The spring that begins to unwind with such terrifying speed in Salem is released even before the start of Act 1, when we learn that the young people have transgressed the faith of their elders not only by
dancing in the woods at night (Mercy Lewis dances naked), but also, at least in Abigail’s case, in attempting to conjure spirits. Their discovery by one of the principle guardians of the orthodox code of conduct in the town,
the Reverend Parris, propels a whole series of actions which eventually lead to the death of many innocent people. Had those children been able to admit to their elders what they were doing and face up to what Mary Warren acknowledges will be a whipping, then the subsequent disastrous train of events might not have got underway at all. They fail to do so not only because of their natural fear of severe punishment but also because a full confession would reveal a deeper transgression:
Abigail has asked Tituba to create a spell to kill John Proctor's wife. She does so because she and Proctor have broken one of the Ten Commandments: Do not commit adultery.
The rigid adherence to the letter of the law, whether spiritual or temporal creates a rigidity in society. The most senior judge in the subsequent trials,
Danforth, is a fundamentalist. For him, the most senior spokesman for his society, there is no middle way, no compromise possible with his interpretation of the truth: ‘a person is either with this court or he must be counted against it.’ Such a stern black and white view recalls U.S. President Bush’s statements on so-called terrorism. It admits no ambiguity, no shades of grey; everything is either good or bad, truth is self-evident and concrete. Such moral tyranny is what Miller’s play cautions so eloquently against.