The Scaffold
Hester's public shame in the market place, up until the point when she is urged to denounce her fellow sinner, from her point of view.
How many times had I wished to be free of that dark, loathsome prison; how many times had I longed to feel the warmth of sunshine and the coolness of the fresh sea-wind on my face? But now, the door at last being flung open, I had no desire but to run back inside, to hide myself from the stares and shame in the shadows of that grim building. I was on the verge of turning and running back into the jail, when the town beadle put his hand on my shoulder, to propel me across the threshold out into the brightness of day. At his touch, a new surge of terror came over me; the only thing worse than going willingly out into the market place, with that hideous thing on my dress, and enduring the scornful, pitiless stares of all the townspeople, would be to be dragged out. I paused for a moment, steeled myself against what was to come, and made a split-second decision. I would not be ashamed before them all. Let them stare, no matter how long they looked they would see only a strong, beautiful woman, proud and impenitent, with the most perfect baby ever born in her arms. If they had come to see the spectacle of a woman hiding her face, reduced to tears of shame and humiliation, they would be sadly disappointed. Did I owe them anything? Why should I give them a show?
I felt the heat of a blush in my cheeks, but a fiercer fire burned within, a stubborn refusal to give in. I felt somehow, that if I once showed them any weakness, I would never be able to forget this day, that if I once lost it I would never get it back together as long as I lived. My decision made, a haughty smile found its way to my lips quite effortlessly. I shifted Pearl to my other arm, showing the scarlet letter for all to see. I had embroidered it beautifully- only because I was bored and lonely in jail and desperate to create some kind of beauty from which I could take comfort- but now I realized that it made a statement of defiance against the judgment laid on me, and I was fiercely glad.
The walk to the scaffold was a short one, but it seemed to take forever. People everywhere, a sea of grim and disapproving faces, scathing comments hissed in a pretense at whispering- I felt about to be swept away in the flood of self-righteous, condemning humanity, and it was suddenly very hard to breathe. After a moment, though, I regained by self-control. My focus narrowed only to what was right in front of me. I stared straight ahead, head high, my expression calm, thinking nothing but one foot in front of the other, one step, two steps, three steps... I became completely numb, sensing vaguely that I hated this walk, that it was intolerable, that if it lasted much longer I was going to scream or faint or run and throw myself into the sea, but I really didn't much care. It was as if this were a dream- one of those dreams just before you wake up, where you know that you are dreaming, because nothing makes sense, but you just can't quite pull yourself out of the dream.
When at last I came to the scaffold, I ascended the steps without hesitation, borne up and strengthened by a sudden, irrational rush of euphoria. I had survived the first part of my ordeal, and thus far, I had neither lowered my gaze nor wept nor cringed in desperate shame from the judgmental gazes of the spectators, nor shown weakness in any way. I can do this! I can actually survive this. It's not so bad, I'll be fine, they cannot break me. No matter what they do, they have no power to shame me.
This rush of triumphant self-confidence and defiance was short-lived. It dissipated all too quickly, leaving me alone upon that platform of shame with nothing to lean on and no where to hide. The urge to bury my face in my hands, to turn away, to do anything to escape from the unsympathetic gaze of that stern and unforgiving crowd, became almost irresistible. It would have been so much easier had they laughed and jeered. I had steeled myself for taunting, and I could have returned every insult with a scornful, bitter smile. But the crowd just stood there, in grim silence, watching, solemn, damning. I had never felt more utterly alone and rejected.
But the censure of the gathered throng was not the worst part. No, by far the worst suffering I endured upon that scaffold was the slow, painful death of an expectation that was part hope, part dread. Before I ascended the scaffold, I had acknowledged only the dread, but now, standing on that pillory of shame, I came to realize that the hope was by far the larger part. Above the platform, on the meeting-house balcony, stood the Reverend Dimmesdale- the father of my child, the man I had once loved- still loved, although I had not spoken to him for some time. As I had seen him upon ascending the scaffold steps, my heart had been seized with terror that he might denounce himself, confess his crime, and- although this I would not acknowledge even to myself- his love for me. As the courage that had carried me up those steps waned, however, and the Reverend did not speak, I realized with sinking heart that I desperately wanted him to speak. I wanted to know that someone cared, that there was one person who did not judge me without compassion. I wanted to know that he loved me enough to give up everything for me, and yet I also dreaded what might befall him when he did confess. If he confesses, I amended sadly.
Slowly, my soul writhing in the grip of desperate hope and dread conflicting, I suffered through the death of that expectation. I do not remember when exactly I knew for certain that he would not speak. I knew that if he did not accept responsibility for his child and his sin here and now, while I stood on this scaffold to be reproved by all, that he never would. I tried to make myself glad for him, to tell myself that there was no reason for him to suffer too, but it availed little.
I would not denounce him myself- no, never. I did not care whether I shouldered only my own burden of shame, or his and mine both. If he would not confess of his own volition, then let him retain the respect of the people. I would take no pleasure in seeing him punished, but only in knowing that he cared too much to let me bear the injustice of suffering the shame of our crime alone- and this, only his voluntary confession could give me. It was not the silent scorn of the townspeople that hurt me most, but the silence of my lover.
After awhile, my mind began to wander. Visions swam before my eyes, of happier places and happier times. For a time- I do not know how long- I forgot completely where I was. When I finally came back to reality- when my vision cleared of memories, and my eyes beheld the accusing crowd, and rough scaffold, and Pearl, and that hideous thing fastened on my dress- it was as terrible a shock as being plunged into an icy river in January. I convulsively tightened my grip on Pearl so that she let out a cry, and then for a moment I was able to divert my attention to comforting my child. All too soon, though, she was quiet, and there was nothing else for me to do but simply stand there. I could feel the eyes of all among the crowd boring into me, burning like hot coals. The agony of shame was so intense as to be an almost physical pain. I had to just concentrate on breathing for a minute. I found myself wondering how much longer this could last, and thinking that if it didn't end soon I was going to lose my mind completely, and start screaming my head off, or pitch myself off the scaffold. The only comfort I had to cling to was the knowledge that I had thus far kept my composure, outwardly at least; that the awful throng was not getting the spectacle it had come for, and that I had given them no indication that I felt in the least ashamed or humiliated. In my mind, this ordeal had become a kind of grim contest between me and the crowd- would they wear me down, or would I be able to maintain my resolve throughout?
It was then that I saw him. He was standing on the edge of the crowd, beside an Indian man. Although I had not seen him in years, I recognized him instantly. A short, thin man, with a furrowed brow, intelligent features, his spine deformed so that one shoulder was higher than the other. My husband.
The shock of seeing him instantly erased all other thoughts from my mind. The awareness of the watching crowd receded from my consciousness in a blur. It seemed that in all the world, at that instant, there were only the two of us. I remember now that I once again squeezed my baby convulsively in my arms, and that she cried out, but at the time I did not even notice. My attention was held entirely captive by the appearance of this all-too-familiar stranger from the past. I thought he was dead! God in heaven, what cruel fate is this? This is THE WORST POSSIBLE TIME for him to show up.
My eyes fixed inexorably on his face, I saw his expression change as he recognized me. His shock must have been as great or greater than my own. Horror writhed like lightning across his features, but was just as quickly controlled and replaced by an expression of calm, all the shock and anguish pulled down into himself like a log into quicksand. He saw that I recognized him, and placed a finger across his lips, commanding my silence. Even if he had not done so, I was too stunned to speak.
He turned and began speaking to a townsman next to him- probably finding out why I was standing up here. I stared at him without really seeing him, or anything else. A moment ago, I would have given anything to escape from the stern and critical scrutiny of the crowd. Now, I was dreading that time when I would descend from the scaffold. The crowd served as a buffer between me and my husband, but eventually I would have to face him without the bulwark of a crowd of townspeople between us. We would meet, just the two of us.
There would be yet another ordeal for me to face that day.