Червона літера
The Interior of a Heart
Nowitwasaherdofdiabolicshapes,thatgrinnedandmockedatthepaleminister,andbeckonedhimawaywiththem;nowagroupofshiningangels,whoflewupwardheavily,assorrow-laden,butgrewmoreetherealastheyrose.Nowcamethedeadfriendsofhisyouth,andhiswhite-beardedfather,withasaint-likefrown,andhismotherturningherfaceawayasshepassedbyGhostofamother—thinnestfantasyofamother—methinksshemightyethavethrownapityingglancetowardsherson!Andnow,throughthechamberwhichthesespectralthoughtshadmadesoghastly,glidedHesterPrynneleadingalonglittlePearl,inherscarletgarb,andpointingherforefinger,firstatthescarletletteronherbosom,andthenattheclergyman’sownbreast.
Noneofthesevisionseverquitedeludedhim.Atanymoment,byaneffortofhiswill,hecoulddiscernsubstancesthroughtheirmistylackofsubstance,andconvincehimselfthattheywerenotsolidintheirnature,likeyondertableofcarvedoak,orthatbig,square,leather-boundandbrazen-claspedvolumeofdivinity.But,forallthat,theywere,inonesense,thetruestandmostsubstantialthingswhichthepoorministernowdealtwith.Itistheunspeakablemiseryofalifesofalseashis,thatitstealsthepithandsubstanceoutofwhateverrealitiestherearearoundus,andwhichweremeantbyHeaventobethespirit’sjoyandnutriment.Totheuntrueman,thewholeuniverseisfalse—itisimpalpable—itshrinkstonothingwithinhisgrasp
