The common room of Proctor ‘s house, eigli I day‘s later .
At the right is a door opening on the fields outside. A fireplace is at the left, and behind it a stuiw ay leading upstairs. It is the low, dat k, und rulher long li›!ing room of lhe time. .4s the curtain rises, the room is empty. From abo›•e, F.li–tibeth is heard softly stinging to the chilJi en. Presently the door opens and John Proctor enters, carrying his gun. He glances about the room as lie comes toward the fireplace, lheti hulls for an insiani a.s he hears her singing. He continues on to the fireplace, leans the gun against the wall as he sn!ings a pot out of the fire and smells it. Then he lifts out the ladle anal tastes. He is not quite pleased. He reaches to a cupbonrd, takes a pinch of salt, and drops it into the pot. As he is tasting again, her footsteps are heard on the stair. He sv’iiigs the pot into the fireplace and goes to a basin and washes his hands anal J’ace. Elizabeth enters.
ELIZABETI I: What keeps you so late’? It’s almost dark. PROCTOR: I were planting far out to the forest edge.
ELIZABETH: Oh, you’re done then.
PROCTOR: Aye, the farm is seeded. The boys asleep‘?
ELIZABETH: They will be soon. And she goes to the fireplace, pi oceed.s to ladle up .stm›• in u di.:h.
PROCTOR: Pray now for a fair summer. ELIZABETH: Aye.
PROCTOR: Are you well today’?
ELIZABETI I: I am. She brings lhe plate to the tubl,e, arid, indicating f/ie/ood. It is a rabbit. PROCTOR, going to the table. Oh, is it! In Jonathan’s trap?
ELIZABETH: No, shc walked into the house this afternoon; I found her sittin’ in the corner like she come to visit.
PROCTOR: Oh, that’s a good sign walkin in.
ELIZAB ETH: Pray God. It hurt my heart to strip her, poor rabbit. She .sits and v!atches hint ta te it.
PROCTOR: It’s well seasoned.
ELIZABETH, blushing with plensure. I took great care. She’s tender?
PROCTOR: Aye. He eats. She v’uiclies hint. I think we’ll see green fields soon. It’s warm as blood beneath the clods.
ELIZABETH: That’s well.
Proctor eat.s, then looks up.
PROCTOR: If the crop is good I’ll buy George Jacobs’ heifer. How would that please you? ELIZABETH: Aye, it would.
PROCTOR, » ith a gi in.’ I mean to please you, Elizabeth.
ELIZABETH—if is hard to say.’ I know it, John.
He gets up, goes to her, kisses lier. She receives it. With a certain disappointment, he i ettfl’ns to the table.
PROCTOR, as gently as he can.’ Cider?
ELIZABETH, v ith a sense of reprimanding herself for having forgot . Aye! She gets up and goes and pours a glass j’or him. He now arches his back.
PROCTOR: This farm’s a continent when you go foot by foot droppin’ seeds in it. ELIZABETH, coming i› ith the cider. It must be.
PROCTOR, he drinks a loiig draught, then, putting the glass doyen: You ought to bring somc flowers in the house.
ELIZABETH: Oh! I forgot! I will tomorrow.
PROCTOR: It’s winter in here yet. On Sunday let you come with mc, and we’ll walk the farm together; I never sec such a load o1” flowers on the earth. With good feeling he goes and looks up at the sfi• through the open doorw!ay. Lilacs have a purple smcll. Lilac is the smell of nightfall, I think. Massachusetts is a beauty in the spring!
ELIZABETH: Aye, it is.
There is a pause. She is w’n/cñii7g him from the table as he stal7ds there absoi bing the night. It is as though she would speak but cannot. Instead, none, she takes up his plate and glass and fork and goes ›i•ith them to the basin. Her back is tui ned to him. He turns to her and i›•atclies her . A sense of their separation, rises.
PROCTOR: I think you’re sad again. Are you‘?
ELIZABETFI— lie doesn’t want friction, and yet she must: You come so late I thought you’d gone to Salem this afternoon.
PROCTOR: Why? I have no business in Salcin. FLIZAB ETH: You did speak of going, earlier this week.
PROCTOR—he knows r’hat she means. 1 thought better of it sincc. ELIZABETI1: Mary Warren’s there today.
PROCTOR: Why’d you let her? You heard me forbid her to go to Salem any more! ELIZABETH: 1 couldn’t stop her.
PROCTOR, holding back o /o// condemnation of her . It is a fault, it is a fault, Elizabeth—you”re the mistress here, not Mary Warren.
ELIZABETH: She frightcncd all my strength away.
PROCTOR: How may that mouse frighten you, Elizabeth? You—
ELIZAB ETH : It is a mouse no more. I forbid her go, and she raises up her chin like the daughter of a prince and says to me. “I must go to Salem, Goody Proctor; I am an official of the coiirt!”
PROCTOR: Court! What court?
ELIZABETH: Aye, it is a proper court they have now. They’ve sent four judges out of Boston, she says, weighty ma istrates of the General Court, and at the head sits the Deputy Governor of the Province.
PROCTOR, astours hed.’ Why, she’s mad.
ELIZAB ETH: I would to Clod she were. There be fourteen people in the jail now, she says. Proctor simp hoks at her, oiiaf›/e to grasp it. And they’ll be tried, and the court have power to hang them too, she says.
PROCTOR, scofing, but without conviction.’ Ah, theysd never hang—
ELIZABETII : The Deputy Governor promise hangin if they’11 not confess, John. The town’s gone wild, 1 think. She speak of Abigail, and I thought she were a saint, to hear her. Abigai1 brings the other girls into the court, and where she walks the crowd will part like the sea for Israel. And folks are brought bctore them, and if they scrcain and howl and fall to the floor—the person’s clapped in the jail for bewitchin them.
PROCTOR. wide-ey’ed.’ Oh. it is a black mischief.
ELIZABETH: I think you must go to Salem, John. He turns to her. I think so. You must tell them it is a fraud.
PROCTOR, thinking beyond this.’ Aye, it is, it is surely.
ELIZABETH: Let you go to Ezekiel Cheever—he knows you well. And tell him what she said to you last week in her uncle’s house. She said it had naught to do with witchcraft, did shc not?
PROCTOR, in thought.’ Aye, she did, she did. Nor’ a pause.
ELIZABETH, quietly, fearing to anger him by prodding. God forbid you keep that from the court, John. I think they must be told.
PROCTOR. quietly, struggling north his thought. Aye, they must, they must. It is a wonder they do believe her.
ELIZABETH: I would go to Salcm now, John—let you go tonight. PROCTOR: I’ll think on it.
ELIZABETH, with her courage now. You cannot keep it, John. PROCTOR, aiige tag.’ I know I cannot keep it. I say I will think on it!
ELIZABETH, /tt‹i i, and Reiy coldly. Cood, then, let you think on it. .She .stund.: and .start.; to z•ulk out of the room.
PROCTOR: 1 am only wondering how I way prove what she told me, Elizabeth. If the girl’s a saint now, I think it is not easy to prove she’s fraud, and the town gone so silly. She told it to me in a room alone- have no proof for it.
ELIZABETH: You were alone with her? PROCTOR, stubbornly.’ For a moment alone, aye. ELIZAB ETH: Why, then, it is nOt as you tOld me.
PROCTOR, his anger rising. For a moment, I say. The others come in soon alter.
ELIZABETH, quietly—she has .suddenly lost all faith iii him. Do as you wish. then. She starts to
PROCTOR: Woman. She turns to him. 1’11 not have your suspicion any more. ELIZABETH, a little loftily. I have no-
PROCTOR: I’11 not havc it! ELIZABETH: Then let you not earn it.
PROCTOR, north a violent iinderlon e: You doubt me yet’?
ELIZABETH, with a smile, to keep her dignit)•.’ John, if it were not Abigail that you must go to hurt, would you falter now? I think not.
PROCTOR: Now look you— ELIZABETH : I see what I see, John.
PROCTOR, with solemn warning. You will not judge me more, Elizabeth. 1 have good reason to
think before I charge fraud on Abigail, and I will think on it. Let you look to your own improvement before you go to judge your husband any more. I have forgot Abigail, and—
ELIZABETH : And I.
PROCTOR: Spare me! You forget nothin’ and forgive nothin‘. Learn charity, woman. I have gone tiptoe in this house all seven month since she is gone. 1 have not moved front there to there without I think to please you, and still an everlasting funeral marches round your heart. 1 cannot speak but 1 am doubtcd, every momcnt judgcd for tics, as though I come into a court when I comc into this house!
ELIZABETH: John, you are not open with me. You saw her with a crowd, you said. Now you— PROCTOR : I’ll plead my honesty no inorc, Elizabeth.
ELIZABETH—now she ii ould justifi! herself.‘ John, I am only—
PROCTOR: No more! I should have roared you down when first you told rite your suspicion. But I wilted, and, like a Christian, I confessed. Confessed! Some dream I had must have mistaken you for God that day. But you’re not, you’re not, and let you remember it! Let you look soiiietimes for the goodness in me, and judge me not.
ELIZABETH: I do not jtidge you. The magistratc sits in your heart that judges you. I never thought you but a good man, John—iviffi a smile— only somewhat bewildered.
PROCTOR, latigliing bitterly.’ Oh, Elizabeth, your justice would freeze beer! He ttirns suddenly tor!ard a sound outside. He scarfs fpr the door as Mai) Warren enters. As soon as he sees her, lie goes directly to her end grabs tier by her cloak, furious. How do you go to Salem when I forbid it? Do you mock me? Shaking her.’ I’ll whip you if you dare leave this house again!
Strangely, she doesn ‘t resist him btit hangs /i ip/y by his arty.
MARY WARREN: I am sick, 1 am sick, Mr. Proctor. Pray, pray, hurt me not. Her ti’angeness throis•s him off, and her evident pallor and weakness. He frees her. My insides are all shuddery; I am in the proceedings all day, sir.
PROCTOR, v!ith draining anger—his curiosity is draining it.’ And what of these proceedings here? When will you proceed to keep this house. as you are paid nine pound a year to do—and my wife not wholly well’?
As though to compen ate, Mary War i en goes to Elizubeth v•ilh a small rag doll.
MARY WARREN: I made a gift for you today, Coody Proctor. I had to sit long hours in a chair, and passed the time with sewing.
ELIZABETH, perplexed, looking ut the doll. Why, thank you, it’s a fair poppet.
MARY WARREN, with a ti ambling, decayed ›•oice.’ We must all love each other now, Coody
Proctor.
ELIZABETH, auras-ed at her strangeness. Aye, indeed, we must.
MARY WARREN, glancing af the room.’ I’ll get up early in the morning and clean the house. I must sleep now. She turns and starts Off
PROCTOR: Mary. She halts. Is it true? There be fourteen women arrested?
MARY WARREN: No, sir. There be thirty-nine now She suddenl)• break off and obs and sils dov’ii, exhausted.
ELIZABETH: Why, she’s weepin’! What ails you, child?
MARY WARREN: Goody Osburn—will hang! There is a shocked pause, v while she sobs.
PROCTOR: Hang! He calls into her face. Hang, y’say? MARY WARREN. tl7rougli her i›•eeping. Aye.
PROCTOR: The Deputy Govei’nor will permit it?
MARY WARREN: He sentenced her. He must. To amelioi me it. But not Sarah Good. For Sarah Good confessed, y’see.
PROCTOR: Conlcssed! To what’?
MARY WARREN: That she—in horror at the memoi y—she sometimes made a compact with Lucifer. and wrote her name in his black book—with her blood—and bound herself to torment Christians till God’s thrown down—and we all must worship Hell forevermore.
PROCTOR: But—surely you know what a jabberer she is. Did you tell them that? MARY WARREN: Mr. Proctor, in open court she near to choked us all to death. PROCTOR: How, choked you?
MARY WARREN: She sent her spirit out. ELIZABETH : Oh, Mary. Mary, surely you—
MA RY WA RREN, with un indignant edge. She tried to kill me many times, Goody Proctor!
ELIZABETH: Why. I never heard you mention that before.
MARY WARREN: I never knew it before. I never knew anything before. When she come into the court I say to myself, I must not accuse this woman, for she sleep in ditches, and so very old and poor. But then—then she sit there, denying and denying, and I feel a misty coldness climbin up my back, and the skin on my skull begin to creep, and I feel a clamp aroiind my neck and I cannot breathe air: and then ntranced—I hear a voice, a screamin voice, and it were my voice—and all at once I remember everything she done to me!
PROCTOR: Why’? What did she do to you‘?
MARY WARREN, like one ay ukened to u marveloiis cci ct insight. So many time, Mr. Proctor, she come to this very door, beggin’ bread and a cup of cider—and mark this: whenever I tumcd her away empty, she mumbled.
ELIZABETH: Mumbled! She may mumble if she’s hungry.
MARY WARREN: But what does she mumble? You must remember, Woody Proctor. Last month—a Monday, 1 think—she walked away, and 1 thought my guts would burst for two days after. Do you rcmember it?
ELIZAB ETH: Why—1 do. 1 think, but—
MARY WARREN: And so I told that to Judge Hathorne, and he asks her so. “Goody Osburn,” says he. “what curse do you mumble that this girl must fall sick after turning you away?” And then she replies-mimicking an old crore—“Why, your excellence, no curse at all. I only say my commandments; I hope I may say my commandments,” says she!
ELIZABETH: And that’s an upright answer.
MARY WARREN: Aye, but then Judge Hathorne say, “Recite for us your commandments!”— leaningavidl)• toward them—and of’ all the tcn shc could not say a single one. She never knew no commandments. and they had her in a flat lie!
PROCTOR: And so condemned her‘?
MARY WARREN, nov’ a /if/fe str ained, seeing lii slubhorn Joubt. Why, they must when she condcmned licrsclf.
PROCTOR: But the proof, the proof!
MARY WARREN, v iih gi eater impatien‹’e with hint. I told you the proof. It’s hard proof, hard as rock, the judges said.
PROCTOR—be pauses an instant, then.’ You will not go to court again, Mary Warren.
MARY WARREN: I must tell you, sir, I will be gone every day now. I ant amazed you do not see
what weighty work we do.
PROCTOR: What work you do! It’s strange work for a Christian girl to hang old womcn!
MARY WARREN: But. Mr. Proctor. they will not hang them if they confess. Sarah brood will only sit in jail some time recalling and here’s a wonder for you; think on this. Goody Good is pregnant!
ELIZABETH: Prcgnant! Are thcy mad? The woman’s ncar to sixty!
MARY WARREN: They had Doctor Grigss examine her. and she’s full to the brim. And smokin“ a pipe all these years, and no husband either! But she’s safc, thank God, for they’ll not hurt the innocent child. But be that not a marvel? You must see it, sir, it’s God’s work we do. So I’ll be gone every day for some time. I’m—I am an official of the court, they say, and I—She has been edging iowaFd offstage.
PROCTOR: I’ll official you! He strides to the mantel, takes down the ship hanging there.
MARY WARREN, terrified, but coming erect, stri›•ing for her author i,iy: I’ll not stand whipping
any more!
ELIZABETH, hurriedly, as Proctor approachc•s. Mary, promise now you’ll stay at home—
MARY WARREN, backing ft om him, but keeping her erect posture, ,striving, striving for her z ay.
The Devil’s loose in Salem, Mr. Proctor; we must discover where he’s hiding!
PROCTOR: I’ll whip the Devil out of you! With whip raised he i caches piiffpr her, arid he str eats an•ay and yells.
MARY WARREN, pointing at F-li–ubeth.’ 1 saved her life today!
Silence. His »’hip comes doc n.
ELIZABETH, softly. I aim accused‘?
MARY WARREN, qtiaking. Somewhat mentioned. But 1 said l never see no sign you ever sent your spirit out to hurt no one, and seeing I do live so closely with you, they dismissed it.
ELIZABETfI: Who accused me’?
MARY WARREN: l am bound by law, I cannot tell it. To Proctor: I only hope you’ll not be so sarcastical no inorc. Four judges and the King’s deputy sat to dinner with us but an hour ago. I —I would have you speak civilly to me. from this out.
PROCTOR, in horror, miiftering in disgust at her.’ Cio to bed.
MARY WARREN, v ilh a stamp of tier foot. I’ll not be ordered to bed no more, Mr. Proctor! I am ciglitccn and a woman, howevcr single!
PROCTOR: Do you wish to sit up’? Then sit up. MARY WARREN: I wish to go to bed!
PROCTOR, in anger. Good tlight, then!
MARY WARREN: Good night. Dissatisfied, tiiicertain of herself, she goes out. Wide-eyed, both Proctor and Eli-abeth stand staring.
ELIZABETH, quiet/ •.’ Oh, the noose, the noose is up! PROCTOR: Tlierc’ll be no noose.
ELIZABETH: She wants inc dead. I knew all week it would come to this! PROCTOR, without con› iction. They dismissed it. You heard her say— ELIZABETH : And what of tomorrow? She will cry me out until they take inc! PROCTOR: Sit you down.
ELIZABETFI: She wants me dead, John, you know it!
PROCTOR: I say sit down! She sits, trembling. He speaks qiiietfy, ti)•ing to keep his wits. Now we must be wise, Elizabeth.
ELIZABETH, with sai casm, and a sense of being lost.’ Oh, indeed, indeed!
PROCTOR: Fear nothing. I’ll find Ezekiel Cheever. I’ll tell him she said it were all sport.
ELIZABETFI: John, with so many in the jail, more than Cheever’s help is needed now, I think. Would you favor me with this? Go to Abigail.
PROCTOR, his soul hardening as he senses… .‘ What have I to say to Abigail?
ELIZABETH, delicately.’ John—grant me this. You have a faulty understanding of young girls. There is a promise made in any bed—
PROCTOR, .striving against his anger . What promise!
ELIZABETH: Spoke or silent, a promise is surely made. And she may dote on it now—I am sure she does — and thinks to kill me, then to take my place.
Proctor’s anger is ri ing; he cannot speak.
ELIZABETH: It is her dcarest hope, John, I know it. There be a thousand names; why does she call mine? There be a certain danger in calling such a name—I am no Goody Good that sleeps in ditches, nor Osburn, dnink and hall-witted. She’d dare not call ont such a farmer’s wife but there be monstrous profit in it. She thinks to take my place, John.
PROCTOR: She cannot think it! He knows it is true.
ELIZABETH, ‘i easonably ”. John, have you ever shown her somewhat of contempt? She cannot pass you in the church but you will blush—
PROCTOR : I may blush for my sin.
ELIZABETH: I think she sees another meaning in that blush. PROCTOR: And what see you? What see you, Elizabeth?
ELIZABETH, “conceding ”. I think you be somewhat ashamed, for I am there, and she so close. PROCTOR: When will you know inc, woman? Wcre I stone I would havc cracked for shame this
scven month!
ELIZABETH: Thcn go and tell hcr she’s a whore. Whatever promise she may scnse—brcak it, John, break it.
PROCTOR, between his teeth.’ Good, then. l’l1 go. He tarts for his rifle.
ELIZABETH, trembliiig, [earfiilly.’ Oh, how unwillingly!
PROCTOR, turning on her, Fifle in hand. I will curse her hotter than the oldest cinder in hell. But pray, begrudge inc not my anger!
ELIZABETH: Your anger! I only ask you—
PROCTOR : Woman, an I so base? Do you truly think lne base? ELIZABETH: I never called you base.
PROCTOR: Then how do you charge me with such a promise‘? The promise that a stallion gives a
mare I gave that girl!
ELIZABETI I: Then why do you anger with me when 1 bid you break it‘?
PROCTOR: Bccause it speaks deceit, and I am honest! But I’ll plead no more! I see now your spirit twists around the single error of my life, and 1 will never tear it free!
FLIZAB ETH, crying out: You’ll tear it free—when you come to know that I will be your only wife, or no wife at all! She has an arrow in you yet, John Proctor, and you know it well!
 |
 |
Quite suddenly, as the air, a figure appears in Ihe doorw•a)•. Thp• .Star t slightly. It is Mr. Hale. He is different nor’—drar•n a little, and there is a quality of deJ‘erence, even of guilt, about his manner non.
HALE: C›ood evening.
PROCTOR, s/if/ in his shock. Why, Mr. Hale! Good evening to you, sir. Come in, come in. HALE, to F.li–abeth. I hope 1 do not startle you.
ELIZABETH: No, no. it’s only that I heard no horse— HALE: You arc Goodwifc Proctor.
PROCTOR: Aye; Elizabeth.
HALE, nods, then.’ I hope you’re not off to bed yet.
PROCTOR, setting down his gun.’ to, no. Hale comes further into the room. And Proctor, to explain his nervousness.’ We arc not used to visitors after dark, but you’i’e welcoinc here. Will you sit you down, sir?
HALE: I will. He sit.s. Let you sit, Goodwife Proctor.
She does, never lettiiip him out of lier sight. There is a pause as Hale looks obotft the room.
PROCTOR, to bi eak the silence.’ Will you drink cider, Mr. Hale’?
HALE: No, it rebels my stomach; I have some further traveling yet tonight. Sit you down, sir. Proctor
sits. I will not kecp you long, but I have some business with you. PROCTOR: Busincss of the court?
HALE: Nano, I cone of my own, without the court’s authority. Hear me. He v ets lits lips. 1
know not if you are aware, but your wife’s name is—mentioned in the court. PROCTOR: We know it, sir. Our Mary Warren told us. We are entirely amazed.
HALE: I am a stranger here, as you know. And in my ignorance I find it hard to draw a clear opinion of them that come accused before the court. And so this afternoon, and now tonight, I go from house to house—1 come now from Rebecca Nurse’s liousc and—
ELIZABETH, hocked. Rebecca’s charged!
HALE: God forbid such a one be charged. She is. however—mentioned somewhat.
ELIZABETH, v’ith an uttc•mpt ut a lutigh. You will never believe, 1 hope, that Rebecca trafficked with the Devil.
HALE: Woman, it is possible.
PROCTOR, taken aback. Surely you cannot think so.
HALE: This is a strange time, Mister. No man may longer doubt the powers ot“the dark are gathered in monstrous attack upon this villagc. Thcrc is too much cvidcncc now to dcny it. You will agrcc, sir’?
PROCTOR, evading. I—have no knowledge in that line. But it’s hard to think so pious a woman be secretly a Devil’s bitch alter seventy year of such good prayer.
HALE: Aye. But the Devil is a wily one. you cannot deny it. However, she is far from accused, and I know she will HOt be. Pause. I thought, sir. to put soinc questions as to the Christian character of this house, if you’ll permit me.
PROCTOR, coldly, resentful: Why, we—have no fear of questions, sir.
HALE: Good, then. He makes himself more comfortable. In the book o1“ record that Mr. Parris keeps. I note that you are rarely in the chui-ch on Sabbath Day.
PROCTOR: No, sir, you are mistaken.
HALE: Twenty-six time in seventeen month, sir. I must call that rare. Will you tell me why you are so absent?
PROCTOR: Mr. Hale, 1 never knew I must account to that man for I come to church or stay at home. My wifc were sick this winter.
HALE: So I am told. But you, Mister, why could you not come alone?
PROCTOR: I surely did come when I could, and when I could not I prayed in this house. HALE: Mr. Proctor, your house is not a church; your theology must tell you that.
PROCTOR: It does, sir, it does; and it tells me that a minister may pray to God without he have golden candlesticks upon the altar.
HALE: What golden candlesticks?
PROCTOR: Sincc we built the church thcre were pewter candlcsticks upon the altar; Francis Nurse made them, y’know, and a sweeter hand never touched the metal. But Parris came, and for twenty week he preach nothin’ but golden candlesticks until he had them. 1 labor the earth from dawn of day to blink of night, and 1 tell you true, when I look to heaven and see my money glaring at his elbows— it hurt my prayer, sir, it hurt my prayer. I think, sometimes, the man dreams cathedrals, not clapboard meetin’ houses.
HALE, thinks, then.’ And yet, Mister, a ClNstian on Sabbath Day must bc in church. Pause. Tell me you have three children?
PROCTOR: Aye. Boys.
HALE: How comes it that only two are baptizcd‘?
PROCTOR, starts to .speak, lhen ,stops, !hen, a s though unable to re train thi . 1 like it not that Mr. Parris should lay his hand upon my baby. I see no light of God in that man. I’ll not conceal it.
I-IALE: I must say it, Mr. Proctor; that is not for you to decide. The man’s ordained, therefore the light of Clod is in him.
PROCTOR, relied with reseDioieiit but trying to smile. What’s your suspicion, Mr. Hale’? HALE: No, no, I have no—
PROCTOR: I nailcd the roof upon the church, 1 hung the door— I-IALE: Oh, did you! That’s a good sign, then.
PROCTOR: It may be I have been too quick to bring the man to book, but you cannot think we ever desired the destruction of religion. I think that’s in your mind, is it not?
HALE, not altogether giving ii uy.’ 1—have—there is a softness in your record, sir, a softness.
ELIZAB ETH: I think, maybe, we have been too hard with Mr. Parris. I think so. But sure we never loved the Devil here.
HALE, nods, delibeFaiing Ihis. Then, v’itli the i‘oice of oiie administei’iiig a seci’ei te.st. Do you know your Commandments, Elizabeth?
ELIZABETH, v ithout hesitation, e›•en eager ly.’ I surely do. There be no mark of blame upon my life, Mr. Hale. I am a covenanted Christian woman.
HALE: And you, Mister’?
PROCTOR, a ti ifle unsteadily.= 1—am sure I do, sir.
HALE, glances at her open face, then at John, then.’ Let you rcpcat them, i1’ you will. PROCTOR: The Commandments.
HALE: Aye.
PROCTOR, looking o]f, beginning to eneat. Thou shalt not kill. HALE: Aye.
PROCTOR, counting on his fingers.’ Thou shalt not steal. Thou shalt not covet thy neighbor’s goods,
nor inakc unto thee any gravcn image. Thou shalt not take the name of the Lord in vain; thou shalt have no other gods bcforc inc. Willi some hesitation.’ Thou shalt remember the Sabbath Day and keep it holy. Pause. Then. Thou shalt honor thy father and mother. Thou shalt not bear false witness. He i ’tuck. He count back on his fingers, knoi›•ing one is missing. Thou shalt not make unto thee any graven image.
IJALE: You have said that twice, sir. PROCTOR, lost.’ Aye. He is flailing for it. ELIZABETI-I, delicately.’ Adultery, Jolm.
PROCTOR, a.›’ though a secref arrow had paired his heurl: Aye. Trying io grin it away Io Hale. You see, sir, between the two of us we do know their all. Hale oi7fy looks at Proctor, deep in his attempt to define this man. Proctor grows more uneasy. I think it be a small fault.
HALE: Theology, sir, is a fortress; no crack in a fortress may be accounted small. He rises,’ he seems v’orried non’. He paces a little, ii7 deep thought.
PROCTOR: There be no love for Satan in this house, Mister.
HALE: I pray it, I pray it dcarly. He looks to both of them, nn attempt at a smile on his face, but his misgi›!iiigs are clear. Well, then—I’ll bid you good night.
ELIZABETFI, unable to resti ain herself.‘ Mr. Hale. He tui ns. I do think you are suspecting me somewhat? Are you not?
HALE, obviously disturbed—and ei!asive. Goody Proctor, I do not judge you. My duty is to add what I may to the godly wisdom of the court. I pray you both good health and good fortune. To John.’ Good night, sir. He starts out.
ELIZABETH, with a note of desperation.’ I think you must tell him, John. HALE: What’s that?
ELIZABETH, restrail7ing a call.’ Will you tell him?
Slight pause. Hale looks questioningly at John.
PROCTOR, worth difficul . 1—1 have no witness and cannot prove it, except my word be taken. But I know the children’s sickness had naught to do with witchcraft.
HALE, stopped, struck.’ Naught to do—‘?
PROCTOR: Mr. Parris discovered them sportin in the woods. They were startled and took sick.
Pause.
HALE: Who told you this?
PROCTOR, hesitates, then.’ Abigail Williams. HALE: Abigail!
PROCTOR: Aye.
HALE, his eyes o’ide.’ Abigail Williams told you it had naught to do with witchcraft!
PROCTOR: She told me the day you came, sir. HALE, suspiciously. Why—why did you keep this?
PROCTOR: I never knew until tonight that the world is gone daft with this nonsense.
HALE: Nonsense! Mister, I have myself examined Tituba, Sarah Good, and numerous others that have confessed to dealing with the Devil. They have confessed it.
PROCTOR: And why not. i1’ thcy must hang for denyin’ it? There are thcm that will swear to anything before they’ll hang; have you ncvcr thought of that?
HALE: I have. I—1 have indeed. It i hi omit suspicion, but he resist if. He glances at Eli abelh, then at John. And you—would you testify to this in court?
PROCTOR: I—had not reckoned with goin’ into court. But if I must I will. HALE: Do you falter here?
PROCTOR: I falter nothing, but I may wonder if my story will be credited in such a court. I do wonder on it, when such a steady-minded minister as you will suspicion such a woman that never lied, and cannot, and the world knows she cannot! I may falter somewhat, Mister; 1 am no tool.
HALE. qtiie/Jy—i/ 6ns impre.used hiiti. Proctor, let you open with me now, for I have a rumor that
troubles me. It’s said you hold no belief that thcrc may evcn be witches in thc world. Is that truc, sir?
PROCTOR—/te knows this is critical, and is stri›•ing against his disgii.st v’ith Hals arid n•ith himself for even ans ‘ering. I know not what I have said, I may have said it. I have wondered if there be witches in the world—although 1 cannot believe they come among us now.
HALE: Then you do not believe—
PROCTOR: I have no knowledge of it; the Bible speaks of witches, and 1 will not deny them. HALE: And you, woman?
ELIZABET£I: I—I cannot believe it. HALE, shocked.’ You cannot!
PROCTOR: Elizabeth, you bewildet him!
ELIZABETH, to Hale.’ I cannot think the Devil may own a woman’s soul, Mr. Hale, when she keeps an upright way, as I have. 1 am a good woiiian, I know it; and if you believe I may do only good work in the world, and yet be secretly bound to Satan, then I must tell you, sir. I do not bclieve it.
HALE: But, woman, you do believe there are witches in— ELIZABETH: 11’ you think that I am one, then I say thcrc arc nonc. HALE: You surely do not fly against the Gospel, the Gospel— PROCTOR: She believe in the Gospel, every word!
ELIZABETH: Question Abigail Williams about the Gospel, not myselt*.
Hale stares at hear.
PROCTOR: She do not mean to doubt the Gospel, sir, you cannot think it. This be a Christian house. sir. a Christian house.
HALE: God keep you both; let the third child be quickly baptized, and go you without fail each Sunday in to Sabbath prayer; and keep a solemn, quiet way among you. 1 think-
Giles Corey appears in doorway.
GILES: Jol i!
PROCTOR: Gilcs! What’s thc matter? GILES: They take my wife.
Francis Nui se enters.
GILES: And his Rebecca!
PROCTOR, to Frai7Cis.’ Rebecca’s in the Jai/!
FRANCIS: Aye, Cheever come and take her in his wagon. We’ve only now come from the jail, and they’ll not even let us in to see them.
ELIZABETH: They’ve surely gone wild now, Mr. Hale!
FRANCIS, going to Hale.‘ Reverend Hale! Can you not speak to the Deputy Governor? I’m sure he mistakes these people—
HALE: Pray calm yoursel , Mr. Nurse.
FRANCIS: My wilc is the very brick and mortar of thc church, Mr. Hale—indicating Gi/eâ—and Martha Corey, there cannot be a woman closer yct to God than Martha.
HALE: How is Rcbecca charged, Mr. Nurse?
FRANCIS, u try a mocking, half—hearted laugh.’ For murder, she’s charged! Mockingly quoliiip the u arrant. “For tlic inarvelous and supernatural murder of Goody Putnam’s babies.” What am I to do, Mr. Hale?
HALE. turns frum Francis, deeply troubled, then.‘ Believe me, Mr. Nurse, if Rebecca Nurse be tainted, then nothing’s left to stop the whole green world from burning. Let you rest upon the justice of the court; the court will send her home, I know it.
FRANCIS : You cannot mean she will be tried in court!
HALE, pleading. Nurse, though our hearts break, we cannot fiineh; these are new times, sir. There is a misty plot afoot so subtle we should be criminal to cling to old respects and ancient friendships. I have seen too many frightful proofs in court—the Devil is alive in Salem, and we dare not quail to follow wherever the accusing finger points!
PROCTOR, anger ed. How may such a woman murder children?
HALE, ir great paiii. Man, remember, until an hour before the Dcvil tcll, God thought him beautiful in Heavcn.
CILES: I never said my wife were a witch. Mr. Hale: 1 only said she were reading books!
HALE: Mr. Corey, exactly what complaint were made on your wife?
GILES: That bloody mongrel Walcott chargc her. Y’sec, he buy a pig of icy wife four or tive year ago, and the pig died soon alter. So he come dancin’ in for his money back. So my Martha. she says to him, “Waleott, if you haven’t the wit to feed a pig properly, you’ll not live to own many,” she says. Now he goes to court and claims that from that day to this he cannot keep a pig alive for more than four weeks because my Martha bewitch them with her books!
Enter Ez-ekiel G”heevei. .4 shocked silence. CHEEVER: Good evening to you, Proctor. PROCTOR: Why, Mr. Cheever. Good evening.
CHEEVER: Cood evcning, all. Good evening, Mr. Hale.
PROCTOR: I hope you come not on busincss of thc court. CHEEVER: I do, Proctor, aye. I am clerk of’the court now, y’kiiow.
Enter Marshal Herrick, a man in his early thirties, v•hO is monies’/7or shamefaced at the moment.
GILES: It’s a pity. Ezekiel, that an honest tailor might have gone to Heaven must burn in Hcll. You’ll burn for this, do you know it?
CHEEVER: You know yourself I must do as I’m told. You surcly know that, Gilcs. And I’d as licf you’d not bc scnding inc to Hell. I like not thc sound of it. I tcll you: I likc not thc sound of it. He fears Pt oclor, but star Is to reach inside liis coat. Now believe mc, Proctor. how hcavy be thc law, all its tonnage I do carry on my back tonight. He fakes out a warrant. I havc a warrant for your wifc.
PROCTOR, to Hale. You said she were not charged!
HALE: I know nothin’ of’it. To Cheever.‘ When wcrc she charted? CHEEVER: I am given sixteen warrant tonight, sir, and she is one. PROCTOR: Who chai’ged her?
CHEEVER: Why, Abigail Williams charge her. PROCTOR: On what proof, what proof?
CHEEVER, looking about the room.’ Mr. Proctor, I have little time. The court bid me search your
house, but I like not to search a house. So will you hand me any poppets that your wife may keep here’?
PROCTOR: Poppets?
F.LIZABETH: I never kept no poppets, not since I were a girl.
CHEEVER, embarrassed, glnncing to ard the marital r’f7ere sits May tFarren ‘s poppet. I spy a poppet, Cioody Proctor.
ELIZABETH: Oh! Going for it. Why, this is Mary’s.
CHEEVER, shyly.’ Would you please to give it to we’?
ELIZABETH, handin,g it to hint, asks Hale.’ Has the court discovered a text in poppets now? CHEEVER, carefully holding the poppet. Do you keep any others in this house’?
PROCTOR: No, nor this one either till tonight. What signifies a poppet”
CHEEVER: Why, a poppet—he ginger ly turns the poppet other—a poppet may signify—Now, woman, will you please to come with me?
PROCTOR: She will not! To Eli–uheth.’ Fetch Mary here.
CHEEVER, ineptly reaching ton!ard Elizabeth. No, no, I am forbid to leave her mom my sight.
PROCTOR, ptishing his arm away. You’ll leave her out of sight and out of mind, Mister. Fetch Mary, Elizabeth. Eli-abeth goes upstairs.
HALE: What signifies a poppet, Mi’. Cheever?
CHEEVER, turning the poppet other in his hands. Why, they say it may signify that she—Ne has lifted t/iepoppei ’s skirt, und his eyes z iden in astonished/ear. Why, this, this
PROCTOR, reaching for lhe poppet. What’s there‘?
CHEEVER: Why—/te draws out a long needle fi om iñc poppef—it is a needle! Herrick, Herrick, it is a needle!
Herrick comes tonurd him.
PROCTOR, angrily, bewildered. And what signifies a nccdlc!
CHEEVER, his hands shaking. Why, this go hard with her, Proctor, this—I had my doubts, Proctor, I had my doubts, but here’s calamity. To Hale, .show ing the nec•dle.’ You see it, sir, it is a needle!
HALE: Why? What meanin’ has it?
CHEEVER, v•ide-eyed, trembling.’ The girl, the Williams girl, Abigail Williams, sir. She sat to dinner in Reverend Parris’s housc tonight. and without word nor warnin she falls to the fioor. Likc a struck beast, hc says, and screamed a scream that a bull would wccp to hear. And lie goes to save hcr, and, stuck two inches in thc ficsh of her belly. he draw a nccdlc out. And dcmandin’ of hcr how she comc to be so stabbed, she—to Proctor now’—testify it were your wife’s familiar spirit pushed it in.
PROCTOR: Why, she done it herself! ?fi f/u/e. I hope you’re not takin’ this for proof, Mister! Hale, str tick by t/ie proof, i,s silent.
CHEEVER: ’Tis hard prooP To Male.’ I find here a poppet Goody Proctor keeps. I have found it, sir. And in the belly o1’the poppet a needle’s stuck. I tell you true, Proctor, I never warranted to see such proof of Hell, and I bid yott obstruct me not, for I—
Enter Elizabeth nith Map Warren. Proctor, seeing Mary Warren, draw s her by the arm to Hale.
PROCTOR: Here now! Mary, how did this poppet come into my house’?
MARY WARREN,frig/ticiiedfor her self, her ›’oice ey! small.’ What poppet’s that, sir? PROCTOR, impniieflffy, pointing at the doll in Cheever ’s ltand. This poppet, this poppet.
MARY WARREN, evasively, looking at it. Why, I—I think it is mine. PROCTOR: It is your poppet, is it not?
MARY WARREN, not understanding the direction of this. It—is, sir.
PROCTOR: And how did it come into this house?
MARY WARREN, glancing about at the avid faces. Why—I made it in the court, sir, and—givc it to Goody Proctor tonight.
PROCTOR, to Hale. Now, sir—do you have it’?
HALE: Mary Warren, a needle have been found inside this poppet. MARY WARREN, bewildered.’ Why, 1 meant no harm by it, sir.
PROCTOR, quickly.’ You stuck that needle in yourself?
MARY WARREN: I—I bclicve I did, sir, I— PROCTOR, to Hale. What say you now’?
HALE, watching Mays Warren closely. Child, you arc certain this be your natural memory? May it be, pcrhaps. that someone conjures you even now to say this?
MARY WA RR EN: Conjures me? Why, no, sir, I am entirely mysel I, 1 think. Set you ask Susanna Walcott—she saw inc sewin’ it in court. Or better still.’ Ask Abby, Abby sat beside me when I made it.
PROCTOR, to Male, of t”lieever. Bid him begone. Your mind is surely settled now. Bid him out, Mr. Hale.
ELIZABETH: What signifies a needle?
HALE: Mary—you charge a cold and cruel murder on Abigail. MARY WARREN: Murder! 1 charge no —
HALE: Abigail were stabbcd tonight; a needle were found stuck into her belly— ELIZABETH: And she charges inc?
HALE: Aye.
ELIZABETH, her breath knocked out. Why—! The girl is murder! She must be ripped out of thc world!
CHE EVER, pointing at F.li–abeth. You’ve heard that, sir! Ripped out of the world! Herrick, you heard it!
PROCTOR, stiddenly snatching the i›!ai rant out of Chee›•er ‘s hands. Out with you. CHEEVER: Proctor, you dare not touch the warrant.
PROCTOR, ripping I/ie u arroi7t.‘ Out with you!
CHEEVER: You’ve ripped the Deputy Governor’s warrant, man!
PROCTOR: Damn the Deputy Governor! Out of my house! HALE: Now, Proctor, Proctor!
PROCTOR: Cet y’gone with them! You are a broken minister.
HALE: Proctor, if she is innocent, the court—
PROCTOR: If she is innocent! Why do you never wonder if Parris be innocent, or Abigail? Is the accuser always holy now? Were thcy born this morning as clean as God’s lingers? I’ll tell you what’s walking Salem—vengeance is walking Salem. We are what we always were in Salem. but now the littlc crazy children arc jangling the keys of the kingdom, and common vcngcancc writes the law! This warrant’s vengeance! 1’11 not give my wife to vengeance!
ELIZABETH: I’ll go, John— PROCTOR: You will not go!
HERRICK: I have nine men outside. You cannot kcep her. The law binds me, John, I cannot budge. PROCTOR, tp Hnle, ready to brenk him.‘ Will you see her taken?
HA LE: Proctor, the court is just—
PROCTOR: Pontius Pilate! God will not let you wash your hands of’this!
ELIZABETI1: John -1 think 1 must go with them. be cannot bear lo look at her. Mary, there is bread enough for the morning; you will bake, in the afternoon. Help Mr. Proctor as you were his daughter— you owe me that, and much more. She is fighting her weeping. To Proctor. When the cliildrcn wake, speak nothing of witchcraft—it will frightcn theirs. She caof7o/ @O OF.
PROCTOR: I will bring you home. I will bring you soon. ELIZAB ETH: Oh, John, bring me soon!
PROCTOR: I will fall like an ocean on that court! Fear nothing. Elizabeth.
ELIZABETI I, with great fear . 1 will fear nothing. She look.s ahoui the room, as lhough to fix it in her mind. Tell the children 1 have gone to visit someone sick.
She n’alk out the door, Her rick end 6’heever behind her. L“or a moment, Pt octor v‹!alches from the doo ’ay. The cluck of chain is heard.
PROCTOR: Herrick! l-lerrick, don’t chain her! He rushes out the door. F•rom outside. Damn you, man, you will not chain her! Off with them! l ’ll not have it! I will not have her chained!
There are other men ‘s voices against his. Hale, in a fever of guilt and uncertainty, tui ns from the door to avoid the sight, Maps Warren bursts into tears and sits z eeping. Giles Corey calls to Hale. GILES: And yet silent, minister’? It is fraud,. you know it is fraud! What keeps you,
man‘? Proctor is halfbraced, half pushed into the room by fwp deputies and Herrick.
PROCTOR: I’ll pay you, Herrick, I will surely pay you!
HERRICK, panting. ln Ciod’s name, John. I cannot help myself. 1 must chain them all. Now let you keep inside this house till I am gone! Ne goes out v ith his deputies.
Proctor stands there, gulping air. Horses and a svagoii creaking are heard.
HALE, in great uncertain ty.’ Mr. Proctor— PROCTOR: Out of my sight!
HALE: Charity, Proctor, charity. What I have heard in her favor, I will not fcar to testify in court. God help me, I cannot judge her guilty or Innocent—I know not. Only this consider: the world goes mad, and it profit nothing you should lay the cause to the vcngcance of a little girl.
PROCTOR: You are a coward! Though you be ordained in God’s own tears, you are a coward now!
HALE: Proctor, I cannot think God be provoked so grandly by such a petty cause. The jails are packed ur greatest judges sit in Salem now—and hangin’s promised. Man, we must look to cause proportionate. Wcrc there murder done. perhaps. and never brought to light? Abomination‘? Some secret blasphemy that stinks to Heaven’? Think on cause, man, and let you help me to discover it. for there’s your way, believe it, there is your only way, when such conlusion strikes upon the world. He goes to Giles and Francis. Let you counsel among yoursclvcs: think on your villagc and what may have drawn from heaven such thundering wrath upon you all. 1 shall pray God open up our eyes.
Hale goes out.
FRANCIS. .s/i rock by Hale’.s mood. I never heard no murder done in Salem. PROCTOR—be lins been reached by Hale ’s n’ords. Leave me, Francis, leave me. CILES. shakc•n.’ John—tell me, are we lost?
PROCTOR: Co home now, Chiles. We’11 speak on it tomorrow. CiILES: Let you think on it. We’11 come early, eh?
PROCTOR: Aye. Go now, Giles. GILES: Good night, then.
Giles Cor ey and Fi ancis Ntirse go out. After a moment.’
MARY WARREN, iii a fearful squeak of a voice. Mr. Proctor, very likely they’11 let her come home once they’re given proper evidence.
PROCTOR: You’re coining to the court with me, Mary. You will tell it in the court. MARY WARREN: I cannot charge murder on Abigail.
PROCTOR, moving menacingly to›i!ard her . You will tell the court how that poppet come here and who stuck the needle in.
MARY WARREN: She’ll kill inc for sayin’ that! Proctor continues toward tier. Abby’ll chargc lechery on you, Mr. Proctor!
PROCTOR, halting: She’s told you!
MARY WARREN: I have known it, sir. She’11 ruin you with it, I know she will.
PROCTOR, hesitating, and n ith deep hatred of himself.’ Good. Then her saintlincss is done with.
May! backs J’rom him. We will slide together into our pit; you will tell the court what you know.
MARY WARREN, in tcrror: I cannot, they’ll turn on me—
Proctor strides and catches her, and she is repeating, “I cannot, I cannot.!”
PROCTOR: My wife will never die for me! I will bring your guts into your mouth but that goodness will not die for me!
MARY WARREN, .sit uggling to escape him.’ I cannot do it, I cannot!
PROCTOR, grasping her hy the thi car a though he would .strangle heF.’ Make your peace with it! Now Hell and Heaven grapple on our backs, and all oui old pretense is ripped away—make youi’ pcace! He throws her to the fioor, z!here she sobs, “I cannot, I cannot …” And nov, half to himself, staring, and hunting to the open door .’ Peace. It is a providence, and no great change; we are only what we always were, but naked now. He ulks as though toward a gi cut horror, fac’iiig thcy open s . Aye, nakcd! And the wind, God’s icy wind, will blow!
And she is over and over again sobbing, ‘’I canriot, I cannot, I cannot,” as
