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                          The Scarlet Stigma


                               A Drama
                             In Four Acts


                                  By

                          JAMES EDGAR SMITH.


              Founded upon Nathaniel Hawthorne's Novel,
                        "The Scarlet Letter."


                          WASHINGTON, D.C.
                          JAMES J. CHAPMAN,
                                1899.




                Copyright, 1899, by JAMES EDGAR SMITH.

                         All rights reserved.


  Press of George S. Krouse.                Bindery of Edwin F. Price.

                          WASHINGTON, D.C.




Stigmatization is a rare incident of ecstasy. Not many well
authenticated cases have been reported by competent medical
authorities, and yet there can be no doubt of its occasional
occurrence. See Encyclopaedia Britannica, article on Stigmatization
by Dr. Macalister, and references therein cited; also the work on
Nervous and Mental Diseases by Dr. Landon Carter Gray, page 511.
That it may occur in men of a high order of ability is instanced by
the case of St. Francis of Assisi.

It ought not to be necessary to point out that the entire third
scene in the second act of this play is a dramatic transcript from
the diseased consciousness of Mr. Dimsdell, that the Satan of the
play is an hallucination, and that the impress of the stigma upon
Dimsdell's breast is merely the culmination of his auto-hypnotic
ecstasy, or trance.




PERSONS REPRESENTED.


  ROGER PRYNNE, called _Chillingworth_, a physician.
  ARTHUR DIMSDELL, a youthful divine.
  JOHN WILSON, a good old minister.
  BELLINGHAM, Governor of the Colony.
  BUTTS, a sea captain.
  SATAN, an hallucination of Dimsdell's.
  BRONSON, }
  WARD,    }
  LANGDON, }    Members of the Governor's Council.
  ARNOLD,  }
  DIGGORY, a servant to Governor Bellingham.

  HESTER PRYNNE, wife of Roger Prynne.
  MARTHA WILSON, daughter of Rev. John Wilson.
  URSULA, a nurse.
  BETSEY, a milkmaid.
  MOTHER CAREY, keeper of a sailor's inn.

     _A Clerk, a Crier, a Jailer, Councilors, Citizens, Soldiers,
                     Sailors, Indians, Servants._

  SCENE--_Boston_.                                 TIME--_June, 1668_.




THE SCARLET STIGMA.




ACT I.


SCENE I.--_A tavern and a street in front of it. Settles on porch.
SAILORS smoking and drinking. Enter CAPTAIN BUTTS, singing._

_Butts._     _The Margery D. was a trim little ship,
              The men they could man, and the skipper could skip;
              She sailed from her haven one fine summer day,
              And she foundered at sea in the following way,--
                               To-wit:_

_All._       _A-rinkety, clinkety, clink, clank, clank,
              The liquor they bathed in, the spirits they drank;
              A sailor at sea with three sheets in the wind
              Can hardly be called, sirs, quite sober._

_Enter MOTHER CAREY, from Tavern._

_Carey._ Cap'n! Cap'n Butts! Gen'le gen'lemen! would ye rune a pore
widdy woman by a singing of sech filthy tunes? And me up for my
license again nex' Tuesday!

_Butts._ Peace! Peace, Mother Carey, hear your chickens screech!
Come, boys!                                                  [_Singing._

             _The captain was thirsty, and so was each man,
              They ladled the grog out by cup and by can,
              The night it was stormy, they knew not the place,
              And they sang as they sank the following grace,--
                               To-wit:_

_All._       _A-sinkety, sinkety, sink, sank, sunk,
              Our captain is tipsy, our mate is quite drunk,
              Our widows we leave to the world's tender care,
              And we don't give a damn for the Devil!_

                             Ha! Ha! Ha!

_Carey._ O, Lord! O, Lord! If the magistrates should hear that song,
they'd close my place!

_Butts._ There, there now. [_Chucks her under the chin._] The
magistrates are not as quick to hear a sailor sing as thou art to
take his orders. Bring us a pint apiece.

_Carey._ Thou naughty man! [_Slaps his jaws._] A pint apiece?   [_Exit._

_Butts._ Aye. Now, lads, bargain out your time; ye'll not see a
petticoat for many a day.                       [_Lights pipe and sits._

_Sailors._ Aye, aye, sir.

_CITIZENS cross stage, singly and in groups, all going in the same
direction. Enter MOTHER CAREY from house with ale, serves it, looks
up and down street as in expectation of some one, then goes in._

_Butts._ Mother Carey's lost one of her chicks. Here lads! here's
to the mousey Puritan lassies! They won't dance, they can't
sing--Ah! well! here's to them till we come again!         [_All drink._

_Enter along the street two COUNCILORS._

_Arnold._ 'Tis very true; but, sir, though many break this law and
go unpunished, our godly Company should not wink at known adultery.

_Langdon._ In other words, we must find scape-goats to bear our
sins.

_Arnold._ Nay, not exactly that. We vindicate God's laws, and----
                                                   [_Exeunt Councilors._

_Butts._ He must be Privy Councilor to the Lord Himself!

_Enter a group of WOMEN._

_First Woman._ Her beauty, say'st thou? Pretty is as pretty does,
say I. I'd beauty her! Go to! Who knows the father of her brat; can
any tell?

_Second Woman._ Thou dost not doubt thy goodman?

_First Woman._ Trust none of them. I know mine own; dost thou know
thine? As for her she hath shamed our sex, and I would--
                                                        [_Exeunt Women._

_Butts._ God's-my-life, there's more poison in their tongues than in
a nest of rattlesnakes? What's all this pother, lads?

_Sailor._ There's a trial, sir, on a charge of bastardy.

_Butts._ Ha! ha! ha! You rogues had better ship elsewhere; if the
wind sits in that quarter, you'll find foul weather here.

_Sailors._ Ha! ha! ha!

_More people cross the stage._

_Butts._ Cheapside on a holiday!

_Re-enter MOTHER CAREY, dressed for walking._

_Carey._ O, dear! O, dear! I'll be late; I'm sure I'll be late. Oh!
dear, dear, dear! why will that Ursula still lag?

_Butts._ What's the matter, Mother?

_Carey._ Matter? Matter enough! a gentlewoman tried for adultery and
me sure to miss it all! [_Looks around._] Why doesn't Ursula come?
O, dear! O, dear!--why, here she is!

_Enter URSULA._

  What kept thee, Ursula?

_Ursula._ Such a crowd! Whew! I'm out o' breath. [_Sits; one or two
pass over._] The town's run mad to look upon a gentlewoman shamed.
[_Citizens still pass._] Ah! there's no room for me now, but when
her labor came God knows there was no press! I had room enough then,
not one would lend a hand--fie! they are serpents, all of them; they
have double tongues to hiss, but ne'er a hand to help.

_Carey._ Still talking to herself. Here, Ursula, take the keys and
wait upon the gentlemen.     [_Hands keys to Ursula and exit up street._

_Ursula._ Let the gentlemen wait on me awhile.

_Butts._ Would you have us die of thirst, Ursula?

_Ursula._ What will you have, Captain?

_Butts._ Stingo, Ursula, stingo!               [_Exit Ursula in tavern._

  What say you, lads, shall we see this trial?

_Sailor._ Aye, aye, sir, the woman's fair to look upon.

_Butts._ Then let us get our ballast in, hoist sail and tack away.

_Re-enter URSULA with ale._

  Who is it, Ursula, they try?

_Ursula._ A gentle lady, sir. God's-my-life, had no man tempted
her--but, that's your ways, you tempt us, blame us when we yield,
and then make laws to punish us.

_Butts._ But, what's her name?

_Ursula._ What should it be but Hester Prynne?

_Butts._ Hester Prynne? The gentle Mistress Prynne I brought from
Amsterdam three years ago?

_Ursula._ The same, God bless her.

_Butts._ My lads, don't wait for me.                  [_Exeunt Sailors._
  I knew her husband, Ursula; a man
  Well versed in all the wisdom of the time;
  Somewhat well gone in years, but lovable
  Beyond the shallowness of youth, and rich
  In mellow charity. Oft hath he sailed
  With me from port to port where learning drew him,
  And still came richer home. One day he shipped
  For Amsterdam and brought his bride, who, like
  A hawthorn in its pink of youth that blushes
  'Neath the shadow of an ancient elm,
  Shed spring-time sweetness round his green old age.
  I've seen them often in their Holland home,
  Where wisdom laid its treasures at the feet
  Of love, and beauty crowned the offering.
  She was a lovely lady, Ursula,
  And when her lord, still bent on learning more,
  Resolved to come out to America--
  His own affairs then calling him to England--
  He placed her in my care, intending soon
  To follow her. He did, but curséd fate!
  His ship was lost--no one knows where!

_Ursula._                                   Alack
  The day! She had not sinned had he been here.

_Butts._ But, didst thou know her, Ursula, as I
  Have known her, wisely good and true, thou wouldst
  Have wondered more.

_Ursula._            Know her, sir! I nursed her!

_Butts._ Thou, Ursula?

_Ursula._              None but I!

_Butts._ Where were her friends?

_Ursula._                Where, but at home! Dear heart,
  They shunned her like the plague--though if the truth
  Were known, many that shun her now would keep
  Her company perforce. None came near
  But pious Master Dimsdell, and even he
  Came only out of duty to her soul;
  He told me so.

_Butts._            The Reverend Master Dimsdell
  And thou her only comforters?

_Ursula._                             Nay,
  The little bairn was her greatest comfort, sir.

_Butts._ How doth she bear her trouble, Ursula?

_Ursula._ Like a good woman, sir.

_Butts._                        She yet is that!
  But have you never learned her lover's name?

_Ursula._ Nay, I never have.

_Butts._                      'Tis strange that she
  Should fall; and then endeavor to conceal
  Her lover! Noble, wise and beautiful,
  No other than a man of mark could win her!

_Ursula._ A three years widow, baby three months old,
  A coward run-a-gate of a lover, sir--
  Tell me, is there no exception made
  By law for widows?

_Butts._              None, of which I know.

_Ursula._ The law is hard indeed!

_Butts._                             I wonder if
  A rough sea-dog like me might speak a word
  For her?

_Ursula._ Aye, that you might! Go seek the good
  Old Doctor Wilson, mercy dwells with him,
  And he will aid you, sir.

_Butts._                            I'll go at once.

                 [_Exeunt severally, Butts up street, Ursula in tavern._

_Enter ROGER PRYNNE, travel stained._

_Roger._ We are not masters of our paths, although
  Our wills do seem to guide our faltering steps:
  Ship voyagers are we, and roam at will
  Within the narrow confines of the deck,
  But neither plot nor steer the destined course.
  I may have passed her house--I'll ask my way
  Here at the inn. Long live King Boniface!
  What ho! some wine!

_Ursula._ [_Within_] Your patience, Captain, I'll be there anon.

_Roger._ At your leisure, hostess; I've learned to wait.        [_Sits._
  A bachelor at sixty, I found myself
  Encumbered with a ward--nay, not that--
  Enriched with female loveliness and grace
  Bequeathed unto me by a dying friend.
  Volition had no part in that, nor in
  My sudden recrudescency of love.
  I willed our marriage; but 'twas fate bestowed
  The joys I long had fled. Then came our life
  In Amsterdam; each day so filled with bliss
  It overflowed into the next, and days
  Of joy grew into weeks and months of happiness--
  Let me have wine, I say!

_Ursula._ [_Within_] Coming, sir!

_Roger._ Anon the traveling itch--was't fate or will--
  Possessed my soul to see America,
  And money matters calling me to London,
  Where raged the plague, I sent my wife before me
  To America with Captain Butts, then bound
  For Boston. Ah! well-a-day, the parting!--
  I hurried up my business; fled London town;
  Shipped for America; was wrecked far South;
  Captured by Indians; escaping, wandered North
  Until I found the white man's colonies;
  And now footsore and old I've reached the place
  I first intended. What next, O, Fate?

_Enter URSULA._

  Good morrow, hostess.

_Ursula._              Good morrow, sir.                   [_Surprised._

_Roger._                                   Look not
  Askance upon my way-worn clothes; there's gold
  To pay my reckoning.                           [_Throwing money down._

_Ursula._ Your pardon, sir; I marveled, sir, so fine a gentleman
  Should be so travel-stained. What will you have?

_Roger._ Bring me a cup of sherris-sack.

_Ursula._ [_Aside_] I knew he was a gentleman!                  [_Exit._

_Roger._ How will my Hester greet me? Will she know me?
  She never saw me with a beard, nor in
  Such rags. Perhaps she thinks me dead--
  If so, the shock might kill her--Let me see--
  Putative widows have before my time
  Bought second husbands with their beauty, wealth,
  Or wit--and she hath all. 'Tis probable--
  And when the long-supposed defunct returned,
  He found his amorous relict the bride
  Of a bright-eyed youth! What worse, ye harpy fates?
  She may be dead! Oh! this is madness!
  Sweet Heaven, let her live! and, if I find
  Her married, I'll depart unknown to her
  And bury in my heart's deep sepulchre
  My widowed grief. Bah! I'm a fool!
  This weakness comes from my long wandering!
  Misfortunes, though we think we conquer them,
  Ever pursue, hang on our rear, and give
  Such rankling wounds as teach our souls to dread
  What else may lie in wait invincible.

_Re-enter URSULA with wine._

_Ursula._ I beg your pardon, sir. I could not find the wine at
first.

_Roger._ Why, how was that?

_Ursula._ I'm not the hostess, sir, she is away; I merely take her
place till she comes back.

_Roger._ You fill it rarely.

_Ursula._ God bless thee, sir, I'm cook, nurse, or hostess, as
people need me. Ursula Cook, Ursula Nurse, or Ursula Goodale, at
your service, sir.

_Roger._ Ah, indeed, Ursula! Then I presume thou knowest many of the
citizens?

_Ursula._ I know them everyone.

_Roger._ This wine is excellent. [_Drinking_] Dost know one Roger
Prynne?

_Ursula._ The husband of our Hester Prynne?

_Roger._ The same. [_Aside_] Thank God, she lives.

_Ursula._ He's dead, sir, rest his soul, a more than thirty months
ago.

_Roger._ Poor fellow! He was a friend of mine. Where did they bury
him?

_Ursula._ His ship was wrecked, he had no burial.

_Roger._ Here's to his memory! You know his wife?

_Ursula._ Alas; I do, sweet lady!

_Roger._ And why alas? The loss of a husband is no great calamity in
a colony. There can be no dearth here of husband-material, I fancy.

_Ursula._ Whence come you that you know so little of the doings
here?

_Roger._ From the far South, where for two long years and more I've
lived among the savages. What do you mean?

_Ursula._ I mean her trial by the magistrates.

_Roger._ Tried by magistrates? For what?

_Ursula._ Adultery.

_Roger._ Tried for adultery?

_Ursula._ Aye, sir, that she is.

_Roger._ It is a lie, a damned lie! Tried for adultery! A likely
thing! So pure a woman! A purer creature never lived!

_Ursula._ Sir, you are her friend? You know her?

_Roger._ I am--I am her husband--her husband's friend. I knew her in
Old England. Adultery! A pretty word! Who doth accuse her? Damned
detractors!

_Ursula._ Her child.

_Roger._ Her what?

_Ursula._ Her child.

_Roger._ Hath Hester Prynne a child? Well, well; that is news
indeed! God bless the little thing! it can't be quite as much as
three years old; nay, not so old. Why, such a tot can give no
testimony. I'll go to this trial; I may be able yet to aid her.
Adultery! Bah!

_Ursula._ God bless your heart, sir.

_Roger._ Is't a boy or girl, how old?

_Ursula._ A girl and three months old.

_Roger._ Three months? Three years you mean.

_Ursula._ Three months, I said.

_Roger._ Thou dost not mean that Hester Prynne hath borne a child
within the last two years?

_Ursula._ I do. [_Aside_] A strange man, truly. This news hath
troubled him; but that's not strange, it troubles all her friends.
He seemed glad enough she had a child, but when I said it was a girl
it seemed to sting him. Well, well! God help the women; we are
unwelcome when we come, abused while we stay, and driven hence with
ill-usage.

_Roger._ Adulteress! That cannot be! There's some
  Mistake, or some deceit in this. Her great
  Nobility of heart would take upon
  Herself another's wrong. I'll take an oath
  The babe they say is hers she never bore!

_Ursula._ 'Tis surely hers, for I delivered her.

_Roger._ Hester! Hester! O, my God! My Hester!
  Woman, didst thou say that she is married?

_Ursula._ Nay, I said she is a widow, sir.

_Roger._ Who is her paramour?

_Ursula._ I do not know.            [_Busies herself removing tankards._

_Roger._ [_Aside_] Now is my honored name dragged in the dust
  By her to whom I did confide its keeping;
  And she herself, my cherished wife, upraised
  Upon a pedestal of shameful guilt
  For filthy mouths to spit their venom at.
  Slowly now. Whatever haps I'll be
  Cornelius Tacitus for the nonce, nor brave
  My state with that true name which marks me out
  As Publius Cornutus. I must have time to think.
  [_To Ursula_] Get me more wine. Prepare a room for me.

_Ursula._ Aye, sir. [_Going._]

_Roger._ Where is this trial held?

_Ursula._ Sir, at the Market place, three crossings up
  The street and to the left.

_Roger._               I thank thee. Go.                 [_Exit Ursula._
  Why was the banishment of tyrant fate
  Annulled by vigorous will? and why should I,
  For whom the jaws of death unhinged themselves,
  Escape from shipwreck, war, and pestilence,
  And here attain my journey's end at last,
  But that such evil deaths were much too mild
  To gratify the fury that pursues me!
  I was reserved for this last ignominy
  As in despite of human purposes;
  Robbed of mine honor where most I placed my trust
  And reap this pain where most I sowed for peace.
  Was it for this that I did marry her?
  Was it for this I sent her here before me?
  For this I nursed the holy purposes
  Of wedded purity, o'ercame the shocks
  Of human destiny, and held in check
  The inward passions of the baser man?
  For this--to be cornuted in mine age
  And die a by-word?
  My purposes! My purposes! O, God!
  Our purposes are little nine-pins
  Which fate's sure aim bowls down incessantly:
  As fast as we can set them up, events
  Roll down the narrow alleys of our lives,
  Rumbling like distant thunder as they speed,
  Till crash! our king-intent is down, and in
  His fall share all his puny retinue!
  She an adulteress! My Hester, whom
  I cherished as my soul! How I loved her!
  Forgotten, like the meat of yesterday,
  Let it pass!
  Henceforth, for me there's nothing on this side
  Of Hell, but study of revenge on him
  Who wrought her shame. He must have used foul means;
  For she was ever chaste in thought and deed.
  Hell fiend! Now, under an assuméd name,
  I'll ferret out her lusty paramour;
  Contrive some means to deeply punish him,
  And satisfy my fathomless revenge.                            [_Exit._


SCENE II.--_Another street. Enter REV. ARTHUR DIMSDELL, alone._

_Dimsdell._ 'Twould do no good.--The Governor is late,
  Or I have missed him.--Confess?--Disgrace for me;
  No help to her; and all the blasphemies
  That evil minds could cast on sacred calling
  Would be my blame. Whereas, I now can make
  My pleas take on the color of mine office
  And yet reflect on it a purer glow.--
  Why comes he not?--The path of righteousness,
  Though straight, leads on thro' pleasant fields to Heaven,
  Whereas the broad and easy road of sin
  Splits in its downward way, and then the will
  Stands at a halt which fork to take, though both
  Lead on to Hell! Now--why, here he comes!

_Enter GOVERNOR, attended._

_Governor._ Nay, Dimsdell, plead no more; she must be tried.
  I know what thou wouldst say, and like thee for it;
  But think, my friend, the law would mock itself
  If pardon did precede the penalty.

_Dimsdell._ Our Lord did pardon one was taken in
  The very act. O, think of Him!

_Governor._                      Enough!
  What! wouldst thou have our laws contemned
  As feeble nets to catch the smaller fry
  And let the great break through? I tell thee, sir,
  Her wealth, her beauty, her hitherto fair fame,
  Blacken her crime and make its punishment
  A signal warning to the baser sort.

_Dimsdell._ Hath she not suffered pains and imprisonment?
  Enough to answer all the decalogue?

_Governor._ I stand for law; and you, I think, do think
  You stand for gospel.--Come, we tarry.--
  Plead with the Council for the woman, and, while
  I think her death were well deserved, I'll not
  Oppose their mercy if you win it.
  My hand upon it.                                             [_Going._

_Dimsdell._ If that she be condemned,
  Suspend her sentence till her paramour
  Be found; and let them die together.

_Governor._ Agreed. Come, we're late.                         [_Exeunt._


SCENE III.--_The Market Place.--Church with Portico, L.--A pillory
on a raised Platform, R.--The GOVERNOR and COUNCIL seated in
portico.--A crowd of TOWNSFOLK._

_Governor._ Now that our other business is dispatched,
Call Hester Prynne.

_Wilson._           Wise Governor, and you,
  My brethren: dried as I am with age,
  The tendrils of my heart are pliable;
  Nor have the tangles of this thicket-world
  So twisted all my grain as not to bend
  Before another's misery. Wherefore,
  I do beseech you, call her not.

_Governor._                           Yet must
  We try the woman, though we pity her;
  And though the scion mercy grafts upon
  The stock of justice, the stock is justice still.

_Wilson._ I plead for justice! even-handed justice!
  As blind and cold as death--but with a sword,
  Sharp on one side to reach the woman's heart
  And on the other keener for the man's!
  You call the woman; where's her paramour?

_Governor._    We do not know.

_Wilson._             Then grant a stay to Hester
  Till he's known.

_Governor._           Too late; nor were it good
  To let the woman slap the face of law,
  And not resent it quickly. Once again,
  Call Hester Prynne. The man she may discover.

_Enter Rev. ARTHUR DIMSDELL through crowd and goes to Portico._

_Crier._ Hester Prynne! Hester Prynne!                          [_Exit._

_Dimsdell._ Most worthy Governor, I am like one
  Who waking hears the village clock toll time,
  Yet, having missed the first few strokes, the hour
  He cannot tell: and so stand I and hear
  Fair Hester called. Is it for trial, or
  For punishment?

_Governor._           For both.

_Dimsdell._ I am her pastor and I speak for her;
  I would to God that I could plead "Not guilty,"
  Or in her stead could offer up myself
  To satisfy the law!

_Crowd._              How good he is!

_Dimsdell._ Gentle and wise she is, grave councilors,
  And with a modest meekness goes about
  The daily duties of her household care;
  Oh! I am sure no vulgar palate-bait
  Did lure her to this shame, but some enticement
  That took the form of higher nature did
  Invest the hook. For she is modesty
  Itself.

_Governor._ Can modesty, then, fall like this?

_Dimsdell._ The modesty of woman is like the blush
  Upon a tender rose; it is her treasure
  And her ornament: you cannot touch it,
  But it fades away; or breathe upon it,
  But it loses perfume; or bring it to the light,
  Unwilted.

_Governor._ True, but when the roses fade
  We cast them forth, nor treasure them again.

_Dimsdell._ 'Tis thus I own; but we have higher teaching.
  Our Lord, who knew temptation's mighty power,
  Yet was himself without sin's damning stain,
  Did pass upon a case like this. "Let him
  Who hath no sin first cast a stone at her."
  And then He said, "Go, woman, sin no more."
  Oh! wondrous grace that pardoned frailty
  Which had not sunk to vice!

_Re-enter CRIER with HESTER PRYNNE._

_Governor._      Enough! Here comes the woman.
  Hester, thou art accused before this court
  Of that which blushing virtue shrinks to name,
  Adultery.

_Hester._ I pray you spare me.

_Governor._ Thou art the widow of a man of whom
  Report spake only praise: no act of thine
  Hath openly offended decency,
  But that young life which draws its sustenance
  From thy round breast avows thy hidden shame.

_Hester._ Have mercy on the babe, O, God!

_Governor._ That thou shouldst sin, and thereby, Hester, bring
  Dishonor on the name thy spouse did give thee,
  Is worse than in a meaner woman. If thou
  Hast aught to say to mitigate the wrath
  Of justice, speak. And, Hester, bear in mind
  The penalty is death or banishment.

_Hester._ I would not gloze my crime, nor do I know
  How to address your worships.
  Yet since you bid me I will plead my cause
  As best I can.
  That I have sinned is true; and well I know
  Henceforth for me there's nothing left from all
  My kind but scorn and hate.
  For me hath life no charm to cheat my hope,
  Or make me wish to linger here; yet I
  While lives the child would shelter her, the one
  Sweet flower that lovely grows above the soil
  Of my most foul debasement.
  Although the blossom of iniquity,
  She takes no tinct from whence she springs, but rather
  Of the sky toward which she doth unfold.
  Believe me, sirs,
  But for my babe's dear love, I'd ask for death
  To rid me quickly of my misery:
  For love itself, dishonored in my being,
  Turns all the gentle cords that bind affection
  Into hard-knotted thongs to whip me hence.
  Therefore, if I do plead for life, think not
  I do beseech a favor for myself,
  But rather, that I beg a lingering pain,
  Than expiate in one quick-ending pang
  The sum of all my loathéd wickedness.
  Thus, for my tender babe, I ask my life,
  And, for myself, I do implore you now,
  Banish me not.
  As for my crime, I have repented it
  Most bitterly; yea, I've suffered anguish
  From the very hour when, as the spring
  Of nature dragged my anchors loose, the soft
  Entreaty of a lover's sigh did blow
  Concurrent with my tide, and swept me out
  Into a troubled sea.
  Now, battered on the rocks of hard opinions,
  My most untimely wreck is quite complete;
  Yet spare the hulk for that dear freight it bore.

_Governor._    Woman, I pity thee; now, while our laws
  Are strict, yet may our mercy show itself
  In staving off the penalty, if thou
  Wilt aid us.

_Hester._ Your mercy comes with hard condition;
  For how can I, who stand here helpless,
  Aid you who have all power?

_Governor._ Tell us who is thy paramour?

_Hester._ That I will not do.

_Governor._ Thou art most obstinate. What say you now,
  Grave councilors? Need we delay the sentence?

_Bronson._ Quick to forgive and slow in condemnation,
  Would be our wisest course in such a case.
  The life she hath God gave; we should not take it;
  Nor should we banish her, for she is useful,
  And with her needle doth assist the poor.
  There is provision in our law to fit
  This crime when neither death nor banishment
  Is proper. It is: [_Reading_] "Th' adulteress shall stand
  Upon the pillory; and on her breast
  Shall wear a scarlet letter A, to mark
  Her criminal incontinence."

_Governor._                              A good
  Suggestion truly; we had forgot the clause
  From long disuse. What say you?

_Ward._ I think it wise.

_Arnold._                   'Twill be more merciful.

_Langdon._ A living warning 'gainst adultery.

_All._ It is our suffrage.

_Governor._                        So be it then.
  Hester, thou art to stand upon the pillory
  A little while, and wear upon thy breast
  The Scarlet Letter "A" forever;
  This see thou do on pain of instant death
  Or banishment. Hath anyone a piece
  Of scarlet cloth?

_Bronson._ I have the letter here prepared.

_Governor._ Clerk, affix the letter to her breast.

_Enter ROGER PRYNNE, clad as in Scene I.--He keeps to the rear of
Hester._

  Now, Jailer, lead her to the pillory,
  There let her stand unbound.

_Hester ascends steps to pillory platform._

  Dimsdell, you are her pastor, speak to her.
  Hold up her sin before her eyes, and warn
  The multitude by her example.

_Dimsdell._ I beg you, sir, let Dr. Wilson speak.

_Wilson._ Nay, Dimsdell. Nay, the charge is yours.
  Speak on. And plead that she disclose the man
  Who was her paramour.

_Dimsdell._ I pray you pardon me. I am not well.

_Governor._ Not well? 'Tis but compassion weakens thee.
  Speak man! thy words are gentlest and will draw
  Her secret from her, though ours do seal her lips.
  Proceed, Dimsdell.

_Dimsdell._ We wrong her nature when we seek to know
  That which her heart doth teach her to conceal;
  Yet at your bidding will I plead with her.

_Goes over to pillory._

  Hester, look down upon me; let thine ear
  Receive my meaning with the sound I make;
  Behold in me the body of the Council,
  Not me alone; and hear my words as though
  The general voice, speaking in concert true,
  Did intone them.
  For it were vain presumption to expect
  That, what the Governor could not extract,
  My words alone could move thee to disclose.

_Roger._ A modest gentleman, truly!

_Dimsdell._ Upon thy sin I dwell not; the penalty
  Which thou dost suffer preaches repentance;
  And in thy nature there is naught to lead thee
  Twice astray.
  There's not an eye that now doth look upon thee
  But pities thee, and doubt thou not, if he
  Who wronged thee is present here, his heart is wrung
  With bitterest remorse. Wilt speak his name?

_Hester._ I will not.

_Dimsdell._ I do command thee by the Commonwealth,
  I do entreat thee for thy reputation,
  I do implore thee for thy soul's salvation,
  Give up his name.

_Hester._ I would not breathe his name to anyone;
  Nay, not to him who was my husband, though
  The sea should cast him up to question me.

_Roger._ Woman, who did seduce thee?

_Hester._                           I keep my vow.

_Dimsdell._ Hester, deceive thyself no more; look down
  Upon me once again. Believe me, Hester,
  No pain the world could now inflict would harm
  Thy recreant lover. To see thee here set up
  The target of a thousand curious eyes,
  Thy beauties blistered in the noonday sun,
  Thy gentle breast seared with yon scarlet letter,
  Would burn that image on his soul. Have mercy,
  Hester, forgive his cowardice, do thou
  Act for him; pronounce his name and let him die
  To satisfy his crime.

_Hester._ I will not drag him down with me.

_Roger._ Oh! glorious generosity misplaced!

_Dimsdell._ Your generosity hath led you once
  Astray; do not allow it now to aid
  Him in hypocrisy. For, Hester, you,
  Who know his weaknesses and aspirations,
  His station in his calling, his place in life
  Among us, will be a party to deception
  If now you hide his name.

_Hester._ I answer to my God. No man shall know
  That which is only known to me and him.
  But speak thou on his crime!

_Dimsdell._ Ho! all ye people of the commonwealth!
  Behold!--let him confess!--O, Hester! speak!--
  I see--no more--                                    [_Dimsdell falls._

_Throng, confused and amazed, closes around Dimsdell.
Cries of horror and apprehension._

_Governor._ Look to our brother Dimsdell. He faints;
  The heat hath overcome him.

_Roger._                      I am a doctor. Make room!
  The falling sickness. Give us breathing space!

_Governor._ Hester, thou art discharged. Let all go home!     [_Exeunt._




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._


SCENE II.--_A Churchyard. A bell ringing for service. Groups of
people standing about. Persons cross stage and enter church door on
extreme L._

_Bronson._ They say the Reverend Master Dimsdell hath
  Recovered from his fainting fit, and will,
  God willing, preach to us this afternoon.

_Langdon._ Aye, that he will.

_Arnold._                   But hath he come?

_Ward._                                    Not yet;
  He's late, but, whether here or elsewhere,
  He's always doing good.

_Bronson._                          A kindly man!
  His feet do tread th' o'ergrown path that leads
  Unto the poor man's door.

_Langdon._                       Aye, that they do!
  And, in the darkened hour of mortal grief,
  His presence like a lamp gives light and hope.

_Arnold._ His charity exceeds all human bounds,
  And, though he's blameless in himself, knows how
  To pardon others.

_Ward._               Aye, that he doth! Didst note
  His plea for Hester Prynne upon her trial?

_Langdon._ Aye, that I did!

_Ward._                     But know the goodness of it!
  He was her constant friend up to the time
  Her wantonness declared itself, and then
  He left her lonely, as though that punishment
  Were all a man of mercy could inflict.

_Arnold._ He takes it much to heart that wanton vice
  Hath found a nest within his congregation.

_Langdon._ That grief is truly great with him; but yet
  He will not hear a word against her.--Look!
  For here she comes.
  How bravely doth she wear her scarlet letter!

_Enter HESTER PRYNNE alone; walks proudly, with slow steps, to porch
and enters church; looking neither to the right nor to the left, but
straight before her, with her head up. People turn to look at her,
but no one speaks._

_First Woman._ The brazen thing!

_Second Woman._ Didst note the fashion of her badge of vice,
  And how she's turned it into ornament?

_Third Woman._ A handy woman with her needle.

_First Woman._ Let's in and stare her out of countenance.
                                                        [_Exeunt Women._

_Enter GOVERNOR BELLINGHAM and ROGER PRYNNE, called Doctor
Chillingworth._

_Governor._ Now, as I told you, there hath lately come,
  But how I know not, a change in him so rare,
  It baffles cure.

_Roger._                     I think you said he is
  A very studious man?

_Governor._                    Aye, that he is.
  Good evening, gentlemen.

_All._                         Your worship.

_Roger._    I pray you, tell me more.

_Governor._                          Nay, use your eyes,
  For here he is.

_Enter REV. ARTHUR DIMSDELL. People uncover as he passes. He salutes
them gravely and generally._

                            Dimsdell, a word with you.

_Dimsdell._ Good evening, gentlemen.

_Governor._ Dimsdell, here is good Doctor Chillingworth,
  Who tended thee. I hope you gentlemen
  Will prize each other at your native worths.

_Dimsdell._ I shall be glad to know you better, Doctor.

_Roger._ And I, to see you better, sir.

_Dimsdell._ Pardon me, I must in; I'm late already.

_Exit Dimsdell--all follow except Governor Bellingham and Roger
Prynne. Bell ceases._

_Governor._ How weak a hold we have on health! That man
  Is but the standing ruin of his former self,
  And yet, for beauty, comeliness and grace,
  He still is model to the colony.
  What do you think, can care restore him yet,
  And give him to us as he used to be?

_Roger._ I cannot tell. I need more knowledge of him.
  There are no marks of cureless malady--
  A faint suggestion of overwatchfulness,
  That oft points out the student--nothing more.

_Hymn from church. (Tune: "_Ein' feste Burg_" or other ancient hymn
used by the Puritans.)_

_Governor._ The worship hath begun; but, ere we in,
  A word about the wealth you left with me.

_Roger._ No more. Pray use it as your own, in trade,
  Or howsoe'er you choose. The largest pearl
  An Indian chief did give me; but sell it with
  The rest, and with their worth provide for Hester.
  She is the widow of mine ancient friend,
  To whom I ever shall be much indebted,
  And while I would not have her know me yet
  As what I am--her husband's friend and hers--
  As that might breed more grief in her, or wake
  An old one--yet I think it meet to care
  For her and for her child.

_Governor._               Your goodness is
  Your passport, Doctor. Come, let us in.--Nay,
  After you; you are my guest.                                [_Exeunt._


SCENE III.--_Bed room of the REV. ARTHUR DIMSDELL. Night. DIMSDELL,
alone in the dark._

_Dimsdell._ O, she is beautiful!
  The memory of her loveliness
  Pervades my waking dreams, and, pleasant theft,
  Deprives my sleep of dark oblivion.
  And thus, while fleeing from the gentle bonds
  Of love, I am become the thrall of passion,
  And sigh my heart away in waste desire!
  Had I but truly loved her,
  Would not our joys, that then were innocent,
  Have moulded soul to soul and made mine take
  The form of her most dear perfections?
  But, now!
  No trait of Hester's noble purity
  Remains with guilty me, for I purloined
  Her precious diadem and like a rogue
  I cast that crown away, afraid to wear
  What would have been my dearest ornament.
  Why can I not repent? Or is it true
  Repentance is denied the hypocrite?
  And must it then forever be that, though
  I cast out sin, both root and branch, the seed
  Of evil, scattered long ago, will sprout
  And bloom carnation thoughts that dull the soul
  With subtle sweetness!
  Oh! coward that I am!
  Bound down, as to a rock, to form and place,
  By iron chains of worldly precedent,
  While my desires like eagles tear my breast,
  And make of me a base Prometheus.
  O, God!
  I married all the family of sins,
  When I espoused the pleasantest; I am
  Become a liar through my lechery,
  A thief of reputation through my cowardice,
  And--puh! the rest but follow in the train
  Of my dear wedded crime!
  O, God! and shall this lust burn on in me
  Still unconsumed? Can flagellation, fasting,
  Nor fervent prayer itself, not cleanse my soul
  From its fond doting on her comeliness?
  Oh! heaven! is there no way for me to jump
  My middle age and plunge this burning heart
  Into the icy flood of cold decay?
  None? O, wretched state of luxury!
  This hot desire grows even in its death
  And from its ashes doth arise full fledged
  Renewed eternally!

_A blinding flash of lightning, followed quickly by sharp thunder,
discloses Dimsdell kneeling at his couch, and also shows SATAN--an
archangel with bat wings--who has just entered._

  Have mercy upon me, O, my God, have mercy!
  According to thy gentle lovingkindness,
  According to the multitude of all
  Thy tender mercies, blot out my foul transgression.
  Purge me with hyssop, and I shall be clean;
  Wash me, and I shall be whiter than snow;
  Hide thy face from my sins, and blot out
  All mine iniquities.

_Satan._ You mar the psalm, Sir priest, for you omit
  The saving clause. Your sin is unconfessed.

_Dimsdell._ Who art thou that durst interpose between
  My soul and God?

_Satan._ I am the stronger part of lower nature,
  The worser part of all that came from Him
  Whom all adore. Behold me!

_Satan becomes visible by light emanating from himself._

_Dimsdell._ Thou art Satan! The Prince of Hell!

_Satan._ I am so called.

_Dimsdell._ Get thee hence! I am a minister
  Of God, a priest, and am anointed of the Lord
  To teach His children.

_Satan._ And, therefore, am I come to thee, Sir priest.
  I do confess a predilection for
  Thy calling; conclaves, synods, convocations,
  Are never held without my guiding presence;
  They are my field days and my exercises,
  While in the study and the cell I take
  My cloistered ease. I love all priests and am
  The bosom friend of many who would blush
  To speak to me in public. Receive me, brother.

_Dimsdell._ Scorner, avaunt! Sink to the hell from whence
  Thou cam'st! I do abhor thee, Satan; yea,
  I tell thee to thy face that I who quail
  Before the awful majesty of God,
  And cowardly do hide my sin from man,
  I tell thee, vile as I am, I do detest
  Thy very name! I do defy thee!

_Satan._ These words are very brave; if more than wind,
  Go to the market place tomorrow, there
  Proclaim thy vice; or else ascend thy pulpit
  And denounce thyself as what thou art, adulterer.

_Dimsdell._ Recreant to my God am I; think'st thou
  That I will thee obey, to whom I owe
  No deep allegiance?

_Satan._ Then bare thy sinful breast, for here I swear,
  By that dread Name which mortals cannot hear,
  I will upon thee print a mark, the stigma
  Of thy secret crime.

_Dimsdell._ Hold off! I charge thee by that other Name
  Of Him who rent thy kingdom, and will destroy it,
  Touch me not yet!
  Almighty Purity, Dread Essence Increate;
  Behold concentrate, in this wicked form,
  The universal spirit of iniquity.
  Come quickly in thy majesty, O Lord!
  Wither him here within the awful flame
  Of Thy bright Holiness! Shrivel his frame
  Into an atom, and blow the lifeless dust
  Beyond the farthest star.
  And, if in his destruction my soul should share
  Through close proximity, spare not!
  Then will Thy servants serve Thee, Gracious Lord!
  And mankind find its paradise!

_Satan._ That was well said!
  Perhaps, Sir priest, you now will treat me to
  A learned disquisition on the birth
  Of evil? I'd like to hear it, if it tread
  Beyond theology's well beaten path;
  But, if it stumbles in the pug-mill round
  Of teleology, you must excuse me.

_Dimsdell._ Base siege of scorn! I curse thee!

_Satan._ Curses but belch foul wind, they pass beyond me.
  But, come; I have no time to waste with thee;
  This visitation had not been, nor would
  I dignify thy carnal slip by my
  Incarnate presence, but for thy perfidy.
  For thou hast reached a depth of moral baseness
  Below the meanest fiend in lowest hell;
  Thou hast deserted her who sinned with thee,
  Gave up her virtue to express her love,
  Laid down her treasure to thy secret lust,
  And then took up thy burden with her own.
  Think not I come to draft thee of my legions,
  I would not have so weak, so mean a coward,
  To sow pale fear among them. No!
  Thou wilt be damned outside of Hell. I come
  To show, as in a mirror, what thou art;
  Not what thou shalt be. The past and present both
  Are mine, the future rests with God. But now,

_Hester's image appears in a cloud dressed in white._

  Behold the woman as thou first didst know her,
  A loveliness to tempt or saint or devil,
  The rare quintessence of pure womanhood!
  Transparent brightness! A living crystal globe,
  Wherein all beauties of humanity
  Reflect themselves with iridescent glow!
  Dost thou remember?
  Behold her now the mother of thy babe,

_The image of Hester changes. She holds their babe in her arms._

  Whose pretty wiles would win hard Moloch's heart;
  Make him forget his rites, and turn man-nurse.
  O, fool! I would renounce my war with Heaven,
  Eat up my pains in one most bitter mouthful,
  And sue for pardon from God's hated Throne,
  If such an offspring might but call me father!
  Where is thy manly pride?
  But, now, behold her shamed, bearing the badge

_Hester's image wears Scarlet Letter "A."_

  Of thy foul infamy. Tear wide thy shirt,
  For as thou look'st on her I will impress
  Upon thy breast a stigma worse than hers.
  Aye, fall upon thy knees to worship her
  The Lady of the Scarlet Letter.
  Yet while thou kneel'st thy flesh doth glow and burn

_Scarlet Letter "A" glows on Dimsdell's breast._

  With all the deep red heraldry befits
  A coward lust: the latter "A" in gules
  Upon thy sable heart. There let it gnaw
  Forever and forever!

_Hester vanishes. Satan fades. No light, save "A" on Dimsdell's breast._

  And, now I go, I put this curse upon thee:
  Be coward still, wear outwardly the garb
  Of righteousness, shake in thy pious shoes,
  Cover the stigma on thy breast from eyes
  Of flesh, and be a hypocrite, till death
  Relieves the world of thee. We'll meet again.

                 [_Lightning. Exit Satan. Dimsdell lies in trance.
                                             Night. No sound, no light._




ACT III.


SCENE I.--_The garden of Governor Bellingham. ROGER PRYNNE, called
Chillingworth, alone._

_Roger._ The fox that robbed my roost is sly; he keeps
  The cover warily; and, now the scent
  Is cold, the curs that yelp in scandal's pack
  Bay loud on many faults, but cannot trace him.

_Enter DIGGORY._

_Diggory._ Doctor, the Governor will join you presently.

_Roger._ Diggory, I will await him patiently.                   [_Sits._

_Diggory retires, then returns._

_Diggory._ Doctor, may I beg a word with you?

_Roger._ A thousand if you will.

_Diggory._ I would speak in confidence.

_Roger._ The manner would become thee, Diggory.
  But speak, man! Say on.

_Diggory._ I need a philter, Doctor. For the love of mercy--

_Roger._ For the love of good liquor, Diggory, thou shalt have
twenty filters. Still decanting?

_Diggory._ O, sir! not that kind of filter. I'm in love!

_Roger._ Ah! thou art in love? In love didst thou say?

_Diggory._ Aye, sir, if it please you.

_Roger._ It pleases me well enough; how doth it please the lady?

_Diggory._ She's not a lady, sir, thank God! she's but a simple
maiden, and it pleaseth her not.

_Roger._ A simple maid refuses you! Ah! Diggory, Diggory, be
thankful for the good things God hath sent thee.

_Diggory._ Truly, sir, I thank Him ev'ry day; but, sir, as I do
desire the maiden--I--I--would have her too.

_Roger._ And so, Diggory, thou wouldst have me aid thee in this
folly, and give thee a love potion?

_Diggory._ Aye, sir, begging your honor's pardon.

_Roger._ But why dost thou ask me, Diggory? Dost thou take me for an
herb-doctor, or a necromancer, or what?

_Diggory._ My master, the Governor, says you are a very learned man,
a what-you-call-'em--a scientist; and a scientist can do anything.

_Roger._ Humph!--Diggory, I do not deal in philters; they are out of
date--but I know a charm will win her love.

_Diggory._ Tell it me for the love of--

_Roger._ Thou wilt betray it, Diggory.

_Diggory._ Never! Never!

_Roger._ Omit thou but a word of it, and the maiden's lost to
thee--but con it well, and all her beauties will be thine.

_Diggory._ Oh! Doctor!

_Roger._ Take of the rendered grease of three black bears--do not
fail in that--anoint thy curly locks--

_Diggory._ My hair is straight.

_Roger._ Never mind--but rub; and, as thou dost, repeat these words:

             _Lady love, lady love, where e'er thou be,
              Think of no man but only me;
              Love me, and wed me, and call me thine own,
              Ting-a-ling, ting-a-ling, ting-a-ling, Joan._

_Diggory._ What is that "Ting-a-ling, ting-a-ling"?

_Roger._ That is the chief element of the charm--don't forget it.
Having done this on nine successive days--dost thou follow me?

_Diggory._ Aye, sir.

_Roger._ On the tenth go to the barber's and have thy hair cut
short.

_Diggory._ But, sir, my hair is my best feature!

_Roger._ It is with many; cut it, however, or lose the worth of all
of the charm. Dost thou hear, Diggory? Cut thy hair short or never
win fair woman. Farewell.

_Diggory._ I thank you, sir. [_Going_] "Lady love,
ting-a-ling"--nay, that's not it.

_Roger._ Diggory!

_Diggory._ Yes, sir.

_Roger._ Who are with the Governor?

_Diggory._ The worthy ministers, Master Wilson and Master Dimsdell.

_Roger._ Very well.         [_Exit Diggory, trying to recall the verse._
Ah! Diggory, thou art but a dram of love in a fluid ounce of fool! And
so may we label all mankind. For instance: the Governor is a wise
man and a politic; Wilson a good man and a pious; Dimsdell--ah!
there I pause, for what fine formula can sum the qualities of that
same Arthur Dimsdell? He's not a fool; nor mad; nor truly
cataleptic--yet he's moody, falls in trance, and I suspect his power
as a preacher comes from ecstasy. Something he is akin to
genius--yet he hath it not, for though his aim be true enough, he
often flashes in the pan when genius would have hit the mark. I'll
write his case in Latin! What a study that would be if I could
first find out the reason why he clutches at his breast!--If once I
find him in a trance, alone--ah! here they come.

_Enter GOVERNOR BELLINGHAM, REV. JOHN WILSON, REV. ARTHUR DIMSDELL,
and following them, with a tray of wine, DIGGORY._

_Wilson._ Good morrow, Doctor.

_Roger._ Good morning, gentlemen.

_Governor._ [_To Diggory._] Leave the wine within the summer house.
Good morning, Doctor. When Mistress Prynne doth come conduct her
hither.

_Diggory._ Sir, she's coming this way now.

_Governor._ Very well. Go. [_Exit Diggory._] Doctor, we debate what
disposition should be made of Hester Prynne's young child. We ask
your aid--but here she is.

_Enter HESTER PRYNNE._

_Hester._ Your worship hath been pleased to summon me
  To bring my child before you.

_Governor._                      Where is the child?

_Hester._ The babe is sick but answers by attorney.
  What is your will?

_Governor._              Some pious matrons, Hester,
  Have charged that thou art not a person fit
  To rear that infant immortality,
  And guide it unto God.

_Hester._                  God gave the child
  In rich exchange for all things else which I,
  Poor sinful I, had forfeited; and now
  You, who have made yourselves the flails of God,
  Would separate the wheat from chaff before
  The grain is ripe, and take her from me.
  Oh! ye are wise! No doubt ye see beyond
  The purpose of Almighty God who gave
  The child to me!

_Governor._                    Nay, take it not to heart,
  For, Hester, duty to the child we owe
  To put its soul upon the way that leads
  To Heaven. She will be cared for tenderly.

_Hester._ She is the last small link that binds my soul
  To earth, the tiny needle that doth point
  My way to Heaven. You shall not take her from me!
  Speak thou for me [_To Dimsdell_]; as my pastor speak;
  Speak now; and say if any harm from me
  Will hurt the child. I will not part with her!
  Say if thou canst, for thou hast sympathies
  Which these men lack, say what the mother's rights
  Are in her child; and what those rights must be
  When naught beside the child is left to her--
  Her husband gone, her friends deserted,
  No reputation, no sympathy, no love--
  But only those twin brands of shame, her baby
  And The Scarlet Letter!

_Dimsdell._ I have a dual duty to discharge;
  I am this woman's pastor--and her friend,
  And therefore she hath called me to defend her;
  I am, beside, a member of your council,
  And hence am with you in your consultation;
  And yet, I think, these duties may be made
  To yoke and draw me to a just conclusion.

_Wilson._ Thou also hast a duty to the child.

_Dimsdell._ Aye, so I have. Our aim is well enough,
  But let us pause before we do adopt
  A means that varies from the one marked out
  By God and Nature.

_Governor._                   Is there not command
  To teach our children in the fear of God
  And guide them from impurity?

_Dimsdell._ God gave us mothers when He gave us life,
  And to their tender care He did entrust
  The mortal and immortal parts of us.
  What then? Would we improve upon His system;
  Would we now deprive this little one
  Of that fond mother-care which nurtures her?
  Or would we put, in place of mother-love,
  The cold, hard, formal training of a paid
  Instructor?

_Governor._ But is this woman, stained with sin,
  A mother to entrust a child to?

_Dimsdell._ That question God hath answered; and we know
  The stain of sin doth fade beneath the bleach
  Of true repentance; through it all appears
  The woven figure of the woman-fabric--
  Her motherhood!
  We owe our lives to woman's suffering,
  We owe our health unto her temperance,
  We owe her all the best of us. Let God
  Condemn her sin, but let us not presume
  To punish her where He hath healed her heart.

_Wilson._ There is weight in what he says.

_Roger._ Yea, and earnestness!

_Governor._ Well, Hester, go thy way; the child is thine.
  Remember thou dost owe a gentle thanks
  Unto this pious man. Go, Hester, keep
  The child. Think well upon his words; be thou
  A mother in all righteousness, as well
  As in thy sin. Farewell.

_Hester._ I thank you, gentlemen.                               [_Exit._

_Wilson._ That woman would have been a noble wife
  Had not some villain robbed her of her dower.

_Governor._ Come, gentlemen, this business well is ended,
  And, Dimsdell, yours is all the credit of it;
  For one I thank you.

_Roger._ We all do thank you, sir.

_Governor._ Come, let us drain a cup of wine; and then
  Go in.

_Dimsdell._ I beg you to excuse me.

_Roger._                              And me,
  I pray. I'll stay with Dimsdell.

_Governor._                  Well, Wilson, you
  Shall not escape me. Gentlemen, the wine
  We leave you; keep it company.--And, Dimsdell,
  Forget it not, to-morrow thou must preach
  A grand election sermon. The people do
  Expect a master effort, man. Fail not.  [_Exeunt Governor and Wilson._

_Roger._ He will not fail them, Governor; a tongue
  Of flame is his. What ails thee, Dimsdell?
  How now? Why man!

_Dimsdell._ I'm very weak. The pain about my heart--

_Roger._ Nay, courage, man! 'Twill leave thee soon. I'll get a cup of
wine to cheer thee up.

_Dimsdell._ Do, I pray. And, Doctor, give me something to abate this
agony.

_Roger._ I will.                                                [_Exit._

_Dimsdell._ Try how I may, there's no escape from pain.
  I robbed the law's strong arm, and thereby put
  The lash in conscience' hand--and yet I thought
  Hypocrisy a duty to my calling!
  'Twere better I were known as what I am,
  Than still to hide my sin beneath the garb
  Of outward purity! 'Twere better now,
  By Hester's side, to bear opprobrium,
  And brave what man may do, than still to nurse
  This misery in secret!

_Re-enter ROGER with wine-tray; places it upon a bench and, taking a
vial from a pocket medicine-case, pours a few drops into a
wine-glass, then fills the glass with wine._

_Roger._ A minim more would lull him into sleep.
  Here is the chance--and here the will--to learn
  His secret malady. What holds me back?
  Conscience? Tut, tut! It will not harm him!
  'Twill do him good to sleep; 'twill do me good
  To know the why he clutches at his breast.
  I'll do it.                                   [_Pours more from vial._
  Sir, drink this off.

_Dimsdell._ I thank thee, kind physician.                     [_Drinks._

_Roger._ Nay, thank me not. Now, take a glass of wine.
                                            [_Giving him another glass._

_Dimsdell._ Methinks, the wine is richer than is common.

_Roger._ Thirst always gives an added age to wine.
  This is right Xeres. Hast been in Spain?

_Dimsdell._ Nay, but the wine hath. I feel its warmth.

_Roger._ Truly, it is a grand inquisitor;
  'Twill search each petty heresy that taints
  Thy blood, and burn it to a cinder.

_Dimsdell._ How many leagues it came to serve my need.

_Roger._ Aye, a thousand, and a thousand more!

_Dimsdell._ I would not go so far for it just now,
  For through my limbs there creeps a lang'rous ease
  Like that which doth precede deep slumber.

_Roger._ Rest here upon this bench.    [_Dimsdell sits, half reclining._
  Give way unto your drowsiness; it is
  Not sleep, but rest and relaxation. There!
  I'll keep you company.

_Dimsdell._ Do.

_Roger._ [_Pouring wine and drinking._] This wine is liquid gold.
  I quaff to your good health and ease of mind.
  This is good wine. It warms my chilly blood
  With all the dreamy heat of Spain. I hear
  The clack of th' castinet and th' droning twang
  Of stringéd instruments; while there before
  Mine eyes brown, yielding beauties dance in time
  To the pulsing music of a saraband!
  And yet there is a flavor of the sea,                 [_Sipping wine._
  The long-drawn heaving of the ocean wave,
  The gentle cradling of a tropic tide;
  Its native golden sun--I fear you sleep?
  Or do the travels of the wine so rock
  Your soul that self is lost in revery?
  Why, man, dream not too much of placid bliss;
  Nor wine, nor man, can reach this clear perfection
  Until they pass the rack of thunder and
  Of hurricane.--'Tis on us now! Awake!   [_Shouting in Dimsdell's ear._
  My friend, awake! Dost thou not hear the storm?
  Oh! how it shrieks and whistles through the shrouds!
  The awful guns of heaven boom in our ears--
  Nay, that was the mainsail gone by the board,
  Flapping with cannon roar.
  You do not follow me. O, come, I say!
  This is no sermon. You cannot be asleep,
  Yet feign you are to cheat me of my story.
  Wake up, my friend. You carry the jest too far.

_Roger cautiously shakes Dimsdell._

  So soon! So sound!                                    [_Looks around._
  I fear you are not easy; thus. That's better.
  Your pardon, sir, your collar's much too tight.
  Now will I steal his hidden mystery,
  And learn the secret of his lengthened pain;
  Cure him and gain great honor. To think a man
  Would case himself in buttons like an armour!
  Now, shirt----
  Merciful God! what miracle is this!
  A stigma! Aye! a stigma! the letter "A"
  In blood suffused! The counterpart of that
  Which Hester wears, but palpitating here
  In life! This is beyond my skill.
  Ah! David! David! Thou art the man! Thou wouldst
  Have set me in the hot forefront of battle
  Hadst thou but known me as Uriah!
  Bah!
  Why, what a brainless dullard have I been,
  To see this pretty puff-ball of a preacher
  Wax large before mine eyes in righteous husk--
  And think him whole within--when but a touch,
  But one, had aired his rottenness!
  Oh! dotard that I am! blind, deaf and stupid!
  It takes a miracle to make me see
  What lay before me open. He did take
  Her part; ever professed himself her friend;
  And at her trial fell in trance. What more?
  He is the man! He is the man!
  Now ends our game of hoodman blind; oh, I
  Was warm, so very warm at times, so hot,
  Did almost touch thee; yet I knew thee not
  For him I sought. Thou cunning hypocrite!
  It must be I am fitted to my state,
  Dull, trusting and incapable;
  Or else--why surely I'm a fool.--
  Had I been here when Hester bore her child,
  I would have fondly dreamed it was mine own;
  Put on the unearned pride that old men wear
  When their young wives bear children.
  A pretty baby, sir! My grandchild?--No;
  Mine own; my very own! Nay, wrong me not;
  I'm not so old--not so damned old after all!
  A ghe! a ghoo! Are not the eyes like mine?--
  Yea, would have dandled it upon my knee,
  And coddled each succeeding drop, as though
  My fires had distilled them.
  But--now I know--my knowledge must be hid.
  Back shirt! cover blazoned infamy
  And let the whited front still hide from man
  The sepulchre of crime that festers here.
  He will not wake within an hour. I'll go
  Inform the Governor he sleeps, and have
  Him order none disturb his pious rest.
  Then I'll return and calmly probe his soul.
  Sleep on! Sleep on!                                     [_Exit Roger._


SCENE II.--_Another part of the garden. Enter alone, DIGGORY._

_Diggory._ If there be no true charm but it hath a touch of folly in
it, this one must be most potent. Now a wise man would not think
there's that virtue in a bit of grease, a jingling rhyme, and a hair
cut, that one might thereby win a woman's love--but the wise are
fools in love. I have here the lard of three bears--one more than
the old adage of "bear and forbear"--and with it I am to anoint my
head as an enchantment to bring about my marriage to Betsey--marry,
I'll temper the strength of the charm with a little bergamot, for in
truth two of the bears have been dead over-long. Whew!--Aha!
enchantment is the only highway to success in love! Now let me see:
"Lady love, lady love, where'er you be"--

_Betsey._ [_Singing behind the scenes_]

             _Little bird, little bird, come tell me true;
              If I love my love, as your love loves you,
              And if he loves me, as you love your mate;
              How long, little bird, should I make him wait?_

_Diggory._ That's Betsey singing now! If the charm works like this,
bear fat will be worth its weight in gold. But perhaps my features
may have pleased her after all--I'm not bad to look upon; and truly
I would save my hair; it's the best part about me. Singing again.

_Betsey._ [_Singing behind the scenes_]

             _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?_

_Diggory._ Now I wonder where she learnt all those profane songs?
From some liberal folk in the old country, no doubt; they ill become
a puritan. If she were a little slower in her speech, what an angel
she would be! As it is, she is a very good woman, tongue and all.

_Betsey._ [_Singing again, behind the 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?_

_Diggory._ I'm not a judge of songs, but if she means half she
says--and a woman sometimes does--some one is about to be the top
feather in Fortune's cap; it may be me. I'll try my luck once more.
[_Going toward R. wing_] Why, here she comes.

_Enter BETSEY, with a pair of butter paddles._

_Betsey._ [_Entering._]

             _Adown the moonlit path they walk,
                Through all the world called lover's lane,
              And hand in hand they sigh and talk
                Of the love that binds them, happy twain!_

  What are you gaping like a great gaby for?

_Diggory._ For Fortune to drop the plum into my mouth.

_Betsey._ Where is the plum?

_Diggory._ There. [_Pointing at her._]

_Betsey._ You silly fellow! yesterday I was a peach; the day before
strawberries and cream; the day before that a rose; and last week a
dove--marry, I don't coo for you! Can I be all these things at once
and still be Betsey Tomkins?

_Diggory._ O, Betsey, thou art all the world to me!

_Betsey._ O, Diggory, thou art a great fool to me! Why, man, thy
head is as soft as a pat of butter; I could take it between my
paddles, like this, and mold it into any shape I chose.

_Diggory._ So you may, Betsey; so you may. And, Betsey, for the love
of mercy, mold it into the head of thy future husband.

_Betsey._ 'Twould take a pair of shears to do that.

_Diggory._ Wouldst thou marry me, Betsey, if I should lose my pretty
locks?

_Betsey._ I would not marry you with them, that's flat.

_Diggory._ Shall I shave my head or only clip it close?

_Betsey._ Cut it off, Diggory, cut it off.

_Diggory._ Kiss me but once, Betsey, and I'll cut my head off; 'tis
of little use to me now, and if thou dost marry me--well, thy head
shall rest upon my shoulder, like this, and one head is enough for
any pair of shoulders.

_Betsey._    _In Summer-tide, sweet Summer-tide,
                O, what can a maiden do_, etc.                [_Exeunt._


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._




ACT IV.


SCENE I.--_A room. DIMSDELL upon a couch in a cataleptic trance.
ROGER PRYNNE watching him. Two chairs; other furniture heavy and
immovable._

_Roger._ [_Feeling Dimsdell's pulse_] There's been no change.
  A very long trance.
  At times he mumbles; at other times, as now,
  He lies like death. If ev'ry murderer
  Were stricken with the image of the thing
  Which he would deal, 'twould be a blessing! Yet
  When consciousness returns, with it will come
  The murderous disposition; for in these cases
  The mind, although it wanders while the trance
  Is on, always comes back upon its path
  Where first it left It. Therefore, 'twere wise in me
  To be on guard. Well, so I am; but what--
  What fear should drive me hence, or make me leave
  The study of his case? He hath no arms
  But such as both of us were born with;
  And despite my age I am his equal that way.
  Ah! a chair swung by a furious man
  Might make an omelet of my brain;
  Therefore, one chair will do--and that for me.       [_Removes chair._

_Enter GOVERNOR BELLINGHAM in robes of office._

_Governor._ Good morning, Doctor.

_Roger._ Good morning, Governor. I wish you, sir,
  As happy and as prosperous a term
  In office, as that just closing.

_Governor._                        I thank you, sir.
  Has Dimsdell recovered from his trance?

_Roger._ Not yet. There he lies.

_Governor._                             Wonderful!
  Can you account for his condition, Doctor?

_Roger._ There's no accounting for it, Governor.
  This is the second trance I've seen him in;
  How many more he's had, God only knows.

_Governor._ 'Tis most unfortunate that we must lack
  His eloquence to-day. The people, who
  Always love high-sounding words more than
  Wise thoughts, prefer the music of his voice
  To good old Wilson's drone. Why isn't he in bed?

_Roger._ Oh! there are many reasons; 'twould take too long
  To tell you now; but at another time
  I'll ask your patience for a tale more strange
  Than ever made your flesh to creep.

_Governor._ Is there mystery in the case?

_Roger._ Mystery! aye, and miracle, too!
  You know him, Governor--a man whose nerves
  Are gossamers, too fine to sift the music
  Of the blasts that blow about our burly world,
  And only fit for harps whereon Zephyrus
  In Elysium might breathe.--And yet this man--
  Oh! you'd not believe it if I told you.

_Enter_ Servant.

_Servant._ Your worship is asked for at the door.

_Governor._ Say I am coming. We'll speak again of this. [_Exit Servant._
  I must be gone. We servants of the State
  Are slaves to show, and serve the people best
  When most we trick them. The pageant of the day
  Goes much against my better judgment, but
  The crowd will have it so, and so farewell.

_Roger._ One moment, if you please. If he revives
  He'll pick the thread of life up where he dropt it;
  He may desire to preach, as he hath promised you,
  And, if he doth, 'twere better not to thwart him.

_Governor._ Very well. I'll speak to Wilson.

_Roger._ I'm sorry I cannot go with you. Farewell.

_Exit Governor. Dimsdell moves. Roger goes to his side and examines
him._

  The pulse hath quickened. He moves his lips.

_Dimsdell mumbles indistinctly._

  I cannot catch it.--

_Dimsdell._ Think of it no more, my love.--
  Our troubles now are ended, Hester;
  The gentle current of our mingled lives,
  Long parted by the barren, rocky isle
  Of hard necessity, flows reunited on.

_Roger._ Indeed!

_Dimsdell._ How sweet it is, in the afternoon of life,
  To walk thus, hand in hand, Hester. And as
  The golden sun of love falls gently down
  Into the purple glory of the West,
  We'll follow it.

_Roger._            A lengthy jump--from sinning youth
  Plump into the middle of an honored age!
  Yet thus the mind, in trance or dream, achieves
  Without an effort what it wills. Again?

_Dimsdell._ Sir, take my daughter and my blessing, too;
  Cherish her as the apple of thine eye;
  Still shield her from the buffets of the world;
  Let thy tenderness breathe gentle love
  Like an Italian air sung at twilight,
  When the melody without tunes that within
  Until the soul arising on the wings
  Of music soars into Heaven.

_Roger._ Is there nothing in heredity? Or will
  The orange-blossom take its fragrance from
  The Heaven above; its origin forgot?

_Dimsdell._ Hester, although the snow upon thy head
  Be white as that on yonder distant mount,
  Thine eyes are blue and deep as Leman's lake
  That lies before us.

_Roger._ Thus in our dreams we picture what we wish;
  Not held to time or place; and while the body,
  Like an anchor, sinks in mud, the wingéd craft
  Swings with the tide of thought.
  He's in Geneva now; Hester with him;
  His daughter honorably married;
  And all the pains of yesterday forgot.
  I'll write it down.                              [_Roger makes notes._

_Dimsdell._ Good night, dear wife, good night.
  The stars of Heaven melt into angel forms
  Which stoop to lift me to the gates of bliss.
  Farewell, farewell! Nay, weep not, Hester;
  Our sins are now forgiven.
  Yea, though I walk through the valley of th' shadow of death,
  I will fear no evil.--Say it with me, Hester.

_Roger._ Will he die thus?                         [_Examines Dimsdell._
  The pulse is weak--a clammy sweat--
  'Tis but the culmination of the trance.
  'Tis but a dream. A dream! Yet one must die;
  And to our human thought that death were best
  That came preceded by a flag of truce
  To parley peace. To pass away in dreams--
  Without the vain regret for work undone;
  Without a load of sin to weight the soul;
  With all the argentry of honored age
  To frost our past; with all the fiercer heats
  Of life burnt out into the cold, gray ash--
  That were peace! Then might a man yield up
  The willing ghost as calmly as a child
  That falls asleep upon its mother's breast
  To wake in paradise.

_Dimsdell starts up._

_Dimsdell._ I see thee now--and now I'll kill, kill, kill--
  If thou be Satan I cannot harm thee--
  But if a man--

_Dimsdell attempts to reach Roger, who keeps the one chair of the
room in front of him and thus wards off Dimsdell._

_Roger._ Madman, listen! Thou canst not harm me, yet I am not Satan.
My name is Roger Prynne. I am the husband of the woman you have
wronged.

_Dimsdell._ Thou Roger Prynne?

_Roger._ Aye, Roger Prynne and thine accuser.

_Dimsdell looks about the room as though dazed._

_Dimsdell._ Why, how is this?--But now, the Governor's garden--and
now, my room!--But now, just now, old Doctor Chillingworth--and now,
mine enemy, Roger Prynne! Thou art the Devil himself!--Thou shalt
not trick me thus.

_Band music in distance._

_Roger._ Trick thee? Why, madman, thou hast been in trance since
yester noon. Trick thee! I like the word! 'Tis now the time of day
when thou shouldst preach the great Election Sermon, the one event
that makes or mars you preachers. Dost hear the music? A day hath
passed since thou wast in the garden. They are marching even now to
the market place.

_Dimsdell._ What shall I do?                     [_Aloud, but to himself._

_Roger._ Do? Stay here and settle our account; or else go on and
publish thyself as what thou art--a hypocrite.

_Dimsdell._ I see it now!--Ah! Satan! Satan!--thou wouldst affright
my soul and make me lose my well earned honors. Why, Roger Prynne is
dead--dead. 'Twas told on good report two years ago. And now--oh!
try it if thou wilt--I'll have thee burnt, burnt--burnt at the
stake, if thou accusest me! Who would believe thee? Stand aside, I
say! Let me pass!

_Roger._ How came the stigma on thy breast?

_Dimsdell._ Thou knowest!--Make way, I tell thee!--Thou didst place
it there!--Make way!

_They struggle. Roger interposes the chair between himself and
Dimsdell. Finally, Dimsdell wrenches the chair from Roger, flings it
aside, and, grappling him, chokes Roger to death._

_Dimsdell._ [_Panting_] A man! A man! A man!--Dead! dead!
dead!--Nay--like a man!--Like a dead man!--A trick!--A devilish
trick!--Did he not come in angel form--and then as Doctor
Chillingworth--and then as Roger Prynne--and now,--and now, as a
dead body?

_Spurning Roger with his foot._

O, Devil, I'll avoid thee yet!--I'll confess my crime and thus
unslip the noose about my soul!

_Hurriedly prepares to depart._

He said we'd meet again! We have, and 'tis the last time!       [_Exit._


SCENE II.--_Plain curtain, down. Music. Music ceases; subdued sounds
as of a multitude back of curtain. Then the voice of Dimsdell rises
as quiet returns._

_Dimsdell._ And now, good friends, Electors and Elected,
  Although my speech hath run a lengthened course,
  And what I purposed hath been said in full,
  There's more comes to me now.
  What is our purpose and our destiny?

_Curtain rises rapidly, disclosing stage set as in Act I, Scene III.
Dimsdell upon a rostrum on church steps. Militia standing at rest.
Citizens and officials in gala attire._

  We call us English, Anglo-Saxon;
  And from the Old we come to build the New,
  The equal England of our expectation.
  Here in the wilderness, the first small germs
  Of man's long-promised freedom find their soil;
  Here hidden will they rot a little while;
  Anon, the sprouts will break our troubled land,
  Thrust forth the first red blades, and thence grow on,
  Forever and forever!
  I see this vast expanse of continent,
  That dwarfs the noble states of cultured Europe,
  Spread out before me like a map, from pole
  To pole, and from the rising to the setting sun.
  I see it teem with myriads; I see
  Its densely peopled towns and villages;
  I see its ports, greater than any known,
  Send forth their riches to the hungry world.
  I see, O blessed, wondrous sight! the strength
  Of Anglo-Saxondom--our mighty England
  And our great America, as one--
  The Lion and the Eagle side by side,--
  Leading the vanguard of humanity!
  And more I see; I see the rise of man
  Merely as man!
  Let the day come, O Lord, when man, without
  Addition to that noble title--man--
  Can stand erect before his fellow-man,
  Outface Oppression with his flashing eye,
  And stamp and grind proud Tyranny to dust.
  Put in our hearts, O, Gracious God, the yeast
  Of freedom; let it work our natures free,
  Although it break to recombine again
  The atoms of each state.
  Send down thy pulsing tongues of burning truth;
  Fire our souls with love of human kind;
  Let hate consume itself; let war thresh out
  The brutal part of man, and fit us for
  The last long period of peace.

_A pause, then cries severally._

_First Citizen._ Is he an angel or a man? Sure Gabriel himself.

_Second Citizen._ Look! He faints.

_Third Citizen._ Poor minister!

_Dimsdell._ [_Rallying himself_] I will speak on.

_Governor._ My pious friend, wear not thy body out
  To please our willing ears. Thou hast exceeded
  Thy feeble strength already. Cease, man;
  Demosthenes himself could not have stood
  The strain which thou hast undergone. Prithee,--

_Dimsdell._ I thank you; reason not my wastefulness,
  For, if you make me answer you, you cause
  More waste. My taper's burnt already.
  It flickers even now, and, ere I leave
  This place, my light, my life will go.
  Question me not,
  For, now I have fulfilled my public function,
  There hurries on a duty of a private kind
  I must perform at once or not at all;
  Too long delayed already.
  My friends, my life is flowing fast away,
  I, that should be at full or on the turn,
  Am near my lowest ebb.
  This gnawing at my heart hath eaten through,
  And now my soul releasing body bondage
  Will take its flight--but where?

_First Citizen._ It goes to Heaven when it flies;
  But go not now.

_Dimsdell._ Behold yon woman with The Scarlet Letter.

_Citizens._ Oh, shame upon her! Fie!

_Dimsdell._ Nay, shame on me; her sufferings have made
  Her pure, but mine, beneath this lying robe,
  Have eaten up my heart. Hypocrisy
  Lie there [_Taking off gown_]. Now, while I do descend these steps
  I leave my former life behind.

_Descends and goes toward pillory._

  Come, Hester, come!
  Come take my hand, although it be unworthy.

_Second Citizen._ Is the man mad, my masters?

_Dimsdell._ Not mad, friend, not mad; but newly sane.
  Come, my victim, come; assist me up
  The pillory, there let us stand together--
  The woman of The Scarlet Letter,
  And he who did this wrong.

_First Citizen._ That holy man is mad. He an adulterer!
  I'll believe it when th' Devil grows blind.

_Dimsdell._ Support me, Hester.

_Dimsdell and Hester ascend pillory together._

  Ho! all ye people of the Commonwealth,
  Behold the man for whom you oft have sought,
  The man who should have borne The Scarlet Letter;
  For I am he.
  If that the last words of one sinful man
  May warn a multitude from sin, who knows
  But that his errors tend toward good at last.
  Let me not think my suffering in vain,
  Or that my crime confessed will lead on others
  Unto their downfall.
  Behold me as I am--O, what a pang
                                  [_He clutches his breast from now on._
  Was that--a hypocritical adulterer.
  Oh!--aye, a base, a low adulterer!
  O, God, prolong my breath for this confession!--
  I wronged this woman who did fondly love me,
  I did neglect her in my cowardice,
  I shunned the public scorn.--
  O, but a little while!--I stood not with her;
  I was a coward; and did deny my child.
  Delay! Delay!
  Now I avow my crime, I do confess it,
  [_Kneels_] And here I beg you friends, as I have begged
  My God, forgive me. Oh, I must be brief--
  If any think that while I walked these streets
  In seeming honor I lacked my punishment,
  Look here.--              [_Tearing shirt open and disclosing stigma._
  O--h!
  This cancer did begin to gnaw my breast
  When Hester first put on The Scarlet Letter
  And never since hath once abated.

_Voices._ O, wonderful! wonderful! He faints! Help! Help!

_Hester._ Arthur! Arthur! one word for me! Only one!

_Dimsdell._ I must say more.                                   [_Falls._

_Hester._ Forgive him, Father! O, God, have mercy now;
  Give him but breath to speak to me!
  Arthur! Arthur!

_Dimsdell._ Hester, my Hester, forgive--                        [_Dies._

_Hester._ Farewell, farewell--dead, dead!
  Nay, you shall not take him from me!
  My breast shall be his pillow; and, that he may
  Rest easy, I here cast off your Scarlet Letter.

_Governor._ Captain, command your men to bear the body.

_A solemn march._


_THE END._




Transcriber's Note:


Archaic language and usage
have been faithfully preserved for this etext.
The only change was from "dramatic transscript"
to "dramatic transcript."