(AN OVERTURE)
A small upper bedroom in the home of Re›!erend .Samuel Parris, Salem, Massachu etts, in the spi ing of the yeur 1692.
There is a narrow v indow’ at the left. Through its leaded panes the ioritifig sffilfighf streams. .4 candle still but us near the bed, v hich is at the i ight. A chest, a cf7air, and a small table ai e the other Jim nishings. At the back a door opens on the landing of the staiizi ay to the ground fioor. The room gi›!es off an air of clean spureness. The roofrafter at e exposed, and the v!ood colors are rat› and unmello» ed.
.4s Ihe curtain rises, Revei end Parri is disco›!ered kneeling beside the bed, m!identl¿• in prayer. His daughter, BetiJ Parri , aged ten, is lying on f/ie bed, inei t.
At the time of these events Parris was in his middle forties. ln history he cut a villainous path, and there is very little good to be said for him. Hc believed he was being persecuted wherevcr he went, despite his best efforts to win people and God to his side. In meeting, he felt insulted if someone rose to shut the door without first asking his permission. He was a widower with no interest in children, or talent with them. He rcgarded them as young adults, and until this strange crisis lie, like the rest of Salem, never conceived that the children were anything but thankful for being permitted to walk straight, eyes slightly lowered, arms at the sides, and mouths shut until bidden to speak.
His house stood in the “town”—but we today would hardly call it a village. The meeting house was nearby, and from this point outward—toward the bay or inland—there were a few small- windowed, dark houses snuggling against the raw Massachusetts winter. Salem had been established hardly forty years before. To the European world the whole province was a barbaric frontier inhabited by a sect of fanatics who, nevertheless, were shipping out products of slowly increasing quantity and value.
No one can really know what their lives were like. They had no novelists-and would not have permitted anyone to read a novcl if one wcre handy. Their crccd forbadc anything resembling a theater or “vain enjoyment.” They did not celebrate Christmas, and a holiday mom work meant only that they must concentrate even more upon prayer.
Which is not to say that nothing broke into this strict and somber way of life. When a new farmhouse was built, friends assembled to “raise the root,” and thcrc would be special foods cooked and probably some potent cider passed around. There was a good supply of ne’er-do-wells in Salem, who dallied at the shovelboard in Bridget Bishop’s tavern. Probably more than the creed, hard work kept the morale of“ the place from spoiling, for the people were forced to fight thc land like heroes for every grain of com, and no wan had very much time for fooling around.
That there were some jokers, howcver, is indicated by the practice of appointing a two-man patrol whose duty was to “walk forth in the time of God’s worship to take notice of such as either lye about the meeting house, without attending to the word and ordinances, or that lye at home or in the fields without giving good account thereof, and to take the names of such persons, and to pi’esent them to the magistrates. whereby they may be accordingly proceeded against.” This predilection for minding other people’s business was time-honored among the people of Salem. and it undoubtedly created many of the suspicions which were to feed the coming madness. It was also, in my opinion, one of the things that a John Proctor would rebel against, for the time of the armcd camp had almost passed, and since the country was reasonably—-although not wholly—safe, the old disciplines were beginning to rankle. But. as in all such matters, the issue was not clear-cut, for danger was still a possibility, and in unity still lay the best promise of safety.
Thc edge of thc wilderness was close by. The American continent stretched cndlcssly west, and it was full of mystery for them. It stood, dark and threatening, over their shoulders night and day, for out of it Indian tribes maraudcd from time to time, and Reverend Parris had parishioner’s who had lost relatives to these heathen.
The parochial snobbery of these people was partly responsible tor their failure to convert the Indians. Probably they also preferred to take land from heathens rather than from fellow Christians. At any rate, very few Indians were converted, and the Salem folk believed that the virgin forest was the Devil’s last preserve, his hone basc and the citadel of his final stand. To the best of thcir knowlcdge the American forcst was the last place on earth that was not paying homage to God.
For these reasons, among others, they carried about an air of innate resistance, even of persecution. Their fathers had. of’ course, been persecuted in England. So now they and their church found it neccssary to deny any other sect its freedom, lcst their New Jerusalem be defiled and corrupted by wrong ways and deceitful ideas.
They believed, in short, that they held in their steady hands the candle that would light the world. We have inherited this belief, and it has helped and hurt us. It helped their with the discipline it gave them. They were a dedicated folk, by and large, and they had to be to survive the life they had chosen or been born into in this country.
The proof of their beliefs value to them may be taken from the opposite character of the first Jamestown settlement, farther south, in Virginia. The Englishmen who landed there were motivated mainly by a hunt for profit. They had thought to pick off the wealth of the new country and thcn return rich to England. They were a band of individualists, and a much more ingratiating group than the Massachusetts men. But Virginia destroyed them. Massachusetts tried to kill off the Puritans, but they combined; they set up a communal society which, in the beginning, was little more than an armed camp with an autocratic and very devoted leadership. It was, however, an autocracy by consent, for thcy were united from top to bottom by a commonly held ideology whose perpetuation was the reason and justification for all their sufferings. So their self-denial, their purposefulness, their suspicion of all vain pursuits, their liai’d-handed justice were altogether perfect instruments for the conquest of this space so antagonistic to man.
But the people of Salem in 1692 were not quite the dedicated tolk that arrived on the Mayflov er. A vast differcntiation had takcn place, and in their own time a rcvolution had unscatcd thc royal government and substituted a junta which was at this moment in power. The times, to their eyes, must
have been out of joint, and to the common folk must have seemed as insoluble and complicated as do ours today. It is not hard to see how easily many could have been led to believe that the time of confusion had been brought upon them by deep and darkling forces. No hint of’ such speculation appears on the court record, but social disorder in any age breeds such mystical suspicions, and when. as in Salem, wondcrs arc brought forth from bclow the social surface. it is too much to cxpcct pcoplc to hold back very long from laying on the victims with all the force of their tiustrations.
Thc Salem tragedy, which is about to begin in these pages, developed from a paradox. It is a paradox in whose gi ip we still live, and there is no prospect yet that we will discover its resolution. Simply, it was this: for good purposes, even high purposes, the people of Salem developed a theocracy, a combine of state and religious power whose function was to keep the community together, and to prevent any kind of disunity that might open it to destruction by material or ideological encniics. It was forged for a necessary purpose and accomplished that purposc. But all organixation is and must be grounded on the idea of exclusion and prohibition, just as two objects cannot occupy the same space. Evidently the time came in New England when thc repressions of order were heavier than seemed warranted by the dangers against which the order was organized. The witch-hunt was a pcrvcrsc manifestation of the panic which set in among all classes when the balance began to turn toward greater individual freedom.
When one rises above the individual villainy displayed, one can only pity them all, just as we shall be pitied someday. It is still impossible for man to organize his social life without rcpressions, and the balance has yet to be struck between order and freedom.
The witch-hunt was not, however, a mere repression. It was also, and as importantly, a long ovcrduc opportunity for everyone so inclined to express publicly his guilt and sins, under the cover of accusations against the victims. It suddenly became possible-and patriotic and holy-for a man to say that Martha Corey had come into his bedroom at night, and that, while his wife was sleeping at his side, Martha laid herself down on his chest and “nearly suffocated him.” Ot” course it was her spirit only, but his satisfaction at confessing himself was no lighter than if it had been Martha herself. One could not ordinarily speak such things in public.
Long-held hatreds of’ neighbors could now be openly expressed, and vengeance taken, despite the Bible’s charitable injunctions. Land-lust, which had been expressed by constant bickering over boundaries and deeds, could now be clcvatcd to the arena o1” morality; one could cry witch against one’s neighbor and feel perfectly justified in the bargain. Old scores could be settled on a plane of heavenly combat between Lucifer and the Lord: suspicions and the envy of the miserable toward the happy could and did burst out in the general revenge.
Re erend ParFi.s is pi a)!ing now, and, though » e cannot hear hi.s words, u sen,ie of his confusion firings about hint. He mumbles, then seems about to ii eep, lhen he eeps, then prays again, but his daughter does not stir on the bed.
The door open.i, and hi.s Negro ,sluice enter. . Tiluba is in her forties. PaFri.s bFHHffhi her with him fi om Barhado , n’here he .spent .some year› as u merchant befoi e entering the minis ty›. She enter.s a one does » ho can no longer bear to be barred fi om the .sigh I of her beloved, but .she is also very fi ightened hecau›e her .slave en se has v arned her that, a alwa)’ , lFOHble in this house e enttiully
lands on her back.
TITUBA, already taking a step backward.‘ My Betty be hearty soon? PARRIS: Out of here!
TITUBA, backiTlg to the door.’ My Betty not goin’ dic …
PARRIS, scrambling to his feet in a j’um,!.’ Out of my sight! She is gone. Out of my—He is overcome with sobs. He clamps his teeth against them and closes the door and leans against it, exhausted. Oh, my God! God help me! Quaking with fear, niumbl,ing to himself through his sobs, lie goe.s to the bed and genily takes Betty’.s hand. Betty. Child. Dear child. Will you wake, will you open up your eyes! Betty, little one ..
He is bending to kiieel again when lits niece, .Abigail Williams, seventeen, enters—a strikingly beautiful ,girl, air orphan, v’ith an endless copaci for dissembliiig. Nov she is all i› or p’ and upprehen sion and pt opriety.
ABIGAIL: Uncle’? He l,ooks to her. Susanna Walcott’s here mom Doctor Griggs. PARRIS: Oh’? Let her come, let her come.
ABIGAIL, leaning out the door to call to Susanna, v ho is don’n the hall a few’ steps. Come in,
Susanna.
Susanna Walcott, a little younger thaii Abi,gail, a iiem!ous, hiiri red girf, enters.
PARRIS, ea,qerly. What does the doctor say, child?
SUSANNA, cruninp arotmd Pat rig to get u look at Beth : He bid me come and tell you, reverend sir, that he cannot discover no medicine for it in his books.
PARRIS: Then lie must search on.
SUSANNA: Aye, sir, he have been searcliin his books since he left you, sir. But he bid we tell you, that you might look to unnatural things for the cause o1“ it.
PARR IS, his eyes going wide. No-no. There be no unnatural cause here. Tell him 1 have sent for Reverend I lale of Beverly, and Mr. I-Iale will surely confirm that. Let him look to medicine and put out all thought o1” unnatural causes here. There bc nonc.
SUSANNA: Aye, sir. He bid me tell you. She tui ns to go.
ABIGAIL: Speak nothin’ ot” it in the village. Susanna.
PARRIS: Go directly home and speak nothing of unnatural causes. SUSANNA: Aye, sir. I pray for her. She goes out.
ABIGAI L: Uncle, the rumor ot”witchcraft is all about; I think you’d best go down and deny it yourse11\
The parlor’s packed with people, sir. I’ll sit with her.
PARRIS, pressed, tui us on her.’ And what shall I say to them? That my daughter and my nicce I discovered dancing likc heathen in the forcst?
A BICAIL: Uncle, we did dance; let you tell them I confessed it —and I’ll be whipped if 1 must be.
But they’re speakin’ of witchcraft. Betty’s not witched.
PARRIS: Abigail, I cannot go before the congregation when I know you have not opened with me. What did you do with her in the forest?
ABIGAIL: We did dance, uncle, and when you leaped out of the bush so suddenly, Betty was frightened and then she fainted. And there’s the whole o1”it.
PARRIS: Child. Sit you down.
ABIGAIL, qiia› ering, as she sits.’ I would never hurt Betty. I love licr dcarly.
PARR lS: Now look you. child, your punishment will come in lts time. But if you trafficked with spirits in the forest 1 must know it now, for surely my enemies will, and they will ruin me with it.
ABIGAIL: But we never conjured spirits.
PARRIS: Then why can she not move herself since midnight? This child is desperate! Abigail longer s her eyes. It must come out-my enemies will bring it out. Let me know what you done there. Abigail, do you understand that I have many enemies?
ABIGAIL: 1 have heard of it, uncle.
PARRIS : There is a faction that is sworn to drive me from my pulpit. Do you understand that’? ABIGAIL: I think so, sir.
PARRIS: Now thcn, in the amidst of such disruption, my own household is discovered to be the very ccnter of some obsccnc practice. Abominations arc done in the forest-
ABIGAIL: It were spon. uncle!
PARRIS, pointing at Det¿!. You call this sport’? She lovv’ers her eyes. He pleads.’ Abigail, if you know something that may help the doctor, for God’s sake tell it to me. the is si/cut. 1 saw Tituba waving her arms over the fire when 1 caine on you. Why was she doing that? And I heard a screeching and gibberish coining from her mouth. She were swaying like a dumb beast over that fire!
ABIGAIL: She always sings her Barbados songs, and we dance.
PARRIS: I cannot blink what I saw, Abigail, for my enemies will not blink it. I saw a dress lying on the grass.
ABIGAIL, i0noeestf)›. A dress’?
PARRIS—iI is i•ery hard to say. Aye, a dress. And I thought I saw—someone naked running through the trees!
ABIGAIL, ia ter ror. No one was naked! You mistake yourself, uncle!
PARRIS, u’i/ñ anger. I saw it! He mo›•es front her. Then, resolved. Now tell me true, Abigail. And I pray you feel thc weight of truth upon you, for now my ministry’s at stake, my ministry and perhaps your cousin’s life. Whatever abomination you have done, give me all of it now, for I dare not be taken unaware when I go before them down there.
ABIGAIL: There is nothin’ more. I swcar it, uncle.
PARRIS, studies her, then nods, half conVfnced.’ Abigail, 1 have fought here three long years to bend these stiff-necked people to me, and now, just now when some good respect is rising for me in the parish, you compromise my very character. 1 have given you a home, child, 1 have put clothes upon your back—now give mc upright answer. Your namc in thc town—it is cntircly white, is it not?
ABIGAIL, with an edge ofresentmFt7t. Why, I am sure it is, sir. There be no blush about my name.
PARRIS, to i/ie point. Abigail, is there any other cause than you have told me, for your being discharged from Cioody Proctor’s service’? I have heard it said, and I tell you as I heard it, that she comes so rarely to the church this year for she will not sit so close to something soiled. What signified that remark?
ABIGAIL: She hates me, uncle, she must, for I would not be her slave. It’s a bitter woman, a lying, cold, sniveling woman, and I will not work for such a woman!
PARRIS: She may be. And yet it has troubled me that you are now sevcn month out o1“ their house, and in all this time no other family has ever called for your service.
ABIGAIL: They want slaves, not such as I. Let their send to Barbados for that. I will not black my lace for any o1“ them! With ill-concealed resentment at him.’ Do you begrudge my bed, uncle‘?
PARRIS: No-no.
ABIGAIL, iii a temper.‘ My name is good in the village! I will not have it said my name is soiled! Goody Proctor is a gossiping liar!
Enier Mrs. .4tin Petiium. I’ll e is a twisted soul of forty-five, a death-ridden woman, haunted by dreams.
PARRIS, as soon as the door begins to open.‘ No-no, I cannot have anyone. He sees her, and a cei tain deference springs into him, although his wory• remains. Why. Goody Putnam, come in.
MRS. PUTNAM, still of bi eath, shiny-p’ed.’ It is a marvel. It is surely a stroke of hell upon you. PARRIS: No, Goody Putnam, it is—
MRS. PUTNAM, glancing at Betty : I low high did she fly, how highs
PARRIS: No, no, she never fiew-MRS. PUTNAM. yep pleased v ith it.’ Why, it’s sure she did. Mr. Collins saw her goin’ over lngersoll’s barn, and come down light as bird, he says!
PARRIS: Now, look you, Goody Putnam, she never—Enter Thomas Ptitnam, a resell-to-do, hai d- handed lando›i’ner, near fifty. Oh. good morning, Mr. Putnam.
PUTNAM: It is a providence the thing is out now! It is a providence. He goes directly to the bed.
PARRIS: What’s out, sir, what’s-?
Mr . Piitnutn goe.s to the bed.
PUTNAM, looking doc ii ut Betty. Why. her eyes is closed! Look you, Ann. MRS. PUTNAM: Why, that’s strange. To Parris.’ Ours is open.
PARRIS, shocked. Your Ruth is sick’?
MRS. PUTNAM, north vicious certainty. I’d not call it sick; the Devil’s touch is heavier than sick. It’s death. y’know, it’s death drivin’ into them. forked and hoofed.
PARRIS: Oh, pray not! Why, how does Ruth ail’?
MRS. PUTNAM : She ails as she must-she never waked this morning, but her eyes open and she walks, and hears naught, secs naught, and cannot cat. Her soul is taken, surely.
Pat i is is struck.
PUTNAM, as though for further details. Thcy say you’vc sent for Revercnd Hale o1“ Beverly’?
PARRIS, v ith d indling conviction iiow’ A precaution only. He has much experience in all demonic arts, and I-MRS. PUTNAM: He has indeed; and found a witch in Beverly last year, and let you remember that.
PARRIS: Now, Goody Ann, they only thought that wcre a witch, and I am certain thcre bc no element of witchcraft here.
PUTNAM: No witchcraft! Now look you, Mr. Pai+is-PARRIS: Thomas, Thomas, I pray you, leap not to witchcraft. 1 know that you-you least of all, Thomas, would ever wish so disastrous a Gharge laid upon me. We cannot leap to witchcraft. They will howl inc out of Salem for such corruption in my house.
A word about Thomas Putnam. He was a man with many grievances, at least one of which appears justified. Some time before, his wife’s brother-in-law, James Bayley. had been turned down as minister of Salem. Bayley had all the qualifications, and a two-thirds vote into thc bargain. but a faction stopped his acceptance, for reasons that are not clear.
Thomas Putnam was the eldest son of the richest man in the village. He had fought the Indians at Narragansett, and was deeply interested in parish affairs. He undoubtedly felt it poor payment that the village should so blatantly disregard his candidate for one of its more important offices. especially since he regarded himself as the intellectual superior of most of the people around him.
His vindictive nature was demonstrated long before the witchcraft began. A former Salem minister, Cieorge Burroughs, had had to borrow nosey to pay for his wife’s funeral, and, since the parish was rcmiss in his salary, hc was soon bankrupt. Thomas and his brother John had Burroughs jailed for debts the man did not owe. The incident is important only in that Burroughs succeeded in becoming minister where Bayley, Thomas Putnam’s brother-in-law. had been rejected; the motif of rcscntmcnt is clear here. Thomas Putnam Alt that his own namc and thc honor of his family had been smirched by the village, and he meant to right matters however he could.
Another reason to believe him a deeply embittered man was his attempt to break his father’s will, which left a disproportionate amount to a stepbrother. As with every other public cause in which he tried to force his way, he failcd in this.
So it is not surprising to find that so many accusations against people are in the handwriting of Thomas Putnam, or that his name is so often found as a witness corroborating thc supernatural testimony, or that his daughter led the crying-out at the most opportune juncturcs o1’ thc trials, especially when—But we’ll spcak of that when we come to it.
PUTNAM—at the moment he is intent upon getting Parr is, for whom he has only contempt, to move tov’ard the abyss.‘ Mr. Parris, I have taken your part in all contention here, and I would continue; but I cannot if you hold back in this. There are liurtfiil, vengeful spirits layin’ hands on these children.
PARRIS: But, Thomas, you cannot—
PUTNAM: Ann! Tell Mr. Parris what you have done.
MRS. PUTNAM: Reverend Parris, I have laid seven babies unbaptixed in the earth. Believe me, sir, you never saw more hearty babies born. And yet, each would wither in my arias the very night of their birth. I have spoke nothin’, but my heart has clamored intimations. And now, this year, my Ruth, my only- I sec her turning strange. A secret child she has become this year, and shrivels like a sucking mouth were pullin’ on her life too. And so I thought to send her to your Tituba-
PARRIS: To Tituba! What may Tituba—?
MRS. PUTNA M: Tituba knows how to speak to the dead, Mr. Parris. PARRIS: Goody Ann, it is a formidable sin to conjure up the dead!
MRS. PUTNAM: 1 take it on my soul, but who else may surely tell us what person murdered my
babies‘?
PARRIS, hori ifled. Woman!
MRS. PUTNAM: They were murdered, Mr. Parris! And mark this proof! Mark it! Last night my Ruth were ever so close to their little spirits; I know it, sir. For how else is she struck dumb now except some power of darkncss would stop her mouth? It is a marvelous sign. Mr. Parris!
PUTNAM: Don’t you understand it, sir? Thcrc is a murdering witch among us, bound to keep herself in the dark. Parris turns to Bet), a frantic terror risin,g in hint. Let your encmies make of it what they will. you cannot blink it more.
PARRIS, to Abigail. Then you were conjuring spirits last night. A BlCiAIL, whispering. Not I, sir-Tituba and Ruth.
PARRIS turiis nov•, v ith nez fear, arid goes to Betty, looks doyen at her, and then, gazing off.‘ Oh, Abigail, what proper payment for my charity! Now I ant undone.
PUTNAM: You arc not undonc! Let you take hold here. Wait for no one to charge you eclarc it yourself. You have discovered witchcraft-
PARRIS: In my house* In my house, Thomas? They will topple me with this! They will make of it a-
Eiilei Mercy Leni.‹, lhe Putnanis em!an I, a far, sly, mei ciless girl of eighteen.
MERCY: Your pardons. 1 only thought to see how Betty is. PUTNAM: Why aren’t you home? Who’s with Ruth?
MERCY: Her grandma come. She’s improved a little, I think-she give a powerful sneeze before.
MRS. PUTNAM: Ah, therc’s a sign of life!
MERCY: I’d fear no morc, Goody Putnam. It were a grand sneeze; another like it will shake her wits together, I’m sure. She goes to the bed to look.
PARRIS: Will you leave inc now, Thomas? I would pray a while alone. ABIGAIL: Unclc, you’ve prayed since midnight. Why do you not go down and—
PARRIS: No-no. fo Putnum. I have no answer for that crowd. 1’11 wait till Mr. Hale arrives. To get Mrs. Piitnam to lea›•e: If you will, Goody Ann …
PUTNAM: Now look you, sir. Let you strike out against the Devil, and the village will bless you for it! Come down, speak to them-pray with them. They’re thirsting for your word, Mister ! Surely you’ll pray with them.
PARRIS, swayed.’ I’ll lead them in a psalm, but let you say nothing of witchcraft yet. I will not discuss it. The causc is yet unknown. I have had cnough contcntion sincc I came; I want no more.
MRS. PUTNAM: Mercy, you go home to Ruth, d’y’hear? MERCY: Aye, mum.
Mrs. Piitnum goes out.
PA RRIS. to Abigail.’ If she starts for the window, cry for me at once. ABIGAIL: I will, uncle.
PARRIS, to Putnani. There is a terrible power in her arms today. He goes otit n ith Piilnani.
A BIGAIL, ix‘itli huyhed ti epidatioii. How is Ruth sick‘?
MERCY: It’s weirdish, I know not-she seems to walk like a dead one sincc last night.
ABIGAIL, turns at once and goes to Betly, arid now, v‹ith fear in her › oice. Betty‘? Betty doesn’t move. She shakes her. Now stop this! Betty! Sit up now!
Betty doesn’t stir. Mercy comes over.
M ERCY: Have you tried beatin’ her” I gave Ruth a good one and it waked her for a minute. Here, let me have her.
ABIGAIL, liolditig Mercy back.’ No, he’ll be comin up. Listen, now; if they be questioning us, tell them we danced-I told him as much already.
M ERCY: Aye. And what more’?
A BIC A IL: He knows Tituba conjured Ruth’s sisters to come out of the grave. MERCY: And what more?
ABIGAIL: IIe saw you naked.
MERCY. clapping her hands together n’ith a frightened laugh. Oh, Jesus!
El7ter Clary Warren, breathless. She is sei!enteen, a subsem!ient, nai’i e, lonely girl.
MARY WARREN: What’ll we do? The village is out! I just cone from the farm; the whole
country’s talkin’ witchcraft! They’ll be call in’ us witches. Abby!
MERCY. pointing and looking at Mai y Warren. She weans to tell, I know it.
MARY WARREN : Abby, we’ve got to tell. Witchcry’s a hangin’ error, a hangin’ like they done in Boston two year ago! We must tell the truth, Abby! You’ll only be whipped for dancin’, and the other things!
ABIGA IL: Oh, u c ’// be whipped!
MARY WA RREN: I rlever done none of it, Abby. I only looked!
MERCY, mpviag menacingly ton‘ard Mary.’ Oh, you’re a great one for lookin’, aren’t you, Mary Warren’? What a grand peeping courage you have!
flety, on the bed, v himpers. Abigail turns to her at once.
ABIGAIL: Betty’? She goes to Betty. Now, Betty, dear, wake up now. It’s Abigail. She sits Betty tip and fiiriously shakes her . I’ll bcat you, Betty! Betj• whimpers. My, you seem improving. I talked to your papa and 1 told him everything. So there’s nothing to-
BETTY, darts off the bed, frightened p/fibigai/, and fattens herself against t/te v’all.‘ I want my mama!
ABIGAIL. north alarm, as she cautiously approaches Betty. What ails you, Betty? Your mama’s dead and buried.
BETTY : I’11 fly to Mama. Let me fly! She i arses her arms as thot,igh to fly, and .streaks for lhe v indo», gets one leg out.
ABIGA IL, pulling lieF onO f ft om the window. I told him everything ; he knows now, he knows everything we—
BETTY: You drank blood, Abby! You didn’t tell him that! ABIGAIL: Betty, you never say that again! You will never-
BETTY: You did, you did! You drank a charm to kill John Proctor’s wife! You drank a charm to kill Goody Proctor!
ABIGAIL. smashes her across the face: Shut it! Now shut it!
BETTY, collapsing on the bed. Mama, Mama! She dissoli es into sobs.
ABIGA IL: Now look you. All of you. We danced. And Tituba conjured Ruth Putnam’s dead sisters. And that is all. And mark this. Let either of you breathe a woi’d, or the edge of a word, about the other things, and I will come to you in the black of somc tcrriblc night and I will bring a pointy reckoning that will shudder you. And you know I can do it; I saw Indians smash my dear parents’ heads on thc pillow ncxt to mine. and I have seen some reddish work done at night, and I can inakc you wish you had never seen thc sun go down! She goes to Betq• and roughly sits her up. Now, you-sit up and stop this!
Bul Betty collapses iii her hnnds and lies inert on the bed.
MARY WARREN, v ith hysterical fright. What’s got her? Abigail stares in fright at Betty. Abby, she’• going to die! It’s a sin to conjure. and we-
ABIGAIL. starting for May. I say shut it, Mary Warren!
Enler John Proctor, hn seeing him, Mui)› Lai i en Ieups’ in frighl.
Proctor was a farmer in his middle thirtics. Hc need not have been a partisan of any faction in the town, but there is evidence to suggcst that he had a sharp and biting way with hypocritcs. Hc was the kind of man—powerful of body, even-tempered, and not easily led—who cannot refuse support to partisans without drawing their deepest resentment. In Proctor’s presence a fool felt his foolishness instantly-and a Proctor is always marked for caluinny therefore.
But as we shall see, the steady manner lie displays does not spring from an untroubled soul. He is a sinner, a sinner not only against the moral fashion of the time, but against his own vision of decent conduct. These people had no ritual for thc washing away o1’ sins. It is another trait we inherited from them, and it has helped to discipline us as well as to breed hypocrisy among us. Proctor, respected and even feared in Salem, has come to rcgard himself as a kind of fraud. But no hint of this has yet appeared on the surface, and as he enters from the crowded parlor below it is a man in his prime we see, with a quiet confidence and an unexpressed, hidden force. Mary Warren, hi s servant, can barely speak for embarrassment and tear.
MARY WARRF.N: Oh! 1’in just going horne, Mr. Proctor.
PROCTOR : Be you foolish, Mary Warren? Be you deaf? I forbid you leave the house, did 1 not? Why shall 1 pay you? I am looking for you more often than my cows!
MARY WARREN: 1 only come to see the great doings in the world.
PROCTOR: I’ll show you a great doin’ on your arse one of thcsc days. Now get you home; my wife is waitin’ with your work! Tr) ing to retain a shred of dignity, she goes slowly out.
MERCY LEWIS, both afraid of him and strangely titillated. I’d best be off. I have my Ruth to watch. Good morning. Mr. Proctor.
klercy sidle.s out. Since Proctor ‘s entrance, Abigail has stood as though on tiptoe, absorbing his presence, v’ide-eyed. He glances at her, their goe.s to Betty on fhe bed.
ABICiA IL: Cah! I’d at most forgot how strong you are, John Proctor!
PROCTOR. looking It Abigail now, the faintest suggestion of a knowing smile on his face: What’s this inischiet”hcre?
ABICiAIL, v ith a neo•ou.v laugh.’ Oh, she’s only gone silly somehow.
PROCTOR: The road past my house is a pilgrimage to Salem all morning. The town’s mumbling
witchcraft.
ABIGAIL: Oh, posh! Winningly she comes a little closer, v itli a confidentinl, wicked air. We were dancin’ in the woods last night. and my uncle leapcd in on us. She took fright, is all.
PROCTOR, his smile widening: Ah, you’re wicked yet, aren’t y‘! .4 trill of expectant laughter escapes her, and she dares come closer, fei erishly looking ii7to his pees. You’ll be clapped in the stocks before you’re twenty.
He takes a step to go, and she springs iiito his path.
ABIGAIL: Give mc a word, John. A soft word. Her concen ti ated desire destroys his smile.
PROCTOR: No, no, Abby. That’s done with.
ABIGAIL, /aonting/y.’ You come five inilc to see a silly girl thy? I know you bcttcr.
PROCTOR, setting her firmly out of lits path. I come to see what mischief your uncle’s brew in’ now. iTith finul c•mpha.›is: Put it out of mind, Abby.
ABIGAIL, gra ping hi.s hand hefore lie can relea.:e her . John-1 am waitin’ for you every night. PROCTOR: Abby, I never give you hope to wait for me.
ABIGAIL, now beginning to anger-she can’t believe it.’ I have something better than hope, I think! PROCTOR: Abby, you’ll put it out of mind. I’ll not be coinin’ for you more.
ABIGAIL: You’re surely sportin’ with me. PROCTOR: You know me better.
ABIGAIL: I know how you clutched my back behind your house and sweated like a stallion whencver I come ncar! Or did I drcam that? It’s shc put me out. you cannot pretend it were you. 1 saw your face when she put me out, and you loved me then and you do now!
PROCTOR: Abby, that’s a wild thing to say—
ABIGAIL: A wild thing iriay say wild things. But not so wild, I think. I have seen you since she put mc out; I have seen you nights.
PROCTOR: I have hardly stepped off my farm this sevenmonth.
ABIGAIL: I liavc a sense tor heat, John, and yours has drawn me to icy window, and 1 liavc secn you looking up, burning in your loneliness. Do you tell me you’ve never looked up at my window? PROCTOR: I may have looked up.
ABIGAIL, itoiv softening. And you must. You are no wintry man. I know you, John. I kB w you. She is weeping. I cannot sleep for drcamin’; 1 cannot dream but I wake and walk about the house as though 1’d find you coinin’ through soiTie door. She cltitches him desperately.
PROCTOR, gently pressing her Ji om him, v ith great sympathy but Jimsly.’ Child— ABIGAIL, v ith a flush of unger.’ How do you call me child!
PROCTOR: Abby, I may think of you softly from time to time. But I will cut off my hand before I’ll ever reach for you again. Wipe it out of mind. We never touched, Abby.
ABIGAIL: Aye, but we did. PROCTOR: Aye, but we did not.
ABIGAIL, with a bitter anger. Oh, I marvel how such a strong man may let such a sickly wife be— PROCTOR, angered—nt himself as v ell: You’ll speak nothin’ of Elizabeth!
ABIGA IL: She is blackening my name in the village! She is telling lies about me! She is a cold. sniveling woman, and you bend to her! Let her turn you like a—
PROCTOR, .shaking her. Do you look for whippin”?
.4 psalm i.s heard heing .›Surg below!.
ABIGAIL, in tears.‘ I look for John Proctor that took me from my sleep and put knowledge in my heart! I never knew what pretense Salem was, I never knew the lying lessons I was taught by all these Christian women and their covenanted men! And now you bid me tear the light out of my eyes? 1 will not, I cannot! You loved me, John Proctor. and whatever sin it is, you love we yet! He turns ahrtiptly to po otit. .the rashes to hint. John, pity me, pity we!
The words “going up to Jesti›’ ” ui e heat d in the psalm, and Retty clap.s her ears suddenly anJ v’hine.s Intidly.
ABIGAIL: Betty’? She huri ies to Bet,ty, who is on sitting up and screaming. Proctor goes to Betty as Abigail is trying to pull her hands don’n, calling “Beth›!”
PROCTOR, gFowing unnem•ed.’ What’s she doing’? Girl, what ails you? Stop that wailing! The singing has stopped in the midst of this, and i7OH Parris rashes in.
PARRIS: What happened? What are you doing to her? Betty! He rushes to the bed, cy•ing, “Bet]•, Betty.! ” Mr.s. Putitani enter.s, fe›•eFiSh with clii iosity. Ond with her Thomu.s Putnum and Met cy Ley is. Pan is, at the bed, keeps /ig/itfJ• slapping Betty ’s face, v hile she moans and tries io get tip.
A BIGAIL: She heard you singin’ and suddenly she’s up and screamin’.
MRS. PUTNA M: The psalm! The psalm! She cannot bear to hear the Lord’s name!
PARRIS: No, God forbid. Mercy, run to the doctor! Tell him what’s happened here! Mercy Ley is sshv.› out.
MRS. PUTNAM: Mark it for a sign, mark it!
Rebecca Nurse, sevenq -W’o, enters. $’he is z•hite-haired, leaning upon her walking-stick.
PUTNAM, pointing at the v himpering Betiy . That is a notorious sign of witchcraft afoot, Goody Nurse, a prodigious sign!
MRS. PUTNAM: My mother told me that! When they cannot bear to hear the name of—
PARRIS, trembling.’ Rebecca, Rebecca, go to her, we’re lost. She suddenly cannot bear to hear the Lord’s—
files G”oi ey, eighty-three, enter s. He is knotted n•itli muscle, canny, inquisitive, and still po erftil.
REBECCA: There is hard sickness here, Giles Coiey, so plcase to keep the quiet.
GILES: I’ve not said a word. No one here can tcstify I’ve said a word. Is she going to fly again? I hear she flies.
PUTNAM: Man, be quiet now!
Evey•tli ing is quiet. Rebecca n•alks across the room to the bed. Gentleness exudes fi om her. Betty is quietly n’hiinpering, e¿•es shut. Rebecca simply stands o›•er the child, i›•ho gradually qiiiets.
And while they are so absorbed, we may put a word in for Rebecca. Rebecca was the wife of Francis Nurse, who, from all accounts, was one of those men for whom both sides of’ the argument had to have respect. He was called upon to arbitrate disputes as though he were an unofficial judge, and Rebecca also enjoyed the high opinion most people had for him. By the time of the delusion. they had thee hundred acres, and their children were settled in separate homesteads within the same estate. However, Francis had originally rented the land, and one theory has it that, as he gradually paid for it and raised his social status, there were those who resented his rlSC.
Another suggestion to explain the systematic campaign against Rebecca, and inferentially against Francis. is the land war he fought with his neighbors, onc of whom was a Putnam. This squabble grew to tlic proportions of a battle in the woods betwcen partisans of both sides, and it is said to have lasted for two days. As for Rebecca herself, the general opinion of her character was so high that to explain how anyone dared cry her out for a witch—and more, how adults could bring themselves to lay hands on her—we must look to the fields and boundarics of that time.
As we have seen, Thomas Putnam’s man for the Salem ministry was Bayley. The Nurse clan had been in the faction that prevented Bayley’s taking office. In addition, certain families allied to the Nurses by blood or friendship, and whose farms were contiguous with the Nurse farm or close to it, combined to break away from the Salem town authority and set up Topslield, a new and independent entity whose existence was resented by old Salemites.
That the guiding hand behind the outcry was Putnam’s is indicated by the fact that, as soon as it began. this Topsfield-Nurse faction absented themselves from church in protcst and disbelief. It was Edward and Jonathan Putnam who signed the first complaint against Rebecca; and Thomas Putnam’s little daughter was the one who fell into a fit at the hearing and pointed to Rebecca as her attacker. To top it all, Mrs. Putnam —who is now staring at the bewitched child on the bed—soon accused Rebecca’s spirit of “tempting her to iniquity,” a charge that had more truth in it than Mrs. Putnain could know’.
MRS. PUTNA M, astonished: What have you done?
Rebecca, in thought, now leaves the bedside and sits.
PARRIS, wondrous and i elie›•ed. What do you make of it, Rebecca‘?
PUTNAM, eagerly. Goody Nurse, will you go to my Ruth and see if you can wake her’?
REBECCA, sitting. I think she’ll wake in time. Pray calm yourselves. 1 have eleven children, and 1 am twenty-six times a grandma, and I have seen them all through their silly seasons, and when it Colne on them they will run the Devil bowlegged keeping up with their mischief. I think she’11 wake when she tires of it. A child’s spirit is like a child, you can never catch it by running after it; you must stand still, and, for love, it will soon itselt“ cone back.
PROCTOR: Aye, that’s thc truth of it, Rebecca.
MRS. PUTNAM: This is no silly season, Rebecca. My Ruth is bewildered, Rebecca; she cannot eat.
REBECCA: Perhaps she is not hungered yet. To Pat t is. 1 hope you are not decided to go in search of loose spirits, Mr. Parris. I’ve heard promise of that outside.
PARRIS: A wide opinion’s running in the parish that the Devil may bc among us, and I would satisfy them that they arc wrong.
PROCTOR: Then let you come out and call them wrong. Did you consult the wardens before you called this minister to look for devils’?
PARRIS: Hc is not coming to look for devils! PROCTOR: Then what’s he coming for?
PUTNAM: There be children dyin’ in the village, Mister!
PROCTOR: 1 seen none dyin’. This society will not be a bag to swing around your head, Mr. Putnam. To Parris.’ Did you call a meeting before you—?
PUTNAM: I am sick of meetings; cannot the man turn his head without he have a meeting? PROCTOR: He may turn his head, but not to Hell!
REBECCA: Pray. John, be calm. Pan› e. He defer s to her. Mr. Parris, I think you’d best send Reverend Hale back as soon as lie come. This will set us all to arguin’ again in the society, and we thought to have peace this year. I think we ought rely on thc doctor now, and good prayer.
MRS. PUTNA M: Rebecca, the doctor’s baffled!
REBECCA: If so he is, tlicn let us go to God for the cause o1’ it. There is prodigious danger in the seeking of loose spirits. I fear it, I fear it. Let us rather blame ourselves and—
PUTNAM: How may we blainc ourselves? I am one of nine sons; the Putnam sccd have peopled this province. And yet I have but onc child left of eight—and now she shrivels!
REBECCA: I cannot fathom that.
MRS. PUTNAM, north a gi owing edge ofsarca m: But I must! You think it God’s work you should never lose a child, nor grandchild either, and I bury all but onc? There are wheels within wheels in this village, and fircs within fircs!
PUTNAM, to Parris .’ When Reverend Hale comes, you will proceed to look tor signs ot“ witchcraft here.
PROCTOR, to Putnarn. You cannot command Mr. Parris. We votc by name in this society, not by acreage.
PUTNAM : I never heard you worried so on this society, Mr. Proctor. 1 do not think I saw you at Sabbath meeting since snow flew.
PROCTOR: I havc trouble enough without 1 come five wile to hear him preach only helltire and bloody damnation. Take it to heart, Mr. Parris. There are many others who stay away from church these days because you hardly ever mention God any more.
PARRIS, tion aroused.’ Why, that’s a drastic charge!
REBECCA: It’s somewhat true; there are many that quail to bring their children—
PARRIS: 1 do not preach for children, Rebecca. It is not the children who are unmindful of their obligations toward this ministry.
REBECCA: Are there really those unirindful? PARRIS: I should say the better half of Salem village— PUTNAM: And more than that!
PARRIS: Where is my wood’? My contract provides 1 be supplied with all my firewood. I am waiting sincc November for a stick, and even in November I had to show my frostbitten hands like some London beggar!
GILES: You are allowed six pound a year to buy your wood, Mr. Parris.
PARRIS: I regard that six pound as part of my salary. l am paid little enough without I spend six pound on firewood.
PROCTOR: Sixty, plus six for fircwood—
PARRIS: The salary is sixty-six pound, Mr. Proctor! I am not some preaching farmer with a book under my arm; I am a graduate of Harvard College.
GILES: Aye, and well instructed in arithmetic!
PARRIS: Mr. Corey, you will look far for a man of my kind at sixty pound a year! I am riot used to this poverty; I left a thrifty business in the Barbados to serve the Lord. I do not fathom it, why am 1 persecuted here? I cannot offer one proposition but there be a howling riot of argument. I have often wondercd if the Dcvil bc in it somewhere; I cannot understand you peoplc othcovise.
PROCTOR: Mr. Parris, you are the first minister ever did demand the deed to this house— PARRIS: Man! Don’t a minister deserve a house to live in’?
PROCTOR: To live in, yes. But to ask ownership is like you shall own the meeting house itself; the last meeting I were at you spoke so long on deeds and mortgages I thought it were an auction.
PARRIS: I want a mark of confidence, is at l! I am your third preacher in seven years. I do not wish to be put out like the cat whenever some majority feels the whim. You people seem not to comprehend that a minister is the Lord’s man in the parish; a minister is not to be so lightly crossed and contradicted—
PUTNAM: Aye!
PARRIS: There is either obedicncc or the church will burn likc Hell is burning! PROCTOR: Can you speak one minute without we land in Hell again? I am sick o1”Hell!
PARRIS: It is not for you to say what is good for you to hear! PROCTOR: I may speak my heart, I think!
PARRIS, ia a ftiry.’ What, are we Quakers? We are not Quakers hei’e yet, Mr. Proctor. And you may tell that to your followers!
PROCTOR: My followcrs!
PARRIS—now he’s out n ith if. There is a party in this church. 1 am not blind; there is a faction and a party.
PROCTOR: Against you?
PUTNA M : Against him and all authority! PROCTOR: Why, then 1 must find it and join it. There i› shock amoitg the others.
REBECCA: He does not mean that. PUTNAM: Hc confessed it now!
PROCTOR: I mean it solcmnly, Rebecca; I like not thc snicll of this *authority.”
RGBECCA: No, you cannot break charity with your minister. You are another kind, John. Clasp his hand, make your peace.
PROCTOR: I have a crop to sow and lumber to drag home. He goes angrily to the door and tui us to Corey ii!ith a smile. What say you, Giles, lct’s find the party. He says thcrc’s a party.
CilLES: l’ve changed my opinion of this man, John. Mr. Parris, 1 beg your pardon. I never thought you had so much iron in you.
PARRIS, surprised. Why, thank you, Gilcs!
FILES: It suggests to the mind what the trouble be among us all these years. To all. Think on it. Wherefore is everybody suing everybody else? Think on it now, it’s a deep thing, and dark as a pit. 1 have been six time in court this year—
PROCTOR, familiarly, v•ith warmth, although he knows he is approaching the edge o] files tolerance v’ith this.’ Is it the Devil’s fault that a man cannot say you good morning without you clap him for defamation? You’re old, Gilcs, and you’rc not hcarin’ so well as you did.
GILES—he ca0Bot be crossed. John Proctor, I have only last month collected four pound damages for you publicly sayin’ I burned the roof off your house, and I—
PROCTOR, laughing . I never said no such thing, but I’ve paid you for it, so I hope I can call you deaf without charge. Now come along, Giles, and help me drag my lumber home.
PUTNAM: A moment, Mr. Proctor. What lumber is that you’re draggin’, if I may ask you? PROCTOR: My lumber. From out my forest by the riverside.
PUTNAM: Why, we are surely gone wild this year. What anarchy is this? That tract is in my
bounds. it’s in my bounds. Mr. Proctor.
PROCTOR: In your bounds! Indicatii7g Rebecca. I bought that tract from Goody Nurse’s husband five months ago.
PUTNAM: He had no right to sell it. It stands clear in my grandfather’s will that all the land
between the river and—
PROCTOR: Your grandfather had a habit of willing land that never belonged to him, if I may say it plain.
GILES: That’s God’s truth; he nearly willed away my north pasture but lie knew I’d break his fingers before he’d set his name to it. Let’s get your lumber home, John. I feel a sudden will to work coming on.
PUTNAM: You load one oak of mine and you’ll fight to drag it home!
GILES: Aye, and we’ll win too, Putnam—this fool and I. Come on! He turns to Proctor and starts out.
PUTNAM: I’ll have my men on you, Corey! I’ll clap a writ on you!
Enter Reverend John Hale ofBe›•erly.
Mr. Hale is nearing forty, a tight-skinned, eager-eyed intellectual. This is a beloved errand for him; on being called here to ascertain witchcraft he felt the pride of the specialist whose unique knowledge has at last bccn publicly called for. Likc almost all men of learning, he spent a good deal of his time pondering the invisible world, especially since he had himself’ encountered a witch in his parish not long before. That woiiian, however, turned into a mere pest under his searching scrutiny, and the child she had allegedly been afflicting recovered her normal behavior after Hale had given her his kindness and a few days of rest in his own house. However, that experience never raised a doubt in his mind as to the reality of thc underworld or the existence of Lucifer’s many-faced lieutenants. A nd his belief is not to his discredit. Better minds than Hale’s were—and still are—convinced that there is a society of spirits beyond our kcn. One cannot help noting that one of his lincs has never yet raised a laugh in any audience that has seen this play; it is his assurance that “We cannot look to superstition in this. The Dcvil is prccise.” Evidcntly we arc not quite ccrtain even now whether diabolisin is holy and not to be scoffed at. And it is no accident that we should be so bemused.
Like Reverend Hale and the others on this stage, we conceive the Devil as a necessary part of a respectable view of cosmology. Ours is a divided empire in which certain ideas and emotions and actions are of’ God, and their opposites are of’ Lucif”er. It is as impossible tor most men to conceive ot“ a morality without sin as of an earth without sky.” Since 1692 a great but superficial change has wiped out Clod’s beard and the Devil’s horns, but the world is still gripped between two diametrically opposed absolutes. The concept of unity, in which positive and negative are attributes of the same force, in which good and cvil arc rclativc. evci’-changing, and always joined to tlic same phenomenon—such a concept is still reserved to the physical sciences and to the few who have grasped the history of ideas. When it is recalled that until the Christian era the underworld was never regarded as a hostile area, that all gods w’ere useful and essentially friendly to man despite occasional lapses; when we see the steady and methodical inculcation into humanity of the idea of man’s worthlessness— until redeemed—thc necessity of the Devil may become evident as a weapon. a weapon designcd and used time and time again in every age to whip men into a surrender to a
particular church or church-state.
Our difficulty in believing the—for want of a better word—political inspiration of the Devil is due in great part to the fact that he is callcd up and damned not only by our social antagonists but by our own side, whatever ii may be. The Catholic Church, through its Inquisition, is famous for cultivating Lucifer as the arch-ficnd, but the Church’s cnciiiics rclicd no less upon thc Old Boy to keep thc human mind enthralled. Luther was himself accused of’ alliance with Hell, and he in turn accused his enemies. To complicatc matters furthcr, lie bclicvcd that hc had had contact with thc Devil and had argucd theology with him. I am not surprised at this, for at my own university a professor of history— a Lutheran, by the way—used to assemble his graduate students, draw the shades. and commune in the classroom with Erasmus. He was never, to my knowledge, officially scotTed at tor this, the reason bcing that the university officials, like most of us, are the children of a history which still sucks at thc Devil’s teats. At this writing, only England has held back before the temptations ot“ contemporary diabolism. In thc countrics of the Communist idcology, all resistance of any import is linkcd to the totally malign capitalise succubi, and in America any man who is not reactionary in his views is open to thc charge of alliance with the Red hell. Political opposition. thcrcby, is givcn an inhumane overlay which then justifies the abrogation of” all normally applied customs of’ civilized intercourse. A political policy is equated with moral right, and opposition to it with diabolical malevolence. Once such an equation is el’fectively made, society becomes a congerie of plots and counterplots, and the main role of govcmmcnt changcs from that of thc arbitcr to that of the scourgc of God.
The results of this process are no different now from what they ever were, except sometimes in the degree of cruelty inflicted, and not always even in that department. Normally the actions and deeds of a man were all that society fclt comfortable in judging. Thc secret intent o1 an action was left to the ministers, priests, and rabbis to deal with. When diabolism rises, however, actions are the least important manifests of the true nature of a man. The Devil. as Reverend Hale said. is a wily one, and, until an hour before lie Uh, cven God thought him beautiful in Heaven.
The analogy, however, seems to falter when one considers that, while there were no witches then, thcrc are Communists and capitalists now, and in each camp there is certain proof“ that spies of each side are at work undermining the other. But this is a snobbish objection and not at all warranted by the facts. 1 have no doubt that people v’ere communing with, and even worshiping, the Devil in Salem, and if the whole truth could be known in this casc, as it is in othcrs, we should discover a regular and conventionalized propitiation of the dark spirit. One certain evidence of this is the confession o1” Tituba, the slave of Revercnd Parris, and another is the behavior of the children who were known to have indulged in sorceries with her.
There are accounts of similar Hatches in Europe, where the daughters of the towns would assemble at night and, soinetiircs with fetislics. sometimes with a sclected young man, give themsclvcs to lovc. with some bastardly results. The Church, sharp-eyed as it must be when gods long dead are brought to life, condemned these orgies as witchcraft and interpreted them rightly, as a resurgence of the Dionysiac forccs it had cruslicd long bcforc. Sex, sin, and thc Dcvil wcrc early linked, and so thcy continued to be in Salem, and are today. From all accounts there are no more puritanical mores in the world than those enforced by the Communists in Russia, where women ’s fashions, for instance, are as prudcnt and all-covering as any Amcrican Baptist would desire. The divorce laws lay a ti’cincndous responsibility on the father for the care of his children. Even the laxity of divorce regulations in the early years of the revolution was undoubtedly a revulsion from the
nineteenth-century Victorian immobility of marriage and the consequent hypocrisy that developed mom it. If for no other reasons, a state so powerful, so jealous o1“ the uniformity of its citizens, cannot long tolerate the atomization of the family. And yet, in American eyes at least, there remains the conviction that the Russian attitude toward womcn is lascivious. It is the Devil working again, just as he is working within the Slav who is shocked at the very idea of a woman’s disrobing herself in a burlesque show. Our opposites are always robed in sexual sin, and it is from this unconscious conviction that demonology gains both its attractive sensuality and its capacity to iniiiriatc and frighten.
Coming into Salem now, Rcvcrcnd Hale conceives ot”himself much as a young doctor on his first call. His painfully acquired armory of“ symptoms, watchwords, and diagnostic procedures is now to be put to usc at last. The road from Beverly is unusually busy this morning, and he has passed a hundred rumors that make him smile at the ignorance of the yeoinanry in this most precise science. He feels himself allied with the best minds of Europe—kings, philosophers, scientists, and ecclesiasts of all churchcs. His goal is light, goodness and its preservation, and he knows the exaltation of the blessed whose intelligence, sharpened by minute examinations of enormous tracts, is finally called upon to face what may be a bloody fight with the Fiend himself.
He appears loaded down v’iili hulf a do–en heavy hooks.
HALE: Pray you, someone take these!
PARRIS, dclightcd: Mr. Halc! Oh! it’s good to sec you again! Taking soinc books: My, they’re heavy! HALE, setting down his book . They must be; they are weighted with authority.
PARRIS, a /it//e scar ed.’ Well, you do come prepared!
HALE: We shall need hard study if it comes to tracking down the Old Boy. 6’oticing Rebecca . You cannot be Rebecca Nurse?
REBECCA: I am, sii’. Do you know me?
HALE: It’s strange how I kncw you, but I suppose you look as such a good soul should. We havc all heard of your great charities in Beverly.
PARRIS: Do you know this gentleman‘? Mr. Thomas Putnam. And his good wife Ann. HALE: Putnani! I had not expected such distinguished company, sir.
PUTNAM, pleased. lt does not seem to help us today, Mr. Hale. We look to you to come to our house and save our child.
HALE: Your child ails too‘?
MRS. PUTNAM: Her soul, her soul seems frown away. She sleeps and yet she walks PUTNAM: Shc cannot eat.
HALE: Cannot cat! Thinks on it. Then, to Pt octor arid Giles Corey.’ Do you men have afflicted children?
PARRIS: No, no, these arc farmers. John Proctor—
GILES COREY: He don’t believe in witches.
PROCTOR, to Hale. I never spoke on witches one way or the other. Will you come, Giles?
GI LES: No—no, John, I think not. I have some few queer questions of my own to a.sk this fellow. PROCTOR: I’ve heard you to be a sensible man, Mr. Hale. I hope you’ll leave some o( it in Salem. Proctor goes. Hale stands embarrassed for an instant.
PARRIS, quickly.’ Will you look at my daughtcr, sir? Leads Hale to the bed. Shc has tried to leap out
the window; we discovered her this morning on the highroad, waving her arms as though she’d fly. HALE, narrow ing his eyes: Tries to fly.
PUTNAM: She cannot bear to hear the Lord’s name, Mr. Hale; that’s a sure sign of witchcraft afloat.
HALE, holding up his hand . No, no. Now let me instruct you. We cannot look to superstition in this. Thc Devil is precise: the marks of his presence are dcfinite as stonc, and I must tcll you all that 1 shall not proceed unless you are prepared to believe me if 1 should find no bruise of Hell upon her.
PARRIS: It is agrced, sir-it is agreed—we will abide by your judgincnt.
HALE: Good then. He goe t,o the bed, looks do n ut Being. To Par ris . Now, sir, what were your first warning of this strangeness’?
PARRIS: Why, sir—1 discovered her—indicating Abigail—and my niece and ten or twelve of the other girls, dancing in the forest last night.
HALE, uipi‘ised.’ You permit dancing’? PARRIS: No, no, it were secret—
MRS. PUTNAM, tenable to wait.‘ lMx. Parris’s slave has knowledge of conjurin’, sir.
PARRIS, to Mrs. Piitnani. We cannot be sure of that, Goody Ann—
MRS. PUTNAM, frightened, ver y so fly.’ 1 know it, sir. I sent my child—she should learn from Tituba who murdered her sisters.
REBECCA, hot i ified.- Goody Ann! You sent a child to conjure up the dead’?
M RS. PUTNA M: Set Clod blame me, not you, not you, Rebecca! I’11 not have you judging me any more! To Hale. 1s it a natural work to lose seven children before they live a day?
PARRIS: Sssh!
Rebecca, r itli great pain, turns her]ace an!ay. There is a pause.
HALE: Seven dead in childbirth.
MRS. PUTNAM, softly. Aye. Her › oice breaks,’ she looks up at hint. Silence. Hale is impressed. Par i is looks to him. Her goes to his books, opens one, turns pages, then ieads. .411 ’art, avidly’.
PARRIS, hushed.’ What book is that‘? MRS. PUTNAM: What’s there, sir’?
HALE, with a tasks love of intellectual pursuit. Here is all the invisible world, caught, defined, and calculated. In these books thc Devil stands stripped o1’ all his brute disguises. Here arc all your familiar spirits—your incubi and succubi; your witches that go by land, by air, and by sea; your wizards of the night and of the day. Have no fear now—we shall find him out if he has come among us, and I mean to crush him utterly if he has shown his face! He stui t.: for the bed.
REBECCA: Will it hurt the child, sir’?
HALE: I cannot tcll. If she is truly in thc Devil’s grip we may have to rip and tear to get her free. REBECCA: I think I’ll go, then. I am too old for this. She rises.
PARRIS, sIri›•ing for conviction. Why, Rebecca, we may open up the boil of all our troubles today! REBECCA: Let us hope for that. I go to Clod for you. sir.
PARRIS, w•ith ti epidation—and resentment.‘ I hope you do not mcan we go to Satan here! Slight pause.
REBECCA: I wish I knew. She ,goes out,’ they feel resentful of her note of moral superioriq•.
PUTNAM, abruptly.’ Come, Mr. Hale, let’s get on. Sit you here.
GILES: Mr. Hale, 1 have always wanted to ask a learned man—what signifies the readin’ of strange books’?
HALE: What books?
C›1LES: I cannot tell; she hides thein. HALE: Who does this?
GILES: Martha, my wife. 1 have waked at night many a time and found her in a cornei’. readin’ of a book. Now what do you make of that?
HALE: Why, that’s not necessarily—
FILES : It discomfits me! Last night—mark this—I tried and tried and could not say my prayers. And then she close her book and walks out ot’the house, and suddenly—mark this—I could pray again!
Old Giles must be spoken for, if only because his fate was to be so remarkable and so different from that of all the others. He was in his early eighties at this time, and was the most comical hero in the history. No man has cvcr bccn blamed for so much. If a cow was missed, thc first thought was to look for her around Corey’s house; a fire blazing up at night brought suspicion ot’ arson to his door. He didn’t give a hoot for public opinion, and only in his last year.s—after he had married Martha—did he bother much with the church. That she stopped his prayer is very probable, but he foigot to say that he’d only recently learned any prayers and it didn’t take much to wake him stumble over them. He was a crank and a nuisance, but withal a deeply innocent and brave man. In court, once, lie was asked if it were true that he had been frightened by the strange behavior of a hog and had then said lie knew it to be thc Dcvil in an animal’s shape. “What friglitcd you?” he was askcd. Hc forgot everything but the word “frighted,” and instantly replied, “I do not know that 1 ever spoke that word in my life.”
HALE: Ah! Thc stoppage of prayer—that is strange. I’ll speak further on that with you.
GILES: I’m not sayin’ she’s touched the Dcvil, now, but I’d admire to know what books she reads and why she hides them. She’ll not answci we, y’ sec.
HALE: Aye, we’ll discuss it. To all. Now mark me, if the Devil is in her you will witness some frightful wonders in this room, so please to keep your wits about you. Mr. Putnam, stand close in case she flies. Now, Betty, dear, will you sit up? Putnam comes iii closer, ready—handed. Hale sits fletp up, but she hangs limp in his hands. Hminm. He observes her carefully. The others v atch bFeathles.›l¿•. Can you hear me? 1 am John Hale, minister of Beverly. I have come to help you, dear. Do you remember my two little girls in Beverlyt 5/7e does not stir in his hands.
PARRIS, ink ight. How can it be the Devil’? Why would he choose my house to strike’? We have all manner of licentious people in the village!
HALE: What victory would the Devil have to win a soul ali eady bad? It is the best the Devil wants, and who is better than the minister?
GILES: That’s deep, Mr. Parris, deep, deep!
PARRIS, oitñ resolution none. Betty! Answer Mr. Hale! Betty!
HOLE: Does someone afflict you, child’? It need not be a woman, mind you, or a man. Perhaps some bird invisible to others comes to you—perhaps a pig, a mouse, or any beast at all. 1s there some figure bids you fly? The child rent ains limp in his hands. In silence he lays her back on the pillow!. Now’, holding out hi.s hands toward her, he intones.’ In nomine Domini Sabaoth sui filiique ite ad infernos. She does ioi stir. He turns to Abigail, his eyes nai i’owing. Abigail, what sort of dancing were you doing with her in the forest?
ABIGAIL: Why ommon dancing is all.
PARRIS: I think I otight to say that I—I saw a kettle in the grass where thcy were dancing. ABIGAIL: That were only soup.
HALE: What sort of soup were in this kettle. Abigail? ABIGAIL: Why, it were beans—and lcntils, I think. and—
HALE : Mr. Parris, you did not noticc, did you, any living thing in the kcttle? A mouse, perhaps, a spider, a Frog—?
PARR1S,fenrfo// . I—do believe there were some movement—in the soup. ABIGAIL: That jumped in, we never put it in!
HALE, quickly. What jumped in? ABIGAIL: Why, a very little frog juiTipcd— PARRIS: A frog, Abby!
HALE, gi upping Abigciil . Abigail. it may be your cousin is dying. Did you call the Devil last night? ABIGAIL: I never called him! Tituba, Tituba …
PARRIS, blanched. She called the Devil? HALE: I should like to spcak with Tituba.
PARRIS: Goody Ann, will you bring her up? Mr s. Putnam exits.
HALL: How did she call him?
ABIGAIL: I know not—she spoke Barbados.
IJALE: Did you feel any strangeness when she called him‘? A sudden cold wind, perhaps‘? A trembling below the ground?
ADIGAIL: I didn’t see no Devil! Shaking Betl). Betty, wake up. Betty! Betty!
HALE: You cannot evade me, Abigail. Did your cousin drink any of the brew in that kettle’? ABIGAIL: She never drank it!
HALE: Did you drink it?
ABIGAIL: No, sir!
HALE: Did Tituba ask you to drink it? ABIGAIL: Shc tried, but I refused.
HALE: Why are you concealing? Have you sold yoursell’to Lucifer? ABIGAIL: I never sold myself! I’m a good girl! I’m a proper girl!
Mrs. Putnam enters with Tituba, mid instantly Abigail points at Tituba.
ABIGAIL: She made me do it! She made Bctty do it! TITUBA. shocked and anti y.’ Abby!
A BlCiAlL: She makes we drink blood! PARRIS: Blood!!
MRS. PUTNA M: My baby’s blood?
TITUBA: No. no, chicken blood. I give she chicken blood! IJALE: Woman, have you enlisted these children for the Devil’? TITUBA: No, no, sir, I don’t truck with no Devil!
HALE: Why can she not wake’? Are you silencing this child‘’ TITUBA: I love inc Betty!
HALE: You have sent your spirit out upon this child, have you not’? Are you gathering souls for the Devil?
ABIGAIL: She sends hei’ spirit on me in church; she makcs me laugh at prayer! PARRIS: She have often laughed at prayer!
ABIGAIL: She comes to me every night to go and drink blood! TITUBA: You beg me to conjure! She beg me make charm—
ABIGAIL : Don’t lie! To Hale. She comes to me while I sleep; she’s always making me dream corruptions!
TITUBA: Why you say that, Abby?
ABIGAIL: Sometimes I wake and find myself standing in the open doorway and not a stitch on my body! I always hear her laughing in my sleep. I hear her singing her Barbados songs and tempting mc with—
TITUBA: Mister Reverend, I never—
HALE, re.solved noii•. Tituba, I want you to wake this child. TITUBA: 1 have no power on this child, sir.
HALE: You most certainly do, and you will free her from it now! When did you compact with thc
Devil?
TITUBA: I don”t compact with no Dcvil!
PARRIS: You will confess yourself’ or I will take you out and whip you to your death, Tituba! PUTNAM: This woman must be hanged! She must be taken and hanged!
TITUBA, ten ified, J’alls to her knees. No, no, don’t hang Tituba! I tell him I don’t dcsire to work
for him, sir.
PARRIS: The Devil?
HALE: Then you saw him! Tituba i›•eeps. Now Tituba, I know that when we bind ourselves to Hell it is very hard to break with it. We are going to help you tear yoursclf free—
TITUBA. fri,qlitened by the coming pi ocess.’ Mister Reverend. I do belicve somebody else be witch in these children.
HALE: Who’?
TITUBA: 1 don’t know, sir, but thc Devil got him nuiiicrous witches.
HALE: Does he! It is a clue. Tituba, look into my eyes. Come, look into me. She rai es her eye to his j’earfiflly. You would be a good Christian woman, would you not, Tituba?
TITUBA: Aye, sir, a good Christian woman. HOLE: And you love these little children’?
TITUBA: Oh. yes. sir. I don’t desire to hurt little children. I IALE: And you love God, Tituba’?
TITUBA: I love God with all my bein’. HALE: Now, in God’s holy name—
TITUBA: Bless Him. Bless Him. She is i ocking on her knees, sobbing in terror.
HALE: And to His glory—
TITUBA: Eternal glory. Bless Him—bless Ciod
HALE: Open yourself, Tituba pen yourself and let Clod’s holy light shine on you. TITUBA: Oh. bless the Lord.
HALE: When the Devil comes to you does he ever come—with another person? ,She sttire.i tip into
his face. Perhaps another person in the village’? Someone you know. PARRIS: Who came with him’?
PUTNAM : Sarah Good’? Did you ever see Sarah Good with him’? Or Osburn’? PARRIS: Was it man or woman came with him?
TITUBA: Man or woman. Was—was woman.
PARRIS: What woman‘? A woman, you said. What woman? TITUBA: It was black dark, and I—
PARRIS: You could scc him, why could you not sec her?
TITUBA: Well, they was always talking; they was always runnin’ round and carryin’ on— PARRIS: You mean out of Salcm? Salem witches?
TITUBA: I believe so. yes. sir.
Now Hale tubes her liand. She is stuprised.
HALE: Tituba. You must have no fear to tell us who they are, do you understand? We will protect you. The Devil can never overcome a minister. You know that, do you not‘?
TITUBA-She kisse.s Hale ‘s hand.’ Aye, sir, oh, I do.
HALE: You have confessed yourself to witchcraft, and that speaks a wish to come to Heaven’s side. And we will bless you, Tituba.
TITUBA, deeply i elic•›•ed. Oh, God bless you, Mr. Hale!
HALE, with rising exaltation: You are God’s instrument put in our hands to discover the Devil’s agents among us. You are selected, Tituba, you are chosen to help us cleanse our village. So speak utterly, Tituba, turn your back on him and face God—face God, Tituba, and God will protect you.
TITUBA,Joioing v’itli him.’ Oh, God, protect Tituba!
HALE, kindly. Who came to you with the Devil? Two? Three? Four? How many?
Tituba pants and begins rocking back and J’orth again, staring ahead.
TITUBA: There was four. There was four.
PARRIS, pre.s.sing in on her.’ Who? Who? Their names, their names!
TITUBA, suddenly btirsting otit. Oh, how many times he bid me kill you, Mi’. Parris! PARRIS: Kill me!
TITUBA, ifl a fury•.’ He say Mr. PaiTis must be kill! Mr. Parris no goodly man, Mr. Parris mean man
and no gentle man, and hc bid me risc out of my bed and cut your throat! The)• gasp. But I tell him “No! 1 don’t hate that man. I don’t want kill that man.” But he say, “You work for me, Tituba, and 1 make you free! 1 give you pretty dress to wear, and put you way high up in the air, and you gone fly back to Barbados!” And I say, “You lie, Devil, you lie!” And then he come one stormy night to me, and lie say, “Look! I have r•liite people belong to mc.” And I look—and there was Goody Good.
PARRIS: Sarah Ciood!
TITUBA, rocking and v eepin,g.’ Aye, sir, and Goody Osburn.
MRS. PUTNAM: I knew it! Goody Osburn were midwife to me three times. I begged you, Thomas, did 1 not’? I begged him not to call Osburn because I feared her. My babies always shriveled in her hands!
HALE: Take courage, you must give us all their names. How can you bear to see this child suffering? Look at her, Tituba. He is indicating Beth! on the bed. Look at her God-giVen innocence: her soul is so tender; we must protect her. Tituba; the Devil is out and preying on her like a beast upon the flesh of the pure lamb. God will bless you for your help.
Abiguil rises, .staring as though inspired, and criers out.
ABIGAIL: I want to open myself! The› tDr/7 fp her, startled. She is enraptured, a though in a pearly /ig/it. I want the light of God, 1 want the sweet love of Jesus! I danced for the Devil; I saw him; I wrote in his book; I go back to Jesus; I kiss his hand. I saw Sarah Good with the Devil! I saw Goody Osburn with the Devil! I saw Bridget Dishop with the Devil!
As she is speaking, Betty is rising from the bed, a fe›•er in her pees, arid picks up the chaiit. BETTY, staring top.’ 1 saw George Jacobs with the Devil! 1 saw Goody Ilowe with the Devil! PARRIS: Shc spcaks! He rushed to embi ace Beth•. She speaks!
HALE: Glory to God! lt is broken, they arc free!
BETTY, calling out hysterically and with gi eat relief. I saw Martha Bellows with the Devil! ABIGAIL: I saw Goody Sibber with the Devil! It is rising to a great glee.
PUTNAM: The marshal, I’ll call the marshal! Parris is shouting a prayer ofthanksgivmg. BETTY: 1 saw Alice Barrow with the Devil! The cm tain begins to fall.
HALE, a.s Ptitnarit goe.›’ out,’ Let the marshal bring irons! A BICAIL: I saw Coody Hawkins with the Devil!
BETTY: 1 saw Goody 8ibber with the Devil!
ABIGAIL: I saw Goody Booth with the Devil!
On their ecstatic cries
