Червона літера
Hester at Her Needle
Overandoveragain,thetempterofsoulshadthrustthisideauponHester’scontemplation,andlaughedatthepassionateandesperatejoywithwhichsheseized,andthenstrovetocastitfromher.Shebarelylookedtheideaintheface,andhastenedtobaritinitsdungeon.Whatshecompelledherselftobelieve—what,finally,shereasoneduponashermotiveforcontinuingaresidentofNewEngland—washalfatruth,andhalfaself-delusion.Here,shesaidtoherselfhadbeenthesceneofherguilt,andhereshouldbethesceneofherearthlypunishment;andso,perchance,thetortureofherdailyshamewouldatlengthpurgehersoul,andworkoutanotherpuritythanthatwhichshehadlost:moresaint-like,becausetheresultofmartyrdom.
HesterPrynne,therefore,didnotflee.Ontheoutskirtsofthetown,withinthevergeofthepeninsula,butnotinclosevicinitytoanyotherhabitation,therewasasmallthatchedcottage.Ithadbeenbuiltbyanearliersettler,andabandoned,becausethesoilaboutitwastoosterileforcultivation,whileitscomparativeremotenessputitoutofthesphereofthatsocialactivitywhichalreadymarkedthehabitsoftheemigrants.Itstoodontheshore,lookingacrossabasinoftheseaattheforest-coveredhills,towardsthewest.Aclumpofscrubbytrees,suchasalonegrewonthepeninsula,didnotsomuchconcealthecottagefromview,asseemtodenotethatherewassomeobjectwhichwouldfainhavebeen,oratleastoughttobe,concealed.
