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7 episodes with dimmesdale
The Scarlet Letter by Nathaniel Hawthorne chapter 24, narrated by Isaac BirchallThe narrator goes on to describe the aftermath of this confession, and states that the majority of the people in the settlement claim that they saw a Scarlet Letter on the man's chest, like that on Hester's. The people speculate about it's cause however, with some claiming that it was self inflicted, and other saying that it was Roger Chillingworth who, using necromancy, caused the mark to appear. Others claim that they saw nothing, and that the man removed his shirt as way of showing that he has nothing to hide, and that he, a Holy Minister, could be just as much a sinner as anyone else.Seeing that the fuel for his contempt had passed away, Roger Chillingworth too passes away with it a year of the minister. He leaves all of his estate to Pearl, which allows Pearl and Hester to flee from the area that has cause them so much sorrow. Many decades pass, and the home that Hester owned has become little more than a haunted ruin that no child dares go near. Suddenly however, Hester returns to the settlement, and on pinning the Scarlet Letter again to her chest, resumes her charity work. The letter at this point has lost all of its negative meaning, and When Hester passes, she is even buried in the Kings Chapel Graveyard. She is interred close to the grave of Mr Dimmesdale, and the two of them even share a headstone ; it bares their names, and one Scarlet Letter A on a black background.https://podcasters.spotify.com/pod/show/the-essential-reads/subscribeGet SurfShark andprotect yourself online today.VPN: https://get.surfshark.net/aff_c?offer_id=926&aff_id=20389Antivirus: https://get.surfshark.net/aff_c?offer_id=934&aff_id=20389Get data brokers tostop selling your information with:Incogni: https://get.incogni.io/aff_c?offer_id=1219&aff_id=20389*COMIC* By@Valenangelr https://www.instagram.com/valenangelr *Social* INSTAGRAM: https://www.instagram.com/theessentialreads TWITTER: http://twitter.com/isaacbirchall98 KO-Fi: https://ko-fi.com/theessentialreads STORE: https://the-essential-reads.myshopify.com/ Support the showThank you so much for listening, if you want to support the me go to any of these links :)*Social*SHOPIFY: https://the-essential-reads.myshopify.com/INSTAGRAM: https://www.instagram.com/theessentialreadsTWITTER: http://twitter.com/isaacbirchall98Ko-Fi: https://ko-fi.com/theessentialreads
The Scarlet Letter by Nathaniel Hawthorne chapter 20, narrated by Isaac BirchallThe minister cannot believe his luck. He is leaving the settlement and the prying eye of Chillingworth, and is heading to Europe with Hester and his daughter. Hester, thanks to her charity work, has become acquainted with some sailors who has agreed to take her, Pearl, and the minister with them back to Europe. The minister feels different, he does not recognise himself anymore, and wishes to say to everyone he passes that he left the other minister in the Forrest.He suddenly gets some blasphemous urges ; he wants to teach a group of children a bunch of curse words, he nearly tells an old woman that something questioning the immortality of the human soul, and he even ignores a young convert to his church, fearing that his current mental state will corrupt the girl. Before finally getting home, he runs in to mistress Hibbins, who tells him that she can sense the change in him, she knows that he has been into the Forrest, urging him only to let her know next time he wishes to go as « The Black Man » would be very keen to meet him.When he is finally home, he tells Chillingworth that he shall no longer need any of his physical treatments. Chillingworth, though determined to be the ruin of the minister, wants to keep the man alive, and become very sceptical and the sudden change in the in the minister. Mr Dimmesdale then runs off to his study to write a new sermon for the weekend service.Join the Book Clubhttps://podcasters.spotify.com/pod/show/the-essential-reads/subscribeGet SurfShark andprotect yourself online today.VPN: https://get.surfshark.net/aff_c?offer_id=926&aff_id=20389Antivirus: https://get.surfshark.net/aff_c?offer_id=934&aff_id=20389Get data brokers tostop selling your information with:Incogni: https://get.incogni.io/aff_c?offer_id=1219&aff_id=20389*COMIC* By@Valenangelr https://www.instagram.com/valenangelr *Social* INSTAGRAM: https://www.instagram.com/theessentialreads TWITTER: http://twitter.com/isaacbirchall98 KO-Fi: https://ko-fi.com/theessentialreads STORE: https://the-essential-reads.myshopify.com/ Support the showThank you so much for listening, if you want to support the me go to any of these links :)*Social*SHOPIFY: https://the-essential-reads.myshopify.com/INSTAGRAM: https://www.instagram.com/theessentialreadsTWITTER: http://twitter.com/isaacbirchall98Ko-Fi: https://ko-fi.com/theessentialreads
The Scarlet Letter by Nathaniel Hawthorne chapter 16, narrated by Isaac BirchallDetermining to tell Mr Dimmesdale the truth behind Mr Chillingworth's identity, Hester heads to the forest where he is wont to walk, hoping to run into him on his way back home from visiting the native Americans. Pearl, like always, comes with Hester, and runs around in the sunshine. The two find q small opening in the wood, and while they wait for the minister, Pearl asks her mother about the connection between the “Black Man” and the scarlet letter. The little girl apparently overheard some talk in the town from some older people claiming to know of a connection between the letter and the “The Black Man.”Subscribe or Join the Book Clubhttps://podcasters.spotify.com/pod/show/the-essential-reads/subscribeGet SurfShark andprotect yourself online today.VPN: https://get.surfshark.net/aff_c?offer_id=926&aff_id=20389Antivirus: https://get.surfshark.net/aff_c?offer_id=934&aff_id=20389Get data brokers tostop selling your information with:Incogni: https://get.incogni.io/aff_c?offer_id=1219&aff_id=20389*COMIC* By@Valenangelr https://www.instagram.com/valenangelr *Social* INSTAGRAM: https://www.instagram.com/theessentialreads TWITTER: http://twitter.com/isaacbirchall98 KO-Fi: https://ko-fi.com/theessentialreads STORE: https://the-essential-reads.myshopify.com/ Support the showThank you so much for listening, if you want to support the me go to any of these links :)*Social*SHOPIFY: https://the-essential-reads.myshopify.com/INSTAGRAM: https://www.instagram.com/theessentialreadsTWITTER: http://twitter.com/isaacbirchall98Ko-Fi: https://ko-fi.com/theessentialreads
The Scarlet Letter by Nathaniel Hawthorne chapter 15, narrated by Isaac BirchallAs Roger Chillingworth and Hester part ways, she starts to believe that what she once felt for him has all gone and that it must all have been a delusion; now, though it is a sin, she feels nothing but hate for him. Hester goes to find Pearl down by the tide pools. Pearl has been pretending to be a mermaid and has made a letter A on her chest out of seagrass. Hester asks her if she knows why her mother is forced to wear the letter on her chest and then proceeds to explain to Pearl the meaning of the letter. Pearl then very astutely connects the letter on her mother's chest, and how Mr Dimmesdale constantly clutches at his chest. Hester is very unnerved by this and decides that Pearl is in fact too young to know the true history of the letter. Pearl is very persistent however, and for the next few days, constantly asks the reason behind the minister's habit of clutching at his heart.Subscribe or Join the Book Clubhttps://podcasters.spotify.com/pod/show/the-essential-reads/subscribeGet SurfShark andprotect yourself online today.VPN: https://get.surfshark.net/aff_c?offer_id=926&aff_id=20389Antivirus: https://get.surfshark.net/aff_c?offer_id=934&aff_id=20389Get data brokers tostop selling your information with:Incogni: https://get.incogni.io/aff_c?offer_id=1219&aff_id=20389*COMIC* By@Valenangelr https://www.instagram.com/valenangelr *Social* INSTAGRAM: https://www.instagram.com/theessentialreads TWITTER: http://twitter.com/isaacbirchall98 KO-Fi: https://ko-fi.com/theessentialreads STORE: https://the-essential-reads.myshopify.com/ Support the showThank you so much for listening, if you want to support the me go to any of these links :)*Social*SHOPIFY: https://the-essential-reads.myshopify.com/INSTAGRAM: https://www.instagram.com/theessentialreadsTWITTER: http://twitter.com/isaacbirchall98Ko-Fi: https://ko-fi.com/theessentialreads
The Scarlet Letter by Nathaniel Hawthorne chapter 13, narrated by Isaac BirchallSeven years have now passed since the Birth of Pearl, and Hester has started to become more active in the society. She still sews, but now cooks meals, cares for the sick, takes care of the needy, and the towns folk start to see her less as a sinner and more of a helpful being several people even remark that the Letter A on her chest no longer means “Adulterer” but now “Able”.Hester too has changed, she is no longer the passionate woman that she once was, but has become a shell of a human being, silent, and constantly living in guilt. She starts to resent the lighter aspects in Peal that she once possessed and starts to wonder why pearl is the way that she is. She too starts to wonder what it means to be a woman in their society, and further still starts to question if it is still a good thing to keep Mr Dimmesdale tormented and in the dark about Roger Chillingworth's true identity.Join the channelhttps://podcasters.spotify.com/pod/show/the-essential-reads/subscribeGet SurfShark andprotect yourself online today.VPN: https://get.surfshark.net/aff_c?offer_id=926&aff_id=20389Antivirus: https://get.surfshark.net/aff_c?offer_id=934&aff_id=20389Get data brokers tostop selling your information with:Incogni: https://get.incogni.io/aff_c?offer_id=1219&aff_id=20389*COMIC* By@Valenangelr https://www.instagram.com/valenangelr *Social* INSTAGRAM: https://www.instagram.com/theessentialreads TWITTER: http://twitter.com/isaacbirchall98 KO-Fi: https://ko-fi.com/theessentialreads STORE: https://the-essential-reads.myshopify.com/ Support the showThank you so much for listening, if you want to support the me go to any of these links :)*Social*SHOPIFY: https://the-essential-reads.myshopify.com/INSTAGRAM: https://www.instagram.com/theessentialreadsTWITTER: http://twitter.com/isaacbirchall98Ko-Fi: https://ko-fi.com/theessentialreads
The Scarlet Letter by Nathaniel Hawthorne chapter 12, narrated by Isaac BirchallOn a very foggy night, with very low visibility, he heads to the scaffold where Hester had to stand before the whole town, takes himself up the steps, and stands alone with God. After standing alone for several minutes, he screams out, to release some of the pain that he feels inside. He is afraid that someone could have heard him, and he actually sees the governor poke his head out into the night to investigate; the fog is thankfully too thick to reveal the minister to the town, but for a moment, the minister truly believed that he had given himself away.He then sees Mr Wilson returning home after a long night at the deathbed for the town's first Governor. The Minister calls out to attract his attention, but Wilson passes without having noticed. Mr Dimmesdale then starts to laugh at the thought of everyone waking the following day to find their minister stood on the place of shame. His laugh is answered however… Pearl runs along giggling with her mother in tow. The Minister calls out again, and this time his cry is heard. The minister invites Hester to join him on the scaffold and the three join Hands.A meteor lights up the sky around them and the minister looks into the sky to see a constellation resembling the letter A. Pearl however notices something else, Roger Chillingworth standing near by, and looking directly at the scaffold to see Hester, Pearl, and the Minister, hand in hand standing on the place of shame.https://podcasters.spotify.com/pod/show/the-essential-reads/subscribeGet SurfShark andprotect yourself online today.VPN: https://get.surfshark.net/aff_c?offer_id=926&aff_id=20389Antivirus: https://get.surfshark.net/aff_c?offer_id=934&aff_id=20389Get data brokers tostop selling your information with:Incogni: https://get.incogni.io/aff_c?offer_id=1219&aff_id=20389*COMIC* By@Valenangelr https://www.instagram.com/valenangelr *Social* INSTAGRAM: https://www.instagram.com/theessentialreads TWITTER: http://twitter.com/isaacbirchall98 KO-Fi: https://ko-fi.com/theessentialreads STORE: https://the-essential-reads.myshopify.com/ Support the showThank you so much for listening, if you want to support the me go to any of these links :)*Social*SHOPIFY: https://the-essential-reads.myshopify.com/INSTAGRAM: https://www.instagram.com/theessentialreadsTWITTER: http://twitter.com/isaacbirchall98Ko-Fi: https://ko-fi.com/theessentialreads
The Scarlet Letter by Nathaniel Hawthorne chapter 11, narrated by Isaac BirchallAfter his still unknown discovery, Roger Chillingworth starts to torment Mr Dimmesdale, with further prying into his personal life, and more intense medical treatments. Mr Dimmesdale starts to feel a resentment between the two of them, and a deep suspicion starts to grow around the arrival of the « Doctor ». The minister continues to suffer in silence though, his only relief being found in his sermons on Sin, which become his most powerful to date, being able to show true empathy and understanding for his flock.After a time however, he finds that he can no longer find solace in scripture and starts to punish himself for his sins and guilt. He holds extended fasts, starts whipping himself, and then one evening decides to hold a secret vigil for his sins, one that only God can witness. https://podcasters.spotify.com/pod/show/the-essential-reads/subscribeGet SurfShark andprotect yourself online today.VPN: https://get.surfshark.net/aff_c?offer_id=926&aff_id=20389Antivirus: https://get.surfshark.net/aff_c?offer_id=934&aff_id=20389Get data brokers tostop selling your information with:Incogni: https://get.incogni.io/aff_c?offer_id=1219&aff_id=20389*COMIC* By@Valenangelr https://www.instagram.com/valenangelr *Social* INSTAGRAM: https://www.instagram.com/theessentialreads TWITTER: http://twitter.com/isaacbirchall98 KO-Fi: https://ko-fi.com/theessentialreads STORE: https://the-essential-reads.myshopify.com/ Support the showThank you so much for listening, if you want to support the me go to any of these links :)*Social*SHOPIFY: https://the-essential-reads.myshopify.com/INSTAGRAM: https://www.instagram.com/theessentialreadsTWITTER: http://twitter.com/isaacbirchall98Ko-Fi: https://ko-fi.com/theessentialreads
The Scarlet Letter by Nathaniel Hawthorne chapter 10, narrated by Isaac BirchallOld Roger Chillingworth becomes more and more perplexed with his study of Mr Dimmesdale; no matter what he tries, the reverend never seems to get any better. To try and understand his patient better, Chillingworth inquiries into the reverend's personal life, but even as the two men grow closer, the reverend refuses again and again to speak about personal matters. Chillingworth devotes all of his time trying to cure the reverend, when together, he is using medicines of all sorts to help him get better, and when apart, Chillingworth is foraging for herbs and roots to make said medicines.One day, the reverend asks the doctor about a strange dark plant that the doctor is using, the doctor replies that he found it growing on an unmarked grave and suggest that the person interred there went to the grave with unconfessed sins. This leads the two men to have a large discussion about sin and confession. After their chat, they hear a cry from outside, and they discover Pearl playing and Hester nearby. The doctor thus sparks up their conversation again and states his admiration for Hester for not hiding her sin and wearing it openly on her chest for the world to see. The minister tries his very best to hide any like or dislike for Hester, and quickly end the discussion. Many more days go by, and eventually, exhausted from his malady, Mr Dimmesdale falls into a deep sleep. Coming to chest on his patient, but finding him asleep, Mr Chillingworth takes advantage of the opportunity to see what the minister could possibly be hiding under his dress. The reader is left to guess what is discovered there, but nonetheless, Mr Chillingworth is jubilant at what he finds.https://podcasters.spotify.com/pod/show/the-essential-reads/subscribeGet SurfShark andprotect yourself online today.VPN: https://get.surfshark.net/aff_c?offer_id=926&aff_id=20389Antivirus: https://get.surfshark.net/aff_c?offer_id=934&aff_id=20389Get data brokers tostop selling your information with:Incogni: https://get.incogni.io/aff_c?offer_id=1219&aff_id=20389*COMIC* By@Valenangelr https://www.instagram.com/valenangelr *Social* INSTAGRAM: https://www.instagram.com/theessentialreads TWITTER: http://twitter.com/isaacbirchall98 KO-Fi: https://ko-fi.com/theessentialreads STORE: https://the-essential-reads.myshopify.com/ Support the showThank you so much for listening, if you want to support the me go to any of these links :)*Social*SHOPIFY: https://the-essential-reads.myshopify.com/INSTAGRAM: https://www.instagram.com/theessentialreadsTWITTER: http://twitter.com/isaacbirchall98Ko-Fi: https://ko-fi.com/theessentialreads
The Scarlet Letter by Nathaniel Hawthorne chapter 9 narrated by Isaac BirchallRoger Chillingworth has now integrated himself fully into the settlement's society. Having studied some medicine in Europe, he calls himself a doctor, and as the settlement is in dire need of one, he is welcomed with open arms. No one knows his secret identity apart from Hester, and she, being sworn to secrecy, continues to hide his true identity. As Reverend Mr Dimmesdale's health continues to decline, Roger Chillingworth urges the council to let him stay with him, being able to provide him with constant medical supervision. The two take a home near the graveyard of the town, and each deck their rooms in their according fashion; Dimmesdale decorating his chamber with religious tapestries, depicting specifically adultery and its punishment; while Roger Chillingworth has a very modern laboratory which allows him to make all sorts of potions and medical concoctions.Initially, the townsfolk were very welcoming mot Roger Chillingworth, believing him to have been sent by cold to help their priest, but as time goes on, Rumours start to spread about Chillingworth's past, and he starts to take on an eviler aura, with the town's folk believing that he is a devil man who is waging war against God for Mr Dimmesdale's soul.https://podcasters.spotify.com/pod/show/the-essential-reads/subscribeGet SurfShark andprotect yourself online today.VPN: https://get.surfshark.net/aff_c?offer_id=926&aff_id=20389Antivirus: https://get.surfshark.net/aff_c?offer_id=934&aff_id=20389Get data brokers tostop selling your information with:Incogni: https://get.incogni.io/aff_c?offer_id=1219&aff_id=20389*COMIC* By@Valenangelr https://www.instagram.com/valenangelr *Social* INSTAGRAM: https://www.instagram.com/theessentialreads TWITTER: http://twitter.com/isaacbirchall98 KO-Fi: https://ko-fi.com/theessentialreads STORE: https://the-essential-reads.myshopify.com/ Support the showThank you so much for listening, if you want to support the me go to any of these links :)*Social*SHOPIFY: https://the-essential-reads.myshopify.com/INSTAGRAM: https://www.instagram.com/theessentialreadsTWITTER: http://twitter.com/isaacbirchall98Ko-Fi: https://ko-fi.com/theessentialreads
The Scarlet Letter by Nathaniel Hawthorne chapter 8, narrated by Isaac BirchallMr Billingham, Mr Wilson, Reverend Mr Dimmesdale, and Old Roger Chillingworth walk through the garden making fun of Pearl, calling her a daemon-child, after noticing that Hester is present took Governor Bellingham asks her why she thinks that she should be allowed to keep Pearl. She states that she will be able to teach learn the lessons that she has learnt through the shame of wearing her scarlet letter. The men are doubtful of this, and Mr Wilson tries to test Pearl's knowledge of scripture; Pearl's lack of response does not bode well…Seeing that she is losing the battle to keep her child, Hester begs Mr Dimmesdale to persuade the men to let her keep Pearl. He convinces the men that God sent Pearl to Hester as both a blessing and a curse. The other men are eventually convinced to let Hester keep the child. Roger Chillingworth, annoyed that Hester has won her little battle tries to convince the men to reopen their investigation of trying to find out who Pearl's father is. The men refuse, stating that in due time, God will reveal the man's identity.https://podcasters.spotify.com/pod/show/the-essential-reads/subscribeGet SurfShark andprotect yourself online today.VPN: https://get.surfshark.net/aff_c?offer_id=926&aff_id=20389Antivirus: https://get.surfshark.net/aff_c?offer_id=934&aff_id=20389Get data brokers tostop selling your information with:Incogni: https://get.incogni.io/aff_c?offer_id=1219&aff_id=20389*COMIC* By@Valenangelr https://www.instagram.com/valenangelr *Social* INSTAGRAM: https://www.instagram.com/theessentialreads TWITTER: http://twitter.com/isaacbirchall98 KO-Fi: https://ko-fi.com/theessentialreads STORE: https://the-essential-reads.myshopify.com/Support the showThank you so much for listening, if you want to support the me go to any of these links :)*Social*SHOPIFY: https://the-essential-reads.myshopify.com/INSTAGRAM: https://www.instagram.com/theessentialreadsTWITTER: http://twitter.com/isaacbirchall98Ko-Fi: https://ko-fi.com/theessentialreads
The Scarlet Letter by Nathaniel Hawthorne chapter 3, narrated by Isaac BirchallHester's husband, the man who sent her to the “New World” and promised to follow but never came was now standing at the edge of the crowd. He is dressed in traditional English clothes mixed with native American clothes. The man makes a small gesture to Hester, telling her that she should make no sign of recognising him, he then turns to a near bystander and inquires why the woman is standing on the platform. He explains that he has been held captive by some native Indians, but that after showing them some European medicine, they let him go; he has only just arrived in Boston.The bystander tells Him that Hester was married to an English scholar and that they lived in Amsterdam together to further the husband's studies. The two decided together that they should move to the new world, and the husband sent Hester to Boston with some money to secure a house while he sorted his affairs, but the man never came.Hester's husband asks the bystander if the identity of the father is known. The man replies that it isn't known, and as a punishment she is forced to stand on the scaffold for 3 hours and for the rest of her Days, wear the Scarlet Letter on her chest.The scene then takes us back to Hester on the platform, and she is betrayed by the governor of the settlement, and he calls her forth to give the name of the father. Hester again refuses and is forced to sit through a sermon on sin given by the town's young Reverend, Mr Dimmesdale. After her punishment, she is led back to her prison cell.Support the Showhttps://podcasters.spotify.com/pod/show/the-essential-reads/subscribeGet SurfShark andprotect yourself online today.VPN: https://get.surfshark.net/aff_c?offer_id=926&aff_id=20389Antivirus: https://get.surfshark.net/aff_c?offer_id=934&aff_id=20389Get data brokers tostop selling your information with:Incogni: https://get.incogni.io/aff_c?offer_id=1219&aff_id=20389*COMIC* By@Valenangelr https://www.instagram.com/valenangelr *Social* INSTAGRAM: https://www.instagram.com/theessentialreads TWITTER: http://twitter.com/isaacbirchall98 KO-Fi: https://ko-fi.com/theessentialreads STORE: https://the-essential-reads.myshopify.com/ Support the showThank you so much for listening, if you want to support the me go to any of these links :)*Social*SHOPIFY: https://the-essential-reads.myshopify.com/INSTAGRAM: https://www.instagram.com/theessentialreadsTWITTER: http://twitter.com/isaacbirchall98Ko-Fi: https://ko-fi.com/theessentialreads
Nathaniel Hawthorne - The Scarlet Letter - Episode 4 - Do Hester and Dimmesdale surrender to love? Find out in this episode! Our GDPR privacy policy was updated on August 8, 2022. Visit acast.com/privacy for more information.
The Scarlet Letter - Nathaniel Hawthorne - Episode 3 - The Narcissism of Dimmesdale and Chillingworth. Our GDPR privacy policy was updated on August 8, 2022. Visit acast.com/privacy for more information.
The Scarlet Letter Episode - Nathaniel Hawthorne -Episode 2 - We meet Hester Prynne, Arthur Dimmesdale, Roger Chillingworth and little Pearl! Our GDPR privacy policy was updated on August 8, 2022. Visit acast.com/privacy for more information.
Hi, I'm Christy Shriver and we're here to discuss books that have changed the world and have changed us. And I am Garry Shriver and this is the How to Love Lit Podcast. This week and next we will have two poetry supplements. After talking about one of the worst romances in literature- we will switch to one of literature's greatest love stories- the romance of Robert and Elizabeth Barrett Browning- although you would never guess it after reading the poem we are doing today- My Last Duchess- a very twisted poem. You know, Christy, now that I think about it, there's not really a lot of great love stories that we've read. So many of them end poorly- Romeo and Juliet comes to mind- but even the real life stories aren't all that awesome. I can't say I'm all that impressed with the love story of Mary Shelley and Percy Shelley. No, I should think not. I wouldn't think Petrarch or Lauuuura define true love either- although Petrarch sure got a lot of mileage out of their non-relationship. No, Hester and Dimmesdale didn't end well. Or William Butler Yeats and Maud Gonne Now that you mention it, whether we're talking about characters or writers- there's quite a bit of tragedy involved. You're right- but of course, doesn't great love tragedies produce great art- look no farther than the new hit song by Selena Gomez about her disasterous relationship with Justin Bieber. “Lose You to Love Me” debuted at number 15 on the Billboard Hot 100 and stayed on the chart for 23 weeks- hittint it number one. And it was number 1 on Itunes as well. Of course, Justin Bieber has milked that relationship or should I say, all of their break ups over the years, as well. Well, xometimes things do go right- there's hope for the Noras and Torvalds out there. HA! So, let's introduce at least one love story that went right…Robert and Elizabeth Barrett Browning. Except, if you want to know the love-story part, you'll have to stick around for one more episode. We're going to start with this episode by discussing Robert Browning and his most nefarious villiian in “My Last Duchess” and then we'll look at Elizabeth and her infectious love sonnets- and that's when we'll get into their personal story. Great, so Robert Browning, what I find unusual about Robert Browning is that there is nothing unusual about Robert Browning. I'm so used to all of these British poets and their colorful lives, but he's kind of a non-scandalous person, well- if you don't count the part about his elopement with Elizabeth, of course. Indeed, and that is just how he liked it- perhaps a man of his time. Let me back us by introducing him as part of the Victorian Age- that glorious period of English history where Britain held the position of world leadership- I guess somewhat like we think of as belonging to the United States today. Just for clarification- The Victorian period is considered somewhere around 1837-1900. Oh yes- I should have said that. Not talking about literature, Garry, what stands out about this period of time. Well, there's a lot- it was an incredible period and Queen Victoria was incredibly popular. When you say Victorian England, a lot comes to mind- both good and bad- but the first thing that comes to my mind, and please bear in mind that I'm American, so there's the disclaimer- we're always talking about impressions from this side of the Atlantic, but the first thing that comes to mind is just the incredible amount of material progress- there was unequaled production of goods- England was well on the front end of the Industrial Revolution. There was a lot of innovation, a growing middle class- but then again on the flip side- with that there's all the social problems that go with material progress. Things that we think of Charles Dickens writing novels about- street children, dirty pollution from coal- the sort of things we've talking about in other episodes like when we talked about where the Bronte sisters grew up or William Blake's Chimney Sweepers- and these problems are the things that lots of people but specifically a lot of writers were concerned about and commenting on. John Ruskin famously said, “that the real test of a community is not how much wealth it is producing but what kind of people it is producing” and of course he's right about that. It was something that would take years to sort out- finding the moral balance between production and exploitation- something every society wrestles with and always will. Well, the Brownings, surprisingly, weren't really a part of that protest movement, to be honest- and the reason I say that is because for a big chunk of time, in fact, their entire married life, they lived in Italy. Didn't Ibsen live in Italy, and Keats lived in Italy- Italy seems to be responsible for a lot of great English language writing. Ironically, that's true. Well, getting to the Brownings, Robert Browning grew up in Camberwell, at the time, a suburb of London. He was the only son of a fairly affluent family. He was the product private tutoring, world travel, and a lot of what today we would call privilege. None of this made him a famous poet though. It wasn't for lack of trying. I was impressed to see how supportive his family was to the point of paying for his work to get published. I was also impressed by how bumpy his start was. It seems his work was not well-received initially, and in fact was met with a bit of mean-spirited extremely embarrassing criticism. John Stuart Mill said that Browning was parading and I quote a “morbid state” of self-worship after he published his first poem named “Pauline” when he was 21. Yeah- that seems meat to me, and maybe would have wiped me out too, but in his case, Browning reacted to those criticisms of his early work in a positive kind of way. I find it clever, actually, and this stylistic change altered the course of his career. He swore off confessional writing- the kind that'spersonal- and instead modified from the kind of writing he had done in the poem “Pauline” and turned to what today, he is has become famous for- the dramatic monologue. Exactly- now Christy, I think we've mentioned these before, but what is a dramatic monologue and more importantly, why should we care? Thank you for asking exactly the question I wanted to answer! Ha! It's like you didn't ask me to ask you. Well, there is that- hahaha- anyway, let me start by saying that the reason most people don't like poetry in general is because they think it doesn't make a lot of sense. It doesn't SAY anything. And I realize, we high school English teachers, likely share part of the blame for this dislike of the genre. More than one teacher, myself included I'm sure, have droned on and on about things that are fairly boring. I remember a few years ago, and this is a tangent, but it's stayed with me. Anyway, it was a junior English class and I started the class by saying something like, “Today, students, we are going to explore some of the key features of American Romanticism and then some of the greatest hits”- to which a kid from the back row rapid fire responded- with “And that is why I got up and came to school this morning”. It made me laugh because this particular boy, an athlete, could not think of an introduction to anything more boring than what I had just described…although, in fairness, American Romanticism is NOT boring…but I digress. Ha!! I'm sure you changed his mind about the writings of Edgar Allan Poe and Walt Whitman. Well, of course I did. HA! But where I'm heading is that- when we think of poietry as being boring. We often are thinking about confessionals – people whining about their lives, their loves, getting in their feelings for the wrongs life has brought upon them- that sort of thing. For most of us- that is not the purpose of reading. We think of writing as a form of communicating information, and reading as a form of gathering information. The problem with a poem is that it has no information. And so the natural reaction to it is the very honest question- why am I reading this? But we shouldn't read poetry like we would read an article on Snap Chap or a newspaper editorial. Instead, we should judge it with a very intuitive criteria- did I learn something, did it make me laugh or cry, was it unexpected, did it change my mind? That sort of thing? But isn't learning or gathering information a large part of what writing is about? Well, of course that's true- but it isn't a very good way to read poetry because if you do it that way you just can't enjoy it- what makes great poetry is not the transmission of information at all. What makes great poetry is the exact same thing as what makes great plays or great novels or great music- they voice ideas about the world- they spotlight things we experience, things we've seen but have not articulated, things we've noticed but have not thought. Great poems are not about the poet at all- they are about us- the reader. They are about our experiences in the world- they are about understanding the people and the emotions that populate our world. And then we are no longer alone in our world- even from 100 years ago, there was a guy who knows somebody like I know. And Robert Browning did this sort of thing extremely well. And I want to explain how all of this works. Sounds good. One thing we have to always keep in our minds about a poem is that the speaker is not the author. In other words the poem may be in the first person, but that doesn't mean we are to understand that the speaker is writing about himself. Example, a poem may say “I love chopped onions” and the poet actually hates them, but the speaker of the poem can say I love chopped onions because this speaker is his own separate character totally apart from the poet. And in this world that has been created, the speaker likes chopped onions. This is, of course, true for plays as well, we know that Nora is not Ibsen , nor is Torvald. But when we read poetry, we slip into the habit of thinking the poet is writing about his or her own life- that it's ocnfessional. And although, that's sometimes true, and it was true for the poems we're going to read by Elizabeth next- it's not necessarily true- in fact, I would argue- it's mostly not true. So, that brings us to dramatic monologues. In the dramatic monologue, especially Browning's, it is extremely apparent that the speaker is NOT the poet. Browning wants to make it very clear he is not using dramatic monologues as a masking technique to talk about himself. Instead, he uses this poem, My Last Duchess, to explore something really twisted in humanity- and although, I doubt many of us know a guy as twisted as this guy from this poem- he doesn't sound unrelatable. As we read the monologue, Browning pushes forth a really aggressive commentary on how people treat each other, but he does it with a sort of ironic detachment. He can entertain us as well as comment on how humans behave towards each other because he's not talking at all. He will allow the twisted character to just talk and through this guy's, own confessions, he tell us information about himself, his view of the world, his behaviors and from there we are enabled to actually judge for ourselves how nuts this guy is, and then we can extrapolate people we may have met who are kind of like this, or maybe even really like this. Well, I have to say, as a student of psychology, My Last Duschess, is one of the more psychologically twisted characters and fascinating characters I've read about since we've started this podcast. The inordinate level of hubris Browning expresses through this duke makes most egomaniacs we know look small time. True- but although none of us go to dinner parties expecting to see pictures of dead wives behind curtains, we may know someone we also find to have an absurd level of vanity disproportionate to their accomplishments or essence- that hints at this level of hubris. That to me is how this poem connects to A Doll's House, Torvald Helmer, but in his middle class suburban way expresses this unusual degree of possessiveness that we see blown up in a Renaissance setting. Torvald doesn't seem like the kind of guy who would murder his wife, but he most certainly has reduced her to a work of art, a treasure- something comparable to a portrait on a wall to be brought out and admired, but then put back on the shelf- that portrait better not exercise any sort of will of her own- and if she knows what's best- try to stay mostly quiet and unsmiling towards strangers. So, in case, you are unfamiliar with the poem and I've confused you, let me introduce you to the speaker of Browning's poem. The speaker in this poem is an Renaissance Italian Duke- a extremely wealthy man, who's pedigree includes a 900 year old name. Garry, was the guy in the poem a real person or totally something Browning made up entirely in his head. Interesting you should ask that because as you know, I've always thought that writers write from their experience or what they know- but in the case of this particular poem- if this is an actual person- I'm not really sure we can say that it is. We do know that Browning was well traveled and in 1838 spent two months in Northern Italy studying Italian history and legends. This poem seems to be set somewhere in that area- there's a lot of scholarship to say maybe the town of Ferrara which, for those of us less familiar with Northern Italy, think of it as North of Florence but South of Verona or Venice. This may or may not be the right town or the right Duke, but it's an interesting hypothesis that the Duchess in the story could be Lucrezia, Cosimo de Medici's younger daughter who was married to Alfonso of the Este family. She supposedly died of tuberculosis, but Alfonso showed no interest in her as a wife- to the point that he left three days after their wedding in Florence without his new bride for France. He didn't even see Lucretia for the next two years. When he did come back to Ferrara, he sent for his wife, she moved to Ferrara and a year later, barely 17 was found dead. It could have been tuberculosis, it could have been poisoning, we all know the Renaissance is famous for a disproportionate share of people being poisoned to death including a few members of the DE Medici family, and of course, Catherine de Medici was famous herself for poisoning people. I saw that in the tv series, Reign. Well, getting back to our Duke, what about this Duke from Ferraro, Alfonso the Second, what kind of guy he- does he match the profile of someone who might poison his wife? That's a good question. It seems he was something of a jerk. Historians, and let me quote one, called him an “immoderately arrogant and conceited, and prided himself beyond measure upon his bravery, intelligence, and ancient descent. With all that he was vengeful and ever ready to pursue a feud.” So, there you have that commentary, it seems a possibility- but of course, as we will see as we read the poem, Christy, are we even sure the Duke in the Last Duchess murders his wife? Renaissance murderers were kind of mysterious like that- you just never knew. I guess so, before we get out of the history part and start reading the poem, let me ask one more question. In this poem, the Duke keeps a portrait of his murdered wife behind a curtain so he can admire her and show her off when he wants to, is there a portrait of Lucrecia that we know of today that might have inspired this poem? Or is there a painter called Fra Pandolf- the name of the painter in the poem? Do we know of any emissaries that would have been representing the would be the next duchess- the one to follow the Last Duchess? Is there any historical evidence based on the clues from the poem that any of the other characters were real people? Well yes and no- the first hurdle in definitely declaring this poem to be about Lucretia de Medici- is that There is no such painting that we know of, and there is no such famous painter as Frau Pandolf. But, if we just assume that there might have been but it's just gone to history, and we work on the assumption that the Last Duchess is Lucrezia de medici, that means the second wife would have to be Barbara of Austria. There's a long story there, their marriage only lasted 8 years before she died. She was most famous for her work with destitute young girls and even founded a house for them. After she died, Alfonso married a third time, this time to Margherita, the 15 year old niece of his wife Barbara of Austria. Well, whether this is the guy or not, he does seem to be creepy enough to fit the bill. I think so. And honestly, it doesn't matter. This stuff is just interesting stuff to discuss at Trivia night. I agree, I've read enough Machiavelli to know that the Renaissance boys were not above poisoning people for most anything- and that isn't even the point. Browning doesn't tell us who it is maybe because it's a composite of a couple of people, maybe it's because it's a totally made up person, but I think because in a more important sense, this is metaphorical- this Duke is a metaphor of a familiar ego- one a reader of Ibsen might latched on to, one we can all latch on to. And yes, this is a poem about objectifying women again, and this is why we chose to feature it this week, but honestly, if you think about it= the metaphor of the ultimate egoist s person so stupid and delusional that he sees himself as the Neptune in his world is not far fetched. Ah- no- I'd say- look no farther than a twitter feed. Shall we read, Christy- as this is a dramatic monologue- to what degree should we bring a dramatic reading to the text. I think we should bring a very dramatic reading to it. Do you want to give it a go. Let's read break it up, and then we can put it all back together and see if we can understand it. Sure, let me read it…. Okay, there's a lot to say, but I want to break everything down so that the poem can be fun- and it is fun. The way to read poems, and I know I've said this before, and not just me, but everyone, is read them slowly. It's about enjoying the details. It's not about rushing to the end, so let's do that… That's my last Duchess painted on the wall, Looking as if she were alive. Sentence one- we are to see that the duchess is painted on the wall- we'll understand in a minute that that's probably a fresco, but that doesn't necessarily matter. She looks as if she were alive, implying she's dead. We also know that the belonged to the Duke- it's his duchess and we know it's the last one whe had. We should also be alarmed that the tone here is quite detached. Garry, I hope if something bad happens to me, you don't talk about me like this. There is no tenderness here- there's pride, perhaps, but no tenderness. Let's keep going…. I call That piece a wonder, now; Fra Pandolf's hands Worked busily a day, and there she stands. Will't please you sit and look at her? Sentence 2- 3The piece is a wonder- not the woman- again-the PIECE is the wonder- be it the paitning or the woman- it's all very detached. But we also are told that she was painted by Fra Pandolf- Garry, you said we don't know anything about this guy for sure, but is there any historical context that could give us some help in understanding subtext here. Well, Fra- is short for Friar- this is a catholic monk or priest. That tells us that there is NO sexual hanky panky going on. Friar's take vows of chastity, and although we know there were those that broke them, there were more that didn't and we should presume that here as well. Also, he worked busily a day- may imply that this IS a fresco. Fresco paintings had to be done in one day, like with Michelangelo and the Sistine chapel because when the plaster dries youre done. But the nice thing about them is that once they do dry, they last forever. If you wanted beauty to never die- a fresco would be the way to go. And notice this rhetorical question- whoever the Duke is talking to is basically being told to sit and admire the last Duchess. We will soon find out that this guy is the emissary for the new Duchess, so in a sense, it is not appropriate to sit and stare at the last Mrs. So, we have to wonder, why does he insist on this? This next sentence is really very long and difficult to understand. I said “Fra Pandolf” by design, for never read Strangers like you that pictured countenance, The depth and passion of its earnest glance, But to myself they turned (since none puts by The curtain I have drawn for you, but I) But to myself they turned (since none puts by The curtain I have drawn for you, but I) And seemed as they would ask me, if they durst, How such a glance came there; so, not the first Are you to turn and ask thus. This sentence takes a couple of rereads to just make sense of it- but let me put it in my words. Basocially, he's saying that Fra Pandolf- on purpose- captured a very specific facial expression in the face of his ex-wife. She had this certain deep and passionate smile- the way he's suggesting here- it's almost a sexy smile- and- according to this duke, he imagines that the guy he's talking to is like everyone else in the world and everyone else in the world- when they see this painting want to ask him, although they don't dare because this duke is just that intimidating- they want to ask him who she's looking at to give such a sexy glance. And then he is just going to tell this guy- who did not ask that question or even ask to see this painting- who exactly his wife was looking at when she gave this sexy smile. And notice that the way he phrases it almost suggests the last duchess was perhaps cheating on him. Sir, 'twas not Her husband's presence only, called that spot Of joy into the Duchess' cheek; perhaps Fra Pandolf chanced to say, “Her mantle laps Over my lady's wrist too much,” or “Paint Must never hope to reproduce the faint Half-flush that dies along her throat.” He says, it wasn't just my presence that gave her that sexy smile. Maybe even Fra Pandolf happened to suggest that she reveal a little more skin- implying maybe she liked to show a little more skin- a little more wrist. He goes on to say that paint couldn't possibly reproduce her half-flush. All of this is pseudo sexual language that ends with death threat along the throat. Let me interject something here that caught my eye- the way he talks to the guy he's talking to is very condescending. He makes him sit down. He uses the term “sir” and “you” instead of “thee or thou” that would have been more appropriate between men of equal station of the time period. He is talking down to this guy for whatever reason. Look at these next two sentences- Such stuff Was courtesy, she thought, and cause enough For calling up that spot of joy. She had A heart—how shall I say?— too soon made glad, Too easily impressed; she liked whate'er She looked on, and her looks went everywhere. He's going on and on about this sexy smile. But here he again implies she's permiscuous. He uses the word “stuff”- that is a very vague term which we use euphemistically for things we don't want to say outloud. Then he says this, “she had a heart- how shall I say?- too soon made glad” that phrase- how shall I say is set off with dashes. This duke is stopping as if he can't quite find the right word to describe the behavior for his wife- how shall I say- he's looking for that word and the words he comes up with are “too soon made glad”- or she gets happy to easily- again implying almost less subtly that she flirts inappropriately. Just the very idea that he wants to pretend that he has to find the right word- he's been rattling on and on in perfect iambic pentameter for a good 22 lines with no need to even have any dash at all- much less a problem with coming up with the right words. In fact, he has already told us he shows off this picture many times apparently to a bunch of people who look at that sexy smile and wonder who she's smiling at. He will continue to imply that his wife was a slut with even more euphemisms. Read the next two sentences. Too easily impressed; she liked whate'er She looked on, and her looks went everywhere. Sir, 'twas all one! That last sentence, is a telegraphic sentence- that means it's very short for the purpose of highlighting a very important idea. She looked everywhere and with that same dang sexy smile. It's clear by this point he hated that. My favour at her breast, The dropping of the daylight in the West, The bough of cherries some officious fool Broke in the orchard for her, the white mule She rode with round the terrace—all and each Would draw from her alike the approving speech, Or blush, at least. She thanked men—good! but thanked Somehow—I know not how—as if she ranked My gift of a nine-hundred-years-old name With anybody's gift. And now we are let on to the secret that this guy may be a psychopath. Look at what he's jealous of- that duchess presumed to look at the sunset with her sexy smile. A nice person gave her a cherry and she gave him a sexy smile. She gave her mule that sexy smile. Now we are led to question, is this really a sexy smile or is this just a kind smile? It appears she had the audacity to thank people for things- clearly something he doesn't do. And in fact, something she should not do- the only person she should ever be thanking is him. He gave her the most p recious thing in the entire universe- his name- and if she thanked him other people with the same words as she used to thank him- or if she smiled at people with a kind smile- that was a direct assault him. Who does she think she is? Who'd stoop to blame This sort of trifling? Even had you skill In speech—which I have not—to make your will Quite clear to such an one, and say, “Just this Or that in you disgusts me; here you miss, Or there exceed the mark”—and if she let Herself be lessoned so, nor plainly set Her wits to yours, forsooth, and made excuse— E'en then would be some stooping; and I choose Never to stoop. Notice how the tone seems to shift here. He's getting a little angrier. He's also throwing out more of those dashes- this time to set off the phrase that he doesn't have skill in speech- of course he has skill in speech- that's the whole point. It reminds me of when I've fussed at my children and said something like, “I guess I didn't make myself clear when I asked you to clean your room”- you're not really communicating you were not clear, you're communicating you WERE clear and you were ignored. Exactly- and apparently he had told her that certain behaviors of hers like smiling and thanking people were disgusting to him and she blatantly ignored this. She refused to be lessoned- and of course we have a pun here- because lessons are something that you learn- she refused to be taught- but she also refused to be lessened as in made smaller. She didn't stoop – but here's what's worse. He didn't actually tell her anything. He didn't actually ask her to do or not do anything. For him to actually have to tell her to do these things- that in and of itself would be degrading to him. I've been told that line before- perhaps you have to- I shouldn't have to tell you to do this- you should just know it- you should WANT to do this thing that I want you do to do. And by you not knowing or not wanting the right things that I want you to want or to like- THAT is the infraction- the insult lies there. How could you NOT want this thing that I want you to want or have this behavior that I want you to have. The very idea that I would have to stoop to tell you is in itself an insult beyond scope. And if you are not convinced that he's psycho- he's got more to say. First to confirm that she did not cheat on him or even hate him. Oh, sir, she smiled, no doubt, Whene'er I passed her; but who passed without Much the same smile? She smiled at him. It seems, as we are now to assume, that she did not have a sexy smile but that this smile was a kind smile- she smiled kindly at him. And THIS was an insult because that smile, that we see on the wall- that sexy smile that is now a kind smile- she gave out to other people besides him. Why would she do that!?? That was just too too much, so the poor person sitting down and listening to this is supposed to clearly understand that by this point he had no choice- she had to go. This grew; I gave commands; Then all smiles stopped together. There she stands As if alive. So, did he have her executed? I know- it's ambiguous. I read somewhere that someone directly asked Browning this question to which and one time he replied smugly, I didn't say he had her executed. I said all smiles stopped, maybe he sent her to the convent. But another time he said, yes, these were commands to be put to death..so we are left to make that determination for ourselves. I will say, I think the person he's talking to thinks he had her killed. As we read these lines, there's an indication that tried to bolt but the Duke won't let him. Let's read the ending. Will't please you rise? We'll meet The company below, then. I repeat, The Count your master's known munificence Is ample warrant that no just pretense Of mine for dowry will be disallowed; Though his fair daughter's self, as I avowed At starting, is my object. Nay, we'll go Together down, sir. Notice Neptune, though, Taming a sea-horse, thought a rarity, Which Claus of Innsbruck cast in bronze for me! How do you think that means the emissary is trying to bolt? Well, first the Duke tells him to get up for them to go down together to meet the new duchess- but then he says, nay= nay means no- no to what- I think the guy was trying to get head of him because he says, “nay, we'll go together.” He's not letting this guy out of his sight. He's enjoying this. He wanted to tell this story. He wanted to brag on his omnipotence- it's not a coincidence that he's showing off another piece of art of his- this one a Roman God- Neptune. And this is the final thought of the poem and worth us taking a minute to think about. Again- this is why poetry is not informational. The fun of poetry is not to get to the end and get all the information. The fun of poetry is to slow down and think the thoughts the poet is feeding you. Following the clues and hearing his voice. Browning, from over 100 years ago wants to give us a few ideas about life and how to look at certain people that surface in every generation. And the final image is this statue of the Roman god, Neptune. When we see the statue, the first thing we think about is =huh, another piece of art. Browning has created a frame for his poem- he started and ended his poem with art- these two pieces. Then the next thought should be- huh- I wonder what Neptune is supposed to tell us. Who is Neptune? How does art piece number two connect with art piece number 1? Well, obviously, Neptune is the god of the sea- the Greeks called him Poseiden. But what is he doing here- well- he's taming a sea horse- what does that mean? This statue is not a static statue- it's not a bowl of fruit, it's not even a horse in a park. It's a Roman god taming a sea horse. Neptune, in general is god of the sea – he commands and controls nature itself- the environment- there is a suggestion here of violence- by casting the sculpture in bronze the Duke has tamed and stopped the god taming the sea- he is the master of it all- he is in total control- Neptune has restrained the sea horse in exactly the same way as the Duke has restrained his wife- he controls the vitality- just as he has frozen the vitality in this statue- the vitality of his wife is also frozen. Well, and what is ironic about all of it- is that in describing his ex-wife- he describes a woman totally in tune with life- she connected to nature, to others, to animals- she was the very expression of vitality- to the point that her vitality is expressed in a smile he tries to explain away as adulterous. He is bragging because he had the power to get rid of that smile- to get rid of that vitality- she could be reduced to a work of art in death- something he could never accomplish in life. And yet, there is more irony even in this…in order to destroy his wife- he preserved her for all eternity. We all know that art outlasts a single lifespan. By destroying her vitality- he preserved her vitality. Oh my, that's confusing- are you trying to make us crazy. Maybe- but I'm trying to point out how fun poetry can be if we let it. Let's read it put back together. That's my last Duchess painted on the wall, Looking as if she were alive. I call That piece a wonder, now; Fra Pandolf's hands Worked busily a day, and there she stands. Will't please you sit and look at her? I said “Fra Pandolf” by design, for never read Strangers like you that pictured countenance, The depth and passion of its earnest glance, But to myself they turned (since none puts by The curtain I have drawn for you, but I) And seemed as they would ask me, if they durst, How such a glance came there; so, not the first Are you to turn and ask thus. Sir, 'twas not Her husband's presence only, called that spot Of joy into the Duchess' cheek; perhaps Fra Pandolf chanced to say, “Her mantle laps Over my lady's wrist too much,” or “Paint Must never hope to reproduce the faint Half-flush that dies along her throat.” Such stuff Was courtesy, she thought, and cause enough For calling up that spot of joy. She had A heart—how shall I say?— too soon made glad, Too easily impressed; she liked whate'er She looked on, and her looks went everywhere. Sir, 'twas all one! My favour at her breast, The dropping of the daylight in the West, The bough of cherries some officious fool Broke in the orchard for her, the white mule She rode with round the terrace—all and each Would draw from her alike the approving speech, Or blush, at least. She thanked men—good! but thanked Somehow—I know not how—as if she ranked My gift of a nine-hundred-years-old name With anybody's gift. Who'd stoop to blame This sort of trifling? Even had you skill In speech—which I have not—to make your will Quite clear to such an one, and say, “Just this Or that in you disgusts me; here you miss, Or there exceed the mark”—and if she let Herself be lessoned so, nor plainly set Her wits to yours, forsooth, and made excuse— E'en then would be some stooping; and I choose Never to stoop. Oh, sir, she smiled, no doubt, Whene'er I passed her; but who passed without Much the same smile? This grew; I gave commands; Then all smiles stopped together. There she stands As if alive. Will't please you rise? We'll meet The company below, then. I repeat, The Count your master's known munificence Is ample warrant that no just pretense Of mine for dowry will be disallowed; Though his fair daughter's self, as I avowed At starting, is my object. Nay, we'll go Together down, sir. Notice Neptune, though, Taming a sea-horse, thought a rarity, Which Claus of Innsbruck cast in bronze for me! A great writer can make things simple- like the simplistic understanding that this is an excellent portrait of a psychopath- which it is- to a historical understanding- as an expose on the dark side of the Renaissance- a moralistic understanding- like beware of objectifying self-serving schucks- or what I will call an optimistic reading….freedom and vitality cannot be contained…life finds a way… (to quote that philosopher Michael Crichton) and that way may just be through a poem.. . Thank you Robert Browning. Yeah- well there you go- today's take away- stop reading for information- but read looking for the vitality!!! Yeah! Read for vitality!! It's there! Next episode, we will tell you the famous love story of Robert Browning and his celebrity wife, Elizabeth Barrett, and we'll read some bona fide love poems. Thank you for spending time with us today. We don't take that for granted. Support us, if you don't mind, by tweeting an episode on your twitter feed, your linked in feed, or your facebook or Instagram feed. Text an episode to a friend and help us grow. Thank you. Peace out.
Do Hester and Dimmesdale surrender to love? Find out in this episode!
In episode 2 of the Scarlet Letter we jump into chapters 2 through 8 covering the first of three scaffold scenes. We meet Hester Prynne, Arthur Dimmesdale, Roger Chillingworth and little Pearl. Our study begins with Hester on the scaffold and ends with Hester defending her right to keep her child three years later.
Episode 3 covers chapters 9-12 and dissects the relationship between Dimmesdale and Chillingworth. The triangular relationship between Hester, Arthur and Roger creates moral and psychological drama and tension!
AmLit Readers: American Literature, Culture, and History Podcast
Ep. 4 of 5 on Henry James's novel "The Portrait of a Lady." Think about how thought operates as action in James's novel. The poem referenced in the episode by Emily Dickinson can be found here. The name Dimmesdale refers to Hawthorne's _The Scarlet Letter_ (see episode 3) and the name Vere to Melville's _Billy Budd, Sailor_ (see episode 5). For more information on James on cognition and action, see Jonathan Levin's Poetics of Transition, here. Join us on Goodreads goo.gl/T7Waw1. Contact @profomalley
This week on StoryWeb: Nathaniel Hawthorne’s novel “The Scarlet Letter.” “What we did had a consecration of its own.” So says Hester Prynne to Arthur Dimmesdale in Nathaniel Hawthorne’s 1850 novel, The Scarlet Letter. When I was 15 and reading the novel for the first time in my high school American literature class, I had no idea what Hester – she of the scarlet letter – meant. But as I got older, as I experienced my own deep connections with others, I came to understand Hester very well. In her view, her forest rendezvous with Dimmesdale was not lustful fornication but sacred, holy lovemaking, lovemaking that honored both of them. If you read (or read about) The Scarlet Letter in high school and haven’t touched it since, I highly encourage you to give it another chance. I don’t think it is a book for teenagers, for they do not have nearly enough life experience to understand the bond between Hester and Dimmesdale. They can’t fathom what each gives up – or considers giving up – for the other. (Other teachers, however, report some success with teaching the complex moral novel in high school. See Brenda Wineapple’s essay “The Scarlet Letter and Nathaniel Hawthorne’s America,” and David Denby’s piece “Is It Still Possible to Teach The Scarlet Letter in High School?”) If you’re ready to read The Scarlet Letter for the first time or if you’re ready to read it again, you can read the book online for free or buy a hard copy for your collection. Don’t bother with any of the wretched film adaptations (especially the 1995 version starring Demi Moore as Hester). Just stick with the novel itself. Your own imagination will bring the book to life! Once you’ve got the book in hand, it’s best to start with Hawthorne’s opening essay, “The Custom House.” Many readers skip it, wanting to move ahead to the story. But “The Custom House” is key to the novel in so many ways. It tells of Hawthorne’s years working as the chief executive officer of the Salem, Massachusetts, Custom House. Salem, of course, was the site of the heinous Salem Witch Trials. In 1692, the Puritans “pressed” one man to death and hung fourteen women and five men, all of them falsely convicted of witchcraft. Salem was Hawthorne’s hometown, his long-time ancestral home. In fact, one of his direct ancestors was Justice John Hathorne; he was the chief interrogator of the accused witches. So distressed and estranged was Hawthorne by his family’s participation in the Salem Witch Trials that he changed the spelling of his surname, thereby distancing himself from the family legacy. In “The Custom House,” Hawthorne tells of his struggle to come to terms with his family’s past. He says, This long connection of a family with one spot, as its place of birth and burial, creates a kindred between the human being and the locality, quite independent of any charm in the scenery or moral circumstances that surround him. It is not love, but instinct. . . . It is no matter that the place is joyless for him; that he is weary of the old wooden houses, the mud and dust, the dead level of site and sentiment, the chill east wind, and the chillest of social atmospheres. . . . The spell survives, and just as powerfully as if the natal spot were an earthly paradise. So has it been in my case. I felt it almost as a destiny to make Salem my home. . . . Nevertheless, this very sentiment is an evidence that the connection, which has become an unhealthy one, should at last be severed. Later in the essay, Hawthorne tells of poking around one day in the “heaped-up rubbish” of the Custom House and finding a beautifully embroidered, red letter A, “a certain affair of fine red cloth, much worn and faded.” It had been wrought,” Hawthorne says, “with wonderful skill of needlework; and the stitch . . . gives evidence of a now forgotten art.” While puzzling over the meaning of the scarlet letter, Hawthorne places it on his chest. “I experienced a sensation not altogether physical, yet almost so, as of burning heat,” he writes. “as if the letter were not of red cloth, but red-hot iron.” Accompanying the scarlet letter, Hawthorne finds a “small roll of dingy paper,” which reveals that Hester Prynne had been the wearer of the letter. Hawthorne’s story of discovering the scarlet letter and finding out about Hester Prynne is completely fabricated as far as we know, but the reader is hooked. The novel that follows promises to tell the story of the infamous Hester Prynne and her even more infamous scarlet letter. While the story of the scarlet letter may be a figment of Hawthorne’s imagination, what is real is the harsh legacy of the 17th-century Puritans and Hawthorne’s own Transcendentalist-touched life in the 19th century. In a surprising and quite interesting turn of events, it was the descendants of the 17th-century Puritans who became the Transcendentalists – those fervent free thinkers – in the 19th century. I always imagine that the Puritans would have rolled over in their graves had they known what their heirs espoused. In fact, Hester can easily be seen as a Transcendentalist heroine set smack dab in a Puritan world. As Hawthorne created his heroine, he made her much more a product of the 19th century than the 17th century. As she “stand[s] alone in the world” and “cast[s] away the fragments of a broken chain,” she determines that “[t]he world’s law was no law for her mind.” Wearing her scarlet letter, “[i]n her lonesome cottage, by the sea-shore, thoughts visited her, such as dared to enter no other dwelling in New England.” In fact, says Hawthorne, “she might have come down to us in history, hand in hand with Anne Hutchinson, as the foundress of a religious sect. She might, in one of her phases, have been a prophetess.” No wonder Hester is ostracized from her community: she was much too dangerous for the small community of Boston! Ready to explore Hawthorne and The Scarlet Letter further? Start with an overview of Hawthorne’s relationship to his ancestral hometown, created by one of my students at Shepherd University and illustrated with photos of our 2002 trip to Salem. “Hawthorne in Salem” is another great website that helps the scene and the context for Hawthorne’s writing of The Scarlet Letter. For links to these resources, visit thestoryweb.com/hawthorne. Listen now as I read excerpts from the first three chapters of The Scarlet Letter. You’ll see Hester Prynne as she leaves the prison, walks to the scaffold to receive her punishment, and returns to her cell. A THRONG of bearded men, in sad-colored garments and gray, steeple-crowned hats, intermixed with women, some wearing hoods, and others bareheaded, was assembled in front of a wooden edifice, the door of which was heavily timbered with oak, and studded with iron spikes. The founders of a new colony, whatever Utopia of human virtue and happiness they might originally project, have invariably recognized it among their earliest practical necessities to allot a portion of the virgin soil as a cemetery, and another portion as the site of a prison. In accordance with this rule, it may safely be assumed that the forefathers of Boston had built the first prison-house, somewhere in the vicinity of Cornhill, almost as seasonably as they marked out the first burial-ground, on Isaac Johnson’s lot, and round about his grave, which subsequently became the nucleus of all the congregated sepulchres in the old church-yard of King’s Chapel. Certain it is, that, some fifteen or twenty years after the settlement of the town, the wooden jail was already marked with weather-stains and other indications of age, which gave a yet darker aspect to its beetle-browed and gloomy front. The rust on the ponderous iron-work of its oaken door looked more antique than any thing else in the new world. Like all that pertains to crime, it seemed never to have known a youthful era. Before this ugly edifice, and between it and the wheel-track of the street, was a grass-plot, much overgrown with burdock, pig-weed, apple-peru, and such unsightly vegetation, which evidently found something congenial in the soil that had so early borne the black flower of civilized society, a prison. But, on one side of the portal, and rooted almost at the threshold, was a wild rose-bush, covered, in this month of June, with its delicate gems, which might be imagined to offer their fragrance and fragile beauty to the prisoner as he went in, and to the condemned criminal as he came forth to his doom, in token that the deep heart of Nature could pity and be kind to him. THE GRASS-PLOT before the jail, in Prison Lane, on a certain summer morning, not less than two centuries ago, was occupied by a pretty large number of the inhabitants of Boston; all with their eyes intently fastened on the iron-clamped oaken door. Amongst any other population, or at a later period in the history of New England, the grim rigidity that petrified the bearded physiognomies of these good people would have augured some awful business in hand. It could have betokened nothing short of the anticipated execution of some noted culprit, on whom the sentence of a legal tribunal had but confirmed the verdict of public sentiment. But, in that early severity of the Puritan character, an inference of this kind could not so indubitably be drawn. It might be that a sluggish bond-servant, or an undutiful child, whom his parents had given over to the civil authority, was to be corrected at the whipping-post. It might be, that an Antinomian, a Quaker, or other heterodox religionist, was to be scourged out of the town, or an idle and vagrant Indian, whom the white man’s fire-water had made riotous about the streets, was to be driven with stripes into the shadow of the forest. It might be, too, that a witch, like old Mistress Hibbins, the bitter-tempered widow of the magistrate, was to die upon the gallows. In either case, there was very much the same solemnity of demeanour on the part of the spectators; as befitted a people amongst whom religion and law were almost identical, and in whose character both were so thoroughly interfused, that the mildest and the severest acts of public discipline were alike made venerable and awful. Meagre, indeed, and cold, was the sympathy that a transgressor might look for, from such bystanders at the scaffold. On the other hand, a penalty which, in our days, would infer a degree of mocking infamy and ridicule, might then be invested with almost as stern a dignity as the punishment of death itself. The door of the jail being flung open from within, there appeared, in the first place, like a black shadow emerging into sunshine, the grim and grisly presence of the town-beadle, with a sword by his side and his staff of office in his hand. This personage prefigured and represented in his aspect the whole dismal severity of the Puritanic code of law, which it was his business to administer in its final and closest application to the offender. Stretching forth the official staff in his left hand, he laid his right upon the shoulder of a young woman, whom he thus drew forward until, on the threshold of the prison-door, she repelled him, by an action marked with natural dignity and force of character, and stepped into the open air, as if by her own free-will. She bore in her arms a child, a baby of some three months old, who winked and turned aside its little face from the too vivid light of day; because its existence, heretofore, had brought it acquainted only with the gray twilight of a dungeon, or other darksome apartment of the prison. When the young woman—the mother of this child—stood fully revealed before the crowd, it seemed to be her first impulse to clasp the infant closely to her bosom; not so much by an impulse of motherly affection, as that she might thereby conceal a certain token, which was wrought or fastened into her dress. In a moment, however, wisely judging that one token of her shame would but poorly serve to hide another, she took the baby on her arm, and, with a burning blush, and yet a haughty smile, and a glance that would not be abashed, looked around at her townspeople and neighbours. On the breast of her gown, in fine red cloth, surrounded with an elaborate embroidery and fantastic flourishes of gold thread, appeared the letter A. It was so artistically done, and with so much fertility and gorgeous luxuriance of fancy, that it had all the effect of a last and fitting decoration to the apparel which she wore; and which was of a splendor in accordance with the taste of the age, but greatly beyond what was allowed by the sumptuary regulations of the colony. The young woman was tall, with a figure of perfect elegance, on a large scale. She had dark and abundant hair, so glossy that it threw off the sunshine with a gleam, and a face which, besides being beautiful from regularity of feature and richness of complexion, had the impressiveness belonging to a marked brow and deep black eyes. She was lady-like, too, after the manner of the feminine gentility of those days; characterized by a certain state and dignity, rather than by the delicate, evanescent, and indescribable grace, which is now recognized as its indication. And never had Hester Prynne appeared more lady-like, in the antique interpretation of the term, than as she issued from the prison. Those who had before known her, and had expected to behold her dimmed and obscured by a disastrous cloud, were astonished, and even startled, to perceive how her beauty shone out, and made a halo of the misfortune and ignominy in which she was enveloped. It may be true, that, to a sensitive observer, there was something exquisitely painful in it. Her attire, which, indeed, she had wrought for the occasion, in prison, and had modelled much after her own fancy, seemed to express the attitude of her spirit, the desperate recklessness of her mood, by its wild and picturesque peculiarity. But the point which drew all eyes, and, as it were, transfigured the wearer,—so that both men and women, who had been familiarly acquainted with Hester Prynne, were now impressed as if they beheld her for the first time,—was that SCARLET LETTER, so fantastically embroidered and illuminated upon her bosom. It had the effect of a spell, taking her out of the ordinary relations with humanity, and inclosing her in a sphere by herself. “She hath good skill at her needle, that’s certain,” remarked one of the female spectators; “but did ever a woman, before this brazen hussy, contrive such a way of showing it! Why, gossips, what is it but to laugh in the faces of our godly magistrates, and make a pride out of what they, worthy gentlemen, meant for a punishment?” “It were well,” muttered the most iron-visaged of the old dames, “if we stripped Madam Hester’s rich gown off her dainty shoulders; and as for the red letter, which she hath stitched so curiously, I’ll bestow a rag of mine own rheumatic flannel, to make a fitter one!” “O, peace, neighbours, peace!” whispered their youngest companion. “Do not let her hear you! Not a stitch in that embroidered letter, but she has felt it in her heart.” The grim beadle now made a gesture with his staff. “Make way, good people, make way, in the King’s name,” cried he. “Open a passage; and, I promise ye, Mistress Prynne shall be set where man, woman, and child may have a fair sight of her brave apparel, from this time till an hour past meridian. A blessing on the righteous Colony of the Massachusetts, where iniquity is dragged out into the sunshine! Come along, Madam Hester, and show your scarlet letter in the market-place!” A lane was forthwith opened through the crowd of spectators. Preceded by the beadle, and attended by an irregular procession of stern-browed men and unkindly-visaged women, Hester Prynne set forth towards the place appointed for her punishment. A crowd of eager and curious schoolboys, understanding little of the matter in hand, except that it gave them a half-holiday, ran before her progress, turning their heads continually to stare into her face, and at the winking baby in her arms, and at the ignominious letter on her breast. It was no great distance, in those days, from the prison-door to the market-place. Measured by the prisoner’s experience, however, it might be reckoned a journey of some length; for, haughty as her demeanour was, she perchance underwent an agony from every footstep of those that thronged to see her, as if her heart had been flung into the street for them all to spurn and trample upon. In our nature, however, there is a provision, alike marvellous and merciful, that the sufferer should never know the intensity of what he endures by its present torture, but chiefly by the pang that rankles after it. With almost a serene deportment, therefore, Hester Prynne passed through this portion of her ordeal, and came to a sort of scaffold, at the western extremity of the market-place. It stood nearly beneath the eaves of Boston’s earliest church, and appeared to be a fixture there. In fact, this scaffold constituted a portion of a penal machine, which now, for two or three generations past, has been merely historical and traditionary among us, but was held, in the old time, to be as effectual an agent in the promotion of good citizenship, as ever was the guillotine among the terrorists of France. It was, in short, the platform of the pillory; and above it rose the framework of that instrument of discipline, so fashioned as to confine the human head in its tight grasp, and thus hold it up to the public gaze. The very ideal of ignominy was embodied and made manifest in this contrivance of wood and iron. There can be no outrage, methinks, against our common nature,—whatever be the delinquencies of the individual,—no outrage more flagrant than to forbid the culprit to hide his face for shame; as it was the essence of this punishment to do. In Hester Prynne’s instance, however, as not unfrequently in other cases, her sentence bore, that she should stand a certain time upon the platform, but without undergoing that gripe about the neck and confinement of the head, the proneness to which was the most devilish characteristic of this ugly engine. Knowing well her part, she ascended a flight of wooden steps, and was thus displayed to the surrounding multitude, at about the height of a man’s shoulders above the street. Had there been a Papist among the crowd of Puritans, he might have seen in this beautiful woman, so picturesque in her attire and mien, and with the infant at her bosom, an object to remind him of the image of Divine Maternity, which so many illustrious painters have vied with one another to represent; something which should remind him, indeed, but only by contrast, of that sacred image of sinless motherhood, whose infant was to redeem the world. Here, there was the taint of deepest sin in the most sacred quality of human life, working such effect, that the world was only the darker for this woman’s beauty, and the more lost for the infant that she had borne. The scene was not without a mixture of awe, such as must always invest the spectacle of guilt and shame in a fellow-creature, before society shall have grown corrupt enough to smile, instead of shuddering, at it. The witnesses of Hester Prynne’s disgrace had not yet passed beyond their simplicity. They were stern enough to look upon her death, had that been the sentence, without a murmur at its severity, but had none of the heartlessness of another social state, which would find only a theme for jest in an exhibition like the present. Even had there been a disposition to turn the matter into ridicule, it must have been repressed and overpowered by the solemn presence of men no less dignified than the Governor, and several of his counsellors, a judge, a general, and the ministers of the town; all of whom sat or stood in a balcony of the meeting-house, looking down upon the platform. When such personages could constitute a part of the spectacle, without risking the majesty or reverence of rank and office, it was safely to be inferred that the infliction of a legal sentence would have an earnest and effectual meaning. Accordingly, the crowd was sombre and grave. The unhappy culprit sustained herself as best a woman might, under the heavy weight of a thousand unrelenting eyes, all fastened upon her, and concentrated at her bosom. It was almost intolerable to be borne. Of an impulsive and passionate nature, she had fortified herself to encounter the stings and venomous stabs of public contumely, wreaking itself in every variety of insult; but there was a quality so much more terrible in the solemn mood of the popular mind, that she longed rather to behold all those rigid countenances contorted with scornful merriment, and herself the object. Had a roar of laughter burst from the multitude,—each man, each woman, each little shrill-voiced child, contributing their individual parts,—Hester Prynne might have repaid them all with a bitter and disdainful smile. But, under the leaden infliction which it was her doom to endure, she felt, at moments, as if she must needs shriek out with the full power of her lungs, and cast herself from the scaffold down upon the ground, or else go mad at once. Yet there were intervals when the whole scene, in which she was the most conspicuous object, seemed to vanish from her eyes, or, at least, glimmered indistinctly before them, like a mass of imperfectly shaped and spectral images. Her mind, and especially her memory, was preternaturally active, and kept bringing up other scenes than this roughly hewn street of a little town, on the edge of the Western wilderness; other faces than were lowering upon her from beneath the brims of those steeple-crowned hats. Reminiscences, the most trifling and immaterial, passages of infancy and school-days, sports, childish quarrels, and the little domestic traits of her maiden years, came swarming back upon her, intermingled with recollections of whatever was gravest in her subsequent life; one picture precisely as vivid as another; as if all were of similar importance, or all alike a play. Possibly, it was an instinctive device of her spirit to relieve itself, by the exhibition of these phantasmagoric forms, from the cruel weight and hardness of the reality. Be that as it might, the scaffold of the pillory was a point of view that revealed to Hester Prynne the entire track along which she had been treading, since her happy infancy. Standing on that miserable eminence, she saw again her native village, in Old England, and her paternal home; a decayed house of gray stone, with a poverty-stricken aspect, but retaining a half-obliterated shield of arms over the portal, in token of antique gentility. She saw her father’s face, with its bold brow, and reverend white beard, that flowed over the old-fashioned Elizabethan ruff; her mother’s, too, with the look of heedful and anxious love which it always wore in her remembrance, and which, even since her death, had so often laid the impediment of a gentle remonstrance in her daughter’s pathway. She saw her own face, glowing with girlish beauty, and illuminating all the interior of the dusky mirror in which she had been wont to gaze at it. There she beheld another countenance, of a man well stricken in years, a pale, thin, scholar-like visage, with eyes dim and bleared by the lamp-light that had served them to pore over many ponderous books. Yet those same bleared optics had a strange, penetrating power, when it was their owner’s purpose to read the human soul. This figure of the study and the cloister, as Hester Prynne’s womanly fancy failed not to recall, was slightly deformed, with the left shoulder a trifle higher than the right. Next rose before her, in memory’s picture-gallery, the intricate and narrow thoroughfares, the tall, gray houses, the huge cathedrals, and the public edifices, ancient in date and quaint in architecture, of a Continental city; where a new life had awaited her, still in connection with the misshapen scholar; a new life, but feeding itself on time-worn materials, like a tuft of green moss on a crumbling wall. Lastly, in lieu of these shifting scenes, came back the rude market-place of the Puritan settlement, with all the townspeople assembled and levelling their stern regards at Hester Prynne,—yes, at herself,—who stood on the scaffold of the pillory, an infant on her arm, and the letter A, in scarlet, fantastically embroidered with gold thread, upon her bosom! Could it be true? She clutched the child so fiercely to her breast, that it sent forth a cry; she turned her eyes downward at the scarlet letter, and even touched it with her finger, to assure herself that the infant and the shame were real. Yes!—these were her realities,—all else had vanished! Hester Prynne had been standing on her pedestal, still with a fixed gaze towards the stranger; so fixed a gaze, that, at moments of intense absorption, all other objects in the visible world seemed to vanish, leaving only him and her. Such an interview, perhaps, would have been more terrible than even to meet him as she now did, with the hot, mid-day sun burning down upon her face, and lighting up its shame; with the scarlet token of infamy on her breast; with the sin-born infant in her arms; with a whole people, drawn forth as to a festival, staring at the features that should have been seen only in the quiet gleam of the fireside, in the happy shadow of a home, or beneath a matronly veil, at church. Dreadful as it was, she was conscious of a shelter in the presence of these thousand witnesses. It was better to stand thus, with so many betwixt him and her, than to greet him, face to face, they two alone. She fled for refuge, as it were, to the public exposure, and dreaded the moment when its protection should be withdrawn from her. Involved in these thoughts, she scarcely heard a voice behind her, until it had repeated her name more than once, in a loud and solemn tone, audible to the whole multitude. “Hearken unto me, Hester Prynne!” said the voice. It has already been noticed, that directly over the platform on which Hester Prynne stood was a kind of balcony, or open gallery, appended to the meeting-house. It was the place whence proclamations were wont to be made, amidst an assemblage of the magistracy, with all the ceremonial that attended such public observances in those days. Here, to witness the scene which we are describing, sat Governor Bellingham himself, with four sergeants about his chair, bearing halberds, as a guard of honor. He wore a dark feather in his hat, a border of embroidery on his cloak, and a black velvet tunic beneath; a gentleman advanced in years, and with a hard experience written in his wrinkles. He was not ill fitted to be the head and representative of a community, which owed its origin and progress, and its present state of development, not to the impulses of youth, but to the stern and tempered energies of manhood, and the sombre sagacity of age; accomplishing so much, precisely because it imagined and hoped so little. The other eminent characters, by whom the chief ruler was surrounded, were distinguished by a dignity of mien, belonging to a period when the forms of authority were felt to possess the sacredness of divine institutions. They were, doubtless, good men, just, and sage. But, out of the whole human family, it would not have been easy to select the same number of wise and virtuous persons, who should he less capable of sitting in judgment on an erring woman’s heart, and disentangling its mesh of good and evil, than the sages of rigid aspect towards whom Hester Prynne now turned her face. She seemed conscious, indeed, that whatever sympathy she might expect lay in the larger and warmer heart of the multitude; for, as she lifted her eyes towards the balcony, the unhappy woman grew pale and trembled. The voice which had called her attention was that of the reverend and famous John Wilson, the eldest clergyman of Boston, a great scholar, like most of his contemporaries in the profession, and withal a man of kind and genial spirit. This last attribute, however, had been less carefully developed than his intellectual gifts, and was, in truth, rather a matter of shame than self-congratulation with him. There he stood, with a border of grizzled locks beneath his skull-cap; while his gray eyes, accustomed to the shaded light of his study, were winking, like those of Hester’s infant, in the unadulterated sunshine. He looked like the darkly engraved portraits which we see prefixed to old volumes of sermons; and had no more right than one of those portraits would have, to step forth, as he now did, and meddle with a question of human guilt, passion, and anguish. “Hester Prynne,” said the clergyman, “I have striven with my young brother here, under whose preaching of the word you have been privileged to sit,”—here Mr. Wilson laid his hand on the shoulder of a pale young man beside him,—“I have sought, I say, to persuade this godly youth, that he should deal with you, here in the face of Heaven, and before these wise and upright rulers, and in hearing of all the people, as touching the vileness and blackness of your sin. Knowing your natural temper better than I, he could the better judge what arguments to use, whether of tenderness or terror, such as might prevail over your hardness and obstinacy; insomuch that you should no longer hide the name of him who tempted you to this grievous fall. But he opposes to me, (with a young man’s oversoftness, albeit wise beyond his years,) that it were wronging the very nature of woman to force her to lay open her heart’s secrets in such broad daylight, and in presence of so great a multitude. Truly, as I sought to convince him, the shame lay in the commission of the sin, and not in the showing of it forth. What say you to it, once again, brother Dimmesdale? Must it be thou or I that shall deal with this poor sinner’s soul?” There was a murmur among the dignified and reverend occupants of the balcony; and Governor Bellingham gave expression to its purport, speaking in an authoritative voice, although tempered with respect towards the youthful clergyman whom he addressed. “Good Master Dimmesdale,” said he, “the responsibility of this woman’s soul lies greatly with you. It behooves you, therefore, to exhort her to repentance, and to confession, as a proof and consequence thereof.” The directness of this appeal drew the eyes of the whole crowd upon the Reverend Mr. Dimmesdale; young clergyman, who had come from one of the great English universities, bringing all the learning of the age into our wild forest-land. His eloquence and religious fervor had already given the earnest of high eminence in his profession. He was a person of very striking aspect, with a white, lofty, and impending brow, large, brown, melancholy eyes, and a mouth which, unless when he forcibly compressed it, was apt to be tremulous, expressing both nervous sensibility and a vast power of self-restraint. Notwithstanding his high native gifts and scholar-like attainments, there was an air about this young minister,—an apprehensive, a startled, a half-frightened look,—as of a being who felt himself quite astray and at a loss in the pathway of human existence, and could only be at ease in some seclusion of his own. Therefore, so far as his duties would permit, he trode in the shadowy by-paths, and thus kept himself simple and childlike; coming forth, when occasion was, with a freshness, and fragrance, and dewy purity of thought, which, as many people said, affected them like the speech of an angel. Such was the young man whom the Reverend Mr. Wilson and the Governor had introduced so openly to the public notice, bidding him speak, in the hearing of all men, to that mystery of a woman’s soul, so sacred even in its pollution. The trying nature of his position drove the blood from his cheek, and made his lips tremulous. “Speak to the woman, my brother,” said Mr. Wilson. “It is of moment to her soul, and therefore, as the worshipful Governor says, momentous to thine own, in whose charge hers is. Exhort her to confess the truth!” The Reverend Mr. Dimmesdale bent his head, in silent prayer, as it seemed, and then came forward. “Hester Prynne,” said he, leaning over the balcony, and looking down stedfastly into her eyes, “thou hearest what this good man says, and seest the accountability under which I labor. If thou feelest it to be for thy soul’s peace, and that thy earthly punishment will thereby be made more effectual to salvation, I charge thee to speak out the name of thy fellow-sinner and fellow-sufferer! Be not silent from any mistaken pity and tenderness for him; for, believe me, Hester, though he were to step down from a high place, and stand there beside thee, on thy pedestal of shame, yet better were it so, than to hide a guilty heart through life. What can thy silence do for him, except it tempt him—yea, compel him, as it were—to add hypocrisy to sin? Heaven hath granted thee an open ignominy, that thereby thou mayest work out an open triumph over the evil within thee, and the sorrow without. Take heed how thou deniest to him—who, perchance, hath not the courage to grasp it for himself—the bitter, but wholesome, cup that is now presented to thy lips!” The young pastor’s voice was tremulously sweet, rich, deep, and broken. The feeling that it so evidently manifested, rather than the direct purport of the words, caused it to vibrate within all hearts, and brought the listeners into one accord of sympathy. Even the poor baby, at Hester’s bosom, was affected by the same influence; for it directed its hitherto vacant gaze towards Mr. Dimmesdale, and held up its little arms, with a half pleased, half plaintive murmur. So powerful seemed the minister’s appeal, that the people could not believe but that Hester Prynne would speak out the guilty name; or else that the guilty one himself, in whatever high or lowly place he stood, would be drawn forth by an inward and inevitable necessity, and compelled to ascend the scaffold. Hester shook her head. “Woman, transgress not beyond the limits of Heaven’s mercy!” cried the Reverend Mr. Wilson, more harshly than before. “That little babe hath been gifted with a voice, to second and confirm the counsel which thou hast heard. Speak out the name! That, and thy repentance, may avail to take the scarlet letter off thy breast.” “Never!” replied Hester Prynne, looking, not at Mr. Wilson, but into the deep and troubled eyes of the younger clergyman. “It is too deeply branded. Ye cannot take it off. And would that I might endure his agony, as well as mine!” “Speak, woman!” said another voice, coldly and sternly, proceeding from the crowd about the scaffold. “Speak; and give your child a father!” “I will not speak!” answered Hester, turning pale as death, but responding to this voice, which she too surely recognized. “And my child must seek a heavenly Father; she shall never know an earthly one!” “She will not speak!” murmured Mr. Dimmesdale, who, leaning over the balcony, with his hand upon his heart, had awaited the result of his appeal. He now drew back, with a long respiration. “Wondrous strength and generosity of a woman’s heart! She will not speak!” Discerning the impracticable state of the poor culprit’s mind, the elder clergyman, who had carefully prepared himself for the occasion, addressed to the multitude a discourse on sin, in all its branches, but with continual reference to the ignominious letter. So forcibly did he dwell upon this symbol, for the hour or more during which his periods were rolling over the people’s heads, that it assumed new terrors in their imagination, and seemed to derive its scarlet hue from the flames of the infernal pit. Hester Prynne, meanwhile, kept her place upon the pedestal of shame, with glazed eyes, and an air of weary indifference. She had borne, that morning, all that nature could endure; and as her temperament was not of the order that escapes from too intense suffering by a swoon, her spirit could only shelter itself beneath a stony crust of insensibility, while the faculties of animal life remained entire. In this state, the voice of the preacher thundered remorselessly, but unavailingly, upon her ears. The infant, during the latter portion of her ordeal, pierced the air with its wailings and screams; she strove to hush it, mechanically, but seemed scarcely to sympathize with its trouble. With the same hard demeanour, she was led back to prison, and vanished from the public gaze within its iron-clamped portal. It was whispered, by those who peered after her, that the scarlet letter threw a lurid gleam along the dark passage-way of the interior.
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