Henry Wadsworth Longfellow (1807–1882). Complete Poetical Works. 1893.
Christus: A MysteryPart III. The New England Tragedies. Giles Corey of the Salem Farms. Act II
S
Shines on my Hundred Acres and my woods
As if he loved them. On a morn like this
I can forgive mine enemies, and thank God
For all his goodness unto me and mine.
My orchard groans with russets and pearmains;
My ripening corn shines golden in the sun;
My barns are crammed with hay, my cattle thrive;
The birds sing blithely on the trees around me!
And blither than the birds my heart within me.
But Satan still goes up and down the earth;
And to protect this house from his assaults,
And keep the powers of darkness from my door,
This horseshoe will I nail upon the threshold.
There, ye night-hags and witches that torment
The neighborhood, ye shall not enter here!—
What is the matter in the field?—John Gloyd!
The cattle are all running to the woods!—
John Gloyd! Where is the man?
What ails the cattle? Are they all bewitched?
They run like mad.
Call all the men. Be quick. Go after them!
They are broken loose and making for the woods.
Bewitched? Well, then it was John Gloyd bewitched them;
I saw him even now take down the bars
And turn them loose! They ’re only frolic-some.
Talking with Goodwife Proctor, and I saw him.
Of Bridget Bishop. She ’s cried out upon!
She was the widow Wasselby; and then
She married Oliver, and Bishop next.
She ’s had three husbands. I remember well
My games of shovel-board at Bishop’s tavern
In the old merry days, and she so gay
With her red paragon bodice and her ribbons!
Ah, Bridget Bishop always was a Witch!
And her red paragon bodice, and her plumes,
With which she flaunted in the Meeting-house!
When next she goes there, it will be for trial.
Come; you shall ride behind me on the pillion.
I wonder you should. I do not believe
In Witches nor in Witchcraft.
There ’s a strange fascination in it all,
That draws me on and on, I know not why.
Or of their power to help us or to harm us?
Did not an Evil Spirit come on Saul?
Did not the Witch of Endor bring the ghost
Of Samuel from his grave? The Bible says so.
There is no long ago.
And he who dwelt among the tombs a legion!
If in His providence He once permitted
Such things to be among the Israelites,
It does not follow He permits them now,
And among us who are not Israelites.
But we will not dispute about it, Giles.
Go to the village, if you think it best,
And leave me here; I ’ll go about my work.
The last word always. That is woman’s nature.
If an old man will marry a young wife,
He must make up his mind to many things.
It ’s putting new cloth into an old garment,
When the strain comes, it is the old gives way.
Oh Martha! I forgot to tell you something.
I ’ve had a letter from a friend of mine,
A certain Richard Gardner of Nantucket,
Master and owner of a whaling-vessel;
He writes that he is coming down to see us.
I hope you ’ll like him.
I ’ve not seen Gardner for this twenty year;
But there is something of the sea about him,—
Something so open, generous, large, and strong,
It makes me love him better than a brother.[Exit.
These captains from Nantucket and the Cape,
That come and turn my house into a tavern
With their carousing! Still, there ’s something frank
In these seafaring men that makes me like them.
Why, here ’s a horseshoe nailed upon the doorstep!
Giles has done this to keep away the Witches.
I hope this Richard Gardner will bring with him
A gale of good sound common-sense to blow
The fog of these delusions from his brain!
Along the village road.
Don’t vex me, Martha. Tell me where it is.
Bare-back; and when the people stare and say,
“Giles Corey, where ’s your saddle?” I will answer,
“A Witch has stolen it.” How shall you like that?
If an old man will marry a young wife,
Why then—why then—why then—he must spell Baker!
And say you are a Witch.
With your own hands; and you shall see me ride
Along the village road as is becoming
Giles Corey of the Salem Farms, your husband![Exeunt.
That Bridget Bishop e’er would come to this?
Accused, convicted, and condemned to death
For Witchcraft! And so good a woman too!
How do I know but under my own roof
I too may harbor Witches, and some Devil
Be plotting and contriving against me?
So keep out of his way. Avoid a quarrel.
If he says that, John Proctor is a liar!
The night his house was burned I was in bed,
And I can prove it! Why, we are old friends!
He could not say that of me.
I heard him say it.
For taking part against you in the quarrel
You had with your John Gloyd about his wages.
He says you murdered Goodell; that you trampled
Upon his body till he breathed no more.
And so beware of him; that ’s my advice![Exit.
And make him eat his words, or strangle him.
I ’ll not be slandered at a time like this,
When every word is made an accusation,
When every whisper kills, and every man
Walks with a halter round his neck!
What of them? Have you found them?
I followed them through the woods, across the meadows;
Then they all leaped into the Ipswich River,
And swam across, but could not climb the bank,
And so were drowned.
For you took down the bars, and let them loose.
You know they were bewitched.
The Evil Eye was on them; that is true.
Day of disaster! Most unlucky day!
Why did I leave my ploughing and my reaping
To plough and reap this Sodom and Gomorrah?
Oh, I could drown myself for sheer vexation![Exit.
By this time they have drifted out to sea.
They will not break his fences any more,
Though they may break his heart. And what care I?[Exit.
Something has gone amiss with him to-day;
I know it by his step, and by the sound
The door made as he shut it. He is angry.
He ’s in John Proctor!
You frighten me.
Can have a Devil in him, then that man
Is Proctor,—is John Proctor, and no other!
What do you think I heard there in the village?
And fast asleep that night; and I can prove it.
Is surely in the man.
And that I did it to wreak vengeance on him
For taking sides against me in the quarrel
I had with that John Gloyd about his wages.
And God knows that I never bore him malice
For that, as I have told him twenty times!
I do not like that Gloyd. I think him crafty,
Not to be trusted, sullen, and untruthful.
Come, have your supper. You are tired and hungry.
You ’ll be the better for it.
To-morrow, and go down again upon it.
They have trumped up against me the old story
Of causing Goodell’s death by trampling on him.
Why can’t they let him rest? Why must they drag him
Out of his grave to give me a bad name?
I did not kill him. In his bed he died.
As most men die, because his hour had come.
I have wronged no man. Why should Proctor say
Such things about me? I will not forgive him
Till he confesses he has slandered me.
Then, I ’ve more trouble. All my cattle gone.
Did I not tell you they were overlooked?
They ran down through the woods, into the meadows,
And tried to swim the river, and were drowned.
It is a heavy loss.
Next to yourself. I liked to look at them,
And watch the breath come out of their wide nostrils,
And see their patient eyes. Somehow I thought
It gave me strength only to look at them.
And how they strained their necks against the yoke
If I but spoke, or touched them with the goad!
They were my friends; and when Gloyd came and told me
They were all drowned, I could have drowned myself
From sheer vexation; and I said as much
To Gloyd and others.
With anything you would not have repeated.
Impatient at my loss, and much perplexed
With all that I had heard there in the village,
The yellow leaves lit up the trees about me
Like an enchanted palace, and I wished
I knew enough of magic or of Witchcraft
To change them into gold. Then suddenly
A tree shook down some crimson leaves upon me,
Like drops of blood, and in the path before me
Stood Tituba the Indian, the old crone.
I know the meaning of that word. Why frightened?
I am not one of those who think the Lord
Is waiting till He catches them some day
In the back yard alone! What should I fear?
She started from the bushes by the path,
And had a basket full of herbs and roots
For some witch-broth or other,—the old hag!
She said: “Giles Corey, will you sign the Book?”
“Avaunt!” I cried: “Get thee behind me, Satan!”
At which she laughed and left me. But a voice
Was whispering in my ear continually:
“Self-murder is no crime. The life of man
Is his, to keep it or to throw away!”
Giles, Giles! why will you harbor these dark thoughts?
How did she look? You saw her? You were there?
I ’ll go to bed.
And that will comfort you.
“As we forgive those that have sinned against us,”
When I do not forgive them.
There ’s something thwarts me when I wish to pray,
And thrusts into my mind, instead of prayers,
Hate and revenge, and things that are not prayers.
Something of my old self,—my old, bad life,—
And the old Adam in me, rises up,
And will not let me pray. I am afraid
The Devil hinders me. You know I say
Just what I think, and nothing more nor less,
And, when I pray, my heart is in my prayer.
I cannot say one thing and mean another.
If I can’t pray, I will not make believe!