By Nathaniel Hawthorne
In the latter part of the last century there lived a man ofscience， an eminent proficient in every branch of naturalphilosophy， who not long before our story opens had madeexperience of a spiritual affinity more attractive than anychemical one. He had left his laboratory to the care of anassistant， cleared his fine countenance from the furnace smoke，washed the stain of acids from his fingers， and persuaded abeautiful woman to become his wife. In those days when thecomparatively recent discovery of electricity and other kindredmysteries of Nature seemed to open paths into the region ofmiracle， it was not unusual for the love of science to rival thelove of woman in its depth and absorbing energy. The higherintellect， the imagination， the spirit， and even the heart mightall find their congenial aliment in pursuits which， as some oftheir ardent votaries believed， would ascend from one step ofpowerful intelligence to another， until the philosopher should layhis hand on the secret of creative force and perhaps make newworlds for himself. We know not whether Aylmer possessed thisdegree of faith in man’s ultimate control over Nature. He haddevoted himself， however， too unreservedly to scientific studiesever to be weaned from them by any second passion. His lovefor his young wife might prove the stronger of the two； but itcould only be by intertwining itself with his love of science， anduniting the strength of the latter to his own.
Such a union accordingly took place， and was attended withtruly remarkable consequences and a deeply impressive moral.
One day， very soon after their marriage， Aylmer sat gazing athis wife with a trouble in his countenance that grew strongeruntil he spoke.
“Georgiana，” said he， “has it never occurred to you that themark upon your cheek might be removed？”
“No， indeed，” said she， smiling； but perceiving theseriousness of his manner， she blushed deeply. “To tell youthe truth it has been so often called a charm that I was simpleenough to imagine it might be so.”
“Ah， upon another face perhaps it might，” replied herhusband； “but never on yours. No， dearest Georgiana， youcame so nearly perfect from the hand of Nature that thisslightest possible defect， which we hesitate whether to terma defect or a beauty， shocks me， as being the visible mark ofearthly imperfection.”
“Shocks you， my husband！” cried Georgiana， deeply hurt； atfirst reddening with momentary anger， but then bursting intotears. “Then why did you take me from my mother’s side？ Youcannot love what shocks you！”
To explain this conversation it must be mentioned thatin the centre of Georgiana’s left cheek there was a singularmark， deeply interwoven， as it were， with the texture andsubstance of her face. In the usual state of her complexion—ahealthy though delicate bloom—the mark wore a tint ofdeeper crimson， which imperfectly defined its shape amid thesurrounding rosiness. When she blushed it gradually becamemore indistinct， and finally vanished amid the triumphantrush of blood that bathed the whole cheek with its brilliantglow. But if any shifting motion caused her to turn pale therewas the mark again， a crimson stain upon the snow， in whatAylmer sometimes deemed an almost fearful distinctness. Itsshape bore not a little similarity to the human hand， though ofthe smallest pygmy size. Georgiana’s lovers were wont to saythat some fairy at her birth hour had laid her tiny hand uponthe infant’s cheek， and left this impress there in token of themagic endowments that were to give her such sway over allhearts. Many a desperate swain would have risked life for theprivilege of pressing his lips to the mysterious hand. It mustnot be concealed， however， that the impression wrought bythis fairy sign manual varied exceedingly， according to thedifference of temperament in the beholders. Some fastidiouspersons—but they were exclusively of her own sex—affirmedthat the bloody hand， as they chose to call it， quite destroyedthe effect of Georgiana’s beauty， and rendered her countenanceeven hideous. But it would be as reasonable to say that one ofthose small blue stains which sometimes occur in the pureststatuary marble would convert the Eve of Powers to a monster.
Masculine observers， if the birthmark did not heighten theiradmiration， contented themselves with wishing it away， that theworld might possess one living specimen of ideal lovelinesswithout the semblance of a flaw. After his marriage，—forhe thought little or nothing of the matter before，—Aylmerdiscovered that this was the case with himself.
Had she been less beautiful，—if Envy’s self could havefound aught else to sneer at，—he might have felt his affectionheightened by the prettiness of this mimic hand， now vaguelyportrayed， now lost， now stealing forth again and glimmeringto and fro with every pulse of emotion that throbbed within herheart； but seeing her otherwise so perfect， he found this onedefect grow more and more intolerable with every momentof their united lives. It was the fatal flaw of humanity whichNature， in one shape or another， stamps ineffaceably on all herproductions， either to imply that they are temporary and finite，or that their perfection must be wrought by toil and pain. Thecrimson hand expressed the ineludible gripe in which mortalityclutches the highest and purest of earthly mould， degradingthem into kindred with the lowest， and even with the verybrutes， like whom their visible frames return to dust. In thismanner， selecting it as the symbol of his wife’s liability to sin，sorrow， decay， and death， Aylmer’s sombre imagination wasnot long in rendering the birthmark a frightful object， causinghim more trouble and horror than ever Georgiana’s beauty，whether of soul or sense， had given him delight.
