Read Online Cannibals and Missionaries by Mary McCarthy - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Mary McCarthy
Tags: General Fiction
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Museum,” Aileen decided. “But why? Are you all from Boston?” She ought to have remembered that the museum was renowned for its oriental section. “Dear me, no,” said Charles. “We’re from New York and Pittsburgh and Cincinnati and Hartford and Worcester—the dark satanic mills.” “Charles lives on Mount Vernon Street,” put in the Bishop. “He has a crackerjack oriental collection.” “Almost nothing from Iran, alas. A few Khabur bits and pieces I picked up fifty years ago. No, our little curator is the only knowledgeable member of our party. Like some of the ladies, I’ve been ‘cramming’ for the journey.”
He turned to Aileen. “You must come to tea one day if porcelains interest you.” Then he gave a screech. “But you have some lovely Chinese work in your museum!” “You know our little museum?” Better than she did, she perceived, as he named a “hare’s fur cup” and some “priceless blanc de Chine ” that she could not picture to herself—ages ago, in her predecessor’s time, an alumna had left Lucy Skinner a lot of chinoiserie. “Those people with you, are they important collectors?” she said.
“ Je regrette, monsieur… ” The steward was telling the gentleman that he would have to return to his own class; the hostesses were about to serve drinks and needed the aisle clear. The Reverend was waiting to reoccupy his seat. “Well, that was nice!” Aileen declared, when Charles had gone. “Bishop, do you know what a hare’s fur cup is?”
Back in her place, she had slowly grown pensive. The wine at lunch, probably, had done it. True to his promise, the Senator had come by, on his way back from the men’s room, for a short chat. But Miss Weil had chosen that moment to sit up and take notice (she had seemed utterly deaf to Charles’s incursion), so that the conversation, inevitably, was three-cornered. The Senator reported that Sapphire had lunched on salmon from the hors d’oeuvres course cut up and heated by the hostess and had declined a bowl of milk. The professor and the cat had the bank of seats opposite him, which appeared to amuse the Senator. Aileen did not dare ask him whether Lenz was continuing to drink; Miss Weil, she could not forget, was a journalist…. And when Aileen returned his visit, just before the film-showing, Lenz himself, shaved at last, was very much in evidence, with the caged animal beside him and a blonde hostess bending over murmuring “ Minette, minette. ” The Senator was calling him “Victor” and dispensing a fund of cat stories. Then came the turbulence announcement, and she had to climb over Miss Weil again and wearily strap herself into her corner.
It had been a strategic error not to elect to sit by herself. She had wanted to take the young woman’s measure, and the New York-Paris leg of the journey, she had estimated, would provide an early occasion. But almost the reverse had happened. She knew no more about Miss Weil and her intentions than when she had boarded, and the journalist, if she had cared to listen, had quite a lot of “material” on Aileen. It was sensing that girl beside her, like a silent criticism, that was inducing her to feel defensive about herself. Though she was not at all what they called “a calculating person”—much too outgoing and open to sudden impulse—she would not like a stranger to see, sometimes, the little reckonings that were going on in her head. And they showed sometimes, she feared, giving those who did not know her a bizarre impression. For instance, before lunch just now she had asked Charles too many questions—perhaps even the Bishop had noticed—which did not sound totally idle. But when she heard that there was a group of art collectors bound for Teheran up in first class and then in the next breath Lucy Skinner’s art gallery was mentioned, she could not help making a connection. Now her brain was considering how she could get at them and find out what they collected, which
He turned to Aileen. “You must come to tea one day if porcelains interest you.” Then he gave a screech. “But you have some lovely Chinese work in your museum!” “You know our little museum?” Better than she did, she perceived, as he named a “hare’s fur cup” and some “priceless blanc de Chine ” that she could not picture to herself—ages ago, in her predecessor’s time, an alumna had left Lucy Skinner a lot of chinoiserie. “Those people with you, are they important collectors?” she said.
“ Je regrette, monsieur… ” The steward was telling the gentleman that he would have to return to his own class; the hostesses were about to serve drinks and needed the aisle clear. The Reverend was waiting to reoccupy his seat. “Well, that was nice!” Aileen declared, when Charles had gone. “Bishop, do you know what a hare’s fur cup is?”
Back in her place, she had slowly grown pensive. The wine at lunch, probably, had done it. True to his promise, the Senator had come by, on his way back from the men’s room, for a short chat. But Miss Weil had chosen that moment to sit up and take notice (she had seemed utterly deaf to Charles’s incursion), so that the conversation, inevitably, was three-cornered. The Senator reported that Sapphire had lunched on salmon from the hors d’oeuvres course cut up and heated by the hostess and had declined a bowl of milk. The professor and the cat had the bank of seats opposite him, which appeared to amuse the Senator. Aileen did not dare ask him whether Lenz was continuing to drink; Miss Weil, she could not forget, was a journalist…. And when Aileen returned his visit, just before the film-showing, Lenz himself, shaved at last, was very much in evidence, with the caged animal beside him and a blonde hostess bending over murmuring “ Minette, minette. ” The Senator was calling him “Victor” and dispensing a fund of cat stories. Then came the turbulence announcement, and she had to climb over Miss Weil again and wearily strap herself into her corner.
It had been a strategic error not to elect to sit by herself. She had wanted to take the young woman’s measure, and the New York-Paris leg of the journey, she had estimated, would provide an early occasion. But almost the reverse had happened. She knew no more about Miss Weil and her intentions than when she had boarded, and the journalist, if she had cared to listen, had quite a lot of “material” on Aileen. It was sensing that girl beside her, like a silent criticism, that was inducing her to feel defensive about herself. Though she was not at all what they called “a calculating person”—much too outgoing and open to sudden impulse—she would not like a stranger to see, sometimes, the little reckonings that were going on in her head. And they showed sometimes, she feared, giving those who did not know her a bizarre impression. For instance, before lunch just now she had asked Charles too many questions—perhaps even the Bishop had noticed—which did not sound totally idle. But when she heard that there was a group of art collectors bound for Teheran up in first class and then in the next breath Lucy Skinner’s art gallery was mentioned, she could not help making a connection. Now her brain was considering how she could get at them and find out what they collected, which
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