The Nature of Hawthorne

If we were to personify Hemingway’s—Lieutenant Henry’s—relationship to nature, an apt allegory would be hard to find in the context of romantic relationships. That particular dynamic is better summed up with the association between a landlord and a tenant who hasn't paid his rent and is waiting to be inevitably ousted. Nathaniel Hawthorne’s—and Hester Prynne’s—relationship to nature, however, is ripe for that type of comparison.

To Hester, nature is her getaway. Nature is where she can retreat to, and confide in, to avoid the criticism and gall of puritan society. Indeed, if Hester’s relationship to nature were to be personified, she and nature would be two naughty little teenagers, secretly cavorting under the watchful eye of conservative, mid-17^th century Bostonians. And, interestingly enough, that’s pretty much the plot of the book.

The Hester Prynne that we all know and love wasn't always what she is today. The early chapters of the book portray a much more different—impetuous and hotheaded—Hester that has to be restrained by her parents on a regular basis. This heavily contrasts the “current” Hester, a stoic and impassive woman, characterized by her denial of Puritan norms. Despite this, though, we often see a little bit of the former Hester break through.

“‘Speak, woman!’ said another voice, coldly and sternly, proceeding from the crowd about the scaffold, ‘Speak; and give your child a father!’

‘I will not speak!’ answered Hester, turning pale as death,”

The heavy brand that Hester has had to bear for most of her life—the Scarlet Letter—has changed her. Like my good friend Philip Swanson, displays of emotion are few and far between. Hester’s nature has been boxed in by those who believe it to be counterproductive and evil—their fear of change has caused them to shut down any deviation from the norm. Puritan society in The Scarlet Letter is strikingly similar to the “Minnesota Nice” cover-up for judgmentally passive-aggressive people. The irony, is that the bile lying beneath their overt hospitality is far more harmful than the radicals whom they try to suppress—but that’s a whole different rant.

The one place Hester can go to avoid the overbearing permeating smog of fundamentalist Christianity is the forest—an area that borders Boston physically, but emotionally, could not be farther from it. If 17^th century America was my room, Boston would be the shelves and piano you see when you first enter. “Hey, they look pretty nice,” you’d say to yourself. “I bet this guy is pretty organized and cleanly.” The forest, by contrast, would be my closet. The doors are shut so you’re disincentivized to opening it, and on the off-chance that you do, you’d be greeted in the face with a falling torrent of dirty clothes that were compressed between the shut door and the shelves. Boston doesn’t talk about the forest, just like I don’t talk about my closet, because, as the Puritans would probably say, it gives off a false sense of dishonesty and underlying vitriol that we wouldn’t want you thinking about.

That isn’t what Hester would say, though. Hester would welcome you into the forest, and spend hours talking to you about the lies of the Puritans and how they merely hide their true nature, and how only in the forest can she be free. Or, as Hawthorne would put it:

“Kept by no restrictive clause of her condemnation within the limits of the Puritan settlement, so remote and so obscure—free to return to her birth-place, or to any other European land, and there hide her character and identity under a new exterior, as completely as if emerging into another state of being.”

The forest is literally so different from Boston, that it allows Hester to “emerge into another state of being”. This happens because of the ephemeral freedom she achieves for the length of time she’s away. Quite a few of the book’s important conversations occur within the forest, particularly between Hester and Dimmesdale, regarding their relationship. Surely they could have a conversation under cover of night within Boston, and no one would hear them, right? Not quite—Boston represents a place of judgment and malice. Hester and Dimmesdale wouldn't feel safe there. Only in the forest can they discuss their plans to leave Boston forever, and only in the forest can Hester eradicate her scarlet letter, and all that it stands for.

It’s interesting to note, though, the clear distinction Hester recognizes between the forest and Boston.

“‘Hold thy peace, dear little Pearl!’ whispered her mother. ‘We must not always talk in the marketplace of what happens to us in the forest.’”

Normally notions like that are unsaid, or occur in the subconscious—but here, Hester verbalizes it. “We don’t talk in Boston about what goes on in the forest.” It’s surprisingly akin to the attitude that the Bostonians have about the forest too, albeit for very differing reasons. So, then, the moral of the story? Everyone’s got a dirty closet or an unmade bed somewhere, one way or the other, so we ought to stop caring so much about it.

“John, did you just use The Scarlet Letter to rationalize not cleaning your room?”

Yes. Yes, I did.