The Crucible (19 page)

Read The Crucible Online

Authors: Arthur Miller

BOOK: The Crucible
10.55Mb size Format: txt, pdf, ePub
HALE: Pray, leave them, Excellency.
DANFORTH,
pressing Hale impatiently aside:
Mr. Proctor, you have been notified, have you not?
Proctor is silent, staring at Elizabeth.
I see light in the sky, Mister; let you counsel with your wife, and may God help you turn your back on Hell.
Proctor is silent, staring at Elizabeth.
HALE,
quietly:
Excellency, let—
Danforth brushes past Hale and walks out. Hale follows. Cheever stands and follows, Hathorne behind. Herrick goes. Parris, from a safe distance, offers:
PARRIS: If you desire a cup of cider, Mr. Proctor, I am sure I—
Proctor turns an icy stare at him, and he breaks off. Parris raises his palms toward Proctor.
God lead you now.
Parris goes out.
Alone. Proctor walks to her, halts. It is as though they stood in a spinning world. It is beyond sorrow, above it. He reaches out his hand as though toward an embodiment not quite real, and as he touches her, a strange soft sound, half laughter, half amazement, comes from his throat. He pats her hand. She covers his hand with hers. And then, weak, he sits. Then she sits, facing him.
PROCTOR: The child?
ELIZABETH: It grows.
PROCTOR: There is no word of the boys?
ELIZABETH: They’re well. Rebecca’s Samuel keeps them.
PROCTOR: You have not seen them?
ELIZABETH: I have not.
She catches a weakening in herself and downs it.
PROCTOR: You are a—marvel, Elizabeth.
ELIZABETH : You—have been tortured?
PROCTOR: Aye.
Pause. She will not let herself be drowned in the sea that threatens her.
They come for my life now.
ELIZABETH: I know it.
Pause.
PROCTOR: None—have yet confessed?
ELIZABETH: There be many confessed.
PROCTOR: Who are they?
ELIZABETH: There be a hundred or more, they say. Goody Ballard is one; Isaiah Goodkind is one. There be many.
PROCTOR: Rebecca?
ELIZABETH: Not Rebecca. She is one foot in Heaven now; naught may hurt her more.
PROCTOR: And Giles?
ELIZABETH: You have not heard of it?
PROCTOR: I hear nothin’, where I am kept.
ELIZABETH: Giles is dead.
He looks at her incredulously.
PROCTOR: When were he hanged?
ELIZABETH,
quietly, factually:
He were not hanged. He would not answer aye or nay to his indictment; for if he denied the charge they’d hang him surely, and auction out his property. So he stand mute, and died Christian under the law. And so his sons will have his farm. It is the law, for he could not be condemned a wizard without he answer the indictment, aye or nay.
PROCTOR: Then how does he die?
ELIZABETH,
gently:
They press him, John.
PROCTOR: Press?
ELIZABETH: Great stones they lay upon his chest until he plead aye or nay.
With a tender smile for the old man:
They say he give them but two words. “More weight,” he says. And died.
PROCTOR,
numbed
—
a thread to weave into his agony:
“More weight.”
ELIZABETH: Aye. It were a fearsome man, Giles Corey.
Pause.
PROCTOR,
with great force of will, but not quite looking at her:
I have been thinking I would confess to them, Elizabeth.
She shows nothing.
What say you? If I give them that?
ELIZABETH: I cannot judge you, John.
Pause.
PROCTOR,
simply-a pure question:
What would you have me do?
ELIZABETH: As you will, I would have it.
Slight pause.
I want you living, John. That’s sure.
PROCTOR—
he pauses, then with a flailing of hope:
Giles’ wife? Have she confessed?
ELIZABETH: She will not.
Pause.
PROCTOR: It is a pretense, Elizabeth.
ELIZABETH: What is?
PROCTOR: I cannot mount the gibbet like a saint. It is a fraud. I am not that man.
She is silent.
My honesty is broke, Elizabeth; I am no good man. Nothing’s spoiled by giving them this lie that were not rotten long before.
ELIZABETH: And yet you’ve not confessed till now. That speak goodness in you.
PROCTOR: Spite only keeps me silent. It is hard to give a lie to dogs.
Pause, for the first time he turns directly to her.
I would have your forgiveness, Elizabeth.
ELIZABETH: It is not for me to give, John, I am—
PROCTOR : I’d have you see some honesty in it. Let them that never lied die now to keep their souls. It is pretense for me, a vanity that will not blind God nor keep my children out of the wind.
Pause.
What say you?
ELIZABETH,
upon a heaving sob that always threatens:
John, it come to naught that I should forgive you, if you’ll not forgive yourself.
Now he turns away a little, in great agony.
It is not my soul, John, it is yours.
He stands, as though in physical pain, slowly rising to his feet with a great immortal longing to find his answer. It is difficult to say, and she is on the verge of tears.
Only be sure of this, for I know it now: Whatever you will do, it is a good man does it.
He turns his doubting, searching gaze upon her.
I have read my heart this three month, John.
Pause.
I have sins of my own to count. It needs a cold wife to prompt lechery.
PROCTOR,
in great pain:
Enough, enough—
ELIZABETH,
now pouring out her heart:
Better you should know me!
PROCTOR: I will not hear it! I know you!
ELIZABETH: You take my sins upon you, John—
PROCTOR,
in agony:
No, I take my own, my own!
ELIZABETH: John, I counted myself so plain, so poorly made, no honest love could come to me! Suspicion kissed you when I did; I never knew how I should say my love. It were a cold house I kept!
In fright, she swerves, as Hathorne enters.
HATHORNE: What say you, Proctor? The sun is soon up.
Proctor, his chest heaving, stares, turns to Elizabeth. She comes to him as though to plead, her voice quaking.
ELIZABETH: Do what you will. But let none be your judge. There be no higher judge under Heaven than Proctor is! Forgive me, forgive me, John—I never knew such goodness in the world!
She covers her face, weeping.
Proctor turns from her to Hathorne; he is off the earth, his voice hollow.
PROCTOR: I want my life.
HATHORNE,
electrified, surprised:
You’ll confess yourself?
PROCTOR: I will have my life.
HATHORNE,
with a mystical tone:
God be praised! It is a providence!
He rushes out the door, and his voice is heard calling down the corridor:
He will confess! Proctor will confess!
PROCTOR,
with a cry, as he strides to the door:
Why do you cry it?
In great pain he turns back to her.
It is evil, is it not? It is evil.
ELIZABETH, in
terror, weeping:
I cannot judge you, John, I cannot!
PROCTOR: Then who will judge me?
Suddenly clasping his hands:
God in Heaven, what is John Proctor, what is John Proctor?
He moves as an animal, and a fury is riding in him, a tantalized search.
I think it is honest, I think so; I am no saint.
As though she had denied this he calls angrily at her:
Let Rebecca go like a saint; for me it is fraud!
Voices are beard in the hall, speaking together in suppressed excitement.
ELIZABETH: I am not your judge, I cannot be.
As though giving him release:
Do as you will, do as you will!
PROCTOR: Would you give them such a lie? Say it. Would you ever give them this?
She cannot answer.
You would not; if tongs of fire were singeing you you would not! It is evil. Good, then —it is evil, and I do it!
Hathorne enters with Danforth, and, with them, Cheever, Parris, and Hale. It is a businesslike, rapid entrance, as though the ice had been broken.
DANFORTH,
with great relief and gratitude:
Praise to God, man, praise to God; you shall be blessed in Heaven for this.
Cheever has hurried to the bench with pen, ink, and paper. Proctor watches him.
Now then, let us have it. Are you ready, Mr. Cheever?
PROCTOR,
with a cold, cold horror at their efficiency:
Why must it be written?
DANFORTH: Why, for the good instruction of the village, Mister; this we shall post upon the church door!
To Parris, urgently:
Where is the marshal?
PARRIS,
runs to the door and calls down the corridor:
Marshal! Hurry!
DANFORTH: Now, then, Mister, will you speak slowly, and directly to the point, for Mr. Cheever’s sake.
He is on record now, and is really dictating to Cheever, who writes.
Mr. Proctor, have you seen the Devil in your life?
Proctor’s jaws lock.
Come, man, there is light in the sky; the town waits at the scaffold; I would give out this news. Did you see the Devil?
PROCTOR: I did.
PARRIS: Praise God!
DANFORTH: And when he come to you, what were his demand?
Proctor is silent. Danforth helps.
Did he bid you to do his work upon the earth?
PROCTOR: He did.
DANFORTH: And you bound yourself to his service?
Danforth turns, as Rebecca Nurse enters, with Herrick helping to support her. She is barely able to walk.
Come in, come in, woman!
REBECCA,
brightening as she sees Proctor:
Ah, John! You are well, then, eh?
Proctor turns his face to the wall.
DANFORTH: Courage, man, courage—let her witness your good example that she may come to God herself. Now hear it, Goody Nurse! Say on, Mr. Proctor. Did you bind yourself to the Devil’s service?
REBECCA,
astonished:
Why, John!
PROCTOR,
through his teeth, his face turned from Rebecca:
I did.
DANFORTH: Now, woman, you surely see it profit nothin’ to keep this conspiracy any further. Will you confess yourself with him?
REBECCA: Oh, John—God send his mercy on you!
DANFORTH: I say, will you confess yourself, Goody Nurse?
REBECCA: Why, it is a lie, it is a lie; how may I damn myself? I cannot, I cannot.
DANFORTH: Mr. Proctor. When the Devil came to you did you see Rebecca Nurse in his company?
Proctor is silent.
Come, man, take courage—did you ever see her with the Devil?
PROCTOR,
almost inaudibly:
No.
Danforth, now sensing trouble, glances at John and
goes to the
table, and picks up a sheet—the list of condemned.
DANFORTH: Did you ever see her sister, Mary Easty, with the Devil?
PROCTOR: No, I did not.
DANFORTH,
his eyes narrow on Proctor:
Did you ever see Martha Corey with the Devil?
PROCTOR: I did not.
DANFORTH,
realizing, slowly putting the sheet down:
Did you ever see anyone with the Devil?
PROCTOR: I did not.
DANFORTH: Proctor, you mistake me. I am not empowered to trade your life for a lie. You have most certainly seen some person with the Devil.
Proctor is silent.
Mr. Proctor, a score of people have already testified they saw this woman with the Devil.
PROCTOR: Then it is proved. Why must I say it?
DANFORTH: Why “must” you say it! Why, you should rejoice to say it if your soul is truly purged of any love for Hell!
PROCTOR: They think to go like saints. I like not to spoil their names.
DANFORTH,
inquiring, incredulous:
Mr. Proctor, do you think they go like saints?
PROCTOR,
evading:
This woman never thought she done the Devil’s work.
DANFORTH: Look you, sir. I think you mistake your duty here. It matters nothing what she thought—she is convicted of the unnatural murder of children, .and you for sending your spirit out upon Mary Warren. Your soul alone is the issue here, Mister, and you will prove its whiteness or you cannot live in a Christian country. Will you tell me now what persons conspired with you in the Devil’s company?
Proctor is silent.
To your knowledge was Rebecca Nurse ever—
PROCTOR: I speak my own sins; I cannot judge another.
Crying out, with hatred:
I have no tongue for it.
HALE,
quickly to Danforth:
Excellency, it is enough he confess himself. Let him sign it, let him sign it.
PARRIS,
feverishly:
It is a great service, sir. It is a weighty name; it will strike the village that Proctor confess. I beg you, let him sign it. The sun is up, Excellency!
DANFORTH,
considers; then with dissatisfaction:
Come, then, sign your testimony.
To Cheever :
Give it to him.
Cheever goes to Proctor, the confession and a pen in hand. Proctor does not look at it.
Come, man, sign it.
PROCTOR,
after glancing at the confession:
You have all witnessed It—it is enough.
DANFORTH: You will not sign it?
PROCTOR: You have all witnessed it; what more is needed?
DANFORTH: Do you sport with me? You will sign your name or it is no confession, Mister!
His breast heaving with agonized breathing, Proctor now lays the paper down and signs his name.
PARRIS: Praise be to the Lord!
Proctor has just finished signing when Danforth reaches for the paper. But Proctor snatches it up, and now a wild terror is rising in him, and a boundless anger.
DANFORTH,
perplexed, but politely extending his hand:
If you please, sir.
PROCTOR: No.
DANFORTH,
as though Proctor did not understand:
Mr. Proctor, I must have—

Other books

From the Ashes by Jeremy Burns
Hope for Her (Hope #1) by Sydney Aaliyah Michelle
Sting of the Scorpion by Carole Wilkinson
Sweet Topping CV3 by Carol Lynne
The Summer of Our Discontent by Robin Alexander
And Then There Were None by Agatha Christie