say, in the very middle of the impressive story which it relates.
Hester Prynne, the heroine, had married old Roger Chillingworth, a
union unnatural and without affection, which was followed on her part,
during her husband’s long and unexplained absence, by a guilty passion
for Arthur Dimmesdale, the eloquent clergyman of a Puritan New England
town. All the incidents connected with the growth and development of
this passion, and with the birth of the child which followed it, are
omitted from the narrative, which opens with a scene at the door of
the prison, from which Hester comes forth to suffer the punishment
prescribed for her crime,--to stand for a certain time in the scaffold
by the pillory, and to wear for the rest of her life the scarlet letter
A upon her breast. We have nothing to tell us how the temptation began,
nor how it grew, nor the terrible anxieties which must have preceded
the discovery of her wrongdoing. Possibly these things are the more
impressive because left wholly to the imagination.
But among the multitude that gaze upon the unfortunate woman in the
hours of her public exposure is a face that she knows only too well.
Old Roger Chillingworth, who has been so long absent, and supposed
even to be dead, appears and recognizes her. He visits her afterwards
in prison, and exacts from her an oath that his identity shall
remain unknown. The terrible punishment of the scarlet letter to a
sensitive mind is powerfully portrayed; her shame at every new face
that gazes upon it, and the consciousness of another sense, giving
her a sympathetic knowledge of hidden sin in other hearts, a strange
companionship in crime, upon which Hawthorne lays much stress in many
of his works. Even little Pearl, her child, gives her no comfort, for
the child’s character is wayward, elusive, elf-like. She is a strange
creature, whose conversation brings to her mother constant reminders
of her guilt. Hester, with great constancy, refuses to disclose the
name of the child’s father, and Dimmesdale, the honored pastor of the
community, is tortured by a remorse which constantly grows upon him.
Old Chillingworth suspects him, becomes his physician, lives with him
under the same roof, discovers a scarlet letter concealed upon his
breast, and enjoys for years the exquisite revenge of digging into the
hidden places of a sensitive human soul and gloating over the agonies
thus unconsciously revealed to a bitter enemy. An account is given
of Dimmesdale’s self-imposed penances, and of the concealed scourge
for his own chastisement. One night he resolves to go forth and stand
on the same scaffold where Hester has undergone her punishment. The
bitterness of his emotions is finely drawn; the wild shriek which
barely fails to rouse the citizens of the town; the passing of Hester
on her way from her ministrations at a death-bed; the standing together
of the three, father, mother, and child, upon the scaffold; the letter
A which appears in the sky; Pearl’s keen questions; and the face of old
Chillingworth, who has come forth to look on them.
Hester at last resolves to disclose to Dimmesdale the identity of his
evil companion. Her character has grown stronger through openly bearing
the burden of her guilt, while the poor clergyman’s soul has become
shattered through his constant hypocrisy. She meets him in the forest,
and in a scene of great natural tenderness and beauty tells him that
Chillingworth is her husband. He reproaches her bitterly for her long
concealment, then forgives her. She urges him to flee, as his only hope.
“‘Exchange this false life of thine for a true one. Be, if thy
spirit summon thee to such a mission, the teacher and apostle of
the red men. Or,--as is more thy nature,--be a scholar and a sage
among the wisest and the most renowned of the cultivated world.
Preach! Write! Act! Do anything, save to lie down and die! Give
up this name of Arthur Dimmesdale, and make thyself another, and
a high one, such as thou canst wear without fear or shame. Why
shouldst thou tarry so much as one other day in the torments that
have so gnawed into thy life!--that have made thee feeble to will
and to do!--that will leave thee powerless even to repent; Up,
and away!’
“‘O Hester!’ cried Arthur Dimmesdale, in whose eyes a fitful
light, kindled by her enthusiasm, flashed up and died away, ‘thou
tellest of running a race to a man whose knees are tottering
beneath him! I must die here! There is not the strength or
courage left me to venture into the wide, strange, difficult
world, alone!’
“It was the last expression of the despondency of a broken
spirit. He lacked energy to grasp the better fortune that seemed
within his reach.
“He repeated the word.
“‘Alone, Hester!’
“‘Thou shalt not go alone!’ answered she, in a deep whisper.
“Then, all was spoken!”
In connection with their proposed departure to Europe, the minister
inquired of Hester the time at which the vessel would depart, and
learned that it would probably be on the fourth day thereafter. “That
is most fortunate!” the clergyman then said to himself. The reason why
he considered it fortunate revealed a very subtle phase of human nature.
“It was because, on the third day from the present, he was to
preach the Election Sermon; and as such an occasion formed an
honorable epoch in the life of a New England clergyman, he
could not have chanced upon a more suitable mode and time of
terminating his professional career. ‘At least, they shall say
of me,’ thought this exemplary man, ‘that I leave no public duty
unperformed, nor ill performed.’”
And of this strange feeling the author remarks:
“No man, for any considerable period, can wear one face to
himself, and another to the multitude, without finally getting
bewildered as to which may be the true one.”
Having resolved upon flight, however, and in the joy of his
anticipated release from a dreadful life, a curious change comes over
Mr. Dimmesdale, a revolution in his sphere of thought and feeling.
“At every step he was incited to do some strange, wild, wicked
thing or other, with a sense that it would be at once involuntary
and intentional; in spite of himself, yet growing out of a
profounder self than that which opposed the impulse.”
When he met one of his old deacons, it was only by the most careful
self-control that he could refrain from certain blasphemous suggestions
respecting the communion supper. When he met a pious and exemplary old
dame, the eldest of his flock, whom he had often refreshed with warm,
fragrant Gospel truths, he could now recall no text of Scripture, nor
aught else, except a brief, pithy, and, as it then appeared to him,
unanswerable argument against the immortality of the human soul. He
was tempted to make certain evil suggestions to one of the young women
of his flock, and to teach some very wicked words to a knot of little
Puritan children. He had come back from the forest another man.
But when the hour of departure approaches, and amid the preparations
for the great Election Sermon, Hester hears that Roger Chillingworth
has learned of their intended flight and taken passage by the same ship!
The final climax is reached when Dimmesdale, after preaching his great
sermon, which arouses the people to the highest pitch of enthusiasm,
comes forth from the church, and recognizes Hester and Pearl. At his
earnest entreaty she supports him to the scaffold, where he stands
at her side, and, against the protestations of old Chillingworth,
confesses his guilt, shows the scarlet letter upon his own breast, and
expires. Chillingworth does not long survive him. Hester goes with
Pearl across the sea, but after some years returns alone, again resumes
the scarlet letter, and takes up her old life in her little cottage
near the town.
The moral of the book, from the poor minister’s miserable experience,
is put into this sentence: “Be true, be true, be true; show freely to
the world, if not your worst, yet some trait whereby the worst may
be inferred.” Hester’s strength in bearing her sorrow is contrasted
powerfully with the growing weakness and degeneracy of Dimmesdale, and
with the transformation of Chillingworth into a devil, through constant
gratification of his revenge. The strange conduct of Pearl, who, with
her child’s instinct, resents the conduct of the minister who will
recognize her mother and herself only in secret, adds to the effect;
yet it can not be said that Pearl is in the least a natural child. She
seems almost as mature when she first asks her mother who it was that
sent her into the world, and denies that she has a Heavenly Father,
as she does in the last pages of the book. The appearance of Mistress
Hibbins, the old witch, who was afterwards executed, throws a gleam of
the supernatural across the pages.
It is a weird story, the product of a luxuriant though somewhat
morbid imagination; but the novelist, on the other hand, lacks that
acute perception, that knowledge of trifling circumstances, such as
would have appeared in the pages of Balzac or Tolstoi--those suggestive
details which unconsciously set forth men’s motives, feelings, and
character better than any philosophical reflections.
HENRY ESMOND
WILLIAM MAKEPEACE THACKERAY
The equestrian painting by Velasquez of Prince Balthasar Charles, the
original of which is in the Madrid Museum, is now well known throughout
the world by means of photographs and other reproductions. It
represents a very small boy on a very huge horse, which is in the act
of rearing. The anatomy of the animal is impossible, and it is safe to
say no boy as small as the Prince ever assumed under like circumstances
the attitude attributed to him; and yet, in spite of its defects, this
picture is a very remarkable and a very beautiful painting. We know
in an instant that it is the work of a master. Indeed it is only the
work of a master which could contain such blemishes and still be great.
Similar flaws sometimes deface the greatest works of literature--for
instance, the putting out of Gloucester’s eyes in “Lear,” or the
Walpurgis Night’s Dream in the first part of “Faust.” And so it is
with “Henry Esmond.” It is marred by one or two dreadful deformities;
and yet, in spite of them, it is perhaps the most charming novel ever
written.
The book opens with one of the most exquisite scenes in all
literature, where young Esmond, a lad twelve years of age, who is
supposed to be the illegitimate son of Thomas, Viscount Castlewood, and
who has led a rather hard life as a page of the old viscountess, and
been left alone in the great house after his father’s death, is now
found in the yellow gallery by Lady Castlewood, the young and beautiful
wife of the new viscount, when she comes with her husband to take
possession of the property. The scene is thus described:
“She stretched out her hand--indeed, when was it that that hand
did not stretch out to do an act of kindness, or to protect grief
and ill-fortune? ‘And this is our kinsman,’ she said; ‘and what
is your name, kinsman?’
“‘My name is Henry Esmond,’ said the lad, looking up at her in
a sort of delight and wonder, for she had come upon him as a
_Dea certe_, and appeared the most charming object he had ever
looked on. Her golden hair was shining in the gold of the sun;
her complexion was of a dazzling bloom; her lips smiling, and her
eyes beaming with a kindness which made Harry Esmond’s heart beat
with surprise.
“‘His name is Henry Esmond, sure enough, my lady,’ said Mrs.
Worksop, the housekeeper (an old tyrant whom Henry Esmond plagued
more than he hated), and the old gentlewoman looked significantly
toward the late lord’s picture; as it now is, in the family,
noble and severe-looking, with his hand on his sword and his
order on his cloak, which he had from the Emperor during the war
on the Danube against the Turk.
“Seeing the great and undeniable likeness between this portrait
and the lad, the new viscountess, who had still hold of the boy’s
hand as she looked at the picture, blushed and dropped the hand
quickly, and walked down the gallery, followed by Mrs. Worksop.
“When the lady came back, Harry Esmond stood exactly in the same
spot and with his hand as it had fallen when he dropped it on his
black coat.
“Her heart melted, I suppose (indeed she hath since owned as
much) at the notion that she should do anything unkind to any
mortal, great or small; for when she returned, she had sent away
the housekeeper upon an errand by the door at the further end of
the gallery; and, coming back to the lad, with a look of infinite
pity and tenderness in her eyes, she took his hand again, placing
her other fair hand on his head, and saying some words to him,
which were so kind, and said in a voice so sweet, that the boy,
who had never looked upon so much beauty before, felt as if the
touch of a superior being or angel smote him down to the ground,
and kissed the fair protecting hand, as he knelt on one knee. To
the very last hour of his life, Esmond remembered the lady as
she then spoke and looked--the rings on her fair hands, the very
scent of her robe, the beam of her eyes lighting up with surprise
and kindness, her lips blooming in a smile, the sun making a
golden halo round her hair.”
The story now digresses, returning to Esmond’s early life, the vague
recollections of his childhood abroad, his coming to Castlewood, his
education by Father Holt, a Jesuit priest, the plots and intrigues of
the family on behalf of King James, the seizure of the great house by
King William’s troops, the arrest of the viscountess in her bed, and
the death of the viscount at the battle of the Boyne.
The young page was warmly welcomed by the new viscount, as well as by
Lady Castlewood, and he became the instructor of their children. There
are exquisite descriptions of their domestic life in the earlier pages
of the book.
“There seemed, as the boy thought, in every look or gesture of
this fair creature, an angelical softness and bright pity--in
motion or repose she seemed gracious alike; the tone of her
voice, though she uttered words ever so trivial, gave him a
pleasure that amounted almost to anguish. It can not be called
love that a lad of twelve years of age, little more than menial,
felt for an exalted lady, his mistress; but it was worship. To
catch her glance, to divine her errand, and run on it before she
had spoken it; to watch, follow, adore her, became the business
of his life. Meanwhile, as is the way often, his idol had idols
of her own, and never thought of or suspected the admiration of
her little pigmy adorer.
“My lady had on her side her three idols; first and foremost,
Jove and supreme ruler, was her lord, Harry’s patron, the good
Viscount of Castlewood. All wishes of his were laws with her. If
he had a headache, she was ill. If he frowned, she trembled. If
he joked, she smiled, and was charmed. If he went a-hunting, she
was always at the window to see him ride away, her little son
crowing on her arm, or on the watch till his return. She made
dishes for his dinner; spiced his wine for him; made the toast
for his tankard at breakfast; hushed the house when he slept in
his chair, and watched for a look when he woke. If my lord was
not a little proud of his beauty, my lady adored it. She clung
to his arms as he paced the terrace, her two fair little hands
clasped round his great one; her eyes were never tired of looking
in his face and wondering at his perfection.”
But it was not long until my lord began to grow weary of the bonds in
which his lady held him and at the jealousy which went hand and hand
with her affection.
“Then perhaps, the pair reached that other stage, which is not
uncommon in married life, when the woman perceives that the god
of the honeymoon is a god no more; only a mortal like the rest
of us; and so she looks into her heart, and lo! _vacua sedes et
inania arcana!_”
One unhappy day Esmond brings the smallpox to Castlewood from an
ale-house in the village, which he has visited, and where he has met
Nancy Sievewright, the blacksmith’s pretty daughter. Lady Castlewood,
on hearing this, breaks out into a strange fit of rage and jealousy;
but when Esmond is taken ill she nurses him tenderly, contracting the
disease herself, while the viscount with his little daughter Beatrix
flees from the contagion. He returns to find his wife’s beauty marred
a little for a time, whereupon his love for her grows weak and she
betakes herself to the affection of her children. With a little legacy
that comes into her possession, she sends Esmond to the University,
whence he returns on vacation to find a skeleton in the household. His
kind mistress is shedding tears in secret, while her husband drinks
heavily, neglects her for an actress in a neighboring town, and brings
home Lord Mohun, a notorious rake, with whom he spends his nights at
play, and squanders his fortune. At last Mohun is suspected of designs
against my lady, and in a drive with this unscrupulous man Esmond
warns him to leave Castlewood. An accident occurs; Mohun is thrown
out and injured. The viscount tells his wife that “Harry is killed”
(Harry being the name both of Esmond and Mohun). She screams, and falls
unconscious. A duel follows, and Lord Castlewood is slain by Mohun’s
sword, but before his death confesses that he has learned from Father
Holt that Esmond is the legitimate son of his predecessor, and the
lawful heir to Castlewood. Esmond burns the confession and resolves not
to profit by a claim which will bring sorrow upon his kind mistress and
her children. He is sent to prison for participating in the duel, from
which he had endeavored to dissuade his patron and afterwards to defend
him. Here Lady Castlewood visits him. She brings no comfort, however,
but upbraids him in her wild grief:
“‘I lost him through you--I lost him, the husband of my youth,
I say. I worshiped him--you know I worshiped him--and he was
changed to me. He was no more my Francis of old--my dear, dear
soldier! He loved me before he saw you, and I loved him! Oh, God
is my witness, how I loved him! Why did he not send you from
among us? ’Twas only his kindness, that could refuse me nothing
then. And, young as you were--yes, and weak and alone--there was
evil, I knew there was evil in keeping you. I read it in your
face and eyes. I saw that they boded harm to us--and it came, I
knew it would. Why did you not die when you had the smallpox,
and I came myself and watched you, and you didn’t know me in
your delirium--and you called out for me, though I was there at
your side. All that has happened since was a just judgment on
my wicked heart--my wicked, jealous heart. Oh, I am punished,
awfully punished! My husband lies in his blood--murdered for
defending me, my kind, kind, generous lord--and you were by, and
you let him die, Henry!’”
He is crushed by her injustice, but does not waver in his devotion.
After his imprisonment is over he procures an ensign’s commission and
participates in the destruction of the French fleet in Vigo Bay. On
his return he hears that his mistress is about to marry the chaplain
of Castlewood, and he hastens to prevent the match. The rumor is
unfounded, but it furnishes the opportunity for reconciliation. They
meet in Winchester Cathedral after the service:
“She gave him her hand--her little fair hand; there was only her
marriage ring on it. The quarrel was all over. The year of grief
and estrangement was passed. They never had been separated. His
mistress had never been out of his head all that time. No, not
once. No, not in the prison, nor in the camp, nor on shore before
the enemy, nor at sea under the stars of solemn midnight, nor as
he watched the glorious rising of the dawn; not even at the table
where he sat carousing with friends, or at the theater yonder,
where he tried to fancy that other eyes were brighter than hers.
Brighter eyes there might be, and faces more beautiful, but none
so dear--no voice so sweet as that of his beloved mistress, who
had been sister, mother, goddess to him during his youth--goddess
now no more, for he knew of her weaknesses, and by thought, by
suffering, and that experience it brings, was older now than she;
but more fondly cherished as woman perhaps than ever she had been
adored as divinity. What is it? Where lies it? the secret which
makes one little hand the dearest of all? Who ever can unriddle
that mystery?”
And then when Esmond gently reproaches her that she had never told him
of her sorrow for her cruel words, and that the knowledge would have
spared him many a bitter night:
“‘I know it, I know it,’ she answered, in a tone of such sweet
humility as made Esmond repent that he should ever have dared to
reproach her. ‘I know how wicked my heart has been; and I have
suffered too, my dear. I confessed to Mr. Atterbury--I must not
tell any more. He--I said I would not write to you or go to you;
and it was better, even, that, having parted, we should part. But
I knew you would come back--I own that. That is no one’s fault.
And to-day, Henry, in the anthem, when they sang it, “When the
Lord turned the captivity of Zion, we were like them that dream,”
I thought, yes, like them that dream--them that dream. And then
it went, “They that sow in tears shall reap in joy; and he that
goeth forth and weepeth shall doubtless come home again with
rejoicing, bringing his sheaves with him;” I looked up from the
book, and saw you. I was not surprised when I saw you. I knew you
would come, my dear, and saw the gold sunshine round your head.’”
* * * * *
“‘If--if ’tis so, dear lady,’ Mr. Esmond said, ‘why should I
ever leave you? If God hath given me this great boon--and near
or far from me, as I know now, the heart of my dearest mistress
follows me--let me have that blessing near me, nor ever part with
it till death separate us. Come away--leave this Europe, this
place which has so many sad recollections for you. Begin a new
life in a new world. My good lord often talked of visiting that
land in Virginia which King Charles gave us--gave his ancestor.
Frank will give that. No man there will ask if there is a blot on
my name, or inquire in the woods what my title is.’
“‘And my children--and my duty--and my good father, Henry?’ she
broke out. ‘He has none but me now; for soon my sister will leave
him, and the old man will be alone. He has conformed since the
new Queen’s reign; and there in Winchester, where they love him,
they have found a church for him. When the children leave me I
will stay with him. I cannot follow them into the great world,
where their way lies--it scares me. They will come and visit me;
and you will, sometimes, Henry--yes, sometimes, as now, in the
Holy Advent season, when I have seen and blessed you once more.’
“‘I would leave all to follow you,’ said Mr. Esmond; ‘and can you
not be as generous for me, dear Lady?’
“‘Hush, boy!’ she said, and it was with a mother’s sweet,
plaintive tone and look that she spoke. ‘The world is beginning
for you. For me, I have been so weak and sinful that I must leave
it, and pray out an expiation, dear Henry. Had we houses of
religion as there were once, and many divines of our church would
have them again, I often think I would retire to one and pass my
life in penance. But I would love you still--yes, there is no sin
in such a love as mine now; and my dear lord in heaven may see
my heart; and knows the tears that have washed my sin away--and
now--now my duty is here, by my children while they need me, and
by my poor old father, and--’
“‘And not by me?’ Henry said.
“‘Hush!’ she said again, and raised her hand to his lip. ‘I have
been your nurse. You could not see me, Henry, when you were
in the smallpox, and I came and sat by you. Ah, I prayed that
I might die, but it would have been in sin, Henry. Oh, it is
horrid to look back to that time. It is over now and past, and
it has been forgiven me. When you need me again I will come ever
so far. When your heart is wounded then come to me, my dear. Be
silent! Let me say all. You never loved me, dear Henry--no, you
do not now, and I thank Heaven for it. I used to watch you, and
knew by a thousand signs that it was so. Do you remember how
glad you were to go away to College? ’Twas I sent you. I told my
papa that, and Mr. Atterbury too, when I spoke to him in London.
And they both gave me absolution--both--and they are godly men,
having authority to bind and to loose. And they forgave me, as my
dear lord forgave me before he went to heaven.’
“‘I think the angels are not all in heaven,’ Mr. Esmond said. And
as a brother folds a sister to his heart; and as a mother cleaves
to her son’s breast--so for a few moments Esmond’s beloved
mistress came to him and blessed him.”
After this wonderful chapter there comes another of almost equal
beauty, if it stood alone, but the two together make a strange discord.
For when they reach Walcote, which is now the family home, Beatrix, the
daughter of Lady Castlewood, comes down the stairs to greet him.