IN WITCHCRAFT DAYS

CHARACTERS

GOODY GURTON PHILIPPE BEAUCOEUR VIGILANT WINTHROP HOLDFAST BRADFORD JOHN GILES GOODWIFE PRUDENCE HUBBARD MERCY HUBBARD BARBARA WILLIAMS, her playmate DORCAS WORDELL ANNE BROWN REPENTANCE FOLGER ROGER BLACKTHORNE FEAR-NOUGHT CALDWELL RENOUNCE WILTON TABITHA BRETT FAWNFOOT, an Indian maiden GOODWIFE ABIGAIL WILLIAMS

The scene is an open glade near Salem, 1692.

Trees right, left, and background. Flowers, Ferns. Berry-vines. Herbs. Tabitha Brett, a Puritan child, enters from left. She carries a quaint pewter bowl, and looking about her spies berries, whereupon she calls back over her shoulder to Renounce Wilton.

TABITHA (calling).

Renounce! There are berries here! Yet not so many as Goodwife Prudence Hubbard bade us bring. Perhaps 'tis too near the edge of the town, and others have been before us.

RENOUNCE (entering from left).

Others before us—Do you mean witches, Tabitha?

TABITHA.

Hush! Speak not that word! There are no witches flying in the daytime!

RENOUNCE (wide-eyed).

But at night, Tabitha, who can tell how many witches may be abroad? Dost thou not know that this is ofttimes called the "Witches' Wood" and Holdfast Bradford says that on the stroke of midnight 'tis here that they foregather. Canst thou not picture them whirling over the tree-tops?

TABITHA (with a cry).

Be still, Renounce Wilton! Oh, what was that? (Clutches her.) A shadow? (With more composure.) If you do talk of witches we shall lose half the berries we have gathered, and Goodwife Hubbard will scold us roundly.

[Eats a few berries.

RENOUNCE.

You should not eat the berries, Tabitha.

TABITHA.

I know. But they are so sweet. As sweet as the barley sugar Goody Gurton gives us.

RENOUNCE.

I marvel that our mothers let us hunt for berries at all.

TABITHA (childishly).

Aye, 'tis not often they are minded to let us stray to the edge of the forest. I think there is something stirring that we are not to hear, and that is why our fingers are kept busy. My mother and Goodwife Prudence Hubbard were deep in talk together; but when I passed they put their fingers on their lips.

RENOUNCE (pretending to be vastly impressed).

Did they so!

TABITHA (looking about her).

I wish I knew where some wild plums grew.

RENOUNCE (as they continue to gather berries).

Philippe Beaucoeur could tell us, did he but wish to.

TABITHA.

Renounce Wilton! I am ashamed of thee! Thou dost not mean that thou hast held converse with Philippe Beaucoeur, who is half French and lives in the woods like an Indian.

RENOUNCE (with spirit).

I will hold converse with whom I please, Tabitha Brett. French or no French, Philippe Beaucoeur is a brave lad, and there is naught about the wild things that he does not know. 'Twas because he lives in the forest and not in Salem Town as we do.

TABITHA (in an awed voice).

Have you ever seen the place where Philippe lives? Barbara Williams says it a fearsome spot. The forests about it are all black and solemn, and the pines seem to whisper together, and there Philippe dwells in a hut he himself hath builded.

RENOUNCE (sagely).

They say he hath dwelt alone there ever since his father died. Think of it! In the forest! I should fear the Indians! But then, I am not like Betty Hubbard, who hath no fears at all. And as for Philippe Beaucoeur, there is naught that can make him tremble. He says that 'tis on account of his "ancestree." And then he laughs and makes a gesture: "Blue blood of France is never chilled by terror, Mistress."

TABITHA.

"Blue blood of France—!" Who ever heard the like? I never saw blue blood, nor didst thou! The color of blood is scarlet, as thou knowest right well. Prick thy finger and see!

DORCAS WORDELL (off stage, left).

Tabitha Brett! Tabitha Brett! Where are you?

TABITHA (calling in answer).

Here, Dorcas, here! Renounce Wilton and I are gathering berries.

DORCAS (entering excitedly).

You'll gather no more berries when you've heard the news. Sure, there be stirring things afoot this day in Salem. What dost think? Barbara Williams hath been bewitched!

RENOUNCE.

Dorcas!

DORCAS (importantly).

Aye, since yesternight she hath clean disappeared. The evening meal was set: she did not come. They have searched the woods, and the marshland, and the roadways. 'Tis plain she hath been spirited away, and Goodwife Abigail Williams is nigh out of her mind. But now that they've found the witch——

TABITHA (eagerly).

Found her——

DORCAS (triumphantly).

Aye, found her! And you'll never guess who 'tis! Hark! They're coming! She was hobbling this way as I passed, little dreaming that her evil deeds would find her out so soon! The half o' Salem must be at her heels. Look! Look!

GOODY GURTON'S VOICE (from left, a cry of terror).

I am no witch. Good sirs, I am no witch. Mercy! Mercy!

RENOUNCE (startled).

'Tis Goody Gurton's voice! Why, she is a poor old woman who hath never done harm to any.

CRIES (off stage, left).

A witch! A witch! A-aaaaah! A witch!

[The crowd surges in from left, dragging in the midst of it poor old Goody Gurton. They separate and form a wide semicircle of which Holdfast Bradford and trembling Goody Gurton form the center. In the crowd are Goodwife Williams, Goodwife Hubbard, Mercy Hubbard, Goodwife Brown, Repentance Folger, Vigilant Winthrop, John Giles, Roger Blackthorne, and other people of Salem.

BRADFORD.

Silence, and look! Look, people of Salem! You know this spot right well. 'Tis here that witches are reported to hold their wicked revels. What better place have we in which to try a witch? Custom hath had it aforetime that we have tried them in the courthouse. Now let us try them on their own ground. 'Twill show that we fear neither them nor their master. Neither their black books, nor their caldron's brew. Stand forth, Goody Gurton, the accused. What have you to say? There is the woman whose child you have bewitched and stolen.

GOODY GURTON (in a trembling, aged voice).

I stole no child. I have bewitched no one. I am a poor old woman, as you all know. I get my living by my needle, and my brews of herbs.

BRADFORD.

Stand forth, Abigail. Is it not true that half the town hath searched for Barbara Williams since yesterday at sundown, and not a trace of her hath been found?

GOODWIFE WILLIAMS (wildly).

Aye, 'tis true! My child has gone from me! She is bewitched and stolen! Bewitched and stolen! Everywhere I looked and found no token: but at the door of Goody Gurton I found this!

[Holds up small white Puritan cap.

THE CROWD.

A-aaaaaah!

BRADFORD.

How came this cap to your door, Goody Gurton?

GOODY GURTON (in a shaking voice).

The children often visit me for sweetmeats. I gave the child a little barley sugar. She may have dropped the cap. I do not know.

BRADFORD.

Where did she turn after she left your doorway?

GOODY GURTON.

I did not look which way she went. I do not know. Oh, worshipful sir——

BRADFORD. Silence! Who else accuses Goody Gurton?

GOODWIFE HUBBARD.

We've seen strange things about, have we not, neighbors?

ALL.

Aye! Aye!

GOODWIFE HUBBARD.

Last night the wind wailed in my chimney. And when I crossed the fields at twilight I had a feeling that something followed me.

MERCY HUBBARD (piping up).

And Goodman Folger's cow hath died since yesternight. And Goody Gurton was seen going by the pasture.

VIGILANT WINTHROP.

Aye, there be many signs. Last night the moon rose red.

JOHN GILES.

And the week before there were more bats flying than I have ever seen in Salem.

GOODWIFE BROWN.

And Goodwife Eaton says that all night long in the woods behind her house there is something crying—she cannot tell whether it be an owl or a child.

REPENTANCE FOLGER.

Last eve, when the wind was blowing, something flapped past me like a witch's cloak.

BRADFORD.

What have you to say to these things, Goody Gurton?

GOODY GURTON (quite simply).

Why, naught, sir, naught. I noted myself that last week the moon rose red, and that last night the wind blew shrewdly.

BRADFORD.

How comes it that you were leaving the streets of Salem, and walking here in the forest? 'Twas here in the forest we found you.

GOODY GURTON.

I came to hunt for some simples...for spearmint and checkerberry and tansy.

BRADFORD (with deep sternness).

And for wolfbane and hellbore and all other hideous herbs that witches brew in their caldrons. You stand accused, Goody Gurton.

GOODY GURTON (bewildered).

Accused?

BRADFORD.

Of witchcraft.

THE CROWD (alternately surging close to her, and falling back).

A-aaah! To the pond with her! To the pond!

JOHN GILES.

If she sinks she is a witch, if she swims——

GOODY GURTON.

Have mercy——

GOODWIFE HUBBARD (with a shiver).

The water in the pond is deep and cold.

WINTHROP.

Here come Caldwell and Blackthorne with a ducking-chair. (Blackthorne and Caldwell carry between them a rude chair fashioned hastily from wood on which the bark still clings.) Well and swiftly fashioned, Blackthorne!

GOODY GURTON.

Mercy! Mercy! Gentle sirs, neighbors, goodwives! I am no witch! I swear it. I had naught, naught to do with Barbara Williams.

BRADFORD.

A last chance, Goody. Call up your evil powers. Bring back the child, and it shall be the stocks; but not the pond. Call! Call!

GOODY GURTON.

I have no words. I cannot bring her back. Mercy! Mercy!

BRADFORD (curtly).

To the pond!

GOODY GURTON (in a tremulous shriek as Blackthorne and Caldwell begin to bind her in the ducking-chair).

Oh, no, no, no! I am no witch! I swear it! Will no one speak for me—will no one——

[Philippe Beaucoeur, who has approached from right but a moment before, and been partly hidden from view by those in front of him, now steps forward boldly. The knife in his red sash-belt glitters in the sun. His dark face is a-light with interest. His bearing is gallantly determined.

PHILIPPE BEAUCOEUR.

I will speak!

RENOUNCE.

It is Philippe!

PHILIPPE (boldly).

Stand back, Master Bradford. Be not so swift with your ducking-chair, Goodman Caldwell. By what right have ye bound this poor old woman?

BRADFORD (angrily).

By what right can a Jackanapes confront his elders?

PHILIPPE (coolly).

By the right of free speech in a free country. By the right of seeing defenseless age that lacks a champion.

GOODY GURTON (her voice sunk to a low moan).

Mercy! Mercy!

PHILIPPE (gallantly alert, hand on knife).

You have said your say against her. Is there one who hath spoken a word for her?

BRADFORD (blustering).

He has no right to confront us. He is not of Salem.

[Nevertheless, since Philippe is the only one armed, none step forward to seize him.

PHILIPPE (with light scorn).

The worshipful Bradford speaks true. I dwell in a kinder place. The forest accuses neither man nor woman. Nay, do not frown at me, Holdfast Bradford. My hand is as well matched as yours.

JOHN GILES.

By all the signs she is a witch. The moon rose red, and the wind——

THE CROWD (not to be cheated).

Aye! Aye!

PHILIPPE.

What if the moon rose red? What if the wind wailed in the chimney? Are ye children round the nursery fire that such things should be to you as signs? Ye have seen the same a thousand times before. Is this all ye can say against her? Is there naught ye can say for her—ye who have known her kindness? John Giles, who sat with thy brother when he had the fever? Goodwife Anne Brown, who helped thee keep watch the night thy father's ship was lost at sea? Tabitha Brett, who healed thy childish hurts, and drove away thy tears with sweetmeats? Thrice shame upon you all! The poor old woman!

GOODWIFE WILLIAMS (wildly).

Let her give back my child! Here is the cap that I found on her door-sill.

PHILIPPE.

Let me look at the cap, Goodwife Williams. (Turns it inside out.) There is a name embroidered on the band. (Reads.) "Hester Wordell." Not thy child's cap at all.

[Hands it back.

GOODWIFE WILLIAMS.

'Tis more witchcraft!

PHILIPPE.

And is that witchcraft, too?

(A child's voice in the woods at right is heard singing:)

"In May I go a-walking to hear the linnets sing, The blackbird and the throstle a-praising Queen and King: It cheers the heart to hear them, to see the leaves unfold, The meadows covered over with buttercups of gold."

GOODWIFE WILLIAMS.

'Tis Barbara's voice! 'Tis Barbara! (Enter Barbara, fleet as a shadow, from right, followed by Fawnfoot. Both take the unconsciously tripping steps that belong to the wild freedom of youth.) It is my child! Barbara! Where hast thou been since yesternight?

BARBARA.

With Fawnfoot yonder. She taught me to play games, and angle for fish, and——What be they staring at?

BRADFORD (dryly).

Goodwife Williams, for children that rouse a village there is but one remedy.

GOODWIFE WILLIAMS (humbly).

A physic?

BRADFORD (almost roaring).

No! A slipper! See that it is administered. And light songs, such as we heard but now, are scarcely seemly on a young one's lips. She should learn graver measures.

[In groups of twos and threes the Puritans solemnly exeunt, left, Bradford marching ahead. Fawnfoot, with agile grace, disappears into background, dancing with her own shadow as she goes. Philippe and Goody Gurton are left alone. Philippe bends over the ducking-chair, and with his knife cuts the thongs which bind Goody Gurton, the while he talks, half-tenderly, half-gaily, for the first time allowing a hint of accent to creep into his speech.

PHILIPPE.

They do not even stop to unbind thee! It is a strange thing, this witchcraft, that so turns the head!

GOODY GURTON.

You do for me what others do not do—you whom I have scarcely seen before!

PHILIPPE.

A good deed sown is ofttimes a good deed reaped. So say they in la belle France, and my tongue loves the words. 'Twas long ago that you did a kindness for me when my father lay ill of a fever; but—I—I have not forgotten. (He cuts the final thong that binds her.) Whither now, Goody Gurton? Nay, it would seem that we have need of each other. For you—a shoulder to lean on: for me—often I am lonely. I think what it would mean in my hut in the forest to look up and see a grand'mere sitting there! We be two outcasts; but the woods are kind. There is a song about that oversea: it says—

(Sings)

Blue the sky above you, Dans la foret; True the hearts that love you, Courageux et gai!

Come, Grand'mere, home!

[They exeunt right, he bearing himself with a proud erectness, she leaning upon his shoulder with the peaceful dependence of a soul whose problem is solved. The scene ends.

COSTUMES

The Puritan women and girls wear black dresses with white lawn kerchiefs and cuffs, and Puritan caps. One or two of the women wear black cloaks, falling to the edge of their gowns. The material of which these dresses and cloaks may be made is black cambric with the glazed side turned in. The kerchiefs and cuff of lawn or white cheesecloth.

For the men and lads full black knee-breeches, black doublets with the sleeves a little fulled; white cuffs and Puritan collars. Long black cloaks ankle-length. Beaver hats. Any well-illustrated edition of "Pilgrim's Progress" will give an excellent idea of these costumes. (See notes on Hawthorne Pageant, page 220.)

PHILIPPE BEAUCOEUR. Philippe Beaucoeur wears a tan-Colored costume cut on Indian lines (supposedly dressed deerskin) with a sash of scarlet, such as the French voyageurs were in the habit of wearing. A fur slung across his shoulders and caught at his girdle. The costume is fringed, Indian-like, but is not painted Of beaded. The breeches come to the knee. Tan stockings and moccasins. The costume made of cotton khaki.

FAWNFOOT. The typical Indian maiden costume. Cotton khaki, gorgeously painted at the neck. Bead chains and bracelets. Tan stockings. Moccasins. Hair worn in braids. Scarlet head-band across forehead. Black quill.

This play may be given by a cast of girls. (See notes on Hawthorne Pageant.)

Music. The song which Barbara Williams sings can be found in "Songs of the West," by S. Baring Gould. ("Folk Songs of Cornwall and Devon, collected from the Mouths of the People.")