John Proctor, The Crucible's protagonist, has some major issues. We can see why. Back in the day, he had everything your average Puritan man could want: a goodly farm to ceaselessly toil upon, three goodly sons to discipline, and a goodly wife with whom to make a home. Proctor was a stand-up guy who spoke his mind. Around town, his name was synonymous with honor and integrity. He took pleasure in exposing hypocrisy and was respected for it. Most importantly, John Proctor respected himself.
Enter: Abigail, the play's antagonist. This saucy, young housekeeper traipsed in, and, before John knew it, his goodly life was irrevocably corrupted. John made the mistake of committing adultery with her. To make things worse, it was also lechery, as Proctor was in his forties and Abigail was just seventeen. All it took was one shameful encounter to destroy John's most prized possession: his self-respect.
When we first meet John Proctor halfway through Act One, we discover a man who has become the thing he hates most in the world: a hypocrite. He is caged by guilt. The emotional weight of the play rests on Proctor's quest to regain his lost self-image, his lost goodness. Indeed, it is his journey from guilt to redemption, which forms the central spine of The Crucible. John Proctor is a classic Arthur Miller hero – a man who struggles with the incompatibility of his actions with his self-image.
Enter: Abigail, the play's antagonist. This saucy, young housekeeper traipsed in, and, before John knew it, his goodly life was irrevocably corrupted. John made the mistake of committing adultery with her. To make things worse, it was also lechery, as Proctor was in his forties and Abigail was just seventeen. All it took was one shameful encounter to destroy John's most prized possession: his self-respect.
When we first meet John Proctor halfway through Act One, we discover a man who has become the thing he hates most in the world: a hypocrite. He is caged by guilt. The emotional weight of the play rests on Proctor's quest to regain his lost self-image, his lost goodness. Indeed, it is his journey from guilt to redemption, which forms the central spine of The Crucible. John Proctor is a classic Arthur Miller hero – a man who struggles with the incompatibility of his actions with his self-image.
Abigail is vengeful, selfish, manipulative, and a magnificent liar. This young lady seems to be uniquely gifted at spreading death and destruction wherever she goes. She has an eerie sense of how to manipulate others, to gain control over them. All these things add up to make her a marvelous antagonist.
In Act One her skills at manipulation are on full display. When she's on the brink of getting busted for dabbling in witchcraft, she skillfully manages to pin the whole thing on Tituba and several of Salem's other second-class citizens. The horrible thing is that Abigail is the one who persuaded Tituba to go out and cast the spells. Ever since Abigail's brief affair with John Proctor, she's been out to get his wife, Elizabeth. Our crafty villain convinced Tituba to put a curse on Elizabeth, hoping to get rid of her and take her place at John's side.
It's ironic that the Abigail, who encouraged the witchcraft in the first place, is the one who goes around accusing everybody else. As ringleader, she excites the other girls into a frenzy of emotion, which allows them to condemn as witches the people they know and love. She riles up the entire village’s hatred of witches, just like her 20th-century counterpart, riled up Americans’ hatred of communists. Abigail's main skill seems to be finding people's flaws, their weaknesses, their prejudices and mercilessly manipulating them to her advantage.
Abigail's ruthless cunning is shown again in Act Two when she frames Elizabeth Proctor for witchcraft. Later on in Act Three she seems to lose her last shred of humanity by damning John Proctor, whom she claims to love. When John attempts to expose Abigail, she skillfully manages to turn the whole thing around on him, packing him off to the slammer. Abigail rides her power trip out to the end, eventually beating town with all of her uncle's money. Yes, it seems that Abigail ranks high on the list, along with lago and maybe Hannibal Lector, of most skillful antagonists ever.
In Act One her skills at manipulation are on full display. When she's on the brink of getting busted for dabbling in witchcraft, she skillfully manages to pin the whole thing on Tituba and several of Salem's other second-class citizens. The horrible thing is that Abigail is the one who persuaded Tituba to go out and cast the spells. Ever since Abigail's brief affair with John Proctor, she's been out to get his wife, Elizabeth. Our crafty villain convinced Tituba to put a curse on Elizabeth, hoping to get rid of her and take her place at John's side.
It's ironic that the Abigail, who encouraged the witchcraft in the first place, is the one who goes around accusing everybody else. As ringleader, she excites the other girls into a frenzy of emotion, which allows them to condemn as witches the people they know and love. She riles up the entire village’s hatred of witches, just like her 20th-century counterpart, riled up Americans’ hatred of communists. Abigail's main skill seems to be finding people's flaws, their weaknesses, their prejudices and mercilessly manipulating them to her advantage.
Abigail's ruthless cunning is shown again in Act Two when she frames Elizabeth Proctor for witchcraft. Later on in Act Three she seems to lose her last shred of humanity by damning John Proctor, whom she claims to love. When John attempts to expose Abigail, she skillfully manages to turn the whole thing around on him, packing him off to the slammer. Abigail rides her power trip out to the end, eventually beating town with all of her uncle's money. Yes, it seems that Abigail ranks high on the list, along with lago and maybe Hannibal Lector, of most skillful antagonists ever.
Elizibeth
Elizabeth's positive qualities are also her negative ones. She is a virtuous woman who is steadfast and true. These traits also make her a bit of a cold fish. When we first meet her, she's especially cold and fishy. She's got good reason to be, though, because her husband has recently had an affair with their housekeeper, Abigail Williams.
Elizabeth's reaction to the affair reveals a bit of a vindictive streak. When she discovered her husband's sin, she gave Abby the boot and then proceeded to drop a few hints around town that the girl may just be tainted. (Isn't John a little responsible, too?)
For the most part, though, Elizabeth is a stand-up woman. Throughout the play, she seems to be struggling to forgive her husband and let go of her anger. And, of course, her hatred of Abigail is understandable. Elizabeth's dislike of Abigail seems justified later on in the play when Abigail tries to murder Elizabeth by framing her for witchcraft.
Overall, Elizabeth is a blameless victim. The only sin we see her commit is when she lies in court, saying that John and Abigail's affair never happened. This is supposedly the only time she's ever lied in her life. Unfortunately, it's really bad timing. Though she lies in an attempt to protect her husband, it actually ends up damning him.
After she’s spent a few months alone in prison, Elizabeth comes to her own realization: she was a cold wife, and it was because she didn’t love herself that she was unable to receive her husband’s love. She comes to believe that it is her coldness that led to his affair with Abigail. This realization helps Elizabeth forgive her husband, and relinquishing her anger seems to bring her a measure of personal peace. Elizabeth's noblest act comes in the end when she helps the tortured John Proctor forgive himself just before his death.
Elizabeth's positive qualities are also her negative ones. She is a virtuous woman who is steadfast and true. These traits also make her a bit of a cold fish. When we first meet her, she's especially cold and fishy. She's got good reason to be, though, because her husband has recently had an affair with their housekeeper, Abigail Williams.
Elizabeth's reaction to the affair reveals a bit of a vindictive streak. When she discovered her husband's sin, she gave Abby the boot and then proceeded to drop a few hints around town that the girl may just be tainted. (Isn't John a little responsible, too?)
For the most part, though, Elizabeth is a stand-up woman. Throughout the play, she seems to be struggling to forgive her husband and let go of her anger. And, of course, her hatred of Abigail is understandable. Elizabeth's dislike of Abigail seems justified later on in the play when Abigail tries to murder Elizabeth by framing her for witchcraft.
Overall, Elizabeth is a blameless victim. The only sin we see her commit is when she lies in court, saying that John and Abigail's affair never happened. This is supposedly the only time she's ever lied in her life. Unfortunately, it's really bad timing. Though she lies in an attempt to protect her husband, it actually ends up damning him.
After she’s spent a few months alone in prison, Elizabeth comes to her own realization: she was a cold wife, and it was because she didn’t love herself that she was unable to receive her husband’s love. She comes to believe that it is her coldness that led to his affair with Abigail. This realization helps Elizabeth forgive her husband, and relinquishing her anger seems to bring her a measure of personal peace. Elizabeth's noblest act comes in the end when she helps the tortured John Proctor forgive himself just before his death.
Parris
Parris is a wormy little character. Miller says in his notes that he found nothing redeemable about the historical Parris. As a result, he evidently felt no need to make his fictional version any better. First of all Parris is greedy. John Proctor accuses Parris of this several times in the play. The Reverend gives weak justifications, but never denies any of the accusations. Some examples of Parris's greed include: quibbling over firewood, insisting on gratuitous golden candlesticks for the church, demanding (against time-honored tradition) that he have the deed to the house he lives in.
Parris's repeated demonstrations of exceedingly selfish behavior don't help his case. In the very first scene, we see him standing over his daughter Betty's sick bed. At first the audience might feel bad for him. But then they'd quickly realize that Parris is just worried about his reputation. He's afraid that if people think there's witchcraft in his household, he'll lose his position as minister of Salem. In Act Three, when he shows his spineless selfishness once again when he perjures (intentionally lies in court) himself. He tells the court that he saw no naked dancing in the woods, yet we know that he did, because he says as much to Abigail.
Parris's lack of redeemable qualities becomes even more apparent in Act Four. At first it seems like he may have come to his senses, because he's asking Danforth to postpone the hangings. Abigail has flown the coop, making it pretty darn obvious she was lying the whole time. It turns out that Parris isn't pleading out of remorse at all, though, he's only concerned for his own life. He found a dagger in his front door, and is afraid that if respectable citizens like John Proctor and Rebecca Nurse are hanged, the town will revolt. Most despicably we see Parris cry – not because of all the people who he's helped to senselessly murder, but because Abigail stole his money and he's now broke. Yes, by the end of the play, Reverend Parris is thoroughly exposed as the sniveling parasite that he is.
Parris is a wormy little character. Miller says in his notes that he found nothing redeemable about the historical Parris. As a result, he evidently felt no need to make his fictional version any better. First of all Parris is greedy. John Proctor accuses Parris of this several times in the play. The Reverend gives weak justifications, but never denies any of the accusations. Some examples of Parris's greed include: quibbling over firewood, insisting on gratuitous golden candlesticks for the church, demanding (against time-honored tradition) that he have the deed to the house he lives in.
Parris's repeated demonstrations of exceedingly selfish behavior don't help his case. In the very first scene, we see him standing over his daughter Betty's sick bed. At first the audience might feel bad for him. But then they'd quickly realize that Parris is just worried about his reputation. He's afraid that if people think there's witchcraft in his household, he'll lose his position as minister of Salem. In Act Three, when he shows his spineless selfishness once again when he perjures (intentionally lies in court) himself. He tells the court that he saw no naked dancing in the woods, yet we know that he did, because he says as much to Abigail.
Parris's lack of redeemable qualities becomes even more apparent in Act Four. At first it seems like he may have come to his senses, because he's asking Danforth to postpone the hangings. Abigail has flown the coop, making it pretty darn obvious she was lying the whole time. It turns out that Parris isn't pleading out of remorse at all, though, he's only concerned for his own life. He found a dagger in his front door, and is afraid that if respectable citizens like John Proctor and Rebecca Nurse are hanged, the town will revolt. Most despicably we see Parris cry – not because of all the people who he's helped to senselessly murder, but because Abigail stole his money and he's now broke. Yes, by the end of the play, Reverend Parris is thoroughly exposed as the sniveling parasite that he is.
Mary is a likeable enough character, but ultimately proves herself to be a bit spineless. She's one of the girls who was caught in the forest with Abigail, dancing and conjuring spirits – though we quickly learn that she just watched and did not participate. She becomes part of the court that condemns witches. At first she seems to enjoy the power it gives her. When clearly innocent people begin to be convicted, however, Mary feels bad about the whole thing.
The first sign we see of Mary's guilty conscience is when she makes a poppet (a doll) for Elizabeth Proctor, who she currently keeps house for. Abigail has brought Elizabeth's name up in court, and Mary knows that Abigail did it only for vengeance. Mary was there when Abigail got Tituba to put a curse on Elizabeth, and she also knows about Abigail's affair with John Proctor.
Mary's feeble attempt at recompense backfires terribly, however, as Abigail uses the poppet to frame Elizabeth for witchcraft. This, of course, makes Mary feel even worse and she agrees to go with John Proctor and testify against Abigail in court. Mary's ultimately spineless nature is revealed in the court scene, when under pressure of being hanged she once again flips, accusing John Proctor of witchcraft and Devil worship.
While Mary causes a lot of harm in the play, she lacks Abigail's maliciousness. She's just a weak girl who gets in way over her head. Yes, Miller's portrait of Mary is sympathetic, but doesn't let her off the hook. It could be that he's pointing out how even good hearted people can commit destructive acts when swept up in mass hysteria like the Witch Trials
The first sign we see of Mary's guilty conscience is when she makes a poppet (a doll) for Elizabeth Proctor, who she currently keeps house for. Abigail has brought Elizabeth's name up in court, and Mary knows that Abigail did it only for vengeance. Mary was there when Abigail got Tituba to put a curse on Elizabeth, and she also knows about Abigail's affair with John Proctor.
Mary's feeble attempt at recompense backfires terribly, however, as Abigail uses the poppet to frame Elizabeth for witchcraft. This, of course, makes Mary feel even worse and she agrees to go with John Proctor and testify against Abigail in court. Mary's ultimately spineless nature is revealed in the court scene, when under pressure of being hanged she once again flips, accusing John Proctor of witchcraft and Devil worship.
While Mary causes a lot of harm in the play, she lacks Abigail's maliciousness. She's just a weak girl who gets in way over her head. Yes, Miller's portrait of Mary is sympathetic, but doesn't let her off the hook. It could be that he's pointing out how even good hearted people can commit destructive acts when swept up in mass hysteria like the Witch Trials
With notable exception of John Proctor, Hale gets our vote for most complex character in The Crucible. We say so, because Hale goes through a major personal journey over the course of the play. He starts off with really good intentions. In Act One, Miller writes of Hale: "His goal is light, goodness, and its preservation." This guy has trained and trained to be the best witch-hunter ever, and he's psyched to finally get a chance to show off his stuff. Though he's probably a little full of himself, but ultimately his goal is to valiantly fight the Devil. What could be wrong with that? Well, a whole lot.
In Act Two, we see that Hale's former confidence is slowly eroding. This is demonstrated by the fact that he shows up at the Proctors' house of his own accord. He's there without the court's knowledge, trying to get an idea of who the Proctors are for himself. This independent action is a big hint that he's probably beginning to doubt the validity of his own conclusions. When John Proctor gets convicted in Act Three, through Abigail's transparent machinations, Hale's confidence is shattered. He quits the court and storms out in anger.
The transition from overconfidence to total disillusionment is already a big journey, but then Miller takes his character a step further in Act Four. After taking off for some soul searching, Hale turns up hoping to save some lives. He councils convicted witches to confess, so that they won't be hanged. Hale is knowingly counseling people to lie. He's lost all faith in the law, and there's a good chance his faith in God is a bit shaky as well.
Hale's last effort to wash some of the blood of his hands fails. He's not able to convince anyone to confess. When John Proctor marches off to his martyr's death, Hale pleads with Elizabeth to change her husband's mind, screaming, "What profit him to bleed? Shall the dust praise him? Shall the worms declare his truth?" (IV.207) Words like these show that Hale has become a completely different man than the one we met at the beginning of the play.
In Act Two, we see that Hale's former confidence is slowly eroding. This is demonstrated by the fact that he shows up at the Proctors' house of his own accord. He's there without the court's knowledge, trying to get an idea of who the Proctors are for himself. This independent action is a big hint that he's probably beginning to doubt the validity of his own conclusions. When John Proctor gets convicted in Act Three, through Abigail's transparent machinations, Hale's confidence is shattered. He quits the court and storms out in anger.
The transition from overconfidence to total disillusionment is already a big journey, but then Miller takes his character a step further in Act Four. After taking off for some soul searching, Hale turns up hoping to save some lives. He councils convicted witches to confess, so that they won't be hanged. Hale is knowingly counseling people to lie. He's lost all faith in the law, and there's a good chance his faith in God is a bit shaky as well.
Hale's last effort to wash some of the blood of his hands fails. He's not able to convince anyone to confess. When John Proctor marches off to his martyr's death, Hale pleads with Elizabeth to change her husband's mind, screaming, "What profit him to bleed? Shall the dust praise him? Shall the worms declare his truth?" (IV.207) Words like these show that Hale has become a completely different man than the one we met at the beginning of the play.
Tituba, the Reverend Parris’s slave, is a woman from Barbados who practices what the Puritans view as “black magic.” Of course, it's mainly because the conniving Abigail manipulates her into doing it. Tituba admits her supposed sin, but we never really find out what happens to her. The ambiguity of her fate actually emphasizes that whether or not these women are in fact witches is beside the point.
And we have to say, although there is nothing in the play that directly comments on it, racism undoubtedly plays a large part in her fate. The fact that she was convicted at all for her practices is actually inherently prejudice. Before being brought to Massachusetts, Tituba never saw her singing, dancing, and spell casting as evil. Such practices were spiritual and descended from her African roots. This is shown in Act Four, when we see poor Tituba say to her jailer:
Devil, him be pleasure-man in Barbados, him be singin and dancing […] It's you folks – you riles him up 'round here […] He freeze his soul in Massachusetts, but in Barbados he just as sweet. (IV.15)
It's ironic that the puritans, who came to America to escape religious persecution, would practice such deliberate, cruel, and ignorant persecution themselves.
And we have to say, although there is nothing in the play that directly comments on it, racism undoubtedly plays a large part in her fate. The fact that she was convicted at all for her practices is actually inherently prejudice. Before being brought to Massachusetts, Tituba never saw her singing, dancing, and spell casting as evil. Such practices were spiritual and descended from her African roots. This is shown in Act Four, when we see poor Tituba say to her jailer:
Devil, him be pleasure-man in Barbados, him be singin and dancing […] It's you folks – you riles him up 'round here […] He freeze his soul in Massachusetts, but in Barbados he just as sweet. (IV.15)
It's ironic that the puritans, who came to America to escape religious persecution, would practice such deliberate, cruel, and ignorant persecution themselves.
Deputy Governor Danforth oversees the witchcraft trials in Salem, as in other parts of Massachusetts. He likes to think of himself as fair-minded, so it disturbs and angers him to discover that people fear the court. He believes that no innocent person should fear the court, and that he and Judge Hathorne are guided by God, so nobody will be punished unjustly. As a result, he fails to examine evidence critically or to act when he could to stop the hysteria. Even at the end, when it’s obvious that the society is disintegrating, he refuses to see the role that the witchcraft trials and hangings have played in it.
Miller’s depiction of the characters of the people who prosecuted witches, like Danforth, was sometimes criticized as being too excessive. Miller agreed, but defended his depiction as adhering to the facts of history. Miller suggested Danforth was important because he helped define and defend the boundaries of society, the rules that people lived by. His character, Miller says, is driven by the idea that mankind must be protected from knowledge, an idea that Miller characterized as believing that “evil is good.”