Червона літера
The Leech and His Patient
Trustingnomanashisfriend,hecouldnotrecognizehisenemywhenthelatteractuallyappeared.Hethereforestillkeptupafamiliarintercoursewithhim,dailyreceivingtheoldphysicianinhisstudy,orvisitingthelaboratory,and,forrecreation’ssake,watchingtheprocessesbywhichweedswereconvertedintodrugsofpotency.
Oneday,leaninghisforeheadonhishand,andhiselbowonthesilloftheopenwindow,thatlookedtowardsthegrave-yard,hetalkedwithRogerChillingworth,whiletheoldmanwasexaminingabundleofunsightlyplants.
"Where,"askedhe,withalookaskanceatthem—foritwastheclergyman’speculiaritythatheseldom,now-a-days,lookedstraightforthatanyobject,whetherhumanorinanimate,"where,mykinddoctor,didyougatherthoseherbs,withsuchadark,flabbyleaf?"
"Eveninthegraveyardhereathand,"answeredthephysician,continuinghisemployment."Theyarenewtome.Ifoundthemgrowingonagrave,whichborenotombstone,noothermemorialofthedeadman,savetheseuglyweeds,thathavetakenuponthemselvestokeephiminremembrance.Theygrewoutofhisheart,andtypify,itmaybe,somehideoussecretthatwasburiedwithhim,andwhichhehaddonebettertoconfessduringhislifetime."
"Perchance,"saidMr.Dimmesdale,"heearnestlydesiredit,butcouldnot."
"Andwherefore?"rejoinedthephysician.
