-
Главная
-
- Книги
-
- Авторы
-
- Натаниэль Хоторн
-
- Алая буква
-
- Стр. 13/92
Для того чтобы воспользоваться озвучкой предложений, необходимо
Войти или зарегистрироваться
Озвучка предложений доступна при наличии PRO-доступа
Купить PRO-доступ
"
Why
dost
thou
smile
so
at
me
?
"
inquired
Hester
,
troubled
at
the
expression
of
his
eyes
.
"
Art
thou
like
the
Black
Man
that
haunts
the
forest
round
about
us
?
Hast
thou
enticed
me
into
a
bond
that
will
prove
the
ruin
of
my
soul
?
"
"
Not
thy
soul
,
"
he
answered
,
with
another
smile
.
"
No
,
not
thine
!
"
Hester
Prynne
's
term
of
confinement
was
now
at
an
end
.
Her
prison-door
was
thrown
open
,
and
she
came
forth
into
the
sunshine
,
which
,
falling
on
all
alike
,
seemed
,
to
her
sick
and
morbid
heart
,
as
if
meant
for
no
other
purpose
than
to
reveal
the
scarlet
letter
on
her
breast
.
Perhaps
there
was
a
more
real
torture
in
her
first
unattended
footsteps
from
the
threshold
of
the
prison
than
even
in
the
procession
and
spectacle
that
have
been
described
,
where
she
was
made
the
common
infamy
,
at
which
all
mankind
was
summoned
to
point
its
finger
.
Then
,
she
was
supported
by
an
unnatural
tension
of
the
nerves
,
and
by
all
the
combative
energy
of
her
character
,
which
enabled
her
to
convert
the
scene
into
a
kind
of
lurid
triumph
.
It
was
,
moreover
,
a
separate
and
insulated
event
,
to
occur
but
once
in
her
lifetime
,
and
to
meet
which
,
therefore
,
reckless
of
economy
,
she
might
call
up
the
vital
strength
that
would
have
sufficed
for
many
quiet
years
.
The
very
law
that
condemned
her
--
a
giant
of
stem
featured
but
with
vigour
to
support
,
as
well
as
to
annihilate
,
in
his
iron
arm
--
had
held
her
up
through
the
terrible
ordeal
of
her
ignominy
.
But
now
,
with
this
unattended
walk
from
her
prison
door
,
began
the
daily
custom
;
and
she
must
either
sustain
and
carry
it
forward
by
the
ordinary
resources
of
her
nature
,
or
sink
beneath
it
.
She
could
no
longer
borrow
from
the
future
to
help
her
through
the
present
grief
.
Tomorrow
would
bring
its
own
trial
with
it
;
so
would
the
next
day
,
and
so
would
the
next
:
each
its
own
trial
,
and
yet
the
very
same
that
was
now
so
unutterably
grievous
to
be
borne
.
The
days
of
the
far-off
future
would
toil
onward
,
still
with
the
same
burden
for
her
to
take
up
,
and
bear
along
with
her
,
but
never
to
fling
down
;
for
the
accumulating
days
and
added
years
would
pile
up
their
misery
upon
the
heap
of
shame
.
Throughout
them
all
,
giving
up
her
individuality
,
she
would
become
the
general
symbol
at
which
the
preacher
and
moralist
might
point
,
and
in
which
they
might
vivify
and
embody
their
images
of
woman
's
frailty
and
sinful
passion
.
Thus
the
young
and
pure
would
be
taught
to
look
at
her
,
with
the
scarlet
letter
flaming
on
her
breast
--
at
her
,
the
child
of
honourable
parents
--
at
her
,
the
mother
of
a
babe
that
would
hereafter
be
a
woman
--
at
her
,
who
had
once
been
innocent
--
as
the
figure
,
the
body
,
the
reality
of
sin
.
And
over
her
grave
,
the
infamy
that
she
must
carry
thither
would
be
her
only
monument
.
It
may
seem
marvellous
that
,
with
the
world
before
her
--
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
--
and
having
also
the
passes
of
the
dark
,
inscrutable
forest
open
to
her
,
where
the
wildness
of
her
nature
might
assimilate
itself
with
a
people
whose
customs
and
life
were
alien
from
the
law
that
had
condemned
her
--
it
may
seem
marvellous
that
this
woman
should
still
call
that
place
her
home
,
where
,
and
where
only
,
she
must
needs
be
the
type
of
shame
.
But
there
is
a
fatality
,
a
feeling
so
irresistible
and
inevitable
that
it
has
the
force
of
doom
,
which
almost
invariably
compels
human
beings
to
linger
around
and
haunt
,
ghost-like
,
the
spot
where
some
great
and
marked
event
has
given
the
colour
to
their
lifetime
;
and
,
still
the
more
irresistibly
,
the
darker
the
tinge
that
saddens
it
.
Her
sin
,
her
ignominy
,
were
the
roots
which
she
had
struck
into
the
soil
.
It
was
as
if
a
new
birth
,
with
stronger
assimilations
than
the
first
,
had
converted
the
forest-land
,
still
so
uncongenial
to
every
other
pilgrim
and
wanderer
,
into
Hester
Prynne
's
wild
and
dreary
,
but
life-long
home
.
All
other
scenes
of
earth
--
even
that
village
of
rural
England
,
where
happy
infancy
and
stainless
maidenhood
seemed
yet
to
be
in
her
mother
's
keeping
,
like
garments
put
off
long
ago
--
were
foreign
to
her
,
in
comparison
.
The
chain
that
bound
her
here
was
of
iron
links
,
and
galling
to
her
inmost
soul
,
but
could
never
be
broken
.
It
might
be
,
too
--
doubtless
it
was
so
,
although
she
hid
the
secret
from
herself
,
and
grew
pale
whenever
it
struggled
out
of
her
heart
,
like
a
serpent
from
its
hole
--
it
might
be
that
another
feeling
kept
her
within
the
scene
and
pathway
that
had
been
so
fatal
.
There
dwelt
,
there
trode
,
the
feet
of
one
with
whom
she
deemed
herself
connected
in
a
union
that
,
unrecognised
on
earth
,
would
bring
them
together
before
the
bar
of
final
judgment
,
and
make
that
their
marriage-altar
,
for
a
joint
futurity
of
endless
retribution
.
Over
and
over
again
,
the
tempter
of
souls
had
thrust
this
idea
upon
Hester
's
contemplation
,
and
laughed
at
the
passionate
an
desperate
joy
with
which
she
seized
,
and
then
strove
to
cast
it
from
her
.
She
barely
looked
the
idea
in
the
face
,
and
hastened
to
bar
it
in
its
dungeon
.
What
she
compelled
herself
to
believe
--
what
,
finally
,
she
reasoned
upon
as
her
motive
for
continuing
a
resident
of
New
England
--
was
half
a
truth
,
and
half
a
self-delusion
.
Here
,
she
said
to
herself
had
been
the
scene
of
her
guilt
,
and
here
should
be
the
scene
of
her
earthly
punishment
;
and
so
,
perchance
,
the
torture
of
her
daily
shame
would
at
length
purge
her
soul
,
and
work
out
another
purity
than
that
which
she
had
lost
:
more
saint-like
,
because
the
result
of
martyrdom
.
Hester
Prynne
,
therefore
,
did
not
flee
.
On
the
outskirts
of
the
town
,
within
the
verge
of
the
peninsula
,
but
not
in
close
vicinity
to
any
other
habitation
,
there
was
a
small
thatched
cottage
.
It
had
been
built
by
an
earlier
settler
,
and
abandoned
,
because
the
soil
about
it
was
too
sterile
for
cultivation
,
while
its
comparative
remoteness
put
it
out
of
the
sphere
of
that
social
activity
which
already
marked
the
habits
of
the
emigrants
.
It
stood
on
the
shore
,
looking
across
a
basin
of
the
sea
at
the
forest-covered
hills
,
towards
the
west
.
A
clump
of
scrubby
trees
,
such
as
alone
grew
on
the
peninsula
,
did
not
so
much
conceal
the
cottage
from
view
,
as
seem
to
denote
that
here
was
some
object
which
would
fain
have
been
,
or
at
least
ought
to
be
,
concealed
.
In
this
little
lonesome
dwelling
,
with
some
slender
means
that
she
possessed
,
and
by
the
licence
of
the
magistrates
,
who
still
kept
an
inquisitorial
watch
over
her
,
Hester
established
herself
,
with
her
infant
child
.
A
mystic
shadow
of
suspicion
immediately
attached
itself
to
the
spot
.
Children
,
too
young
to
comprehend
wherefore
this
woman
should
be
shut
out
from
the
sphere
of
human
charities
,
would
creep
nigh
enough
to
behold
her
plying
her
needle
at
the
cottage-window
,
or
standing
in
the
doorway
,
or
labouring
in
her
little
garden
,
or
coming
forth
along
the
pathway
that
led
townward
,
and
,
discerning
the
scarlet
letter
on
her
breast
,
would
scamper
off
with
a
strange
contagious
fear
.
