The Scarlet Letter

By Emma Sohan

Hawthorne had probably the best-ever plot for exploring the themes of punishment, guilt, and revenge; I include sin and forgiveness and explore basic themes of human desires that are even more relevant in today's complex culture.

That makes my book sound ponderous. Ugh. My book is light-heartedly profound.

Hawthorne could not create characters. My characters -- Hester, Roger, Arthur, and Pearl -- come to life. That gives their interactions depth and importance. Hawthorne created some of the best "moments" in all of literature, though you might not know that because Hawthorne also could not write scenes.

I mostly follow Hawthorne's story, hopefully retaining everything you might have remembered from that book. I start the story earlier, so that the characters are real and established at the point of Hester's punishment. Why did Hester marry Roger? Why did she have sex with Arthur? I dive into the actual details of how Roger torments Arthur, and involve Hester in this.

Hawthorne left out the sex scene! Seriously, he left out all description of Hester and Arthur's relationship, taking the meaning out of the rest of the story.

I made Hester a poet and I gave her a stutter. A stutter sounds stupid, but it works really well in the story. And she often has a 17th century way of thinking about the world. So this is my version of The Scarlet Letter.

Intelligent, skilled, brave, lusty, insightful, painful, funny, romantic.

Oh, I almost forgot, plot. Hester is technically married, she becomes pregnant and will not reveal the father. So she is publicly shamed and forced to wear an A for adulteress. Her husband Roger, thought dead, appears and stays in Boston to get revenge on the man who has cuckolded him. That man, meanwhile, is a minister who tortures himself with guilt, Roger eventually helping. The book is mostly a tragedy; Hester's daughter, Pearl, represents hope.

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Roger stares at me. Coldly. He has already decided on his next question, he is letting me fear its coming. Finally he asks, calmly, as if it is merely another question, "Did you enjoy it?"
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Then, with horror, I feel a pressure in my loins. My flesh forces me to confront the truth -- we are not merely friends. I pull my hand away, yet I want to reach out and softly touch Hester's face, not return my hand to my lap! This is wrong. I must flee!
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I slide my arm out of my dress, then pull the right side of my dress forward, exposing my breast. Arthur has stopped breathing. I could kill him with a naked breast. But I do not, I pick up Pearl and put her to my breast, and she begins to suck.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Emma Sohan
• Release date: Aug 29, 2021

Emma Sohan

I write fiction, usually Y/A. I also write about punctuation and grammar, usually useful advice for writers but also rewriting the foundations of grammar.

Book preview

The Scarlet Letter

Published by Emma Sohan at Smashwords

Copyright 2021 Emma Sohan

A few snippets of dialog, plus the basic characters and plot, are taken from The Scarlet Letter by Nathaniel Hawthorne (1850).

Never was I told

a touch

could have the power of a thunderstorm

Never was I told

a kiss

could transform my heart

Never was I told

a mistake

could be so cruel

Chapter 1: Hester and Roger

1639, London

I look up the church aisle, past my small collection of friends and family on the right, who are trying their best not to look poor; past Roger's large collection of friends and family on the left, who feel comfortable with their expensive clothes and the pomp of a large marriage ceremony; and towards the front of the church. Roger is waiting, standing, unsmiling; he is no doubt considering some philosophical thought.

I straighten my wedding gown on my shoulders and twine my arm inside my father's. Roger is saving me from a life of poverty. We are not royalty, but I will be very comfortable. I had never imagined living a life this good.

I see the bounteous display of flowers in the church for our wedding; I see the expensive curtains covering the windows and the polished wood of the pews in this luxurious church. God has surely blessed me, that I am here, that this man wants to marry me.

But my thought -- which first enters my mind at this awkward moment -- is that I do not wish to be here.

I do not want that thought. I shake my head no, though no one knows its meaning. The music starts; my father waits for our entrance cue. I should want this. It does not matter that Roger is 24 years older than me. It does not matter that he is shorter than me.

I look down on a nicer carpet than I had ever expected to walk on; I look at my shoes, nicer than I had ever expected to wear. Roger loves me for my beauty and youth, surely. But he expects me to have opinions and discuss them. His mind and thoughts form his world, and he wants me to join him in his world of ideas. He likes teaching me. So he is saving me from a life of mental emptiness. I should love him just for that.

My father starts walking up the aisle, escorting me. I am beautiful. All eyes are on me. This is my day, it belongs to me. But my traitorous thought will not go away, even though I try to rid myself of it.

My mother smiles at me from the front pew of the church. Roger has made my life more interesting than I ever could have imagined. He has molded me into the woman I want to be. I am not just a body to be desired, I can do more than cook and clean and bear children. I am proud of who I am.

Roger notices my stutter when I am nervous, of course, but only to be patient until I can say my thought. He does not taunt me for this fault -- it is unimportant to him. That is another good reason why I should love him. Roger is a wonderful, generous man. It does not matter that his right shoulder slumps.

I look at Roger again. Can he not look happily at me? I imagined my future husband looking happily at me.

Being with Roger will be a good life. That is why I am in this church, today, pledging myself to him. I should stop thinking.

Roger did not teach me how to stop thinking.

A circle without a center

is

not a circle

A woman without love

is

I am in too much pain to complete my poem. Why do I have this thought now? I have hid this thought from myself for so long. Why cannot I hide it for one more day?

One more hour. No, twenty more minutes, that is all I need.

It is a cruel thought. It tortures me. It cannot be true.

And now that my mind has had this thought, it will not let go. Roger has -- when I look at him now -- become a different person. I see now that he is old. He is too logical, too set in his ways. He is my friend, he is wonderful to me. But is that love?

I do not have Roger's knowledge; I do not know of these things. Perhaps it is love.

A spirit suddenly possesses my body, and I feel myself pulling away from my father, abruptly turning around and striding back down the aisle, then out the church doors. My body is walking to -- who knows where? I do not care. I have started to cry, and I want only to get away, when

a hand grabs me by the shoulder and stops me. I try to pull free but I cannot; the hand turns me around, and I wipe the tears out of my eyes with a sleeve of my wedding dress. It is my father.

Hester. Go back to the church.

No.

He stares firmly at me.

I nod my head yes. He lets go of my shoulder, and I follow him back to the church.

I walk into the church and see the desperation on Roger's face because he thinks I have left him. When he sees that I have returned, his face lights up with a smile. All eyes turn to my father and me; I see Roger becoming angry with me, as he should.

I straighten my wedding gown, then twine my arm inside my father's. The music starts, the same music again, my father hears our cue and he starts escorting me up the aisle, everyone no doubt hoping this trip will be less eventful. On my right, my friends and family do not look me in the eye. On my left, Roger's friends and family are trying to regain the approving smiles they had before I ran away. I should learn to be less impulsive.

Roger is focusing on me as we walk towards him. His eyes and face reveal his feelings now -- he sees me as beautiful. This is what I imagined for my wedding.

When we reach the front, my father steps aside to let me walk the last few steps by myself, and I do not hesitate. When Roger stands by me, I softly touch his face and think Roger, I am sorry I left. I am back, I want to be here, with you. I see his face break out in a big smile. I have the power to make him both sad and happy.

Tonight, he will instruct me on how I should have behaved. But his happiness will be too big for his face to hold when I walk into his bedroom.

This will work. I want to be here. I like Roger. We bring joy to each other's lives. I want to marry Roger, even if I do not --

I will NOT have that thought.

Do you, Hester Williams, take Roger Prynne to be your lawfully wedded husband?

I d- d- d- I am so embarrassed. I wish a hole would appear in this church floor and swallow me up. But it does not, and I must -- as always -- live with my stuttering. D- I nod my head yes, I do. The preacher takes pity on me and accepts that as my answer. Roger squeezes my hand softly, telling me that everything is okay.

Hester chose a life with a hole in it, a hole that mattered a lot to her.

But there was no right or wrong here. Marrying someone for love doesn't guarantee happiness; I don't know if it even qualifies as a good decision-making strategy. Many marriages, sooner or later, have to deal with the loss of romantic love; a feeling of being partners might be more useful for the inevitable problems of trying to live together and raise children.

Hester's choice turned out to be a tragedy, of course. But only because some damn butterfly in South America flapped its wings and created a storm in the North Atlantic.

Six Months Later

What is a broth without salt?

It has no delight

You must taste salted broth to know this.

What is a broth without salt?

It has no delight

You must taste salted broth to know this.

What is a tree without leaves?

It has no beauty.

You must see a tree with leaves to know this.

What is kindness without generosity?

It has no warmth and none of God's grace.

You must experience kindness with generosity to know this.

What is a kiss without desire?

It is still a kiss

I burn the poetry that shows my foolish, petty complaints about Roger.

A seed

Where does it grow?

Man decides

When does it grow?

Man decides

What does it grown into?

God decides

And what of a man? Who decides?

Man and God.

And what of a woman?

Two Months Later

What is this, Hester?

Without turning around to see, I assume he means the letter we received today. A note from your bank, Roger. They wish to speak to you about something. I try to remember the words, but they were long and unfamiliar. He can read the letter.

"No. This."

I turn around. A piece of paper I recognize -- my poetry! He has no right. Has he read it?

I rush over and attempt to take it from him, but he holds it away from me. I shout, IT IS M-MINE.

No, Hester, it is not. This is my paper, and this is written with my ink. Explain this to me.

It is my p- p- I try to take a calm breath and not think. Poetry.

This is not poetry.

It is my poetry. I am shamed and cannot look Roger in the eye. I had not meant anyone to ever read any of my poems.

He shakes his head, then says kindly, It does not rhyme.

I have tried many times to make the words rhyme, but then they twist away from me and fail to mean what I want them to say.

Why do you write this?

I shrug my shoulders while my eyes ask for his pity. I do not know. Does the rain know why it falls? I am just a woman. The poetry comes out of me and I write it down. That is all I know.

Then Roger kindly shows me how to rhyme. Then he explains about meter, though he says my endless repetitions usually accomplish that anyway.

Through this explanation, he is kind and helpful. Roger is a good man, and he wants to help me be better, so he is happy to teach me.

And when we are done, I give him a soft kiss on his hand and thank him. But my heart has been cut into ribbons. I will never again write poetry.

One Day

Hester, we will soon move to Boston. Please pack what we will need. You cannot take too much. The ship's captain will explain it to you.

Boston? Where is that? Why are we moving?

It is in the Americas. I wish to be surrounded by people of my faith.

What will you do there?

I will be a doctor. I have knowledge of the healing arts, so I can be a help there.

What will I do there?

One Day

Hester, there is one unexpected business affair I must attended to. I have no choice. You will have to sail tomorrow without me, then I will take the next ship to Boston.

My mind is numb. I cannot even imagine going on a strange ship by myself. Roger will not be there to help me or guard me, or even explain anything to me. No one will be patient with my stutter.

Then I will be in a strange city by myself? With no one who cares for me, no one who even knows me?

I am frightened beyond belief. I- I- I-

Thank you, Hester, for doing this. You will be fine.

I am pacing, pacing. I am anxious. I do not want to go to America. Can I refuse Roger? When my feet become sore from so much walking in my shoes, I sit down, but I cannot sit, so I take off my shoes and pace and worry and have anxious thoughts which help no one.

Finally I give up and take out a piece of paper. I do not yet know what I will write, I know only that I must write my feelings to understand them.

I am not brave

I know this

Everyone knows this

No one disputes this

I cannot pretend I am

No one else pretends I am

I do not want to fight

I want to be protected

I do not want to bravely explore a new world

I want to be safe

I do not want to courageously journey by myself

I want to be surrounded by friends and family

I want to choose my life

I do not like being told what to do

when I do not enjoy it

if --

God wants my happiness

he will be disappointed

I trust God

He will keep me safe

But --

why does he not

quench the fear in my heart?

or the anxiousness in my chest?

I will do as Roger says -- I have no other choice. But I will not like it. I burn my poem and begin packing.

November, 1640 (Boston)

A crowd of people is waiting for us as we leave the ship after our voyage. Some are searching for family or friends. Some are already waiting to help unload the cargo. But many are just watching. Could there be nothing to do in Boston except watch ships come in? I walk off proudly, my posture straight. I know I am attractive. No one can hear my stutter, they see only an elegant young lady.

Mrs. Prynne?

Y- I nod.

I am Jonathan Goodfellow. I have been instructed to assist you while you settle in.

Again I nod. I am afraid to speak.

Where is your husband?

H- H- H- Damn it. I point to England, then manage to say, Next ship.

Mr. Goodfellow hides both his displeasure at my stutter and his surprise that I am here by myself. He says, Follow me.

My walk into Boston is so disheartening. This town is not small, but neither is it large. Yet it is the largest Puritan city in the Americas? There is no sign of elegance or fashion. Yes, perhaps they had nothing to do but watch the ship come in.

He finds me a small furnished room with a kitchen and a bedroom. When Roger comes, in a month, he will find a house for us. I have a small stipend to live on.

I unpack as slowly as I can. I have too much time.

December, 1640

I frequently go to the dock, to see if a ship has arrived. To greet Roger if there is a ship. Also, there is nothing for me to do here in Boston.

But no ship arrives. Roger is supposed to be arriving now, but crossings are unpredictable.

All of my plans start with Roger arriving. Until he does, my only plan is more waiting. This has not been a good plan for me so far. I did not ask to be here in Boston, alone. No one tells me why there is no ship; when I try to ask, no one knows.

Eventually, I stop going every day to see if a ship has come in.

January, 1641

A cry goes through the town -- a ship is coming in. I am so excited to see Roger I can hardly take time to grab my coat. I run to the docks; when I arrive I am out of breath and flushed. Finally, I will have someone to talk with. I will have someone to share a bed with at night and breakfast in the morning; someone to cook for an eventide.

It is painful when Roger is not one of the first few passengers to come off the ship. I wish he had tried harder to be one of the first passengers. But he is a good man; he would be polite and not push to the front.

More people come off the ship, though none is Roger. Apparently he will be one of the last to leave the ship. It is difficult for me to wait another few minutes for him, even though that is nothing compared to the months I have waited.

The line of passengers leaving the ship has stopped. Roger has not come off yet. Is he detained in the ship? Is he ill or infirm? I begin to worry for his health; I do not know what the problem is.

I am the only one left waiting on the dock. The sailors on the ship are attending to their business. Finally I approach one who seems to be in charge.

I- I- I- . He looks up at me. M- m- m- He is impatient with me. I take a calm breath, but I cannot stop my panic. R- R- R-

He loses interest in me and returns to his work. I shout My husband. I- I- I-

He says, There is no one left on board.

I start to faint, and he catches me. When I awaken, I am lying on the ground with three men standing above me looking helpless. I slowly stand.

I wait another hour. At first I cannot believe Roger is not here; then I must confront the truth of his absence. I now notice that the name of this ship is not the ship Roger was to travel on.

Finally I walk slowly to my lonely room. Where is Roger? What will I do now? I do not know.

Eventually, I learn that the ship Roger was supposed to be on, a smaller ship mostly carrying supplies, did leave London. But it did not arrive here.

I am afraid to ask what that means. I continue waiting for Roger -- there is nothing else I can do. There is no one to help me or tell me what I should do.

January, 1641

I am standing outside the shop, afraid to go in. Finally I realize that my fear of entering is too strong -- I will never enter no matter how long I stand here. But as I turn to leave . . . I picture my lonely room, which I cannot face. I turn again and walk into shop, feeling foolish for having stood so long outside in the cold.

I would like some p- p- paper.

He looks at me with disgust. Why does he become angry with me? God gave me this stutter. It was a gift from God. Or a punishment, I do not understand God and his ways. But I was a child. Would God punish a child?

And ink and a q- q- I stop. Q- I motion with my hands. A gift from God, so that my beauty would always be flawed. So that I could never be proud. So I would always think myself less than others, never greater than anyone.

He says, disgustedly, Quill.

I nod my head.

Dear Mother and Father,

I am settling into Boston. I have a small room, but it is clean and safe. Roger will be here with the next ship.

Love,

Your Daughter

I cannot tell them my fears -- they could do nothing but worry.

February, 1641

A cry goes through the town. Another ship is coming in. Roger is finally here, I pray.

I cannot face another disappointment. I slowly walk to the docks. When I arrive, I stand to the rear so no one can see the emotions on my face.

The last passenger finally leaves the ship, and there has been no Roger. But there is a letter for me from his family. I read with dismay: Roger sailed for here two months ago.

If he is not here, they do not know where he is. The letter states that I should stay here and wait for him. They have sent more money, so that I will have money to live.

But I doubt that he is coming for me. Apparently he is not coming at all.

This poor, dirty town will be my temporary home? I