The Crucible
Act II. i
It is a cool spring evening, the last traces of winter gone from the outside world. There is a spell of stillness in the Proctor home, but the opening of a door allows a gentle wind to flicker the lamps and fireplace. John Proctor sweeps into his home, shivering, almost as if feeling the winter that still resides in his abode. He hears Elizabeth singing, having already put the children to sleep, but her voice becomes muffled as it begins to rain lightly outside.
Elizabeth rapidly descends the stairs and enters the kitchen
Elizabeth, startled : Oh! John, you gave me a fright! For a moment mine eyes mistaked you for someone else.
John, the corner of his mouth tilting ever so slightly: Don't be ridiculous, Elizabeth. Who else could it possibly have been?
John turns to wash his hands as Elizabeth readies dinner. Sitting down at the table, Elizabeth watches him eat. There is only the sound of the rain now falling at steadier pace. As John is finishing the last bites of rabbit, Elizabeth speaks, barely above a whisper.
Elizabeth: You must end this, John. The court's sealed the fate of those that won't confess. They'll hang, John. They'll hang because of her.
John sighs deeply, running his fingers through his hair before rubbing his forehead. He gives no answer immediately, blankly stares back at Elizabeth.
Elizabeth: John, this is a fraud and you know it. You must go to Salem and tell this to the court. You are an honest man.
She says the last sentence with a hint of bitterness, and the irony of the statement does not go unnoticed by John.
John, standing angrily and knocking over his chair: What would you have me do, Elizabeth? I have no evidence on which to accuse Abigail of perjury.
Elizabeth, sadly, not understanding: If it were anyone but Abigail, would you hesitate? … if it were me… She trails of her last hushed words.
John Proctor round the table and grabs Elizabeth by the shoulders, yanking her to her feet and holding her tightly to him.
Elizabeth, mumbling into John's chest: Abigail will point her finger until no one is left to challenge her. They'll be sending me to the scaffold soon because I would never confess to such evil.
John, holding her tighter still, though her arms hang limply at her side: That is why I must think well before I point a finger to her; three will point back at you. You will not die for me, Elizabeth.
Elizabeth, pushing back a few feet from him: You've chosen to be faithful now? When it is a question of me hanging?
John, his true frustration showing now: What can I do to please you, Elizabeth? This seven month, I have done nothing to hinder your forgiveness, and yet you show less mercy than the Lord himself! You are not God!
Elizabeth, eyes staring at her feet, quietly: No, John, I am not. I am your wife. She looks up at him, the moisture in her eyes fogging her view of him. She loses focus of his face
and openly allows her tears to trace small rivulets on her face.
John, immediately regretting his outburst, rushes forward to hug her to him again. Elizabeth deliberately turns at an angle, but John catches her and presses his lips to her forehead.
John: I will go, Elizabeth. If it will make things right, I will go.
ACT II.ii
John Proctor is sitting on the front wooden steps of his home after Elizabeth has fallen asleep. The rain has lightened into a misty fog as John sips his cider slowly, mulling over his next plan of action. As he is lost in thought, a shadow emerges from the side of his house. It is none other than Abigail Williams.
Abigail, sickly sweet: Wonderful night, isn't it, love?
John, is so startled the steel cup in his hand falls with a deafening clang in the quiet, but quickly regains his composure, smoothly: Lost your way from the whore house?
Abigail, with a mock gasp: Is that any way for a gentleman to speak to a lady?
John, quickly tired of her dangerous game, harshly: That may be very well true for a civil woman in a civil society, but quite frankly, I see neither civility nor a lady. More forcefully. Go home, Abigail.
John: If you accuse my wife, if you so much as gesture an eyebrow in her direction, you shall rue the day you thought to replace Elizabeth.
Abigail: I will not sanction this.
John, his patience gone, bellows: YOU DO NOT RULE ME! I will march to those judges tomorrow and declare you and your crazy friends frauds!
Their voices have carried into the Proctors' bedroom, waking Elizabeth. She appears at her window, watching them irritably.
Abigail, smiling slyly: You wouldn't do that. In the law's eyes, you're still a lecher. A pause. Though, I have no qualms in that regard. She begins to slink closer to him, but
John, in a bold move, grabs his gun, which had been leaning against the house, and aims at her chest.
John, through gritted teeth, slowly: Abigail Williams. Do not force me to fire. Leave. Now.
Abby hears the venom dripping steel in his voice, fear spreading across her face, and she hastily about-faces, sprinting in the direction from which she had come. She slips once, falling , but soon disappears from his sight.
Breathing fire, John sets the gun down and looks skyward. For a moment, his eyes slide over his bedroom's window. He sees Elizabeth momentarily, but upon blinking, the window stands vacant before his eyes. He drops back heavily onto the steps, hands covering his face.
John, whispers into the air: We stand at Armageddon, and we battle for the Lord. He is very distraught about the day in court ahead of him, Abigail's having done nothing to better the situation.
As he is sitting there alone, the mist clears enough to reveal the plethora of flowers growing on John's land. He looks around and espies white chrysanthemums blooming in the distance. Standing with more fervor than he feels at the moment, he strides into the pasture, picking out the largest and most pallid blossoms. When he faces the house again, Elizabeth is standing on the step in her nightgown, her hair windswept. She has never looked so beautiful to John. His legs carry him back to his wife and they sit next to one another on those cold stairs. John holds out the chrysanthemums, but Elizabeth hands do not reach for the flowers. Instead, they rest on John's free hand.
Elizabeth, a smile of sorts on her face: No longer does a funeral march around my heart. You have put it to rest. You were always a good man, John.
John, placing the flowers in her hands: No more lies, Elizabeth. You will always have the truth from me.
As he says this, their hands intertwine around the white chrysanthemums.