Червона літера
The Interior of a Heart
Byitsaid,inallthesubsequentrelationsbetwixthimandMr.Dimmesdale,notmerelytheexternalpresence,buttheveryinmostsoulofthelatter,seemedtobebroughtoutbeforehiseyes,sothathecouldseeandcomprehenditseverymovement.Hebecame,thenceforth,notaspectatoronly,butachiefactorinthepoorminister’sinteriorworld.Hecouldplayuponhimashechose.Wouldhearousehimwithathrobofagony?Thevictimwasforeverontherack;itneededonlytoknowthespringthatcontrolledtheengine:andthephysicianknewitwell.Wouldhestartlehimwithsuddenfear?Asatthewavingofamagician’swand,uproseagrislyphantom—uproseathousandphantoms—inmanyshapes,ofdeath,ormoreawfulshame,allflockingroundabouttheclergyman,andpointingwiththeirfingersathisbreast!
Allthiswasaccomplishedwithasubtletysoperfect,thattheminister,thoughhehadconstantlyadimperceptionofsomeevilinfluencewatchingoverhim,couldnevergainaknowledgeofitsactualnature.True,helookeddoubtfully,fearfully—even,attimes,withhorrorandthebitternessofhatred—atthedeformedfigureoftheoldphysician.Hisgestures,hisgait,hisgrizzledbeard,hisslightestandmostindifferentacts,theveryfashionofhisgarments,wereodiousintheclergyman’ssight;atokenimplicitlytobereliedonofadeeperantipathyinthebreastofthelatterthanhewaswillingtoacknowledgetohimself.For,asitwasimpossibletoassignareasonforsuchdistrustandabhorrence,soMr.
