4

Red Spells and Peacock Blue Silences

Arthur Dimmesdale could feel his heart stopping when he beheld, out of the window, the beaming apparition of a woman below, walking past the house, a scarlet rose laced on her bosom. Her look was absent, and yet happy; a radiant smile lingered on her fleshy lips. It took the young minister a few seconds to come back to his senses and realize that he actually knew her; she was, Hester Prynne; her new parishioner. However she seemed to be a different woman. Man of God as he was, he was still a man, and had not been oblivious of her exceptional beauty since the first time they met. Nonetheless, a latent sadness and melancholy on her features had concealed until then the glitter of this hidden treasure. The rose, he noticed in wonder, seemed to come from Jack Firestone's garden. He could not remember Firestone's cutting even the most dissatisfying and timid specimen of his precious jewels before. His eyes followed the young woman until she disappeared in the corner of the window.

As soon as she was out of sight, he knew the feeling of the dreamer waking up from the wonderful world of fantasy, slightly blinking. His young brow immediately darkened with sullen gloom, and he turned to the bed next to him, where the pale boy laid motionless and scarcely breathing, as if already in his coffin. His mother had not left his side since the accident, and even though her features were tired from the constant wake and her hair dishevelled, she would not move.

He had been praying with her for the recovery of the child; Even before the beginning of his early ministry, Young Master Dimmesdale had seen God's subtle, yet powerful hand in his life, and learned to obey Him faithfully in the midst of tempest. However, the state of the child gave him little hope, unlike the godly mother. Yet he went on praying out of obedience to God, who commanded to pray for the sick and the broken-hearted.

The sun was almost set, and now his tired mind, which had hitherto drifted to the concern of his sermon, now almost instinctively lingered over the beauty of Hester Prynne, the apparition still so vivid in his mind though away from his eyes. He had known beautiful women, and she had to be one of the most gorgeous creatures –he quickly broke off the stream of his wandering thoughts when he was conscious of their rebellion to his theocratic dominion. With treasures of godly will, he sternly sheltered his mind against them, yet could not hold back a sight in response to the pain now awaken in his heart.

"Thank you so much for coming, Good Master Dimmesdale" said the voice of the wretched woman behind him, and he turned around, fearing that she might have heard him and detected a sign of boredom.

She smiled at him with motherly, though weary eyes.

"It is late now, and you need to rest from your duties. Tomorrow is Sunday"

The young minister laid his hand on the rigid brow of the boy. He could not even see the small chest rising under the blanket.

"I shall come back tomorrow", he promised.

"Please, do nothing of it. You have many duties to perform and I am not the only parishioner you have."

"I shall come nonetheless" he insisted kindly, yet firmly, and took his leave.

On the threshold he met the unhappy father, officer Power, who was coming home from the house of the governor. He looked all the more depressed that there seemed to be, mixed with the natural gloom such a fateful blow implied, the underground growling of dark thoughts and resentment. The man, so it seemed to Dimmesdale, was obsessed with a growing idea that seemed everyday clearer to him and more obscure to any external observer, and that he would not willingly confess.

"What do you think, Good Master Dimmesdale?" he asked bluntly.

"I beg your pardon?"

"The horse is a good horse, and a sweet horse." He went on with a low voice, blank with indefinable feelings.

"Horses can be unpredictable", Dimmesdale ventured with infinite patience, since Power, in his disbelief, had been stubbornly repeating the same objection since the accident. "In my early years, I was unseated by my father's stallion myself, and had my father not been swift enough to catch me, I would surely be dead now".

Such fixity of thought worried the reverend. What would come out of it eventually?

"The servant told me the boy suddenly became convulsive; the horse was scared, and got out of control. Arthur, I do not understand…Well, actually I think I do."

"What do you mean?" Dimmesdale inquired with concern.

Officer Power eventually fixed his errand eyes on him; for a moment, he seemed to deliberate with himself, then, trembling, he drew closer in a gesture of confession.

"God knows I am a wretched sinner; I have behaved badly my whole life, and I am not worthy of his mercy."

"None of us is" the young minister replied cautiously, utterly puzzled by the man's strange behaviour, as he could see no relation between the horse and that sudden mea culpa.

"But" Officer Power went on with a flickering voice, "I am not proud of my sins…what happened with Judith…"

"God forgave you about Judith" Dimmesdale softly interrupted. "Have you not confessed your sin and repented? Have you not done penance?"

"I…I have not told you everything"

"You do not have to. This is between you and God, and I am no papist to tell you otherwise"

"Still, I should have told you! For now, I believe…."

He stopped, unable to go further. Arthur Dimmesdale felt his own apprehension growing. His acute sensibility could perceive a horrible monster hiding behind this silence.

"Speak, then, if speaking may relieve your conscience." He eventually encouraged him. "However, it is not within my power to understand, nor to forgive, nor to judge."

"I have not told you who the other man was", Power hardly explained. His voice was now so low it was close to breaking. "And now, I fear the secret may cause my ruin. And not only my ruin, but also that of many others…"

"Explain yourself!" Dimmesdale summoned him, growing impatient and alarmed.

But the man now fearfully stepped back, as if realizing he had gone too far; then he hastily walked away from the reverend, muttering to himself "What have I done? What have I done?" Dimmesdale, too dumbfounded to run after him, could scarcely recognize in this lost creature the man he once knew.

Has the man lost his mind?

Arthur Dimmesdale resolved to talk to Officer Pride the next morning after the service, wishfully hoping the night would grant him the time to gather his senses. He slowly walked home with the mind full of concerns that had been his daily bread for a few weeks already. When he arrived at the pension, delicious smells drifting out of the kitchen into the common room assaulted his sleepy appetite. He realized he was hungry; he could hear female voices coming from the kitchen too.

"Mistress Prynne admirably conceals her pain, I grant you that. But sorrow can never escape my noticing"

It was the young servant Ann Blackwell speaking. The voice of Mistress Jones, the widow of the pension, replied:

"I think your sixth sense fooled you, then, and I will ask you to stop nosing around."

"I know nothing of this Mister Prynne" Ann angrily persisted. "But I know he must be a callous fellow, to prefer his business, whatever they could be, to his own wife! "

"Hold your tongue, Ann!"

Arthur Dimmesdale's naturally compassionate nature enjoined him to stay where he was, unnoticed, and to learn more about Mistress Prynne. Could the radiant young woman he had seen in the street be only an illusion? If so, he would not have been surprised, for the effect of her sudden apparition had proved too dazzling for him to handle. However, as his conscience resented listening at the door, he stepped openly into the kitchen and displayed a peaceful smile.

"God bless you, Goodwives"

Mistress Highaway, Mistress Jones and the servant Ann were absorbed in the preparation of the dinner; a big pumpkin was cut in two in the middle of the table, in the process of being minced by Ann's ruthless hands, while Mistress Highaway, sitting on a chair, peeled vegetables next to the fireplace. Mistress Jones rolled out a pastry, likely to be the base of a prospective pie.

"How good to see you, Master Dimmesdale" Mistress Highaway greeted him with the warmness she always showed for young people. "And what a surprise to see you so early! I guess I will not have to save you a share tonight."

"Not tonight, indeed. Do you mind if I occupy the desk after dinner?"

"Of course I don't. Dear Lord! Methinks you lost weight lately, my good reverend. You work so hard!" she sighted. "I hope you will enjoy the dinner tonight"

"You know I always do, Good Mistress Highaway."

He was burning to ask about Mistress Prynne. However, he held his tongue, poured himself a glass of water and left the women to their gossiping.

"Master Dimmesdale does not look that good neither, does he?" Ann observed once he was out of earshot.

"Praise be to God, he looks better than two weeks ago!" Mistress Jones categorically retorted.

"I have it he is recovering from something" the young servant judiciously insisted.

"Will you stop rummaging through people's privacy? For Heaven's sake!"

Dimmesdale walked up the stairs and entered his room. His small bed in the left hand corner of the room scarcely left enough space to pace the floor at ease. Soon, he told himself, he would have to move somewhere else –he needed more space for his books and a private place for his studies. Somewhere he would not have to wait for the silent peace of the night to fully concentrate. Not that his many tasks granted him so much time for study –this new way of practical living was so different from his candle-lit days in Oxford–but he nevertheless preferred a studious solitude that could have seemed contrary to the social imperatives of a pastor. This constant need to share his person with his flock, though he admirably concealed it, exhausted this young man : his reserved and shy nature disposed him more to withdraw in pious retirements. Had he been of the old and depraved faith of Rome, he would have been fit for the cloister. His spirit of sacrifice through his daily duties was stronger than the urges of his nature; but when the night came, Arthur Dimmesdale would give himself away to his unleashed passion and read until sleep would knock him off upon his books. His nights were unreasonably short and his duty heavy for his young shoulders; yet the inner fire that burnt into this fervent soul kept his strength awake and his will ready, until the harassing cries for mercy of his exhausted body –this precious God-given body that, if ever listened to, would prevent so many of man's follies! –would force him to surrender. There, on the very floor of this room, the young reverend could remember uncomfortable, yet inspired and frenzy night spent writing, oblivious of his strained limbs and hurting knees, when divine revelation would come on him like a rushing tide and prove impossible to resist in the middle of the night.

The air of the room was musty. Arthur Dimmesdale took off his mantle and headed for the window to open it. It was almost dark outside and the birds sang the last songs of the day in the woods slowly falling asleep. For a short moment, the young man swooned into silent prayer, leant on the ledge, the perfumes of the drowsy earth lifting it up like incense. A faint sound came to his ears: human sights, almost sobs. Troubled in his prayers, he opened his eyes and searched through the darkness the shadow of the desperate soul, but nothing moved under the window except the trees muttering in the evening wind. The sobs turned into a sad humming, among soft noises of crumpled cloth and the dry purr of threads being woven. Dimmesdale suddenly understood that the sounds came from above. Hester Prynne was upstairs, embroidering at the window! He stood still for a while, as if he feared any unfortunate gesture might make her flee like a fearful sparrow. Surely, it was an unreal situation, he thought, to be in another room and still have access to her most complete intimacy without her noticing! Here again, his sense of decency urged him to close the window and leave the young woman to her privacy; on the other hand, he was afraid to attract her attention by doing so and thus reveal his intrusion – a strange concern, we daresay, since there was no reason that Hester Prynne, lost in her thoughts and absorbed by her work, should take notice of his closing the window when she had not even taken heed of his opening it. Fortunately, Dimmesdale's dignity was saved by the raising wind, which led the woman to retire inside and close the window.

At last, the reverend allowed himself to breathe and gave thanks to God in his heart.

When it was dinnertime, Hester Prynne paused to compose herself in front of the mirror, anxious to erase from her features and her way of carrying any sign of the emotional surge of the afternoon. Through the mirror, she could see Mr Firestone's rose, delicately slid into a glass of water next to her bed. The sight provoked a faint smile. Mr Firestone surely knew how to treat women; he knew the art of making her feel exceedingly exceptional. Could it be that he had been courting her? The thought was not unpleasant to Hester, even though she had enough moral to be ashamed of it. Nevertheless, Firestone's behaviour was so subtle and so devoid of any inappropriate gesture or looks she could hardly determine whether to attribute it to chivalry or to seduction.

When the young woman had fully mastered herself again, she walked down the stairs. However, the evening had reserved to poor Hester further emotional ordeal, for she soon unveiled Mistress Highaway's plan to place her next to Reverend Dimmesdale at the table. It was undisputable that the caring landlady meant well–she was indeed confident in Dimmesdale's ability to bring comfort and hope to his listeners, even when he was not preaching. "Our saint shall bring her joy, whatever saddens her" had she signified to her friend Mrs Jones with a knowing nod –but sadly enough, she could not have chosen a more awkward arrangement, for the two young people, since their first encounter in uncomfortably intimate circumstances, had for each other contradictory feelings of silent understanding and defiance. Now invited to sit next to each other, they first instinctively avoided each other's looks; but the pastor in Dimmesdale scolded him for such uncharitable behaviour, and he silently took upon himself to make the evening as comfortable as possible to Hester Prynne.

"Good Master Dimmesdale, would you like to say grace for us?"

"Certainly"

The guest bowed their heads, and the reverend spoke a prayer. Even though this prayer was short, every word of it was so deeply meaningful and tenderly spoken, that the emotion of Arthur Dimmesdale's vibrant faith permeated the surrounding guests and stirred Hester's heart.

This man…she thought in wonder.

Everybody sat down, and slowly, the guests started to speak everywhere around the table. Dimmesdale turned to her, and as often when he did, Hester looked away. She did not realize that her gesture could be perceived by the outside look as a sign of arrogance or impatience, and it was likely that Arthur Dimmesdale felt unwanted.

"How was your day, Mistress Prynne? I hope you are getting used to the air of the New World and to the American lifestyle."

"More and more, Good Sir." She lied. "Thank you for your consideration."

"It occurred to me that Mistress Warburton is very fond of you." At least, so the young bride had confessed to him not long before. "Has she introduced you to the young sisters of the church?"

"Yes." Hester was startled that he should know. "In fact, she invited me to the sewing afternoon at Mistress Jones' today."

When she dared to look up at him, he smiled to her.

"The former minister told me Mistress Warburton has always taken to heart the mentoring of the young ones. The sewing afternoons were her idea. Until then, there was no circle for the young girls of the church to meet, and the young married women would find themselves with ladies far beyond their age. Have you enjoyed it?"

While he spoke, Hester told herself that peacock blue would suit his pale skin and black curls heavenly well.

"I believe I have. These are…high-spirited young sisters we have here."

Hester bit her tongue. She had spoken foolishly. As Dimmesdale's pleasant brow turned more puzzled at these words, she swiftly added:

"How is Officer Power? I heard the boy is still unconscious"

The question, to Hester's surprise, seemed to make the reverend uneasy.

"To speak the truth, I believe he is deeply distraught" he almost muttered.

"And the mother?"

"She is strong."

All of sudden, Hester was overcome by the feeling of her own foolishness; she was burning inside. The two of them had so much more to tell each other, this woman heart thought. Had she been the only one to be so deeply moved that day at the church, when she had caught his eyes? She could neither believe it, nor accept it. Besides, it would be misleading to believe that Hester Prynne, if she was susceptible to Jack Firestone's charms, felt for the man –and for any other man that ever courted her or that she ever liked –anything close to her mysterious attraction to Arthur Dimmesdale. Not that she could fully consider it as love, for Hester Prynne had never been in love before, and thus, could but poorly recognize its signs. However, she somehow unconsciously wallowed in the ambiguity of such fascination. Because of it, the married woman could be blameless, and the adventurous woman could fully enjoy the pleasure of seduction and expectation.

"And you, my Good Sir?" she asked eventually, her natural boldness momentarily recovered "You never speak about yourself."

"Oh, truly?" he retorted with a sudden aloofness in his tone.

Now she could feel with alarm his whole body gradually withdrawing from hers. However, a strange annoyance drove her to insist.

"No, Sir. Even though you know everything about me."

"God forbids! Since when?"

It was Hester's turn to look at him with bewilderment.

"Well, since I told you my story." She explained. "Do you not remember asking me about my life, at the Governor's?"

"Forgive me, Mistress Prynne" he evasively replied, "I am deeply sorry to learn you felt compelled to disclose your life to me. You were free to refuse, of course. I never meant to intrude on…your privacy."

Suddenly, the doorbell in the next room rang. The servant Ann entered the dining room with a letter in her hand. All eyes were silently fixed on her.

"Well ?" Mrs Highaway asked.

"A letter for Mistress Prynne." Ann answered. "From Amsterdam".

Hester felt her heart beating harder inside her chest, pale and shaking. She received the precious letter without a word. She could not compel herself to wait for the dinner to end.

"Will you excuse me?" she asked Mrs. Highaway, who watched her with good humour.

"Of course, my dear"

Hester rose up and hurriedly left the room. Once alone in the living, she knelt down on the carpet next to the fireplace to have some light, and opened the letter with quavering fingers. The paper was sticky and smelled the sea; the thin and precise writing was easily recognizable.

To my sweet wife,

It is with utter relief that I learned, from your precious hand, of your arrival safe and sound in Boston. The journey time between the two continents is against us: indeed, I know several weeks will have passed when you receive my answer, an interval that rises new concerns. I hope that by the time you read this letter, you have been able to settle down properly, and to get acquainted with our new neighbours. I was not certain to write you back, since I was supposed to leave shortly after your letter came to me, but fate decided otherwise: our ship has been stuck in the harbour for three weeks already, waiting for another ship from Sweden to make the journey with us. It still has not arrived. I spoke with the captain, who told me that the company would not suffer any more delay, and that for the sake of business, we would set sail whatever happens next week. With a month's delay, I am thus confident of seeing you soon. I hope you have enough money; I do not want my wife to have to work with her hands. Do not worry about writing me back, since by the time your letter arrives, I shall be at sea.

Your affectionate husband,

Roger Prynne

P.S: Consider Boston as your definite home: I promise we shall no longer live the wandering life of those last months. Ensure that you find a house with enough space for both of us –and also for several children.

Hester put the letter down and watched the flickering shadows of the chimney, as changing as the feelings of her heart. Did she have to rejoice in receiving news from her husband, or mourn a further delay? Would she display relief or sadness on her features? She felt lost, and was convinced that her heart would one day kill her. She put on her mask.

When she walked back to the dining room, all whispers stopped.

"News from your husband, my dear?" asked the landlady.

"Yes…he has been delayed. About a month…I am so sorry"

"Don't worry! You may stay here as long as you wish, there is space for you."

"You are so good to me, Mistress Highaway."

She sat down in silence, next to Arthur Dimmesdale. He said nothing, but it seemed to Hester that, inexplicably, the inner distress she struggled to conceal had not escaped him. And at the same moment, she was seized by the extraordinary impulse, almost irresistible, to reach for his hand under the table, as a catholic would seek the touch of holy relics for comfort and healing. Dumbfounded and burning, she clutched her fists on her laps, oblivious of the rustling of her husband's crumpled letter.