Hester.I thank you, gentlemen.
Hester.I thank you, gentlemen.
[Exit.
Wilson.That woman would have been a noble wifeHad 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 thenGo in.
Dimsdell.I beg you to excuse me.
Roger.And me,I pray. I'll stay with Dimsdell.
Governor.Well, Wilson, youShall not escape me. Gentlemen, the wineWe leave you; keep it company.—And, Dimsdell,Forget it not, to-morrow thou must preachA grand election sermon. The people do
Expect a master effort, man. Fail not.
Expect a master effort, man. Fail not.
[Exeunt Governor and Wilson.
Roger.He will not fail them, Governor; a tongueOf flame is his. What ails thee, Dimsdell?How now? Why man!
Dimsdell.I'm very weak. The pain about myheart—
top
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.
Roger.I will.
[Exit.
Dimsdell.Try how I may, there's no escape from pain.I robbed the law's strong arm, and thereby putThe lash in conscience' hand—and yet I thoughtHypocrisy a duty to my calling!'Twere better I were known as what I am,Than still to hide my sin beneath the garbOf outward purity! 'Twere better now,By Hester's side, to bear opprobrium,And brave what man may do, than still to nurseThis misery in secret!
Re-enterRogerwith 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 learnHis secret malady. What holds me back?Conscience? Tut, tut! It will not harm him!'Twill do him good to sleep; 'twill do me goodTo know the why he clutches at his breast.
I'll do it.
I'll do it.
[Pours more from vial.
Sir, drink this off.
Dimsdell.I thank thee, kind physician.
Dimsdell.I thank thee, kind physician.
[Drinks.
Roger.Nay, thank me not. Now, take a glass of wine.
Roger.Nay, thank me not. Now, take a glass of wine.
[Giving him another glass.
top
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 taintsThy 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 easeLike that which doth precede deep slumber.
Roger.Rest here upon this bench.
Roger.Rest here upon this bench.
[Dimsdell sits, half reclining.
Give way unto your drowsiness; it isNot 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 bloodWith all the dreamy heat of Spain. I hearThe clack of th' castinet and th' droning twangOf stringéd instruments; while there beforeMine eyes brown, yielding beauties dance in timeTo the pulsing music of a saraband!
And yet there is a flavor of the sea,
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 rocktopYour soul that self is lost in revery?Why, man, dream not too much of placid bliss;Nor wine, nor man, can reach this clear perfectionUntil they pass the rack of thunder and
Of hurricane.—'Tis on us now! Awake!
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 ourears—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!
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 manWould 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 thatWhich Hester wears, but palpitating hereIn life! This is beyond my skill.Ah! David! David! Thou art the man! Thou wouldstHave set me in the hot forefront of battletopHadst thou but known me as Uriah!Bah!Why, what a brainless dullard have I been,To see this pretty puff-ball of a preacherWax large before mine eyes in righteoushusk—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 seeWhat lay before me open. He did takeHer 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, IWas warm, so very warm at times, so hot,Did almost touch thee; yet I knew thee notFor 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 afool.—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 wearWhen 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 likemine?—Yea, would have dandled it upon my knee,And coddled each succeeding drop, as thoughtopMy fires had distilled them.But—now I know—my knowledge must be hid.Back shirt! cover blazoned infamyAnd let the whited front still hide from manThe sepulchre of crime that festers here.He will not wake within an hour. I'll goInform the Governor he sleeps, and haveHim order none disturb his pious rest.Then I'll return and calmly probe his soul.
Sleep on! Sleep on!
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 yoube"—
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;Can hardly be called, sirs, quite sober.
top
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.
top
EnterBetsey, 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 talkOf 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 headtopoff; '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.
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. EnterRoger Prynne, called Chillingworth.
Roger.To kill were easy; aye, but—to stretch his lifeAs on a rack—were that not better still?Dead, I'd bury with him my revenge;But while he lives the old account will standAt 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 trickOf overearnestness betrays the foolIn me; and yet we know it, though we profit not,The eager hand doth ever spill the cupThat lifted carefully would quench our thirst.I must assume a wise placidity;As he puts on—Ah! damnédhypocrite!—The air of purity. (Approaches Dimsdell.)I'll drink dissimulation at the source;topI'll study him.—Thus might an angel lookWhen, wearied with the music of the spheres,He laid him down upon a roseate bankTo dream of holiness!—He hath notstirred.—'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 plantSucks 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 tombA 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 longHe slept,—and by the sun it is notlong—I have't; I'll make him think he merely lostHimself 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.
top
Mellow wineIs Nature's golden bounty unto man.And it hath well been said: Dame Nature isA gentle mother if we follow her;But if she drives our steps no fury wieldsA fiercer lash; yet all her punishmentsAre kindly meant; our puny facultiesWould nest forever fledgeling in our minds,Did not her wise austerity compelTheir 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 fateWhich may afflict humanity; but, likeA 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 fearI 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 outThe fog and vapor that becloud your mind,And let the warmth of nature take their place.Nature retrieves our losses, or charges themAgainst us; all things do rest, even the plantsDo slumber as they grow.
Dimsdell.topHow greedilyThe flow'rs drink up the wine our golden sunPours down on them, yet blush to own their drinking!
Roger.This is the New World, man; and Nature hereIs lusty; drink in thy dole of heat and light;For even I, drenched in the golden rain,Feel pulsings of lost paradise that makeMy blood leap with th' quick-step bound of youth.This is the very show'r of gold in whichJove 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 embraceAnd quickens in his arms.—All, all, but thou!For thou art single as the northern pole;As cold, as distant, and unreachableTo what hath passion's warmth; and, thoughThy life be at its summer solstice—brightWith 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 meltinglyUpon 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 worldWould be unpeopled. This is the month of June,And now the locust and the linden treeDo wed the zephyrs as they blow, and weightThe air with oversweetness.—What song is that?
top
[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 heartIs pure—love overflows the lips in songAs sweet and limpid as a mountain spring;But—when it's bitter with basetreachery—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 registerStill take their tune. And so must you. For youAre now in the very period of youthWhen myriads of unborn beings knock loud and longUpon the willing portals of the heartFor entrance into life. Deny it not;I say but truth—I once was young myself.Behold the means!
EnterMartha Wilson, carrying a bunch of roses.
Dimsdell.Oh! Oh! [Clasps his breast.]
top
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.
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 flameThat floats above new brandy.
Dimsdell.Out upon thee, satyr! Thou dishonorest her.
top
Roger.Not a whit. Is't dishonor to her purityTo urge thy smoky flame to brightness worthyOf her? 'Tis what she wishes most; witnessHer confusion and her telltale blushes.Do me justice, man; my thoughts are pureAnd dwell on lawful marriage only. Thou, thouAlone, couldst see impurity in that.I spoke of thee, man, of thee; and whoBeside thyself would think a mottled thoughtCould touch a maiden linked to thee in wordsOr fact?
Dimsdell.Oh! Oh!
Dimsdell.Oh! Oh!
[Clutching at his breast.
Roger.Had I young daughters by the score, each fairAs 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 boundsThe boundless beauties of pure maidenhood,And bid thee wed them! Thus best advices areConstrued amiss, and what we kindly meanTurned into scorn and filthiness!
Dimsdell.Forgive me, Doctor; I'm ill at ease. This painIs like a stick thrust in a spring; it muddies
All my thoughts. Oh! Oh!
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 appleIn November. The pain's imaginary.topMarry, man, marry; thy wife will proveA 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 mindCan pardon the suggestion—and, mark, I urge itWith all diffidence—there is a way,Wherein the low opinion thou doth holdOf thine own virtues—not held by anyelse—May wed with beauty all unspeakable,Raise up a noble lady, and show thy christianSpirit 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-maidsBeside 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 downThine aching head upon her tender breast,topAnd dream thyself in paradise.
Dimsdell.Thou fiend of Hell! I know thee now; thou cam'stBut once in thine own form, and ever sinceHast 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?
Dimsdell.What dost thou know?
[Shaking Roger by the shoulders.
Roger.Only this—thou art as cowardlyAs thou art lecherous. What! betrayA woman! Desert her in her misery!Refuse to marry her!And all the while, cloaked in thy ministry,Dispense the sacraments of God tochildren—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 evennow—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.
top
Scene I.—A room.Dimsdellupon a couch in a cataleptic trance.Roger Prynnewatching 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 murdererWere stricken with the image of the thingWhich he would deal, 'twould be a blessing! YetWhen consciousness returns, with it will comeThe murderous disposition; for in these casesThe mind, although it wanders while the tranceIs on, always comes back upon its pathWhere first it left It. Therefore, 'twere wise in meTo be on guard. Well, so I am; butwhat—What fear should drive me hence, or make me leaveThe study of his case? He hath no armsBut 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 manMight make an omelet of my brain;
Therefore, one chair will do—and that for me.
Therefore, one chair will do—and that for me.
[Removes chair.
top
EnterGovernor Bellinghamin robes of office.
Governor.Good morning, Doctor.
Roger.Good morning, Governor. I wish you, sir,As happy and as prosperous a termIn 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 lackHis eloquence to-day. The people, whoAlways love high-sounding words more thanWise thoughts, prefer the music of his voiceTo good old Wilson's drone. Why isn't he in bed?
Roger.Oh! there are many reasons; 'twould take too longTo tell you now; but at another timeI'll ask your patience for a tale more strangeThan 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 nervesAre gossamers, too fine to sift the musicOf the blasts that blow about our burly world,And only fit for harps whereon ZephyrusIn Elysium might breathe.—And yet thisman—Oh! you'd not believe it if I told you.
top
EnterServant.
Servant.Your worship is asked for at the door.
Governor.Say I am coming. We'll speak again of this.
Governor.Say I am coming. We'll speak again of this.
[Exit Servant.
I must be gone. We servants of the StateAre slaves to show, and serve the people bestWhen most we trick them. The pageant of the dayGoes much against my better judgment, butThe crowd will have it so, and so farewell.
Roger.One moment, if you please. If he revivesHe'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 catchit.—
Dimsdell.Think of it no more, mylove.—Our troubles now are ended, Hester;The gentle current of our mingled lives,Long parted by the barren, rocky isleOf 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 astopThe golden sun of love falls gently downInto the purple glory of the West,We'll follow it.
Roger.A lengthy jump—from sinning youthPlump into the middle of an honored age!Yet thus the mind, in trance or dream, achievesWithout 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 loveLike an Italian air sung at twilight,When the melody without tunes that withinUntil the soul arising on the wingsOf music soars into Heaven.
Roger.Is there nothing in heredity? Or willThe orange-blossom take its fragrance fromThe Heaven above; its origin forgot?
Dimsdell.Hester, although the snow upon thy headBe white as that on yonder distant mount,Thine eyes are blue and deep as Leman's lakeThat 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 craftSwings 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.
I'll write it down.
[Roger makes notes.
top
Dimsdell.Good night, dear wife, good night.The stars of Heaven melt into angel formsWhich 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?
Roger.Will he die thus?
[Examines Dimsdell.
The pulse is weak—a clammysweat—'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 bestThat came preceded by a flag of truceTo parley peace. To pass away indreams—Without the vain regret for work undone;Without a load of sin to weight the soul;With all the argentry of honored ageTo frost our past; with all the fiercer heatsOf life burnt out into the cold, grayash—That were peace! Then might a man yield upThe willing ghost as calmly as a childThat falls asleep upon its mother's breastTo wake in paradise.
Dimsdell starts up.
Dimsdell.I see thee now—and now I'll kill, kill,kill—If thou be Satan I cannot harmthee—But if aman—
Dimsdell attempts to reach Roger, who keeps the one chair of the room in front of him and thus wards off Dimsdell.
top
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?
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?
top
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.