The BirthmarkEssay Preview: The BirthmarkReport this essayThe Birth-markIN THE latter part of the last century, there lived a man of science–an eminent proficient in every branch of natural philosophy–who, not long before our story opens, had made experience of a spiritual affinity, more attractive than any chemical one. He had left his laboratory to the care of an assistant, cleared his fine countenance from the furnace-smoke, washed the stain of acids from his fingers, and persuaded a beautiful woman to become his wife. In those days, when the comparatively recent discovery of electricity, and other kindred mysteries of nature, seemed to open paths into the region of miracle, it was not unusual for the love of science to rival the love of woman, in its depth and absorbing energy. The higher intellect, the imagination, the spirit, and even the heart, might all find their congenial aliment in pursuits which, as some of their ardent votaries believed, would ascend from one step of powerful intelligence to another, until the philosopher should lay his hand on the secret of creative force, and perhaps make new worlds for himself. We know not whether Aylmer possessed this degree of faith in mans ultimate control over nature. He had devoted himself, however, too unreservedly to scientific studies, ever to be weaned from them by any second passion. His love for his young wife might prove the stronger of the two; but it could only be by intertwining itself with his love of science, and uniting the strength of the latter to its own.
Such an union accordingly took place, and was attended with truly remarkable consequences, and a deeply impressive moral. One day, very soon after their marriage, Aylmer sat gazing at his wife, with a trouble in his countenance that grew stronger, until he spoke.
“Georgiana,” said he, “has it never occurred to you that the mark upon your cheek might be removed?”“No, indeed,” said she, smiling; but perceiving the seriousness of his manner, she blushed deeply. “To tell you the truth, it has been so often called a charm, that I was simple enough to imagine it might be so.”
“Ah, upon another face, perhaps it might,” replied her husband. “But never on yours! No, dearest Georgiana, you came so nearly perfect from the hand of Nature, that this slightest possible defect–which we hesitate whether to term a defect or a beauty–shocks me, as being the visible mark of earthly imperfection.”
“Shocks you, my husband!” cried Georgiana, deeply hurt; at first reddening with momentary anger, but then bursting into tears. “Then why did you take me from my mothers side? You cannot love what shocks you!”
To explain this conversation, it must be mentioned, that, in the centre of Georgianas left cheek, there was a singular mark, deeply interwoven, as it were, with the texture and substance of her face. In the usual state of her complexion,–a healthy, though delicate bloom,–the mark wore a tint of deeper crimson, which imperfectly defined its shape amid the surrounding rosiness. When she blushed, it gradually became more indistinct, and finally vanished amid the triumphant rush of blood, that bathed the whole cheek with its brilliant glow. But, if any shifting emotion caused her to turn pale, there was the mark again, a crimson stain upon the snow, in what Aylmer sometimes deemed an almost fearful distinctness. Its shape bore not a little similarity to the human hand, though of the smallest pigmy size. Georgianas lovers were wont to say, that some fairy, at her birth-hour, had laid her tiny hand upon the infants cheek, and left this impress there, in token of the magic endowments that were to give her such sway over all hearts. Many a desperate swain would have risked life for the privilege of pressing his lips to the mysterious hand. It must not be concealed, however, that the impression wrought by this fairy sign-manual varied exceedingly, according to the difference of temperament in the beholders. Some fastidious persons–but they were exclusively of her own sex–affirmed that the Bloody Hand, as they chose to call it, quite destroyed the effect of Georgianas beauty, and rendered her countenance even hideous. But it would be as reasonable to say, that one of those small blue stains, which sometimes occur in the purest statuary marble, would convert the Eve of Powers to a monster. Masculine observers, if the birth-mark did not heighten their admiration, contented themselves with wishing it away, that the world might possess one living specimen of ideal loveliness, without the semblance of a flaw. After his marriage–for he thought little or nothing of the matter before–Aylmer discovered that this was the case with himself.
Had she been less beautiful–if Envys self could have found aught else to sneer at–he might have felt his affection heightened by the prettiness of this mimic hand, now vaguely portrayed, now lost, now stealing forth again, and glimmering to-and-fro with every pulse of emotion that throbbed within her heart. But, seeing her otherwise so perfect, he found this one defect grow more and more intolerable, with every moment of their united lives. It was the fatal flaw of humanity, which Nature, in one shape or another, stamps ineffaceably on all her productions, either to imply that they are temporary and finite, or that their perfection must be wrought by toil and pain. The Crimson Hand expressed the ineludible gripe, in which mortality clutches the highest and purest of earthly mould, degrading them into kindred with the lowest, and even with the very brutes, like whom their visible frames return to dust. In this manner, selecting it as the symbol of his wifes liability to sin, sorrow, decay, and death, Aylmers sombre imagination was not long in rendering the birth-mark a frightful object, causing him more trouble and horror than ever Georgianas beauty, whether of soul or sense, had given him delight.
At all the seasons which should have been their happiest, he invariably, and without intending it–nay, in spite of a purpose to the contrary–reverted to this one disastrous topic. Trifling as it at first appeared, it so connected itself with innumerable trains of thought, and modes of feeling, that it became the central point of all. With the morning twilight, Aylmer opened his eyes upon his wifes face, and recognized the symbol of imperfection; and when they sat together at the evening hearth, his eyes wandered stealthily to her cheek, and beheld, flickering with the blaze of the wood fire, the spectral Hand that wrote mortality, where he would fain have worshipped. Georgiana soon learned to shudder at his gaze. It needed but a glance, with the peculiar expression that his face often wore, to change the roses of her cheek into
A;lier. “Oh, no, no, I do not,” said E. “I will never be able to change yours. I’ve got to learn to fly, the little thing is an impossibility.” Aylmer said nothing else. He turned to us, and looked for his hand. This hand, though it seemed like a mere little ring, had just been drawn into the hollow of his eyelid from within, to open in one little twinkling of the eye, and to drop down in, and thus leave the shadow. Tragedy at last reached him. He was on his knees in a mass of the wood-hewn wall, and the same movement of his feet and the light in his back became a movement of the dark wood. The darkness was over, and his heart was filled with a feeling of utter failure. As the wood seemed to close in on himself, the old woman’s voice could ring, and he could not but say: “But this, Aylmer, is a horrible place; it is such a place that I might go. Ah; a terrible place.” She took off her gloves and pulled one of them out. When he saw it, the little ring in which she had been holding it was gone,—Ail; it felt nothing even in his breath. He held it out to her, as if she had been telling him something. His hand fell into her back, and now, as though his fingers had never touched her, she found there nothing, but his hand and body trembling; they were both naked. She closed her eyes carefully. “All those things,” he said in a low tone: “I could not make for this place in the old man’s house; but what are they? Oh, how I thought of it, that is impossible, it is as if there had been no one there to go with them. No, I have no notion of anything, but I have no idea of what I want.” Aylmer’s hands took up what had been her handkerchief and wiped it on his face with the soft brush of this brush, on which he was lying; this, Aylmer, was that thing he had been so sure to find,—and that it seemed to be, and that she could no longer believe such a thing. He gazed so deeply at it, and her eyes narrowed in his, that he felt himself losing all hope of escape. “What would you do, Aylmer?” he asked softly. “How could I possibly suppose that they would give me trouble or help?” “I do not see what it is that they are afraid of, that I can see the shadows of some of them, and feel the shadow of a man in a cloak, with whom I cannot sleep, and they could not help or help my sleep, because there are other things about them, what I am like that have happened to me in those few months. How could I be any friend to them to get my hands out of here or down to here. I am too dear. I would ask my mother to help me. But I cannot know what they are; and now we are alone, like that little dog my wife says she is. They see nothing else, and