The Scarlet Letter: A Romancer - Section 13 - The Leech and His Patient

Episode Transcript

Speaker 1 (00:00):
Dream Adio Books presents Section thirteen of The Scarlet Letter
by Nathaniel Hawthorne, Chapter ten. The Leech and his patient,
Old Roger Chillingworth, throughout life had been calm in temperament,
kindly though not of warm affections, but ever and in

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all his relations with the world, a pure and upright man.
He had begun an investigation, as he imagined, with the
severe and equal integrity of a judge, desirous only of truth,
even as if the question involved no more than the
air drawn lines and figures of a geometrical problem instead
of human passions and wrongs inflicted on himself. But as

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he proceeded a terrible fascination, a kind of fierce, though
still calm necessity seized the old man within its gripe,
and never set him free again until he had done
all its bidding. He now dark in the poor clergyman's heart,
like a miner searching for gold, or rather like a

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sexton delving into a grave, possibly in quest of a
jewel that had been buried on the dead man's bosom,
but likely to find nothing save mortality and corruption, alas
for his own soul, if these were what he sought,
sometimes a light glimmered out of the physician's eyes, burning
blue and ominous, like the reflection of a furnace, or

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let us say, like one of those gleams of ghastly
fire that darted from Bunyan's awful doorway in the hillside
and quivered on the pilgrim's face. The soil where this
dark miner was working had perchance shown indications that encouraged him.
This man said he, at one such moment, to himself

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purer as they deem him, all spiritual, as he seems
hath inherited a strong animal nature from his father or
his mother. Let us dig a little further in the
direction of this vein. Then, after long search into the
minister's dim interior, and turning over many precious materials in

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the shape of high aspirations for the welfare of his race,
warm love of souls, pure sentiments, natural piety, strengthened by
thought and study, and illuminated by revelation, all of which,
invaluable gold, was perhaps no better than rubbish to the seeker.
He would turn back, discouraged, and begin his quest towards

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another point. He groped along as stealthily with as cautious
a tread, and as wary an outlook as a thief
entering a chamber where a man lies only half asleep,
or it may be broad awake with purpose. The steel
the very treasure which this man guards as the apple
of his eye. In spite of his premeditated carefulness, the

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floor would now and then creek, his garments would rustle,
the shadow of his presence in a forbidden proximity would
be thrown across his victim. In other words, mister Dimmesdale,
whose sensibility of nerve often produced the effect of spiritual intuition,
would become vaguely aware that something inimical to his peace

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had thrust itself into relation with him. But Old Roger Chillingworth,
too had perceptions that were almost intuitive, And when the
minister threw his startled eyes towards him, there the physician
sat his kind, watchful, sympathizing but never intrusive friend. Yet

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mister Dimsdale would perhaps have seen this individual's character more
perfectly if a certain morbidness to which sick hearts are
liable had not rendered him suspicious of all mankind, trusting
no man as his friend. He could not recognize his
enemy when the latter actually appeared. He therefore still kept

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up a familiar intercourse with him, daily receiving the old
physician in his study, or visiting the laboratory, and for
recreation's sake, watching the processes by which weeds were converted
into drugs of potency. One day, leaning his forehead on
his hand and his elbow on the sill of the
open window that looked towards the graveyard, he talked with

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Roger Chillingworth while the old man was examining a bundle
of unsightly plants. Where asked he, with a look, askance
at them, For it was the clergyman's peculiarity that he
seldom nowadays looked straightforth at any object, whether human or inanimate. Where,
my kind doctor, did you gather those herbs with such

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a dark, flabby leaf, even in the graveyard here at hand,
answered the physician, continuing his employment. They are new to me.
I found them growing on a grave which bore no
tombstone nor other memorial of the dead man, save these
ugly weeds that have taken upon themselves to keep him
in remembrance. They grew out of his heart and typify

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it may be some hideous secret that was buried with him,
and which he had done better to confess during his lifetime. Perchance,
said mister Dimmesdale. He earnestly desired it, but could not,
and wherefore rejoined the physician. Wherefore, not, since all the
powers of nature call so earnestly for the confession of sin,

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that these black weeds have sprung up out of a
buried heart to make manifest an unspoken crime, that, good, Sir,
is but a fantasy of yours, replied the minister. There
can be, if I forebode aright, no power short of
the divine mercy, to disclose, whether by uttered words or

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by type or emblem, the secrets that may be buried
with a human heart, the heart making itself guilty of sin.
Such secrets must perforce hold them until the day when
all hidden things shall be revealed. Nor have I so
read or interpreted holy writ as to understand that the
disclosure of human thoughts and deeds then to be made

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is intended as part of the retribution that surely, or
a shallow view of it. No, these revelations, unless they
greatly err, are meant merely to promote the intellectual satisfaction
of all intelligent beings who will stand waiting on that
day to see the dark problem of this life made plain.

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Knowledge of men's hearts will be needful to the completest
solution of that problem. And I conceive moreover that the
hearts holding such miserable secrets as you speak of, will
yield them up at that last day, not with reluctance,
but with a joy unutterable. Then why not reveal them here?

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Asked Roger Chillingworth, glancing quietly aside the minister. Why should
not the guilty ones sooner avail themselves of this unutterable solace?
Thoy mostly do, said the clergyman, gripping hard at his breast,
as if afflicted with an importunate throb of pain. Many, many,
a poor soul hath given its confidence to me, not

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only on the death bed, but while strong in life
and fair in reputation, and ever after such an outpouring, Oh,
what a relief have I witnessed in those sinful brethren,
even as in one who at last draws free air
after long stifling with his own polluted breath. How can
it be otherwise? Why should a wretched man guilty? We

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will say of murder, prefer to keep the dead corpse
buried in his own heart, rather than fling it forth
at once, and let the universe take care of it.
Yet some men bury their secrets, thus observed the calm physician.
True there are such men, answered mister Dimmesdale, but not

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to suggest more obvious reasons. It may be that they
are kept silent by the very constitution of their nature,
or can we not suppose it, guilty as they may be.
Retaining nevertheless, a zeal for God's glory and man's welfare,
they shrink from displaying themselves black and filthy in the
view of men, because thenceforward no good can be achieved

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by them, no evil of the past be redeemed by
better service. So to their unutterable torment, they go about
among their fellow creatures, looking purer as new fallen snow,
while their hearts are all speckled and spotted with iniquity
of which they cannot rid themselves. These men deceive themselves,

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said Roger Chillingworth, with somewhat more emphasis than usual, and
making a slight gesture with his forefinger. They fear to
take up the shame that rightfully bel belongs to them,
their love for man, their zeal for God's service. These
holy impulses may or may not coexist in their hearts
with the evil inmates to which their guilt has unbarred

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the door, and which must needs propagate a hellish breed
within them. But if they seek to glorify God, let
them not lift heavenward their unclean hands. If they would
serve their fellow men, let them do it by making
manifest the power and reality of conscience, in constraining them

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to penitential self abasement. Wouldst thou have me to believe, O,
wise and pious friend, that a false show can be better,
can be more for God's glory or man's welfare, than
God's own truth? Trust me, such men deceive themselves. It
may be so, said the young clergyman, indifferently, as waiving

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a discussion that he considered irrelevant to unseasonable. He had
a ready faculty, indeed, of escaping from any topic that
agitated his too sensitive and nervous temperament. But now I
would ask of my well skilled physician whether in good
sooth he deems me to have profited by his kindly
care of this weak frame of mine. Before Roger Chillingworth

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could answer, they heard the clear, wild laughter of a
young child's voice proceeding from the adjacent burial ground. Looking
instinctively from the open window, for it was summer time,
the minister beheld Hester, Prynne and Little Pearl passing along
the footpath that traversed the enclosure. Pearl looked as beautiful

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as the day, but was in one of those moods
of perverse merriment, which, whenever they occurred, seemed to remove
her entirely out of the sphere of sympathy or human contact.
She now skipped irreverently from one grave to another, until
coming to the broad, flat armorial tombstone of a departed

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worthy perhaps of Isaac Johnson himself, She began to dance
upon it. In reply to her mother's command and entreaty
that she would behave more decorously, Little Pearl paused to
gather the prickly burrs from a tall burdock which grew
beside the tomb. Taking a handful of these, she arranged
them along the lines of the scarlet letter that decorated

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the maternal bosom, to which the burs, as their nature
was tenaciously adhered hester did not pluck them off. Roger
Chillingworth had by this time approached the window and smiled
grimly down. There is no law, nor reverence for authority,
no regard for human ordinances or opinions right or wrong,

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mixed up with that child's composition, remarked he as much
to himself as to his companion. I saw her the
other day, bespitte of a governor himself with water at
the cattle trough in spring Lane. What in Heaven's name
is she is? The imp altogether evil? Hath she affections?

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Hath she any discoverable principle of being? None save the
freedom of a broken law? Answered mister Dimmesdale in a
quiet way, as if he had been discussing the point
within himself. Whether capable of good I know not. The
child probably overheard their voices, for looking up to the window,

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with a bright but naughty smile of mirth and intelligence,
she threw one of the prickly burrs at the reverend
mister Dimmesdale. The sensitive clergyman shrunk with nervous red from
the light missile. Detecting his emotion, Pearl clapped her little
hands in the most extravagant ecstasy, as to Prynne likewise

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had involuntarily looked up, and all these four persons, old
and young, regarded one another in silence, till the child
laughed aloud and shouted, come away, mother, Come away, your
yonder old black man will catch you. He hath hold
of the minister already, Come away, mother, or he will
catch you that he cannot catch little pearl. So she

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drew her mother away, skipping, dancing, and frisking fantastically among
the hillocks of the dead people, like a creature that
had nothing in common with a bygone and buried generation,
nor owned itself akin to it. It was as if
she had been made afresh out of new elements, and
must perforce be permitted to live her own life and

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be allure unto herself, without her eccentricities being reckoned to
her for a crime virgo'es. A woman resumed Roger Chillingworth
after a pause. Who be her demerits? What they may
hath none of that mystery of hidden sinfulness which you
deem so grievous to be borne. It has to Pryne,

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the less miserable, think you for that scarlet letter on
her breast? I do verily believe it, answered the clergyman. Nevertheless,
I cannot answer for her. There was a look of
pain in her face, which I would gladly have been
spared the sight of. But still methinks it must needs

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be better for the sufferer to be free to show
his pain as this poor woman hester is, than to
cover it up in his heart. There was another pause,
and the physician began anew to examine and arrange the
plants which he had gathered. You inquired of me a
little time, agone, said he. At length my judgment as

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touching your health, I did, answered the clergyman, and would
gladly learn it. Speak frankly, I pray you be it
for life or death. Freely, then and plainly, said the physician,
still busy with his plants, but keeping a wary eye
on mister Dimmesdale. The disorder is a strange one, not

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so much in itself, nor as outwardly manifested in so far,
at least as the symptoms have been laid open to
my observation. Looking daily at you, my good sir, and
watching the tokens of your aspect now for months gone by,
I should deem you a man sore sick, it may be,
yet not so sick, but that an instructed and watchful

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physician might well hope to cure you. But I know
not what to say. The disease is what I seem
to know, yet know it not. You speak in riddles, learned, sir,
said the pale minister, glancing aside out of the window.
Then to speak more plainly, continued the physician, And I

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crave pardon, sir? Should it seem to require pardon for
this needful plainness of my speech? Let me ask, as
your friend, as one having charge under providence of your
life and physical well being? Hath all the operation of
this disorder been fairly laid open and recounted to me?

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How can you question it? Answered the minister. Surely it
were child's play to call in a physician and then
hide the sore. You would tell me then that I
know all, said Roger Schillingworth, deliberately, and fixing an eye
bright with intense and concentrated intelligence on the Minister's face.

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Be it so? But again, he to whom only the
outward and physical evil is laid open, knoweth oftentimes but
half the evil which he has called upon to cure
a bodily disease, which we look upon as whole and
entire within itself, may after all, be but a symptom

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of some ailment in the spiritual part your garden. Once again,
good sir, if my speech give the shadow of offense, You, sir,
of all men whom I have known, are he whose
body is the closest conjoined and imbued and identified. So
to speak with the spirit, whereof it is the instrument.

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Then I need ask no further, said the clergyman, somewhat hastily,
rising from his chair. You deal not, I take it
in medicine for the soul. Thus a sickness, continued Roger Chillingworth,
going on in an unaltered tone, without heeding the interruption,
but standing up and confronting the emaciated and white cheeked

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minister with its low, dark and misshapen form. A sickness,
a sore place, if we may so call it in
your spirit, hath immediately its appropriate manifestation in your bodily frame.
Would you, therefore, that your physician heal a bodily evil?
How may this be unless you first lay open to

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him the wound or trouble in your soul? No, not
to thee. Not to an earthly physician, cried mister Dimmesdale, passionately,
turning his eyes full and bright, and with a kind
of fierceness on old Roger Chillingworth. Not to thee. But
if it be the soul's disease, then do I commit

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myself to the one physician of the soul. He, if
it stand with his good pleasure, can cure or he
can kill. Let him do with me as in his
justice and wisdom, he shall seek good. But who art
thou that meddlest in this matter, that darest thrust himself
between the sufferer and his God. With a frantic gesture,

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he rushed out of the room. It is as well
to have made this step, said Roger Chillingworth to himself,
looking after the minister with a grave smile. There is
nothing long. We shall be friends again, Anon. But see
now how passion takes hold upon this man and hurrieth

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him out of himself. As with one passion, so with
another he hath done a wild thing. Ere now, this
pious Master Dimmesdale, in the hot passion of his heart,
It proved not difficult to re establish the intimacy of
the two companions. On the same footing and in the
same degree as Heretofore, the young clergyman, after a few

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hours of privacy, was sensible that the disorder of his
nerves had hurried him into an unseemly outbreak of temper,
which there had been nothing in the physician's words to
excuse or palliate. He marveled, indeed, at the violence with
which he had thrust back the kind old man when
merely proffering the advice which it was his duty to bestow,

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and which the minister himself had expressly sought. With these
remorseful feelings, he lost no time in making the amplest apologies,
and besought his friend still to continue the care, which,
if not successful in restoring him to health, had in
all probability, been the means of prolonging his feeble existence

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to that hour. Roger Chillingworth readily assented, and went on
with his medical supervision of the minister, doing his best
for him in all good faith, but always quitting the
patient's apartment at the close of a professional interview with
a mysterious and puzzled smile upon his lips. This expression

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was invisible in mister Dimmesdale's presence but grew strongly evident
as the physician crossed the threshold. A rare case, he muttered,
I must needs look deeper into it, A strange sympathy
betwixt soul and body. Were it only for the art's sake,
I must search this matter to the bottom. It came

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to pass not long after the scene above, record ordered
that the Reverend mister Dimmesdale, at noonday and entirely unawares,
fell into a deep, deep slumber, sitting in his chair,
with a large black letter volume open before him on
the table. It must have been a work of vast
ability in the somniferous school of literature. The profound depth

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of the minister's repose was the more remarkable inasmuch as
he was one of those persons whose sleep ordinarily is
as light, as fitful, and as easily scared away as
a small bird hopping on a twig to such an
unwonted remoteness. However, had his spirit now withdrawn into itself
that he stirred not in his chair. When Old Roger Chillingworth,

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without any extraordinary precaution, came into the room. The physician
advanced directly in front of his patient, laid his hand
upon his bosom and thrust aside the vestment that hitherto
had always covered it, even from the professional. Then, indeed,
mister Dimmesdale shuddered and slightly stirred. After a brief pause,

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the physician turned away, but with what a wild look
of wonder, joy and horror, With what a ghastly rapture,
as it were, too mighty to be expressed only by
the eye and features, and therefore bursting forth through the
whole ugliness of his figure, and making itself even riotously

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manifest by the extravagant gestures with which he threw up
his arms towards the stealing and stamped his foot upon
the floor. Had a man seen Old Roger Chillingworth at
that moment of his ecstasy, he would have had no
need to ask how Satan comports himself when a precious
human soul is lost to Heaven and one into his kingdom.

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But what distinguished the physician's ecstasy from Satan's was the
trait of wonder in it. End of Section thirteen. Dream
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