“Further,” she continued, “the Puritans held that nothing could reliably indicate whether or not one’s soul was saved—doing good works wouldn’t cut it. So negative occurrences, like a serious illness or economic reversal, were often interpreted as signs of God’s disapproval. For most people, it was preferable to blame witchcraft, an explanation out of one’s own control, and embodied in a woman on the margins of society, than to consider the possibility of one’s own spiritual risk. In effect, witchcraft played an important role in the New England colonies—as both an explanation for things not yet elucidated by science, and as a scapegoat.”
“And the Salem panic?” prodded Professor Silva.
“The Salem witch trials have been explained in numerous ways,” Connie said. “Some historians have argued that the trials were caused by tension between competing religious populations in Salem, the more urban port city on the one hand and the rural farm region on the other. Some have pointed to long-standing envy between family groups, with particular attention paid to the monetary demands made by an unpopular minister, Reverend Samuel Parris. And some historians have even claimed that the possessed girls were hallucinating after having eaten moldy bread, which can cause effects similar to those of LSD. But I see it as the last gasp of Calvinist religiosity. By the early eighteenth century, Salem had moved from being a predominantly religious community to being more diverse, more dependent on shipbuilding, fishing, and trade. The Protestant zealots who had originally settled the region were being supplanted by recent immigrants from England who were more interested in the business opportunities in the new colonies than in religion. I think that the trials were a symptom of this dynamic shift. They
were also the last major outbreak of witchcraft hysteria in all of North America. In effect, the Salem panic signaled the end of an era that had had its roots in the Middle Ages.”
“A very insightful analysis,” commented Professor Chilton, still in his bemused, bantering tone. “But haven’t you overlooked one other significant interpretation?”
Connie smiled at him, the nervous grimace of an animal fending off an attacker. “I am not sure, Professor Chilton,” she answered. He was toying with her now. Connie silently begged for time to accelerate past Chilton’s teasing, to catapult her instantly to Abner’s Pub, where Liz and Thomas would be waiting, and where she could finally stop talking for the day. When she was tired, Connie’s words sometimes ran together, tumbling out in an order not fully under her control. As she watched Chilton’s crafty smile she worried that she was reaching that level of fatigue. Her stupid blunder over
maleficium
was a hint. If only he would just let her pass…
Chilton leaned forward. “Have you not considered the distinct possibility that the accused were simply
guilty
of witchcraft?” he asked. He arched his eyebrows at her, fingers pointed in a small temple on the tabletop.
She watched him for a moment. A rush of irritation, even anger, sped through her. What a preposterous question! Certainly the participants in colonial witch trials believed that witches were real. But no contemporary scholars had ever entertained that possibility. Connie could not understand why Chilton would tease her like this. Was this just his way of reinforcing how lowly she ranked in the hierarchy of academia? No matter how ludicrous it was, she had to answer, because it was Chilton doing the asking. Clearly he was too far away from his own graduate student experience to remember how dreadful this exam is. If he could remember, he would never joke with her today.
Would he?
She cleared her throat, tamping down her aggravation. Connie did not yet rank high enough in the scholarly universe to be permitted to voice her exasperation. She read not only sympathy and commiseration in Janine’s narrowed eyes, but also registered her almost imperceptible nod that Connie
should continue.
Jump through the hoop
, the nod said.
You and I both know that’s what it is, but you have to do it anyway
.
“Well, Professor Chilton,” she began, “none of the recent secondary source literature that I have read considered that to be a real possibility. The only exception that I can think of is Cotton Mather. In 1705 he wrote a famous defense of the judgments and executions at Salem, firmly believing that the courts had acted rightly to rid the town of actual, practicing witches. This was about the time that one of the judges, Samuel Sewall, published a public apology for his part in the trials. Of course, Cotton Mather, a renowned theologian, had himself officiated at the trials. Against the wishes of his equally famous theologian father, Increase Mather, I might add, who publicly condemned the Salem trials as being based on unreliable evidence. So Cotton Mather may have argued that the witchcraft at Salem was real, and that the killing of twenty people was completely justified, but he had rather a lot invested in not being wrong. Sir.”
As Connie concluded her treatise she observed Chilton grinning mischievously at her across the table. In that moment she knew that the exam was over. Through the hoop she had gone, and now it was behind her. Of course she would have to go outside to await their official verdict. But at least she had come up with an answer. Now there was nothing more that she could do. She felt helpless, exhausted. What little color remained in her face ebbed, her lips fading to white.
The four professors exchanged looks in a rapid volley around their side of the table before turning their attention back to Connie.
“Very well,” said Professor Chilton. “If you would just step outside for a moment, please, Miss Goodwin, we will discuss your performance. Don’t go far.”
Withdrawing from the examination room, Connie moved through the history building shadows, her footfalls echoing off the marble floor. She settled onto an institutional lavender sofa in the central reception area, enjoying the blissful sound of quiet. She let herself sink into the cushions, twiddling the tail end of her braid under her nose like a mustache.
From inside the conference room several doors away, she heard murmured comments, too muffled for her to distinguish who was saying what. She clicked her thumbnails together, waiting.
The early evening sun slanted across the floor, splashing warmth onto her lap. Across the room she glimpsed a flash of movement as a tiny mouse disappeared into the darkness behind a drowsy potted plant. Connie smiled wanly, thinking about the unseen generations of warm life living somewhere in the history department walls, worried about nothing more momentous than leftover water crackers and careless feet. She could almost envy a life that simple and straightforward. Silence descended over the waiting area, and Connie heard only her shallow breath.
At length she heard the door open.
“Connie? We are ready for you.” It was Professor Silva. Connie sat up. For a split second she faced the certainty that the exam had gone horribly, she had failed, she would have to leave school. But then Connie saw Janine’s kind face, framed with ruddy tangles of hair, break into a delighted grin. She threaded an arm around Connie’s waist and whispered, “We’re celebrating at Abner’s after this!” And she knew that it was really about to be over.
Connie resumed her seat in the examination room. The single sunbeam was lower now, barely gracing the four pairs of folded hands that now ringed the table.
She arranged her features into a close approximation of professional coolness and detachment.
No one likes a woman academic who is emotional
, she reminded herself.
“After much discussion and debate,” began Professor Chilton, face serious, “we would like to congratulate you on the strongest doctoral qualifying examination that we have seen in recent memory. Your responses were complete, thorough, and articulate, and we feel that you are eminently qualified to be advanced to candidacy for the PhD. You are more than ready to write your dissertation.”
He paused for a beat while Connie processed what he had just said, the verdict working its way down through all her layers of worry.
All at once she felt the breath rush out of her in an excited hiss, and she clenched her fingers around the chair seat in an effort to channel her palpable glee into something safe, something that would not give her away. “Really?” she said aloud, looking around the table before she could stop herself.
“Of course!” piped Professor Silva, interrupting Professor Smith, who had started to say “Really excellent work, Connie.”
“Most competent,” concurred Professor Beaumont, and Connie smiled privately to herself. Thomas would doubt he had even said that much. Already Connie’s mind was skipping ahead to the evening, when her thesis student would interrogate her about the questions that each of the professors had asked.
As the committee continued to praise her performance, Connie felt a sweet mixture of relief and fatigue rush through her arms and legs. The voices of her mentors muffled and drifted farther away as a fog of sleepiness rolled across her mind. She was about to crash. She found herself struggling to get to her feet, to spirit herself away to the safety of her friends.
“Well,” she said, standing, “I can’t thank you all enough. Really. This is a great way to end the semester.” They all stood with her, each shaking her hand in turn and gathering up their things to leave. She nodded automatic thanks, and her hands began to scrabble for her coat. Professors Smith and Beaumont scuttled out together.
Professor Silva hoisted her satchel over her head. “C’mon, kiddo,” she said, knocking Connie on the shoulder. “You need a drink.”
Connie laughed, doubting that she would be able to withstand more than one of Abner’s notorious old-fashioneds. “I should call Thomas and Liz. They demanded an immediate report,” she said. “I’ll meet you there?”
Professor Silva—Janine, now, for she insisted that her graduate students call her by her first name once they had advanced to candidacy—nodded appreciatively. “I’ll bet they did,” she said. “Manning, we’ll talk next week.” Then with a wave she was gone, the heavy paneled door closing in her wake.
Connie began to wind her scarf around her neck.
“Connie, wait a moment,” said Chilton. It was more a command than a
suggestion, Connie noticed with some surprise. She stopped, lowering herself back to the table.
Chilton dropped into the armchair across from Connie, beaming at her. He did not speak. Connie, unsure what he was up to, hazarded a glance as far as the polished leather elbow patch that rested in the last shard of sunlight on the table.
“I have to say that this was an incredible performance, even for you,” began Chilton. As always Connie was momentarily distracted by Chilton’s clipped Brahmin accent, in which the
r
wanders in and out of words unpredictably.
Pehfohmance.
It was an accent that one barely heard anymore, almost unrelated to the Boston accent that was caricatured on television.
Bahston
versus
Behstun
. Chilton himself often struck her as a sort of relic, a scarab beetle preserved in amber, not knowing that it is frozen and that time has left it behind.
“Thank you, Professor Chilton,” she said.
“I knew when we admitted you to this program that you would excel. Your undergraduate work at Mount Holyoke was exemplary, of course. Your coursework and teaching have both been well remarked upon.”
Rehm ahked
thought Connie, then immediately chastised herself.
Pay attention! This is important!
He paused, gazing at her, index fingers pressed over his lips. “I wonder if you have started putting any thought to your dissertation topic,” he said. She hesitated, caught off guard. Of course she had expected to bring him a proposal shortly after her exam, assuming she passed, but she had counted on having weeks ahead of her to think things over. However, his attention signaled to Connie that her performance had guaranteed her new status within the department. Connie’s ears buzzed, like antennae that have picked up a vital piece of information written in a code that has been only half-transcribed.
Academia, in many respects, forms the last bastion of medieval apprenticeship. She and Liz had discussed this idea before. The master takes the student in, educates her in his craft, shares with her the esoteric secrets of his field. The apprentice is a kind of initiate, admitted by gradual degrees into ever higher levels of mysticism. Not that most academic subjects were very
mystical anymore, of course. But, by extension, the apprentice’s skill reflects on the master’s own ability. Connie realized that Chilton now viewed her as a particular asset to him, and that this new level of regard came with heavier responsibility. Chilton had plans for her.
“I have a few ideas percolating, of course,” she began, “but nothing set in stone. Did you have something in mind?”
He regarded her for a moment, and she could see something indistinct, almost serpentine, glimmering behind his careful, veiled eyes. Then just as suddenly the glimmer disappeared, replaced with the bemused detachment that he habitually wore in place of an expression. He sat back in his chair, propping the top of a bony knee on the edge of the table, and waved one wrinkled hand dismissively. “Nothing as such. Only I urge you to look vigorously for new source bases. We need to think strategically about your career, my girl, and we can’t do that if you are just revisiting the same old archives. A really marvelous, newly uncovered primary source can make you in this field, Connie,” he said, looking sharply at her. “
New
.
New
shall be your watchword.”
Watchwuhd
, thought Connie.
If I don’t get out of here this instant I am going to say something that will truly embarrass me
. Though why he would bother to tell her to look for new source bases she could not fully understand. Perhaps later he would tell her what exactly he had in mind. “I understand, Professor Chilton. I will give this some serious thought. Thank you.”
Connie stood, easing her arms into her peacoat, pulling the scarf over her nose, and tucking her braid up under a knitted pom-pom hat. Chilton nodded appreciatively. “So you’re off to celebrate, then,” he said, and Connie fixed him with a thin smile.