The Crucible by Arthur Miller Read Free Book Online Page B

seen some reddish work done at night, and I can make you wish you had never seen the sun go down! She goes to Betty and roughly sits her up. Now, you-sit up and stop this!
    But Betty collapses in her hands and lies inert on the bed.
    MARY WARREN, with hysterical fright: What’s got her? Abigail stares in fright at Betty. Abby, she’s going to die! It’s a sin to conjure, and we-
    ABIGAIL, starting for Mary: I say shut it, Mary Warren!
    Enter John Proctor. On seeing him, Mary Warren leaps in fright.
     
    Proctor was a farmer in his middle thirties. He need not have been a partisan of any faction in the town, but there is evidence to suggest that he had a sharp and biting way with hypocrites. He was the kind of man—powerful of body, even-tempered, and not easily led—who cannot refuse support to partisans without drawing their deepest resentment. In Proctor’s presence a fool felt his foolishness instantly-and a Proctor is always marked for calumny therefore.
    But as we shall see, the steady manner he displays does not spring from an untroubled soul. He is a sinner, a sinner not only against the moral fashion of the time, but against his own vision of decent conduct. These people had no ritual for the washing away of sins. It is another trait we inherited from them, and it has helped to discipline us as well as to breed hypocrisy among us. Proctor, respected and even feared in Salem, has come to regard himself as a kind of fraud. But no hint of this has yet appeared on the surface, and as he enters from the crowded parlor below it is a man in his prime we see, with a quiet confidence and an unexpressed, hidden force. Mary Warren, his servant, can barely speak for embarrassment and fear.
     
    MARY WARREN: Oh! I’m just going home, Mr. Proctor.
    PROCTOR : Be you foolish, Mary Warren? Be you deaf? I forbid you leave the house, did I not? Why shall I pay you? I am looking for you more often than my cows!
    MARY WARREN: I only come to see the great doings in the world.
    PROCTOR: I’ll show you a great doin’ on your arse one of these days. Now get you home; my wife is waitin’ with your work! Trying to retain a shred of dignity, she goes slowly out.
    MERCY LEWIS, both afraid of him and strangely titillated: I’d best be off. I have my Ruth to watch. Good morning, Mr. Proctor.
    Mercy sidles out. Since Proctor’s entrance, Abigail has stood as though on tiptoe, absorbing his presence, wide-eyed. He glances at her, then goes to Betty on the bed.
    ABIGAIL: Gah! I’d almost forgot how strong you are, John Proctor!
    PROCTOR, looking at Abigail now, the faintest suggestion of a knowing smile on his face: What’s this mischief here?
    ABIGAIL, with a nervous laugh: Oh, she’s only gone silly somehow.
    PROCTOR: The road past my house is a pilgrimage to Salem all morning. The town’s mumbling witchcraft.
    ABIGAIL: Oh, posh! Winningly she comes a little closer, with a confidential, wicked air. We were dancin’ in the woods last night, and my uncle leaped in on us. She took fright, is all.
    PROCTOR, his smile widening: Ah, you’re wicked yet, aren’t y‘! A trill of expectant laughter escapes her, and she dares come closer, feverishly looking into his eyes. You’ll be clapped in the stocks before you’re twenty.
    He takes a step to go, and she springs into his path.
    ABIGAIL: Give me a word, John. A soft word. Her concentrated desire destroys his smile.
    PROCTOR: No, no, Abby. That’s done with.
    ABIGAIL, tauntingly: You come five mile to see a silly girl fly? I know you better.
    PROCTOR, setting her firmly out of his path: I come to see what mischief your uncle’s brewin’ now. With final emphasis: Put it out of mind, Abby.
    ABIGAIL, grasping his hand before he can release her: John-I am waitin’ for you every night.
    PROCTOR: Abby, I never give you hope to wait for me.
    ABIGAIL, now beginning to anger-she can’t believe it: I have something better than hope, I think!
    PROCTOR: Abby, you’ll put it out of mind. I’ll