The Scarlet Letter by Nathaniel Hawthorne — Read

Hester Prynne was shocked by how different the clergyman had seemed in her recent encounter with him. He had lost his nerve almost completely. His moral strength had been reduced to that of a child, begging and crawling around on the ground. At the same time, his mind was as strong as ever, perhaps even energized by the sickness of his soul. Hester, with the knowledge of certain secret circumstances, could easily guess what had happened to him. In addition to the deserved pain his own conscience caused him, a terrible machine had been set to work on Mr. Dimmesdale. That machine was destroying his well-being and good health. Knowing what this poor, diminished man had once been, Hester’s soul was moved by the desperate way he had begged her—her, the outcast!—for aid against the enemy he had instinctually discovered. She decided he had a right to her help. In her long isolation, Hester had come to measure right and wrong by her own standards, rather than those of the world. She saw that she had a responsibility to the minister that she did not have to anyone else. The links that bound her to the rest of humankind had been broken— whether they be links of flowers, silk, gold, or some other material. But her link to the minister was the iron link of a shared crime, and neither he nor she could break it. And like all other ties, it came with obligations.

Hester Prynne was not in quite the same position as she had been in the earlier years of her shame. Years had passed. Pearl was now seven years old. Hester, with the scarlet letter glittering on her breast, had long been a familiar sight. The townspeople now thought of her with the sort of respect afforded prominent people who do not interfere with either public or private affairs. It is a credit to human nature that it is quicker to love than hate, unless its selfishness is provoked. Even hatred itself will gradually give way to love, unless that original hatred is continually irritated. But Hester Prynne didn’t irritate or irk anyone. She never fought against public opinion. Instead, she submitted without complaint to the worst it could offer. She did not claim that the public owed her any compensation for her suffering. She never begged for sympathy. And she was widely admired for the sinless purity of her life during the many years of her public shame. With nothing to lose in the eyes of the public—and nothing, it seemed, to gain either—it must have been a genuine desire for virtue that had altered her life’s path.