Chapter 11  THE INTERIOR OF A HEART

AFTER the incident last described, the intercourse between the clergyman and the physician, though externally the same, was really of another character than it had previously been. The intellect of Roger Chillingworth had now a sufficiently plain path before it. It was not, indeed, precisely that which he had laid out for himself to read. Calm, gentle, passionless, as he appeared, there was yet, we fear, a quiet depth of malice, hitherto latent, but active now, in this unfortunate old man, which led him to imagine a more intimate revenge than any mortal had ever wreaked upon an enemy. To make himself the one trusted friend, to whom should be confided all the fear, the remorse, the agony, the ineffectual repentance, the backward rush of sinful thoughts, expelled in vain! All that guilty sorrow, hidden from the world, whose great heart would have pitied and forgiven, to be revealed to him, the Pitiless, to him, the Unforgiving! All that dark treasure to be lavished on the very man, to whom nothing else could so adequately pay the debt of vengeance.

The clergyman's shy and sensitive reserve had balked this scheme. Roger Chillingworth, however, was inclined to be hardly, if at all, less satisfied with the aspect of affairs, which Providence- using the avenger and his victim for its own purposes, and, perchance, pardoning, where it seemed most to punish- had substituted for his black devices. A revelation, he could almost say, had been granted to him. It mattered little, for his object, whether celestial, or from what other region. By its aid, in all the subsequent relations betwixt him and Mr. Dimmesdale, not merely the external presence, but the very inmost soul, of the latter seemed to be brought out before his eyes, so that he could see and comprehend its every movement. He became, thenceforth, not a spectator only, but a chief actor, in the poor minister's interior world. He could play upon him as he chose. Would he arouse him with a throb of agony? The victim was for ever on the rack; it needed only to know the spring that controlled the engine- and the physician knew it well! Would be startle him with sudden fear? As at the waving of a magician's wand, uprose a grisly phantom- uprose a thousand phantoms- in many shapes, of death, or more awful shame, all flocking round about tie clergyman, and pointing with their fingers at his breast!

All this was accomplished with a subtlety so perfect, that the minister, though he had constantly a dim perception of some evil influence watching over him, could never gain a knowledge of its actual nature. True, he looked doubtfully, fearfully- even, at times, with horror and the bitterness of hatred- at the deformed figure of the old physician. His gestures, his gait, his grizzled beard, his slightest and most indifferent acts, the very fashion of his garments, were odious in the clergyman's sight; a token implicitly to be relied on, of a deeper antipathy in the breast of the latter than he was willing to acknowledge to himself. For, as it was impossible to assign a reason for such distrust and abhorrence, so Mr. Dimmesdale, conscious that the poison of one morbid spot was infecting his heart's entire substance, attributed all his presentiments to no other cause. He took himself to task for his bad sympathies in reference to Roger Chillingworth, disregarded the lesson that he should have drawn from them, and did his best to root them out. Unable to accomplish this, he nevertheless, as a matter of principle, continued his habits of social familiarity with the old man, and thus gave him constant opportunities for perfecting the purpose to which- poor, forlorn creature that he was, and more wretched than his victim- the avenger had devoted himself.

While thus suffering under bodily disease, and gnawed and tortured by some black trouble of the soul, and given over to the machinations of his deadliest enemy, the Reverend Mr. Dimmesdale had achieved a brilliant popularity in his sacred office. He won it, indeed, in great part, by his sorrows. His intellectual gifts, his moral perceptions, his power of experiencing and communicating emotion, were kept in a state of preternatural activity by the prick and anguish of his daily life. His fame, though still on its upward slope, already overshadowed the soberer reputations of his fellow-clergymen, eminent as several of them were. There were scholars among them, who had spent more years in acquiring abstruse lore, connected with the divine profession, than Mr. Dimmesdale had lived; and who might well, therefore, be more profoundly versed in such solid and valuable attainments than their youthful brother. There were men, too, of a sturdier texture of mind than his, and endowed with a far greater share of shrewd, hard, iron, or granite understanding; which, duly mingled with a fair proportion of doctrinal ingredient, constitutes a highly respectable, efficacious, and unamiable variety of the clerical species. There were others, again, true saintly fathers, whose faculties had been elaborated by weary toil among their books, and by patient thought, and etherealised, moreover, by spiritual communications with the better world, into which their purity of life had almost introduced these holy personages, with their garments of mortality still clinging to them. All that they lacked was the gift that descended upon the chosen disciples at Pentecost, in tongues of flame; symbolising, it would seem, not the power of speech in foreign and unknown languages, but that of addressing the whole human brotherhood in the heart's native language. These fathers, otherwise so apostolic, lacked Heaven's last and rarest attestation of their office, the Tongue of Flame. They would have vainly sought- had they ever dreamed of seeking- to express the highest truths through the humblest medium of familiar words and images. Their voices came down, afar and indistinctly, from the upper heights where they habitually dwelt.

Not improbably, it was to this latter class of men that Mr. Dimmesdale, by many of his traits of character, naturally belonged. To the high mountain-peaks of faith and sanctity he would have climbed, had not the tendency been thwarted by the burden, whatever it might be, of crime or anguish, beneath which it was his doom to totter. It kept him down, on a level with the lowest; him, the man of ethereal attributes, whose voice the angels might else have listened to and answered! But this very burden it was, that gave him sympathies so intimate with the sinful brotherhood of mankind; so that his heart vibrated in unison with theirs, and received their pain into itself, and sent its own throb of pain through a thousand other hearts, in gushes of sad, persuasive eloquence. Oftenest persuasive, but sometimes terrible! The people knew not the power that moved them thus. They deemed the young clergyman a miracle of holiness. They fancied him the mouthpiece of Heaven's messages of wisdom, and rebuke, and love. In their eyes, the very ground on which he trod was sanctified. The virgins of his church grew pale around him, victims of a passion so imbued with religious sentiment that they imagined it to be all religion, and brought it openly, in their white bosoms, as their most acceptable sacrifice before the altar. The aged members of his flock, beholding Mr. Dimmesdale's frame so feeble, while they were themselves so rugged in their infirmity, believed that he would go heavenward before them, and enjoined it upon their children, that their old bones should be buried close to their young pastor's holy grave. And, all this time, perchance, when poor Mr. Dimmesdale was thinking of his grave, he questioned with himself whether the grass would ever grow on it, because an accursed thing must there be buried!

It is inconceivable, the agony with which this public veneration tortured him! It was his genuine impulse to adore the truth, and to reckon all things shadow-like, and utterly devoid of weight or value, that had not its divine essence as the life within their life. Then, what was he?- a substance?- or the dimmest of all shadows?He longed to speak out, from his own pulpit, at the full height of his voice, and tell the people what he was. "I, whom you behold in these black garments of the priesthood- I, who ascend the sacred desk, and turn my pale face heavenward, taking upon myself to hold communion, in your behalf, with the Most High Omniscience- I, in whose daily life you discern the sanctity of Enoch- I, whose footsteps, as you suppose, leave a gleam along my earthly track, whereby the pilgrims that shall come after me may be guided to the regions of the blest- I, who have laid the hand of baptism upon your children- I, who have breathed the parting prayer over your dying friends, to whom the Amen sounded faintly from a world which they had quitted- I, your pastor, whom you so reverence and trust, am utterly a pollution and a lie!"

More than once, Mr. Dimmesdale had gone into the pulpit, with a purpose never to come down its steps, until he should have spoken words like the above. More than once, he had cleared his throat, and drawn in the long, deep, and tremulous breath, which, when sent forth again, would come burdened with the black secret of his soul. More than once- nay, more than a hundred times- he had actually spoken! Spoken! But how? He had told his hearers that he was altogether vile, a viler companion of the vilest, the worst of sinners, an abomination, a thing of unimaginable iniquity; and that the only wonder was, that they did not see his wretched body shrivelled up before their eyes, by the burning wrath of the Almighty! Could there be plainer speech than this? Would not the people start up in their seats, by a simultaneous impulse, and tear him down out of the pulpit which he defiled? Not so, indeed! They heard it all, and did but reverence him the more. They little guessed what deadly purport lurked in those self-condemning words. "The godly youth!" said they among themselves. "The saint on earth! Alas, if he discern such sinfulness in his own white soul, what horrid spectacle would he behold in thine or mine!" The minister well knew- subtle, but remorseless hypocrite that he was!- the light in which his vague confession would be viewed. He had striven to put a cheat upon himself by making the avowal of a guilty conscience, but had gained only one other sin, and a self-acknowledged shame, without the momentary relief of being self-deceived. He had spoken the very truth, and transformed it into the veriest falsehood. And yet, by the constitution of his nature, he loved the truth, and loathed the lie, as few men ever did. Therefore, above all things else, he loathed his miserable self!

His inward trouble drove him to practices more in accordance with the old, corrupted faith of Rome, than with the better light of the Church in which he had been born and bred. In Mr. Dimmesdale's secret closet, under lock and key, there was a bloody scourge. Oftentimes, this Protestant and Puritan divine had plied it on his own shoulders; laughing bitterly at himself the while, and smiting so much the more pitilessly because of that bitter laugh. It was his custom, too, as it has been that of many other pious Puritans, to fast- not, however, like them, in order to purify the body and render it the fitter medium of celestial illumination, but rigorously, and until his knees trembled beneath him, as an act of penance. He kept vigils, likewise, night after night, sometimes in utter darkness; sometimes with a glimmering lamp; and sometimes, viewing his own face in a looking-glass, by the most powerful light which he could throw upon it. He thus typified the constant introspection wherewith he tortured, but could not purify, himself. In these lengthened vigils, his brain often reeled, and visions seemed to flit before him; perhaps seen doubtfully, and by a faint light of their own, in the remote dimness of the chamber, or more vividly, and close beside him, within the looking-glass. Now it was a herd of diabolic shapes, that grinned and mocked at the pale minister, and beckoned him away with them; now a group of shining angels, who flew upward heavily, as sorrow-laden, but grew more ethereal as they rose. Now came the dead friends of his youth, and his white-bearded father, with a saint-like frown, and his mother, turning her face away as she passed by. Ghost of a mother- thinnest fantasy of a mother- methinks she might yet have thrown a pitying glance towards her son! And now, through the chamber which these spectral thoughts had made so ghastly, glided Hester Prynne, leading along little Pearl, in her scarlet garb, and pointing her forefinger, first at the scarlet letter on her bosom, and then at the clergyman's own breast.

None of these visions ever quite deluded him. At any moment, by an effort of his will, he could discern substances through their misty lack of substance, and convince himself that they were not solid in their nature, like yonder table of carved oak, or that big, square, leathern-bound and brazen-clasped volume of divinity. But, for all that, they were, in one sense, the truest and most substantial things which the poor minister now dealt with. It is the unspeakable misery of a life so false as his, that it steals the pith and substance out of whatever realities there are around us, and which were meant by Heaven to be the spirit's joy and nutriment. To the untrue man, the whole universe is false- it is impalpable- it shrinks to nothing within his grasp. And he himself, in so far as he shows himself in a false light, becomes a shadow, or, indeed, ceases to exist. The only truth that continued to give Mr. Dimmesdale a real existence on this earth, was the anguish in his inmost soul, and the undissembled expression of it in his aspect. Had he once found power to smile, and wear a face of gaiety, there would have been no such man!

On one of those ugly nights, which we have faintly hinted at, but forborne to picture forth, the minister started from his chair. A new thought had struck him. There might be a moment's peace in it. Attiring himself with as much care as if it had been for public worship, and precisely in the same manner, he stole softly down the staircase, undid the door, and issued forth.

在上面描述的那件事之后，牧师和医生间的交往，虽然表面上同原先没什么两样，但却具有了不同的性质。罗杰·齐灵渥斯的思路如今变得十分平坦了。的确，那倒不一定就是他要追寻的途径。他虽然表面上平静、温和、不动感情，然而我们却担心，在这个不幸的老人心中至今仍深深埋藏着的恶毒，此时却要活跃起来，从而会引导他想象出超乎常人的更直接的向敌人复仇的手段。他把自己装扮成那人的可信赖的朋友，让对方向他吐露一切恐惧、自责、烦恼、徒劳的懊悔、回潮的负罪感，而且丝毫不能苟且！那些向世界隐瞒着的一切内疚，本可以获得世界的博大心胸的怜悯和原谅的，如今却要揭示给他这个毫无怜悯心的人，给他这个不肯原谅人的人！那珍藏着的一切隐私，竟然滥施给这样一个人，最最恰如其分地让他得偿复仇之夙债。

由于牧师生性羞赧和敏感，他的沉默寡言与自我克制阻遏了这一阴谋的得逞。然而，罗杰·齐灵渥斯对事态如此进展，几乎没有表现出什么不满，因为上天既然要改变他的阴险手段，天意对复仇者和他的牺牲者自有一定安排，或许就是要原谅本来罪责当罚的人。他几乎可以说，他已获得一个启示，至于这一启示是来自上苍，抑或其它什么地方，对他的目标来说，并不足道；由于有这启示之助，在他同丁梅斯代尔先生随后的关系中，不仅牧师外表的言行举止，而且连牧师最深藏的灵魂，似乎都一一展现在他的眼前，致使他能看清和理解牧师每时每刻的变化。这样，他在那可怜的牧师的内心世界中，就不仅是个旁观者，而且成了一名主要演员了。他可以随心所欲地利用牧师。他要引起牧师一阵痛苦的悸动吗？那牺牲者反正永远处于遭受煎熬的状态；只消知道控制引擎的弹簧就成了，而医生对此恰恰了如指掌！他要让牧师因突来的恐惧而大惊失色吗？他只消象一个魔法师一般把魔杖一挥，就会升起一个面目可怖的幽灵——升起数以千计的幽灵——以千奇百怪的死亡或更加可怖的外形，全都聚在牧师周围，手指直戳他的胸膛！

这一切都完成得十分巧妙诡秘，牧师虽时常模糊地感到有某个邪恶的势力在死死盯住自己不放，却从未能明了其实质。的确，他望着那老医生的畸形身躯时是满怀疑虑和恐惧的——有时甚至带有仇恨的刻毒和厌恶。在牧师的眼中，那医生的姿态和步法，他的灰白胡须，他的最轻微和最无关紧要的动作，乃至他袍服的那种样式，都是可憎的；在牧师的心中，本有一种对他更深的反感，这原是不言而喻的，但牧师却不肯承认。因为，既然不可能为这种怀疑和厌恶找到理由，而且明知一处病灶的毒素正在侵染他的整个心脏，于是丁梅斯代尔先生也就不把他的一切不祥预感归咎于其它了。他自责不该对罗杰·齐灵渥斯抱有反感，并忽略了本应从这种反感中吸取的教训，却竭力来根除这种反感。尽管他无法做到这一点，却遵循一般原则，继续保持他和那老人的亲密交往，从而不断为对方提供实现他目的的机会——那可怜而孤凄的老人，着实比他的牺牲品更加不幸——为达此目的，那复仇者已经倾尽全力了。

就在丁梅斯代尔牧师先生饱尝肉体上疾病的痛苦，备受精神上某种阴险的烦恼的折磨，还要听凭他的死敌的诡计的摆布的期间，他在他的圣职上却大放异彩，广受欢迎。事实上，他在很大程度上是靠他的悲伤才获得这一切的。他的智慧的天赋，他在道德上的感知，他经受和表达感情的能力，都是由于他在日常生活中所受的刺痛，才得以保持一种异乎寻常的状态的。他的名声虽然仍处于上升阶段，却已超过了他的同行，其中有好几位还颇有声望。他们中间有些学者在神学领域中追求深奥的学识所花费的岁月，比丁梅斯代尔先生的年纪还要长；因此完全可能比他们的小兄弟取得更加扎实和更有价值的成就。也有些人比他具备更坚强的心地，富于更多的机敏和如钢铁或岩石般坚定的理解力；如果再加之适量的教义的交融，就会形成一种极受尊敬、颇有效验又高高在上的牧师的典型。还有一些人是地道的神父，他们的官能由于刻苦钻研书籍和冷静耐心的思考面变得精细复杂，尤其由于同美好世界的精神交流而变得虚无飘渺，他们虽仍寄生于必死的皮囊之中，但他们神圣的自身几乎已经由于纯净的生活而被引入那美好世界中去了。他们所唯一缺乏的，只是在圣灵降临节①时天赐绘特选圣徒们的天才，即火焰的舌头②；这象征着的似乎不是运用外国的和人所不晓的语言演讲的能力，而是以心灵中的方言对全体人类兄弟讲话的能力。这些本来可以成为圣徒的神父们，缺乏的就是上天赐给他们行使职务的最后也是最难得的一个资格，即伞焰的舌头。他们即使确曾梦想过运用日常语言和譬喻这种最普通的媒介来表达最崇高的真理的能力，然而他们的这种追求也是徒劳的。他们的声音发自他们惯处的高位，听来遥远而模糊不清。

丁梅斯代尔先生出于他自身性格的许多特点，自然无疑地本应属于这最后一类人的。他原可攀上信仰和圣洁的巅峰，可惜由于身负重荷——管它是罪孽呢还是痛苦呢，这一趋势受到了阻挠，如今注定要瞒硼而行了。这重荷将他压到最底层；他本是今颇具灵性的人，他的声音本来连天使都会来路听和应答的！然而，正是由于这一重荷，他才能够同人类的负罪的兄弟们有如此同气相求的共鸣，佼他的心能够同他们的心谐振，使他的心能够接受他们的痛楚，并把他的心悸的痛楚用洋洋洒洒的悲切和动人心弦的辞令传送给成千上万颗这样的心。他的辞令通常都能打动人心，但有时也让人心惊肉跳！人们并不知晓他何以有如此动人的能力。他们一心认为这年轻的牧师是神圣的奇迹。他们把他想象成传达上天智慧、谴责和博爱的代言人。在他们的心目中，他脚踏的地面都是圣洁的。他教堂中的处女们，围在他身边，一个个变得面色苍白，成了情欲的牺牲品，她们的情欲中渗透着宗教的情调，连她们自己都认为纯属宗教激情，将其公然收进自己洁白的心胸，作为在祭坛前最该接受的祭品。他的教众中的年长者，眼见丁梅斯代尔先生身体如此赢弱，尽管他们自己也深受病弱之苦，却相信他一定会先他们面赴天堂，遂谆谆嘱告他们的儿女；一定要把他们的老骨头葬在他们年轻牧师的神圣坟墓近旁。而就在可怜的丁梅斯代尔先生虑及他的坟墓的时候，或许一直在扪心自问：既然墓中葬着一个可诅咒的东西，那坟上还会不会长出青草！

公众对他的景仰是如何折磨着他，那痛苦是难以想见的！他的真诚的冲动就在于崇尚真理，并把缺乏以神圣本质为其生命的一切生物，视为阴影，从而否定其份量或价值。如此说来，他自己又是什么呢？是一种实体呢，抑或只是所有阴影中最昏暗的一个？他渴望从他自己的布道坛上，用最高亢的声音说话，告诉大家他是什么。“我，你们目睹身着牧师黑袍的这个人；我，登上神圣的讲坛，将苍白的面孔仰望上天，负责为你们向至高无上的、无所不知的上帝传达感情的人；我，你们将其日常生活视如以诺③般圣洁的人；我，你们以为在其人间旅途上踏—下的印痕会放出光明，指引朝圣者能随之步入天国的人；我，亲手为你们的孩子施洗的人；我，为你们弥留的朋友们诵念临终祈祷，让他们隐隐听到从已经告别的世上传来“阿门”之声的人；我，你们如此敬仰和信赖的牧师，却是一团污浊，一个骗子！”

丁梅斯代尔先生不止一次在登上布道坛时打定主意，不把上述这番话说出来，就不再走下来。他不止一次清好喉咙，颤抖着深吸一口长气，准备在再度吐气的同时，把他灵魂深处的阴暗秘密装上，一吐为快。他不止一次——应该说不止上百次——已经实际上这样说了！说出来了！可是又如何呢？他一再告诉他的听众，他是个彻头彻尾的卑鄙小人，是最卑鄙的人当中尤为卑鄙的一个伙伴，是最恶劣的一个罪人，一个令人憎恶的货色，是一个难以想象的邪恶之物；而唯一奇怪的是：他们竟然看不见，他那肮脏的肉体已经被全能的上帝的怒火所焚，在他们的眼前枯萎了！难道还能有比这番话说得更明白的吗？人们难道不该在一时冲动中从座位上站起身来，把他从被他玷污的布道坛上抓下来吗？没关系出现过这种事，当真没有！他们全都听进了耳朵，但他们都对他益发敬重。他们绝少去猜疑，在他那番自我谴责的言辞中潜藏着多么殊死的涵义。“这位神圣的青年！”他们彼此喁喁私语。“这位人间的圣者！天哪！既然他在自己洁白的灵魂中都能觉察出这样的罪孽，那他在你我心中又会看到多么骇人的样子呢！”牧师深知这一切——他是一个多么难以捉摸又懊悔不迭的伪君子啊！——他深知他那含糊其词的仟悔在人们心目中是一种什么反映。他竭力想把自己负罪的良心公之于众来自欺，但赢得的却仅仅是另一种罪孽，以及自知之耻，面毫无片刻的自欺之宁。他说的本来都是真情实话，结果却变成了弥天大谎。然而，他天生热爱真理，厌恶谎言，为旁人所不及。因此，他厌恶不幸的自我尤胜其它！

他内心的烦恼，驱使着他的行动坐卧与古老腐败的罗马天主教的信条暗相啮合，反倒背离了自他生来便哺育他的新教的较好的灵光。在丁梅斯代尔先生深锁的密室中，有一条血淋淋的刑鞭。这位新教和清教的牧师，时常一边对自己苦笑，一边鞭打自己的肩膀，而随着那苦笑，就鞭打得更加无情。他也象许多别的虔诚的清教徒一样，有斋戒的习惯——不过，别人斋戒是为了净化肉体，使之更适合于天光照耀，他的斋戒则不同，他严格地当作一种自我惩罚，直到双膝在下面颤抖为止。他还彻夜不眠地祈祷，一夜接着一夜，有时在一片漆黑之中，有时只伴着一盏昏灯，有时则在脸上照着最强的光线面对一面镜子。他就这样不断地自省，其实只是在自我折磨，丝毫得不到自我净化。在长夜不眠的祈祷之中，他的头脑时常晕眩，似乎有许多幻象在他眼前飞舞；这些幻象有时在内室的昏暗中自身发着微光，看着似有似无，有时则出现在镜子之中，近在咫尺，显得更清晰些。这些幻象时而是一群凶暴的恶魔，对着这位牧师狞笑嘲弄，呼唤他随他们而去；时而是一伙闪光的天使，象是满载哀伤的重荷，沉重地向上飞去，但随着越飞越高，而变得轻灵起来；时而又来了他年轻时那些夭折的朋友，还有他那面带圣者般的蹙容、须发花白的父亲，以及在走过时却扭转面孔不理睬他的母亲。在我看来，一个母亲的幽灵——一个母亲的最淡漠的幻影——也会对她儿子投以怜悯的目光吧！随之，在被这些光怪陆离的奇思异想弄得十分阴森可怖的内室中，海丝特·白兰领着身穿猩红袍服的珠儿飘然而过，那孩子伸出食指，先指指母亲胸前的红字，然后又指指牧师本人的胸膛。

这些幻象从来没有一个令他产生过什么错觉。无论任何时候，他依靠自己的意志力，都能在层层迷雾般的虚幻中辨别出其实质，使自己坚信：它们在本质上都不象一旁那张雕刻着花纹的橡木桌或是那本皮面铜扣的方型大卷神学著作那样，并非坚实的实体。然而，尽管如此，在一种意义上，它们又都是这可怜的牧师所应付的最真实又最具体的东西。象他过的这种虚假的生活，实在有难言的痛苦，因为我们周围的无论什么现实，原是由上天注定赐给我们的精神上的喜悦和营养，但对他来说，其精髓和实质却被窃取一空。对那个不真实的人来说，整个宇宙都是虚伪的——都是难以触摸的，在他的把握之中化为子虚乌有。至于他本人，迄今为止在虚伪的光线中所显示出的自身，已经变成一个阴影，或者更确切地说，已不复存在了。继续赋予丁梅斯代尔先生在地球上一种真实存在感的唯一事实，就是他灵魂最深处的痛苦，以及由此在他外貌上造成的毫不掩饰的表情。假如他一度找到了微笑的能力，并在脸上堆满欢快的笑意，也就不曾有过他这样一个人了！

在我们微有暗示却避免进一步描绘的这样一个丑恶的夜晚，牧师从他的椅子上惊跳而起。一个新的念头在他心中油然而生，他或许在其中可以获得瞬间的安宁。此时他象赴公众礼拜一样，着意将自己，打扮一番，然后以相应的一丝不苟的姿态，蹑手蹑脚地走下楼梯，打开房门，向前走去。

①基督教的圣灵降临节即犹太人的五旬节。在复活节后的第七个星期日，其间五十天为复活节季节。

②《新约·使徒行传》云：“五旬斋来临，门徒聚在一处；天上忽发来响声，仿佛吹过一阵大风，弥漫屋宇；又有舌如火焰，分别降在各人头上，他们为圣灵所罩，遂依圣灵所赐之口才，说起异国言语。”

③以诺，在《旧约·创世记》第五章第24节中是爱国者玛土撤拉的父亲，上帝的同行者；而在第四章第17节中则是该隐之一子。此处当为前者。