Friday, July 13, 2018

Love and Penitence in the Scarlet Letter



The action in Nathaniel Hawthorne’s The Scarlet Letter begins with the public shaming of the adulteress Hester Prynne. This scene introduces many of the themes of the novel, and sets the stage with all its major characters, Hester, her estranged husband Roger Chillingworth, her secret lover the Reverend Dimmesdale, and the child Pearl. All of them, one way or another, are bound in the relations of the titular sin, adultery. However the chief focus of the novel is not on the sin itself, but to the varied responses to it, the ways of coping with such a grievous transgression of the moral law in the harsh environment of Puritan New England. Each of the primary actors has a different response to the brand of the Scarlet Letter, each has a different take on the penance. This takes separate forms in Hester, in Rev. Dimmesdale, and in Dr. Chillingworth in particular.
It is curious, in the Calvinistic circles of the Puritans, that public shame and punishment were so ubiquitous, at least in Hawthorne’s tale. In reference to Hester Prynne, the leaders of the Pilgrim state chose something peculiar to their form of religion: to brand Hester that she might repent. In the Calvinistic system of predestination this makes little sense, yet in their mercy the reverend fathers of the colony chose not to put the young woman to death. Hester’s internal response to this mercy is always, fundamentally, a form of pride. In her first arraignment she contrives to walk to the scaffold almost in a triumphal procession, her letter A conspicuously embroidered. This becomes increasingly more sullen, due to the weight of her isolation in her cottage outside the town and the scorn of the townsfolk. However she contrived to work so assiduously for the welfare of those around her, for the poor and the dying, that she certainly looks to the outside world like a penitent. However Hawthorne makes clear in discussing her internal state and in her relations to her former lover, Dimmesdale, that more than penitence she feels a sort of scarred conscience and resentment. He purposely says, for instance, that in other circumstances she may have been a reforming prophetess, and she broods on thoughts with broader horizons than her contemporaries.
Similar to Hester Prynne is her husband, the pseudonymous Dr. Roger Chillingworth. In him the action of the Demon is most apparent, and he, for most of the novel, represents best that “Black Man” of the woods whom the Puritans feared. He is the one most wounded by the adultery, because almost until the final denouement of the novel, his conscience is seared and he has the least hope. Even his physical description is as one burnt by his own inner fire. His quest for revenge against the man who made him a cuckold, in spite of his knowledge of that better man’s sensitive and high character, makes him truly diabolical. He is also the most consciously Calvinist of all the characters in the novel, and notably he is the only character who spent time in that Reformed stronghold, Holland, all the other characters being Anglicans. In his conversation with Hester at the beach he reveals that he believes himself among the damned, condemned by the Sovereign will of God.
This leaves only the Reverend Dimmesdale. By far the most consciously Christian, by nature of his calling in life and by temperament, Hawthorne gives this sensitive soul a rather curious character. In the strange but true to life amalgams that pertain to each character, Hester the free-thinking, philanthropic hermit, and Roger the Calvinistic, antinomian scientist, Dimmesdale is especially marked. Because of his sensitive constitution and his emotional character he is led into strange excesses. He is often described in terms distinctly Catholic, frequently being described as a priest, his love and interest for the Church Fathers being made manifest, a tendency towards asceticism in vigils and corporal penitence, all behavior markedly un-Puritan. The young Divine is given a saintly cast, which in his own heart he is pained by because he knows he is living a lie. Most interesting in the theme of penitence in the novel is his conversation with Hester in the wood. The sad babble of the brook portends the ultimate end of the novel, but for a brief moment the passionate fall of the sad couple is replayed, as they plan to strive for some manner of earthly happiness together. After this however comes Dimmesdale’s greatest trial, wherein he is tempted the most sorely. This corresponds well to what many spiritual authors describe, when the grace of God leaves the one who has submitted to passion.
In the denouement there is a catharsis of all the passionate relations in the novel and final real repentance on the part of at least two of the characters. Dimmesdale’s sudden confession on the scaffold, his recognition of his sin and of his family, free him finally. Likewise, as Dimmesdale frees himself from the emotional strain of his guilt, he is also freed from the persecution of his enemy Chillingworth, and in the last extremity the bitter physician too seems to have a last act of penitence, providing for the future of his estranged wife’s illegitimate child. The child Pearl seems to be a symbol of this penitence, uniting each of the characters, finally acknowledging her father, becoming less fierce towards her mother in response to this tragic event in her young life, and becoming the recipient of the charitable act of Chillingworth. For Hester the story seems more complex. One the one hand she is described as returning to her own exile after establishing her daughter in life. She, having lost temporal happiness for herself, at least ensures it for her child. Hawthorne describes her lonely life in the cottage, a life of service to her adopted people in the land of her shame, voluntarily chosen, yet he also describes her inner state in such a way that she seems to have no regret for the past. It is curious, but it seems that the scarlet sign affixed for her penitence results in such for everyone involved in the transgression save her.
It is common in discussions of this brilliant novel to exonerate Hester because her crime was prompted by love. Certainly there is a strong attraction between the Reverend Dimmesdale and Hester Prynne. Many are prepared, perhaps including Hawthorne, to excuse a girl abandoned in a strange land and the victim in some sense of a loveless marriage for pursuing love with a caring man. Certainly their fall is deeply understandable. And we see this love does not diminish over the years. At the meeting in the forest the two get very close, forming a plan and preparing to live a life abroad based on the genius of the young divine and the hardy ingenuity of his lover. It has the character of a popular romance, especially at the last sentimental attempt to reform the family by the brook. It is easy, especially for the people of the twenty-first, or even the twentieth, century to excuse behavior undertaken for romantic love. It is perhaps one of the few things we still hold sacred. And further we hold choice to be sacrosanct, and it is precisely this interference in the her free choice that one is tempted to exonerate Hester. Yet she really does commit adultery. At the least, thinking her husband dead, she is committing fornication. My contemporaries may not see a sin in this, between consenting adults. Yet it is. She is making a connection she is not yet free to give. Dimmesdale, the poor man, is likewise making a commitment, a deep one especially with the birth of the child. Yet he is not free to do so, for if he does he loses his vocation and his reputation. The chief evil is indeed the merciless Christianity of the Puritans, which does not allow for repentance to take full effect, that makes the man fearful to speak as he ought for fear of shame. He ought to be able to speak the sin, and be helped in overcoming it. She ought to be able to overcome it. Under the reign of Endicott’s puritans, this was impossible. The over-zealous cruelty of the Puritans, however, is in no way redeemed by the equally over-zealous toleration of the moderns. Things need precise names, and evils can only by excised by expelling them. The evil is adultery. It’s excision occurs when Dimmesdale acknowledges his family, and when Chillingworth offers his reconciliation. Hester’s external shame has robbed her of her freedom to be liberated by her own confession, and she becomes hardened.
     Hawthorne’s symbolism helps us, and by two key details he makes us draw back from endorsing this course of action. The first is the behavior of the child Pearl. At no moment, until his public acknowledgement, does Pearl accept her father. And she is right not to, as he is not really and truly accepting her and what she represents: his sin and his responsibility. Likewise the entire interlude takes place in a forest, an ancient cosmic symbol of the unknown, and in this Puritan context especially an ill-starred place. Wild space have always been the place of demons and faeries, and the Puritans knew it to be the home of the pagan indians, the demonic Black Man, and the witches’ sabbat held in his name. Hawthorne uses the forest as a place of temptation and evil in other stories too, especially Goodman Brown and Hollow of the Three Hills. The same is the case here. And we see its hideous effects on Dimmesdale, who is wracked with his guilty conscience, and deeply tempted to various blasphemies. These should give us signs as we read. Our morality is in many ways decadent. It is all the more tragic that it is often inspired by the very best sentiments; by familial bond, romantic love, and the desire to forgive. Yet the only way to form the bond is the indissoluble bond of marriage, the only way for romantic love to reach its potential is in that self same bond of marriage, and the only way to forgive, and for the self to feel forgiven, is to admit of sin. We want out of compassion to forgive what is forgivable, but poor Hester never gets the chance of her own will to be forgiven, to restore or form new bonds of family. If we love Hester, we would admit her to a new society. One sensitive both to sin and to repentance. One in which she could hear the voice of the Master say, “go forth, and sin no more.” In short, the society of the Orthodox Catholic Church.

Sunday, July 1, 2018

The Pitfalls of the Life of Adventure

The Pitfalls of the Life of Adventure
Reflections on the Desire for Adventure, and the Value of Homecoming

I want to start this set of reflections in a somewhat unusual place: a Japanese animated comedy that has recently become a favorite of mine, The Disastrous Life of Saiki Kusuo

Saiki Kusuo being thwarted in his hopes of normalcy.

The plot centers on the daily life of an extremely powerful psychic. In the very first episode, Saiki Kusuo addresses the audience, commenting that people probably think his life is fantastic and glamorous. He then bluntly informs the viewer that his life is miserable because he has all these powers. He feels cut off from normal experiences, like the joys of achievement, or even simple surprise. He can always hear people's thoughts which means he always hears their deepest thoughts. He has x-ray vision, which makes all but a casual glance or a view through a screen a gruesome parade of fleshless bodies. Neither does he take advantage of his powers for his personal profit (usually), as he has a strong sense of moral rectitude. He is left with ennui and the ever evasive goal of trying to live an absolutely normal existence in the midst of godlike power.

The entire tone of the show is obviously ridiculous, and it plays off many of the tropes of more standard anime genres. In particular it is kind of an inverse "slice of life" show, following a super-powered character living with extreme effort a very normal life. The show, while far from being anything like "high art" is successful as a comedy, and for our purposes it does offer a valuable insight into our nature: if we had super-powers and wish fulfillment at our finger tips we would likely not be any happier.

This brings me to my main theme, that of the naivete of the desire for a life of adventure. It is very common in our escapist fantasies to long to be heroes, demi-gods, and supermen. The problem is that this would not make us very happy, at least not for very long. There have been a great many reflections on this theme both historically and recently, the film Bruce Almighty furnishing another example, though not one we will here explore.

G. K. Chesterton put it very well in his book Heretics. While discussing the subject of progress and the Nietzschean superman, Chesterton extols the value of being small. He comments that, in the best of ancient popular literature, the giants are not heroes to be emulated. Quite the contrary, they are monsters, or in Chesterton's more insolent rhetoric, vermin, to be exterminated. That is the lesson of Jack the Giant Killer; the small and the brave conquers the big, strong, and wealthy. And most importantly, Jake is brave precisely because he is small and his adversary great. As Chesterton notes, human life is defined by paradoxes like this. Courage means something to us precisely because we are small. Likewise a real feeling of romance, of adventure, is only possible for the one who is small and humble. The great wit notes that it is only humility, that strangest of Christian virtues, that enables mankind to look at the stars with wonder, for if we exalt ourselves to a point of thinking we "understand" the heavens we become earthbound. By becoming giants we become impoverished. Likewise, by seeking adventures we enter monotony and disappointment.

It is just this reality that we often find hard to understand. We are surrounded by such banality, such monotony in our daily lives that we long for an adventure, a change of pace. It becomes easy to admire a life-style of adventure in such conditions. This is where Saiki steps in to say, "be careful what you wish for."

The problem with admiring the adventure is that we begin to lose sight of its temporal nature. In the life of the hero of a fantasy story it is the "most interesting piece". It is the height of the action of the heroes life, if the story is any good. Yet if we contemplate actually being in the thick of such a story we would be in torment. The adventure only gains its proper content when understood as the middle of a life, even a minor piece of a story that begins earlier, and often ends much later, if the story is not a tragedy. Truly, Bilbo Baggins was right to bother and befusticate burgling! Adventure is indeed a nasty uncomfortable thing that makes one late for dinner. An adventure is not valued for the danger and the daring do; it is valued for the homecoming.

Without seeking to be callous, I think this sheds some light on the recent celebrity suicides, in particular that of Anthony Bourdain. He had what appears to be an ideal life-style, filled with travel, adventure, and fame. Yet, I am here speculating, I think it likely that his deep depression stemmed from the lack of a home to return to. At the height of No Reservations, Bourdain was newly married with a young daughter. Yet at the end of his life he had lost this familial center. I don't know the circumstances or the darkness that led to his end, but it certainly makes sense that this may have contributed to his tragedy.

In Memoriam, Anthony Bourdain

Adventure then is a false goal. It is mistaking a means for an end. Adventures are the means to something greater: the return to peace and normalcy. We can see this in all the great adventure stories. In the Lord of the Rings, the Fellowship enters upon its mission not to gain glory but to win a peace, even if only for a space, for their families and friends. In the Oddysey the goal is to get back to Ithaca. Aeneas seeks a place to establish his household gods in fair Italia. We may say that the Grail Quest of Arthurian myth was in many ways an adventure for its own sake. Yet it is precisely this longing for unneeded adventure in Arthur and his knights that leads to the destruction of Camelot and the tragic end of its promise.

Adventures are for something, the go somewhere. It is in the very name; it is derived from advenio, to come into. They are a long journey to the place of rest. It is precisely the tragedy of a character like Saiki that he cannot in fact be normal, he is doomed to a life of perpetual pilgrimage towards a normalcy he cannot seem to reach. Yet it is precisely his adventures for the sake of normalcy that form much of the charm and humor of the show. He makes accidental friends with a variety of misfits and faces the ups and downs of social and family life including embarrassing parents and an annoying sibling. If the character were more self-aware he would realize how normal, in spite of everything, his life is. It is not hard to imagine that this is the case for many of us, only aware in tiny flashes of the achievement of our goals and content for but an instant in them. It is certainly Saiki's case, and will be however long his life (or merely the series) runs.
  
How does this relate to the earlier point about being small and humble? It enables the humble man to orient himself rightly. The proud and giantesque man incorrectly points his sails in the direction of greatness. In truth giving up greatness he would gain not only true greatness, but rest. For the hero is the one who achieves greatness in spite of his weakness, by his courage and strength in the face obstacles for the sake of putting aside his deeds of valor. This is the attitude especially of Christian life. In the life of the Lord, who is the model and archetype for all humanity, the adventures and perils are endured toward an end; the redemption of creation from corruption and death. It is a move from the dark perimeter, the place of destruction, to the center where peace and rest are restored. This is precisely, for Christians, the entire motion of history from the creation to the establishment of the Kingdom in glory. It is a grand adventure, and it ends like every adventure should: "and they all returned home happily ever after."

I hope the Saikis of the world, who are wearied by their greatness, find the strength to be small and to return home.