The Crucible (5 page)

The Salem tragedy, which is about to begin in these pages, developed from a paradox. It is a paradox in whose grip 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 enemies. It was forged for a necessary purpose and accomplished that purpose. But all organization 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 the repressions of order were heavier than seemed warranted by the dangers against which the order was organized. The witch-hunt was a perverse 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 repressions, 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 overdue 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.” Of 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 elevated to the arena of 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.

 

 

TITUBA,
already taking a step backward:
My Betty be hearty soon?

PARRIS: Out of here!

TITUBA,
backing to the door:
My Betty not goin’ die ...

PARRIS,
scrambling to his feet in a fury:
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, mumbling to himself through his sobs, he goes to the bed and gently takes Betty’s hand.
Betty. Child. Dear child. Will you wake, will you open up your eyes! Betty, little one ...

He is bending to kneel again when his niece, Abigail Williams, seventeen, enters
—
a strikingly beautiful girl, an orphan, with an endless capacity for dissembling. Now she is all worry and apprehension and propriety.

ABIGAIL: Uncle?
He looks to her.
Susanna Walcott’s here from Doctor Griggs.

PARRIS: Oh? Let her come, let her come.

ABIGAIL,
leaning out the door to call to Susanna, who is down the hall a few steps:
Come in, Susanna.

PARRIS,
eagerly:
What does the doctor say, child?

SUSANNA,
craning around Parris to get a look at Betty:
He bid me come and tell you, reverend sir, that he cannot discover no medicine for it in his books.

PARRIS: Then he must search on.

SUSANNA: Aye, sir, he have been searchin’ his books since he left you, sir. But he bid me tell you, that you might look to unnatural things for the cause of it.

PARRIS,
his eyes going wide:
No-no. There be no unnatural cause here. Tell him I have sent for Reverend Hale of Beverly, and Mr. Hale will surely confirm that. Let him look to medicine and put out all thought of unnatural causes here. There be none.

SUSANNA: Aye, sir. He bid me tell you.
She turns to go.

ABIGAIL: Speak nothin’ of 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.

ABIGAIL: Uncle, the rumor of witchcraft is all about; I think you’d best go down and deny it yourself. The parlor’s packed with people, sir. I’ll sit with her.

PARRIS,
pressed, turns on her:
And what shall I say to them? That my daughter and my niece I discovered dancing like heathen in the forest?

ABIGAIL: Uncle, we did dance; let you tell them I confessed it —and I’ll be whipped if I 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 of it.

PARRIS: Child. Sit you down.

ABIGAIL,
quavering, as she sits:
I would never hurt Betty. I love her dearly.

PARRIS: Now look you, child, your punishment will come in its time. But if you trafficked with spirits in the forest I 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 lowers 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: I 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 then, in the midst of such disruption, my own household is discovered to be the very center of some obscene practice. Abominations are done in the forest-

ABIGAIL: It were sport, uncle!

PARRIS,
pointing at Betty:
You call this sport?
She lowers her eyes. He pleads:
Abigail, if you know something that may help the doctor, for God’s sake tell it to me.
She is silent.
I saw Tituba waving her arms over the fire when I came on you. Why was she doing that? And I heard a screeching and gibberish coming 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,
innocently:
A dress?

PARRIS—
it is very hard to say:
Aye, a dress. And I thought I saw—someone naked running through the trees!

ABIGAIL,
in terror:
No one was naked! You mistake yourself, uncle!

PARRIS,
with anger:
I saw it!
He moves from her. Then, resolved:
Now tell me true, Abigail. And I pray you feel the 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 swear it, uncle.

PARRIS,
studies her, then nods, half convinced:
Abigail, I 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. I have given you a home, child, I have put clothes upon your back—now give me upright answer. Your name in the town—it is entirely white, is it not?

ABIGAIL,
with an edge of resentment:
Why, I am sure it is, sir. There be no blush about my name.

PARRIS,
to the point:
Abigail, is there any other cause than you have told me, for your being discharged from Goody 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 seven month out of 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 them send to Barbados for that. I will not black my face for any of them!
With ill-concealed resentment at him:
Do you begrudge my bed, uncle?

PARRIS: No-no.

ABIGAIL,
in 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!

PARRIS, as
soon as the door begins to open:
No-no, I cannot have anyone.
He sees her, and a certain deference springs into him, although his worry remains.
Why, Goody Putnam, come in.

MRS. PUTNAM,
full of breath, shiny-eyed:
It is a marvel. It is surely a stroke of hell upon you.

PARRIS: No, Goody Putnam, it is—

MRS. PUTNAM,
glancing at
Betty : How high did she fly, how high
_?

PARRIS: No, no, she never flew-MRS. PUTNAM,
very pleased with it:
Why, it’s sure she did. Mr. Collins saw her goin’ over Ingersoll’s barn, and come down light as bird, he says!

PARRIS: Now, look you, Goody Putnam, she never—
Enter Thomas Putnam, a well-to-do, hard-handed landowner, 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-?

PUTNAM,
looking down at 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,
with 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, sees naught, and cannot eat. Her soul is taken, surely.

PUTNAM,
as though for further details:
They say you’ve sent for Reverend Hale of Beverly?

PARRIS,
with dwindling conviction now:
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 were a witch, and I am certain there be no element of witchcraft here.

PUTNAM: No witchcraft! Now look you, Mr. Parris-PARRIS: Thomas, Thomas, I pray you, leap not to witchcraft. I know that you-you least of all, Thomas, would ever wish so disastrous a charge laid upon me. We cannot leap to witchcraft. They will howl me 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 the 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, George Burroughs, had had to borrow money to pay for his wife’s funeral, and, since the parish was remiss in his salary, he 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 resentment is clear here. Thomas Putnam felt that his own name and the 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 failed in this.