Act II
Scene I
—Interior of Hester’s home. Furniture Dutch-English, comfortable and handsome. Windows draped in scarlet-fringed curtains with scarlet cross-cords, simulating the letter “A.” Rich needle work in the hangings and other accessories. A cradle L., near it a table with a quarto Bible. Hester discovered bending over cradle, then sits R.C. and takes up a piece of embroidery (the letter “A” in scarlet on a dark background).
Hester. God bless the little darling, how she sleeps!
Had I but thought that all my heart would beat
Within the tender compass of her arms,
I had not prayed she might not be. But now,
Although unasked she came, unasked she brought
A wealth of love and blessing to my soul.
[Sits and embroiders.]
Thus Providence, although it pierce the heart,
Works into it some glorious design;
Which on this under side of life is blurred,
Thread over thread in infinite confusion.
Or, if we are not made of firmest texture,
The work pulls through, or tears an ugly rent,
Or gathers up our woof in meshy tangles.
This is a world of worn and fretted ends,
Knit in a maze of fearful intricacy,
Wherein we see no meaning. Nor can we know
The hidden shuttles of Eternity,
That weave the endless web of living, loving,
And begetting, whereby a filament
Of earth takes on the likeness of an angel.
The primal burden of our race-existence,
Mankind’s perpetual perpetuation,
Weighs on weak womanhood; we bear the race
And all its natural ills, yet still our fellows,
Who proudly call themselves our lords and masters,
Do heap upon us petty wrongs, and load
Us down with their oppressions. I cannot tell
What rich reward my suffering may bring,
But bide the piercing, like this patient cloth,
In hope the needle carries golden thread.
Enter a Maid-Servant.
What is it?
Servant. Madam, a gentleman would speak with you.
Hester. Bid him enter.
[Exit Servant.
Methought I heard my husband’s dreaded voice
Speak to me on the pillory. What
If he lives, or hath arisen from the dead
To reckon with me now? Well, let him come;
For this strong heart outcast from sympathy
Hath turned back on itself in double strength;
And all the puny woman of my mind,
Burned in the furnace of my sex’s scorn,
Plunged in the icy vat of love’s neglect,
Hath tempered hard. I fear him not.
Enter Roger Prynne, shaved, and dressed as a doctor of medicine.
Roger himself!
Roger. Thou didst provide snug quarters, Hester, against my coming. Aye, and hast furnished them better than I bade thee.
Hester. The cost was small; my needle and my energy—
Roger. Have done the work; yea, and supplied the cradle also. Ah! ’tis a brave piece of work; very beautiful and delicate; the lusty offspring of lustful parents. Somewhat costly, I should think, and asked some pains. Methinks, thou hadst some help with that; or was it thy needle or thy energy which wrought this dainty bit?
Hester. Touch not the child; ’tis mine, thou hast no part in it.
Roger. Too true. But calm thyself. I have not harmed the brat, nor did I touch it. [Looking around.] I like thy taste, Hester. A handsome house to hold a handsome woman.
Hester. The house is thine; let me and my babe depart.
Roger. Nay, keep the house, ’twill shelter you; I do not need it.
Hester. I will not have it.
Roger. Will not, Madam Hester, is a strong word to use to your wedded lord and master. I say you shall; yea, and, furthermore, here is provision for the child and thee.
[Throwing purse upon the table.]
Hester. Take up thy purse. I who have done thee wrong will not henceforth eat thy bread.
Roger. Wrong, Hester. Done me wrong? Wronged me? Nay, Hester, wronged thyself; wronged thine innocent babe; wronged the world; wronged whom thou wilt, but not wronged me! To wake me from a doting dream—that was not wrong! A dream of woman’s purity and innocence; a foolish dream of married happiness between thy youth and my decrepitude; to put an end to such a madness, surely was not wrong! Wronged me? Thy levity hath righted my poor mind, which, pondering o’er thy beauties, listed to one side.
Hester. Oh! pardon me!
Roger. Pardon thee? yea, why should I not? I do pardon thee; yea, more, I do applaud thine act. Thou wast no slothful servant; thou didst not fear the coming of thy lord; thou puttest all to use and gottest cent per cent. Therefore, the care I show for thee is hire and wages; it is thy due, accept it freely.
Hester. Let me and my babe depart. Receive thy money and thy house, I can take nothing from thee. Ah! if I could I would return thee every penny I have spent of thine.
Roger. Wait till I ask thee to account. What! am I so old, and yet not know the cost of dalliance? Nothing dearer. And he who eared my field during my absence, being now, in thy abasement, so chary of his presence, spent little of his gold, I’ll warrant. Who is he, Hester?
Hester. Thou shalt never know.
Roger. Never’s a long word, Hester; it stretches beyond the judgment into eternity. Come, I’ll know him then, tell me now.
Hester. He is a scholar and can cope with thee; thou canst not find him.
Roger. If he do walk the earth, I’ll find him out; if he be now in Hell, I’ll follow him; where’er he be, his peace is forfeited and I will—
Hester. What wilt thou do to him?
Roger. Nothing, Hester, nothing. I merely wish to thank him for the love he showed thee during my absence, whereby thou didst mourn for me the less.
Hester. Thou wilt not kill him?
Roger. What a silly thing thou hast become, now thou hast left the path of virtue! Do I kill thee? Am I dangerous? Is there force in this withered body to harm a lusty knave, a brave seducer of ripe womanhood?
Hester. Nay, do not harm him.
Roger. At thy request, mistress.
Hester. The fault was mine.
Roger. No doubt ’twas thine alone.
Hester. Wreak vengeance then on me alone.
Roger. I have none.
Hester. I would I could believe thee.
Roger. As well give faith to me as him. But, truly, Hester, I had thought these puritans, these pilgrim fathers, had left all fleshly lusts behind them with their vanities in England. He must be a rare bird in these parts—O, I shall know him by his plumage!
Hester. He’s safe enough.
Roger. Perhaps, but then these poachers, who fish in others’ ponds, are proud of their achievements. They will talk. They brag in their cups and strut and ogle when they’re sober.
Hester. I’ll warn him of thee.
Roger. Thou wilt do nothing of the kind. But come, Hester, man and wife ought not to quarrel. Let us set a good example to the world in peace if not in chastity. Sit you here and listen to me.
Hester. Well?
Roger. Hester, I loved thee when thou wast a babe,
A prattling child no taller than my knee,
A pretty little innocent, a tot
That wavered in its walk and won my heart
By tender trustfulness. Thou’dt leave thy father,
Mother, all, to nestle in these arms
The whiles I told some worn out fairy tale,
Or sang of Robin Hood.
That was before thy mind did take its shape,
And subsequent events have blotted out
All memories of thy babyhood.
Hester. Nay, but I do recall, as in a haze,
Some of the incidents of infancy.
Roger. Perhaps. Hester, thou wast the dearest child
That ever blest fond parents, unfolding sweet
Thy mother’s beauties and thy father’s strength.
And canst thou now remember who made himself
A child to play with thee vain, foolish games;
Who taught thee out of books such lessons as
Thy little mind could grasp?
Hester. It was thou.
Roger. Then, as thou didst grow toward womanhood,
Some fifteen springs, thy gentle mother died;
A woman beautiful and pure, as sweetly
Ignorant of all her charms as is
The hyacinth.
Hester. Mother! Mother!
Roger. Pray God the saints see nothing here on earth:
Or else that in their golden paradise
Some sleepy potion dull their sympathies
With us: for who could look upon this world,
And see mankind divested of the lies
That make our comeliness; or, with an eye undimmed,
Behold the brutal tragedies of life;
And yet find happiness or peace in Heaven?
Hell’s flames would reach unto the tree of life
Itself and singe thy mother’s heart, if she
Could see that scarlet letter on thy breast.
[Hester covers her face and moans.]
Great God! what thread of continuity
Doth string the whirling incidents of life?
This woman was that maid whose purity
Excelled imagination’s greatest reach;
Whose happiness sang ever like the lark
Arising from the earth to soar in Heaven!
And now behold her dyed in scarlet sin,
Branded with infamy, and moaning here
In deepest anguish!
Nay, come; let out thy grief in linkéd words,
For this tooth-gated dumb remorse will herd
Thy thoughts until they gore each other.
Hester, thy strength is greater than to yield
Thus to thy misery; do not lash
Thy heart into a fury; never blow
The tiny sparks of pain
Into the flaming coals of Hell.
That sinning soul is traitor to itself
That leagues its bruiséd thoughts with imps of Hell
To torture conscience.
Hester. Leave me, I pray you.
Roger. Not yet, else were my visit bootless.
Hester, I will not dwell upon thy life
From year to year, nor drag thy colliered soul
Back to its days of spotless innocence.
Thy father’s amity for me, thou knowest,
And how, upon his death, I stood toward thee
In place of parents.
Hester. Would you had remained a father to me!
Roger. I loved thee, Hester; daughter, sister, sweetheart,
You were to me. And you did love me too,
And as an elder brother looked on me
In gentle confidence.
So did the years post by in th’ dim afterglow
That comes to agéd men; while love with thee
Was in the dawning; a tender sky with both
Of us, my sun already set; and thine
Not yet arisen; nor did it ever rise
To shine on me, fool that I was!
Hester. I never loved you, should not have married you;
Knew nothing then of love except the name.
Roger. Aye, you loved me, and you loved me not;
Hester, I wronged thee when I married thee;
The fault was mine, old as I was, to hope
To still the sweet necessities of youth
With passionless love; nature demands her due,
And we should know, while love may grow at home,
Passion requires some novelty.
Hester. We both have done foul wrong unto each other,
And, as this world doth judge, mine is the greater.
Roger. Yet thou wast tempted by thy youth, my absence,
A handsome lover’s importunity:
But what can be said for me, old as I was,
To drive and badger thy chaste ignorance
To marry mine infirmities?
Hester. How can I right this wrong?
Roger. And wouldst thou if thou couldst?
Hester. Aye, if I could; but yet these broken lives,
Cracked by my fall, no putty will make whole.
Roger. Yet canst thou veil my ruin, and o’er me hang
The drapery of silence. Dost consent?
Hester. Aye, but how?
Roger. But swear to me thou wilt conceal my name,
Nor ever claim relationship with me,
Until I bid thee.
Hester. Wherefore the vow?
Roger. Because I wish it;
Perhaps, because I would not bear the scorn,
The petty taunts, the contumelious looks,
That ever greet the cuckold husband.
Hester. Then will I take the oath.
Roger. Swear by the book, and also by the babe,
Never to breathe my rightful name;
Never to claim me as thy husband;
Never to leave this place.
Hester. Wherefore not leave the place?
Roger. Swear, woman, swear!
Never to leave this place, until I bid thee.
Hester. I swear to all these things.
Roger. Swear once again; never to tell thy paramour
Thy husband lives and walks these streets.
Hester. I swear to keep thy counsel as I have kept
His and mine own.
Roger. Remember then, from this time on, my name
Is Chillingworth, no longer Prynne, for that
I will not bear. [Going] Hester, farewell.
Yet ere I go, Hester, behold my mind:
I love thee still; but with a chastened heart
Made wise by sorrow. Day after day, as thou
Dost wend thy way about this mazy world,
My care will shield thee and thy little babe.
Do not repulse it. I have no hope that thou
Wilt think of me without revulsion;
Then hate me if thou must; but spare the thought
That ever thou didst take my hateful kisses,
Or clasp those soft warm arms about my thin,
Cold carcass.
Do not despise thy beauties that I once
Did own them. Forget it, Hester, for such a marriage
Was my infamy, and I it was
Who sinned against thy youth. Farewell!
[Exit.