Червона літера
The Interior of a Heart
Andyet,bytheconstitutionofhisnature,helovedthetruth,andloathedthelie,asfewmeneverdid.Therefore,aboveallthingselse,heloathedhismiserableself!
Hisinwardtroubledrovehimtopracticesmoreinaccordancewiththeold,corruptedfaithofRomethanwiththebetterlightofthechurchinwhichhehadbeenbornandbred.InMr.Dimmesdale’ssecretcloset,underlockandkey,therewasabloodyscourge.Oftentimes,thisProtestantandPuritandivinehadplieditonhisownshoulders,laughingbitterlyathimselfthewhile,andsmitingsomuchthemorepitilesslybecauseofthatbitterlaugh.Itwashiscustom,too,asithasbeenthatofmanyotherpiousPuritans,tofast—nothowever,likethem,inordertopurifythebody,andrenderitthefittermediumofcelestialillumination—butrigorously,anduntilhiskneestrembledbeneathhim,asanactofpenance.Hekeptvigils,likewise,nightafternight,sometimesinutterdarkness,sometimeswithaglimmeringlamp,andsometimes,viewinghisownfaceinalooking-glass,bythemostpowerfullightwhichhecouldthrowuponit.Hethustypifiedtheconstantintrospectionwherewithhetortured,butcouldnotpurifyhimself.Intheselengthenedvigils,hisbrainoftenreeled,andvisionsseemedtoflitbeforehim;perhapsseendoubtfully,andbyafaintlightoftheirown,intheremotedimnessofthechamber,ormorevividlyandclosebesidehim,withinthelooking-glass.
