Червона літера
The Interior of a Heart
Dimmesdalewasthinkingofhisgrave,hequestionedwithhimselfwhetherthegrasswouldevergrowonit,becauseanaccursedthingmusttherebeburied!
Itisinconceivable,theagonywithwhichthispublicvenerationtorturedhim.Itwashisgenuineimpulsetoadorethetruth,andtoreckonallthingsshadow-like,andutterlydevoidofweightorvalue,thathadnotitsdivineessenceasthelifewithintheirlife.Thenwhatwashe?—asubstance?—orthedimmestofallshadows?Helongedtospeakoutfromhisownpulpitatthefullheightofhisvoice,andtellthepeoplewhathewas."I,whomyoubeholdintheseblackgarmentsofthepriesthood—I,whoascendthesacreddesk,andturnmypalefaceheavenward,takinguponmyselftoholdcommunioninyourbehalfwiththeMostHighOmniscience—I,inwhosedailylifeyoudiscernthesanctityofEnoch—I,whosefootsteps,asyousuppose,leaveagleamalongmyearthlytrack,wherebythePilgrimsthatshallcomeaftermemaybeguidedtotheregionsoftheblest—I,whohavelaidthehandofbaptismuponyourchildren—I,whohavebreathedthepartingprayeroveryourdyingfriends,towhomtheAmensoundedfaintlyfromaworldwhichtheyhadquitted—I,yourpastor,whomyousoreverenceandtrust,amutterlyapollutionandalie!"
Morethanonce,Mr.Dimmesdalehadgoneintothepulpit,withapurposenevertocomedownitsstepsuntilheshouldhavespokenwordsliketheabove.
