
Himself while I was talking.
Dimsdell stirs. Roger pours a glass of wine and takes position he occupied when Dimsdell fell asleep. Speaks as in continuation of former speech.
Mellow wine
Is Nature’s golden bounty unto man.
And it hath well been said: Dame Nature is
A gentle mother if we follow her;
But if she drives our steps no fury wields
A fiercer lash; yet all her punishments
Are kindly meant; our puny faculties
Would nest forever fledgeling in our minds,
Did not her wise austerity compel
Their flight.
Dimsdell wakes with a start and recovers himself as one who would not seem rude.
Or, put the same in other words:
That man is noble who doth fear no fate
Which may afflict humanity; but, like
A gallant soldier, meets the charge half way,
And takes his wounds a-jesting.
Now ev’ry one of us, whom Nature whips,
Must take it meekly; for she means our good;
And learn to go along with her.
Dimsdell. I fear
I dozed and lost the thread of argument.
I pray you, pardon me.
Roger. I did not note it.
But, be it so, come sun yourself; drive out
The fog and vapor that becloud your mind,
And let the warmth of nature take their place.
Nature retrieves our losses, or charges them
Against us; all things do rest, even the plants
Do slumber as they grow.
Dimsdell. How greedily
The flow’rs drink up the wine our golden sun
Pours down on them, yet blush to own their drinking!
Roger. This is the New World, man; and Nature here
Is lusty; drink in thy dole of heat and light;
For even I, drenched in the golden rain,
Feel pulsings of lost paradise that make
My blood leap with th’ quick-step bound of youth.
This is the very show’r of gold in which
Jove comes to fill the longing world with life.
And as he kisses her with ling’ring lips,
All Nature lies wide open to th’ warm embrace
And quickens in his arms.—All, all, but thou!
For thou art single as the northern pole;
As cold, as distant, and unreachable
To what hath passion’s warmth; and, though
Thy life be at its summer solstice—bright
With day—thy heart still turns to barren ice,
More bleak than many a wintry age.
Dimsdell. How can I change my disposition, Doctor?
Roger. Widen the thin ecliptic of thy life;
Revolve upon another axis, man;
Let love, the sun of life, beam meltingly
Upon thy heart and thaw it into happiness.
Marry, man, marry.
Dimsdell. I cannot marry: I have my work to do.
Roger. If work precedent were to love, the world
Would be unpeopled. This is the month of June,
And now the locust and the linden tree
Do wed the zephyrs as they blow, and weight
The air with oversweetness.—What song is that?
[Voice of Betsey singing behind scenes.]
For her, of buttercups and violets,
A circlet for her hair he makes;
And sings, in roundelays and triolets,
A song that soon her fancy takes.
In Summer-tide, sweet Summer-tide,
O, what can a maiden do,
If, while he walks close by her side,
Her lover begins to woo?
Roger. That maid is innocent and happy too.
You may have noticed that—when the heart
Is pure—love overflows the lips in song
As sweet and limpid as a mountain spring;
But—when it’s bitter with base treachery—
It dams itself against all utterance,
And either mines the soul, or, breaking forth,
Sweeps downward to destruction. Oh! ’tis true,
Love is the lyric happiness of youth;
And they, who sing its perfect melody,
Do from the honest parish register
Still take their tune. And so must you. For you
Are now in the very period of youth
When myriads of unborn beings knock loud and long
Upon the willing portals of the heart
For entrance into life. Deny it not;
I say but truth—I once was young myself.
Behold the means!
Enter Martha Wilson, carrying a bunch of roses.
Dimsdell. Oh! Oh! [Clasps his breast.]
Roger. Whither so fast, Martha, that thou canst not speak to us?
Martha. Oh! I beg your pardon, Doctor. Good morning, sir. I seek my father; is he with the Governor?
Roger. Knowledge is costly, Martha; yet thou art rich enough to buy more than information. For one of those sweet roses, I’ll tell you he is well and with the Governor.
Martha. You beg it prettily.
[Giving Roger a rose.
Roger. Pure and fragrant as the giver—marry, the blush becomes it not so well; it does not come and go. Martha, thy father and the Governor are in the library. Is that not worth another rose?
Martha. Nay, only a very little one; for when he talks of books he’s always loath to come with me.
Roger. Nay, slander him not. But, Martha, books or no books, for two more roses I will bring him here; and, truly, fathers were cheap at three roses apiece. What say you?
Martha. Nay, I’ll go myself; but do not think I grudge the roses; here they are. You have not begged of me [To Dimsdell]. May I beg you to accept this? Gentlemen, farewell.
[Exit Martha.
Roger. Roses, and you asked her not!
In love! in love! up to the eyes in love!
She’ll drown in love unless you marry her!
Dimsdell. Oh! that I were worthy of her!
Roger. Dost love her, Dimsdell? Ah! she’s worthy love.
She’s fair and young; of gentle birth and rich;
And warm and pure and spirit-like as flame
That floats above new brandy.
Dimsdell. Out upon thee, satyr! Thou dishonorest her.
Roger. Not a whit. Is’t dishonor to her purity
To urge thy smoky flame to brightness worthy
Of her? ’Tis what she wishes most; witness
Her confusion and her telltale blushes.
Do me justice, man; my thoughts are pure
And dwell on lawful marriage only. Thou, thou
Alone, couldst see impurity in that.
I spoke of thee, man, of thee; and who
Beside thyself would think a mottled thought
Could touch a maiden linked to thee in words
Or fact?
Dimsdell. Oh! Oh!
[Clutching at his breast.
Roger. Had I young daughters by the score, each fair
As Hebe, as voluptuous as Venus,
All thinly clad as in the golden age,
I could not wish a chaster keeper of them.
Nay, had I wives in droves like Solomon,
I’d make thee Kislah Aga of my harem,
Chief eunuch and sole security—What!
Call me satyr when I urge in bounds
The boundless beauties of pure maidenhood,
And bid thee wed them! Thus best advices are
Construed amiss, and what we kindly mean
Turned into scorn and filthiness!
Dimsdell. Forgive me, Doctor; I’m ill at ease. This pain
Is like a stick thrust in a spring; it muddies
All my thoughts. Oh! Oh!
[Pressing his hands to his breast.
Roger. Come, Dimsdell, listen to a bit of reason.
Thy body is as sound as a red apple
In November. The pain’s imaginary.
Marry, man, marry; thy wife will prove
A counter-irritant and drive the pain away.
Dimsdell. No more of that, I pray you.
Roger. Not enough of it, not enough of it!
Dimsdell. No more, no more! I must not marry.
Roger. Think once again, man; if that thy mind
Can pardon the suggestion—and, mark, I urge it
With all diffidence—there is a way,
Wherein the low opinion thou doth hold
Of thine own virtues—not held by any else—
May wed with beauty all unspeakable,
Raise up a noble lady, and show thy christian
Spirit to the world.
Dimsdell. And what is that?
Roger. Wed Hester Prynne.
Dimsdell. Wed Hester Prynne?
Roger. Aye! ’twas that I said.
She is a paragon—nay, beauty’s self.
All other women are but kitchen-maids
Beside her loveliness.
Dimsdell. Wed Hester Prynne!
Roger. I hear her husband left her well to do;
And as for that small blot that sullies her
’Twill fade when covered by thy name.
Dimsdell. Hester Prynne!
Roger. What act more merciful, more christianlike?
Redeem the reputation of her child,
And to the jeers of fools stop up thine ears;
Enwrap thee in her gentle arms, lay down
Thine aching head upon her tender breast,
And dream thyself in paradise.
Dimsdell. Thou fiend of Hell! I know thee now; thou cam’st
But once in thine own form, and ever since
Hast been too near me in a worser one.
Back to the pit, I say! No more of tempting!
Roger. Art mad? I’m man as thou dost seem to be;
I’m not a fiend.
Dimsdell. What dost thou know?
[Shaking Roger by the shoulders.
Roger. Only this—thou art as cowardly
As thou art lecherous. What! betray
A woman! Desert her in her misery!
Refuse to marry her!
And all the while, cloaked in thy ministry,
Dispense the sacraments of God to children—
How canst thou do it?
Dimsdell. If thou be not Satan, why raise this cloud?
Why vanish from my sight? Yet I did touch him even now—
I’ll kill him—Kill, kill, kill—now, now, now—
Roger. In trance again! Help! Help! Help!
Dimsdell becomes rigid; with arm uplifted as if to strike a death blow. His speech thickens, and he stands motionless. Roger supports him.