 | Witchcraft |  |
ACT III.
SCENE I.
—A Chamber in the House of Ambla.Enter Gideon Bodish.
Gideon.
I'm not a man of fears, but when the giant woods
Shake thicker blackness on me than belongs
To them—when though I close mine ears to any
But familiar sounds, the mischievous night-winds
Talk like women in the air,—when all I see,
Or hear, or feel, hath a mysterious motion in it—
The night sits, ruler, in this gloomy heart—
Part of the silent fixedness of things;
He breaks the mighty calm wherein he paused,
Slow-striding down the steepy mountain-side,
Swifter and darker, as he nears us, we regard him,
Flashing and red, wo's living thunder-cloud—
And now, and now, he grimly bends above us,
Dusk murder in the very person of itself—
So creeps this hideous witchcraft on me,
So gains and overmasters spirit and limb:
They called her witch—or was 't a whispering
Of the wind—I think my hearing thickens,
That in these sad distracted times, I know not
What I hear, what not. She tarried, I know,
Later than is her use, last night, an hour,
To drink the fatal shining of the moon.
Here comes my mother! There 's surely something
In her look and walk, of more than this
Mortality; and, yonder approaches
The eager magistrate. Oh may she pass
From questioning untainted, and a mother still.
Enter Ambla Bodish, followed by Justice Fisk and Pudeater, with writing materials, D. F.
Justice F.
Few words will answer the matter, Mistress Bodish; who threatens a chain for Goodman Topsfield's limbs, and Braybrook's?
Ambla.
They run about the country—are these the men—
Spreading reports, and haling aged womanhood
Before the courts?
These are serviceable men, what answer make you?
Gideon.
Mother, let silence be your sole rejoinder.
Ambla.
Gideon, speech is yet mine! Write, the chain
Is needed.
Pudeater.
[Aside.]
A fearful woman! She shines as if she were the great church lighted up o' Thanksgiving night.
Justice F.
Well, well—know you, Mistress, that Deacon Gidney hath felt an invisible noose about his neck of late, and, though got clear before it throttled him, know you, there were the red marks as of a finger and thumb near it?
Ambla.
Ha! ha! The air-hangwoman knows not her work;
She boggles, when well she might go on. Is 't that
You do complain of? A word, good Justice!—
If there be familiar spirits, and I
Into their ears could breathe, with power, ne'er would
That noble Deacon seize again poor women,
And drag them to their ruin—I'd teach them
To work more skillfully than thus allow
One hypocritic bigot to escape.
Gideon.
[Aside.]
Oh, fearfully she sells away her soul
And buys in its everlasting ruin.
Pudeater.
[Looking at Gideon.]
Gideon Bodish 's a ghost, that 's clear; he 's pale as a piece of air, as if he was turning into it.
Justice F.
I am told, you threaten me, too, Mistress? Give out that you will pinch my flesh, 'till it cry out with spasms, and my great toe with gout-pains you mean to rack?
You 've earned an hundred acres of the town,
By holding of its offices, and when
You have eaten the hundred, in all
Its beeves and wheaten loaves, and drunken up
Its currant wines, and ciders—
Justice F.
Enough; write down, Master Pudeater, that she admits the charge, in all its fulness and great depth.
Pudeater.
[Aside.]
I would I was in County Street, with little Cephas on my knee! There 's a piece of flesh there 's no mistaking—he weighed fifteen pounds and odd, the day he was born, and keeps on,—this is spectre-land.
Justice F.
And that poor girl, Susanna Peache, what do you with her, that she pines for this, your Gideon—and goes about all day in melancholy plight, dewing the young grass with her foolish tears. Pudeater, what ails you?
Pudeater.
I feel some twinges, sir; uncommon twitchings of the legs, as if I 'd be away.
Justice F.
See, she makes motions in the air—we'll be brief, Master Pudeater—do you stand firm, there! Where was I? You understand, Mistress Bodish, will you answer?
Pudeater.
She 's struck dumb, your worship, with the wonderful great truths you speak.
Justice F.
And now, for the next. Goodwife Prawl complains that you afflict her so at times, she cannot open her jaw, but sits a whole morning, with a mouthful of ready words and is not let to slip a single one. Answer, on your peril, yes, on your peril, Mistress.
Ambla.
You shall be answered plainly—Had I
A power perpetual, as 't is pertinent,
Lock-jawed, as long as stone.
[Cross to L. H.
Justice F.
Note you that, Pudeater—write that down.
Pudeater.
I cannot write, sir, she 's put a spell upon me, and I spatter my ink like rain.
Justice F.
Close up your blotted books, sir,
[sternly]
with all dispatch, and we'll put forth ere further befall
us. Pudeater, keep by my side.
Pudeater.
I am here, sir.
[Exeunt Justice Fisk and Pudeater, D. F.
Ambla.
My son, you saw I mocked them to their faces.
Gideon.
Mocked them! I would mine eyes had been sealed up
In the eternal grave, ere I had seen
The mockery. Mother, you know not, oh!
You know not what you do.
Ambla.
Are these my masters, that I to them should
Answer for my soul, in all its silent
Sessions, calm or perplexed?
[Cross to R.
Gideon.
You snare yourself,
In a black toil you cannot break, and change,
Spirit and person, from that you were.
Ambla.
I am not changed, but Gideon, you are changed.
Look in mine eyes, my son, they shine upon you,
The same light, as when they broke, the first day
Of days, for you, a thing too small and frail
For anything but mother's love.
Gideon.
Turn them the other way!
You fright me, when you wear that awful smile
Of magical appeal.
Oh, spare me, Gideon, nor drive thy mother
Afar, beyond the reach of reason's power;
Your words are wild, and oh, how cruel!
Forbear, my child—those looks will kill me,
My cup of misery is full—bitter, oh bitter!
[Exit Ambla, L.
Gideon.
Great Powers! Must I then know my mother thus?
She, who hath walked the constellations free
As their inhabitant, who owned the qualities
Of plants and flowers, the blowing of the wind
Before it blew, and guessed the light and knew
Its day and hour of diminution
And of growth, has lost herself in her strange
Knowledge—lost, oh lost I fear, forever!
And yet I hope—though hope be not my friend!
[Exit Gideon, R.
SCENE II.
—Village—Near the house of Goodwife Prawl.Jarvis.
The cloud which I have watched for many hours,
And days, and months, darkens this Salem more and more:
And its chief bolt will fall on the selected head!
The trial-hour of Ambla Bodish hastens on,
She must be doomed, no arm can save her—
The mother's death will with it bring the son's—
And should he live past that dread incident,
Am I then foiled, and still o'ermatched by him?
Not I: Susanna must bear witness 'gainst old Ambla,
Thenceforth must she and Gideon ever stand apart—
Wide as two mountains frowning on each other,—
The now-convenient gloom clear up, and this
Deluded girl come back to me and mine.
Enter Goodwife Prawl, L. H.
Jarvis.
This busy Goodwife must prevail with her, to testify. Good morrow, Goodwife Prawl,—why you are quite haggard in your look.
Good. Prawl.
Am I, Master Dane? I well may be, for I am troubled sorely.
Jarvis.
What now has happened—nothing fearful?
Good. Prawl.
Just as you told, sir—she begins to overturn the village—last night a great wind blew, and dashed about the roofs here, frightfully.
Jarvis.
From what quarter came this tempest?
Good Prawl.
From one only—from the house of Ambla Bodish—and we thought we heard her voice above it all.
Jarvis.
These are terrible doings, Goodwife!
Good Prawl.
They are—and trouble my poor wits amazingly.
Jarvis.
This Ambla Bodish must be stricken down— or we shall be all undone!
Good. Prawl.
It 's coming fast to that, Master Jarvis.
Jarvis.
Susanna Peache, poor haunted creature as she is, must testify against her. Her case more damns this wicked worker than all others, can she be brought to speak the truth forth plainly.
Good. Prawl.
She often comes to talk her griefs with me.
There is a road to lead her from them.
Good. Prawl.
If that were so!
Jarvis.
It shall be so—for take this Ambla from the world, and Gideon's thoughts will flow back from that which has them now in full, towards Susanna: he will love and seek her then, as now he cruelly avoids her.
Good. Prawl.
Kind Master Dane—you are a wonderful good Christian—I will do your bidding—she shall be saved —we shall all see some comfort yet, though we are now sorely shaken.
Jarvis.
[Aside.]
Meanwhile, I'll visit Gideon, and learn,
What spirit he bears amid these troubles—
Be urgent, Goodwife, for all our lives depend on you.
[Exit Jarvis.
Good. Prawl.
I'll not spare words—nor tears neither, if they be needed.
[Looks off.]
Upon his very word—Susanna comes—
Poor girl! she hangs her head, her careless locks
Flow in the wind—palely and sad she walks—
As making for the graveyard, every step.
Enter Susanna, R. H.
Good. Prawl.
Cheer up, my child.
Susanna.
Mother, how can I bear a cheerful look,
When all the hope, the happiness, the joy
Of all my life, is blighting day by day—
The spell I thought—I will not say I hoped—
Had passed, its power comes back upon me
With new strength.
You cannot be cheerful—and perhaps you
Should not; how doth this trouble vex you now?
Susanna.
Sometimes it almost drives me mad—
The love I bear,—and have from girlish years
Borne toward Gideon—steals upon me, that I
Think the bliss I'm lapped in is too sweet for life.
This morning, near the break of day, (when Ambla
First begins to move in power,) I had a dream,
Wherein young Gideon walked, clad brightly,
And from his eyes shed down such tearful light,
And with his dewy fingers scattered flowers,
So clear and beautiful, I thought an angel
Had possessed my brain, and from his azure tower
Descended, there to live, and in its chambers
Keep alive a music nearer Heaven,
Than aught that warbling earth in bird or brook,
Or cunning winds can make.
Good. Prawl.
Oh, dreadfully you 're still possessed—and on
To dreadful ends by the invisible hand
Are borne—but yet you may be saved.
Susanna.
[Eagerly.]
How, Goodwife, how?
Good. Prawl.
Bear witness, as your many lamentable
Crosses and afflictions do allow you—'gainst—
Susanna.
Whom?
Good. Prawl.
The one chief troubler of our village:
Ambla Bodish, to be sure:
Susanna.
Gideon's mother? Oh, take this cup away
From me, I cannot drink it.
It is the only way—when she
Is dead, your Gideon's love will flow to you.
Susanna.
You think it would?
Good. Prawl.
Sure as the stream stopped 'gainst a rock runs in
Toward the green bank upon the other side.
Susanna.
'T is hard for me to witness 'gainst his mother!
But she it is that has afflicted me,
And made me mad, and lone and desolate,
'Mid others. I am not mistress of myself—
And it is she who robs me of his love!
I will bear witness.
Good. Prawl.
Right, right, my child—and good
Shall come of it! Come walk with me down this way
To the Deacon's.
[Exeunt.
SCENE III.
—A Landscape and House.Enter Gideon Bodish.
Gideon.
Why spake I harshly to the fair Susanna!
Ah, little knows she what power it tasks,
To quell within this troubled heart, the love
I bear to her!—to silence every tone
This tongue would pour in music to her ear,—
How often I walk beneath her window,
And look up,—how often linger, afar,
Gazing till sight grows dim while passes she,
And hover on her path as though her steps
Embellished more than Nature's cunning hand
The very ground she treads on! But all by stealth,
Trouble would learn to take a surer aim
And deadlier strike the fortress of my peace!
Susanna! look not thou so beautiful
In fatal fairness—I will not seek you more.
[Looking off.]
Her lover, Jarvis, comes from toward her home!
Pray God! he hath succeeded in his suit!
Enter Jarvis Dane, R. M.
The love I cherish for this fair-eyed girl
Shall not prove another chain to bind me—
Hence! from my heart least thou undo me!
I will yield all I can, to him who seeks
Her hand, in safety. Welcome, Jarvis!
Jarvis.
Welcome is for the welcome—
You mock me with the smile you put on, saying,
Welcome, welcomeless.
Gideon.
If ever the sight
Of woods to hunters' eyes, of quiet bays
To sea-tossed men, had pleasure in it,
You are most welcome! Your coming tells me
She is changed. Jarvis, you have her heart,
Come, say it swiftly.
Jarvis.
More mockery, for you it seems may do,
For your appointed hour, with man or woman,
What you will. Why do you linger near her home?
Gideon.
[To himself.]
Oh, agony!
I love her not, nor seek to have her love.
Jarvis.
Then give it unto me.
Gideon.
I do, as freely
Jarvis.
You do? I thought so.
Master Gideon!—you give and take, diminish
And increase, beyond our mortal means.
Gideon.
I will not give it, for I cannot.
Jarvis.
You can, and in a trice, make hate
Or love, flow up or down, backwards or on,
As you see fit.
Gideon.
I have not, seek not, ask not,
Nor desire, nor will possess her love; she
Gives it against my wish—you know she does.
Jarvis.
There is a power
Within this house that overawes you both,
And governs your spirits to its cursed ends.
Gideon.
I fear there is. Hush Jarvis!
[Ambla's voice is indistinctly heard.
Hear you not sounds of agonizing prayer,
Supplications desperate and full of sighs?
It is an hour when wrestlings seize her.
Jarvis.
More bedevilment.
Gideon.
No, Jarvis, no—not that!
Have pity (you who 're witness to it) on
A poor woman's hour of meditative pain,
Upon her pangs that have not more than mortal
Origin!
Jarvis.
Gideon, I hear the sounds you hear,
They are incantations and requests
Of further power, to snare the innocent soul
Of a fair girl!—Speak not!—All denial 's vain!—
You palter with me, and possess me,
Of a fable, as though I were a wondering boy.
[Aside.]
Oh, just and righteous heaven! shall I forbear,
When I could smite down this misinterpreter,
And beat into the air the wicked spirit
That from his lips pollutes it! But, should
My bright blade cleave him in its first flash
(As by my holy hand it would,) there 's more
Of this accursed and most o'erwhelming craft
Of witchery, fixed on our house—no, no,
I am not born to strike but to endure;
It is a fable as you say, a false creation.
Jarvis.
You do confess it?
Gideon.
How dare you, sir, upbraid me thus?
Misread my words, and with malignant looks,
Talk me and mine, backward to perdition?
What though she loved me once, and loves me, now,
Who may have loved her, and would still, if that I choose,
Who gave you right to beard me, and to fling
Into my face, your desperate suspicions!
Me, sir, who have my youth yet, my youth's arm
Unwasted. Stand to your guard!
Jarvis.
Stand you to yours!—Nor pause till death decides.
You are my wronger, in each feature bear
Some scornful memory this true steel should thence
Obliterate—and leave me once more free!
I have not reaped the woods for nothing,
Nor climbed the steepy slope, and dashed the bear,
Alone, his gloomy fierceness there engaging—
When you have lingered calmly at the foot,
Or idle flowers—to now stand back!
Gideon.
Visions indeed! The vision of the weapon
Of an injured man, athwart your sight—
Should blast your eyeballs, more than death!
[They fight—Gideon prevails.
I spare your life—although your black blood should
Be spilled, to the last drop! The flashing
Of your eyes against your sword, and this
Unnatural upbraiding, betrays
A guilty purpose in your mind. I think,
'T is you who set this hunt a-foot, who keep
The dogs of Salem on the scent—your life
Is spared—hold sacred, for this sake, the lives
Of others!
Jarvis.
Gideon, you still prevail, but, by the holiness
Of Salem, if still your dark beguilings
Leave it so, I'll yet count back into your hand—
Yes, one by one, these injuries—the hour 's
Not far away!
Gideon.
When comes that hour, brave Jarvis,—
By God's good help, you'll find me, then I trust,
No less a man than now!
Jarvis.
The hour will come—be sure of that!
[Exeunt Gideon and Jarvis, R. and L.
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