“No man, for any considerable period, can wear one face to himself, and another to the multitude, without finally getting bewildered as to which may be the true…”
- Nathaniel Hawthorne, The Scarlet Letter
When I think of The Scarlet Letter, I think of all the things I hated about high school English. Indeed, I think of all the things I see as wrongheaded in the way we teach literature to kids.
I’ve loved reading for as long as I can remember. Yet, when I entered high school, it did not take long for that love to shrivel like autumnal leaves, there to break and scatter beneath the heels of a succession of well-meaning teachers trotting out their oh-so-familiar-syllabi. Despite being a prolific, above-age-level reader throughout middle school, I doubt I finished more than a handful of titles during those four years.
The reason, at least in part, is Nathaniel Hawthorne, an author who wrote dense prose about complicated themes, with little regard for pacing or dramatic set pieces. It is a style found in many of the titles that make up the bulk of required reading lists.
When you are handed The Scarlet Letter at the age of fourteen or fifteen, and you open those pages, you are not about to enter a realm of wonder and enchantment. Rather, you are thrust into a ruthless psychological excavation, not unlike the dissection of that fetal pig you did in biology. You must trudge through sentences that cling like brambles, and divine meaning from Hawthorne’s gratuitous use of colors and symbols. By the time it’s over, it’s hard not to hate the very idea of picking up a book.
Any book.
Lost are any of the simple joys of a well-told story.
Sure, there is good reason to study literature, and the important, lifelong tools you thereby gain such as critical thinking, attention to detail, and sitting still long enough to finish a page (especially in this age of constant swiping). I’m certainly not calling for the abolition of English class.
For my money, though, it’s more important to get impressionable, distracted youngsters to love reading in the first place. Drug dealers know all about getting their clients hooked on the good stuff. In this area, English teachers are lagging.
If I ran the world, I’d be assigning popular contemporary fiction in high school, subjecting them to the same analyses with half the pain.
As you might have noticed, I don’t run the world. Furthermore, in the universe in which we happen to coexist, The Scarlet Letter remains a classic, though it grows dustier with each passing year. Thus, it was with a need for catharsis, as well as a sense of unfinished business, that I picked this up twenty-five years after I last set it down.
(Full disclosure: I set it down in 1994 in order to pick up the Cliffs Notes version).
The big surprise here: I sort of loved it.
Like all literary masterpieces, The Scarlet Letter requires little by way of introduction. It is the story of a “fallen” woman, her vengeful (and incognito) husband, and a charismatic young minister harboring a terrible secret.
When the novel opens, the heroine, Hester Prynne, is stepping through the prison door, on her way to a scaffold where she is to be publicly shamed. She wears the titular red “A” on her breast, marking her as an adulteress. In her arms she bears Pearl, the daughter born of sin. Hester’s affair is well over by the time we meet her, and little mention is made of it. (I can’t even recall Hawthorne explicitly stating the meaning of the “A”). The focus here is not on the sin, but on the sinner, and her road to redemption.
(My version of The Scarlet Letter opens with a thirty-plus page “introductory” called The Custom-House. This is a meandering, long-winded, semi-autobiographical sketch of Hawthorne’s time as a surveyor at the Custom-House in Salem, Massachusetts. During this time, Hawthorne claims that he came across the “true” story of Hester Prynne, which he goes on to relate in the actual novel. I’m not sure if The Custom-House is technically part of The Scarlet Letter or not. I think not. Nevertheless, I read it, since I am a bit anal about things like that. Anyway, no part of this reading experience brought me closer to my impatient, high-school self than slogging through this unnecessary opening act).
Hester refuses to name her partner-in-lust, even after the arrival of her much-older husband, who now calls himself Roger Chillingworth (excellent name, by the by). Chillingworth is a physician who has spent time among the Indians. He takes it upon himself to discover the identity of Hester’s paramour, so that he can enact his revenge.
The third character in The Scarlet Letter’s triad is Arthur Dimmesdale, a popular preacher much loved by the Boston town-folk. He uses his clout to defend Hester when he can. He also happens to be wasting away for some inexplicable reason.
The Scarlet Letter is set in 1642, and features a number of real-life personages and allusions to actual events, which is Hawthorne’s attempt to lend this verity. Despite being just over two-hundred pages long, The Scarlet Letter spans some seven years, as the stoic, isolated Hester proudly bears her shame, and gradually works herself back into the good graces of her community. (Since her community is made up of Puritans, this results in little more than a slightly-less-grim frown as she passes through town).
Hawthorne’s prose requires your attention. He tends towards long, clause-studded sentences, in which he uses both commas and hyphens to pack in as much information, digressionary or not, as he possibly can. Though he has the short-story writer’s knowledge of exactly where he is going, Hawthorne also displays a Dickensian tendency towards using five words when a period would have sufficed. And of course, there is the Puritan-Speak, especially in the dialogue, which is clotted with thees, thous, hithers and yons.
With all that said, he can sure describe a place. I really appreciated his ability to conjure a precolonial Massachusetts as an island in the midst of a wilderness that is both Edenic and forbidding.
The core story itself is so iconic that it is difficult to judge objectively. If this was written today, would anyone care? I’m not sure. In any event, the interplay between Hester, Arthur, and Roger is fascinating. Roger, especially, deserves a special guest star award, for enlivening every scene of which he is a part. Hester, too, holds her own. Though she is not quite a proto-feminist bucking the patriarchy while blasting Liz Phair, she is tough, resilient, and hearteningly indifferent to the judgments of others.
The Scarlet Letter famously ends with scenes that are so overwrought and melodramatic that they bear little resemblance to reality. Even taking into consideration the setting – a period in which otherwise-normal men and women believed that witches were flying over their heads on a nightly basis – Hester, Roger, and especially Arthur are extremely operatic. They are so histrionic that one can be excused for thinking he or she has wandered away from Hawthorne’s haunted New England and stumbled into Dostoyevsky’s St. Petersburg.
That said, I actually found the over-the-top denouement to be…fun. I know, I’m as surprised as you. All it took was an acceptance that this was a world ruled by emotion, in which reason and rationality have no place. Unlike the Puritans themselves, I just went with the flow.
The irony, of course, is that I have come to enjoy this book about emotionally volatile adults so long after high school, where emotional volatility is the engine of the machine. It is only with the (relative) calm that comes with age that I recognize how this is sort of the perfect novel to match the mental state of a typical teenager.
Not that your typical teenager is ever going to voluntarily read this.