You will remember that the name Roger Chillingworth hid another name—one which its owner had resolved would never be spoken again. You have heard how, in the crowd that witnessed Hester Prynne's public shaming, there stood an elderly and travel-weary man. Right as he emerged from the hazardous wilderness, he saw the woman he had hoped would embody the warmth and cheerfulness of home instead embodying sin for all to see. Her reputation was trampled under the feet of all men. Everyone at the marketplace was discussing her wrongdoing. Her dishonor would spread like a contagious disease among her family—if the news reached them—and friends, according to their intimacy with Hester. Why would the man closest to that fallen woman willingly choose to come forward and claim his share of her dishonor? He resolved not to stand beside her on the pedestal of shame. He was unknown to all but Hester, and he had her promise to keep quiet. He chose to withdraw his name from the roll books of mankind. He allowed his old identity to vanish, as though his body actually lay at the bottom of the ocean, where rumor had long ago placed it. Having done this, new interests immediately sprang up and a new purpose presented itself. It was a dark, if not guilty, purpose, but one strong enough to consume his entire life.
To pursue this new purpose, he settled in the Puritan town as Roger Chillingworth. He had neither connections nor resources, other than his uncommon learning and intelligence. He presented himself as a doctor, drawing on his earlier studies of current medical practices. He was welcomed in the colony, since skilled doctors and surgeons rarely moved there. It seems these professionals seldom possessed the same religious zeal that brought other immigrants across the Atlantic. Perhaps in their studies, doctors became so enamored with the artful mechanics of the human body that they lost the desire to seek out life's mysteries in the spiritual realm. Whatever the reason, the physical health of the good town of Boston had up to that point been entrusted to an aged deacon and a pharmacist whose godliness was far greater than his learning. Their only surgeon doubled as a barber. Roger Chillingworth was a brilliant addition to that professional body. He soon demonstrated his familiarity with the ancient art of medicine, which combined a vast mixture of exotic ingredients in an intricate way that seemed more appropriate for an Elixir of Life. He had also learned a great deal about the native herbs and roots while imprisoned by the Indians. He recommended these simple, natural medicines to his patients with as much confidence as he had in prescribing European drugs that had been developed by learned doctors over centuries.
This learned stranger led an outwardly upright and religious life. Shortly after his arrival, he had chosen the Reverend Mr. Dimmesdale as his spiritual guide. The young minister, whose scholarly reputation still lived on back in Oxford, was considered by some of his greatest admirers to be almost a divinely chosen apostle. They were certain that, if he lived a full life, his deeds for the young New England church would be as great as those done by the first apostles for all of Christianity. Around this time, however, the health of Mr. Dimmesdale had clearly begun to fail. Those who knew him best attributed the paleness of the young minister's cheeks to his overly studious habits, his strict attention to his pastoral duties, and (more than anything) the fasts and vigils he often undertook in the hope of preventing his mortal frailty from dimming his spiritual light. Some said that if Mr. Dimmesdale were really going to die, it was because the world was no longer worthy of him. He, in characteristic humility, protested that if God should see fit to remove him, it would be because he was unfit to perform his humble mission on earth. But while there was some disagreement as to the cause, there could be no question that he was indeed ill. His body grew thin. His voice, though still rich and sweet, had a sad hint of decay in it. Often, at the slightest surprise, he would put his hand over his heart, first with a blush, then with a paleness that suggested pain.
This was the condition of the young clergyman, so close to an untimely death, when Roger Chillingworth appeared in town. Few people knew how he got there. To most, it seemed he had fallen out of the sky or risen up from the earth. It wasn't long before people came to see his presence as a miracle. He was known to be a skillful doctor. People noted that he gathered herbs and wildflowers, roots and twigs, as though he knew secrets hidden from the ordinary person's eyes. He spoke of associations with such notable men as Sir Kenelem Digby, and others whose scientific achievements tended toward the supernatural. Why, with such a reputation in the academic world, had he come here? What could this man, accustomed to the great cities, be seeking in the wilderness? It was rumored that a heavenly miracle transported this learned doctor, trained at a German university, through the air and set him down on Mr. Dimmesdale's doorstep. Absurd as this rumor sounds, it was believed by some of the more sensible people in the community. Even wiser people, who knew that Heaven accomplished its goals without the aid of elaborate miracles, were inclined to see the hand of God in Roger Chillingworth's timely arrival.
