extraordinary ape-man fossils in the next few years.”
“West Central Africa? Do you mean Gabon?” I felt myself grow suddenly warm beneath my high-necked blouse and serge jacket. Gabon was the location of the Ogowe River. “Then you must be familiar with Mary Kingsley and her several expeditions.”
Ral Conrath looked momentarily blank, but Ernst Haeckel, certainly progressive in some quarters but not, as it appeared, with a woman’s right to be heard as well as seen, interrupted, dismissing Miss Kingsley’s adventures as mere trifles—“fishes and fetishes”—and clearly unworthy of serious discussion.
“A woman alone has no business trekking around Africa,” Haeckel said. “It is unseemly. Very unseemly.”
The professor’s words left me chastised and uncomfortable, and I began tucking into my untouched roast beef with less gusto than violence. Father noticed, of course, but it was neither the time nor the place to defend independent womanhood.
In fact, the talk had turned to the plight of the Belgian Congo in the past fifty years—King Leopold’s horrible slaughter of ten million black Africans in that country he claimed to own. The men argued about whether the Englishman Sir Henry Morton Stanley had been tricked or had gone willingly at Leopold’s behest, leading one of the great exploratory expeditions into the Congo. One that led to further exploitation.
“Well,” Father observed wryly, “it wasn’t much worse than what President Andrew Jackson did to the American Indians with his Indian Removal Act.”
And with that, I found my voice once more. Who was any man—even the great Ernst Haeckel—to shut me up? “I believe the urge to colonize and subjugate is universal in the human species.”
All the men quieted and turned to look at me. I put down my knife and fork and straightened my back. “My once-favorite monarch, Elizabeth Tudor, ran riot over Ireland. She killed damn near half the Irish population in her lust for power.”
Ernst Haeckel looked scandalized and Dubois amused, but the only reproach I perceived from Father for my vulgar language was a single raised eyebrow.
That said, I felt my appetite return, a real appetite, and I finished my dinner, every carrot and pea and roasted potato, sopping up the gravy with a bread roll.
I was well aware that Ral Conrath was appraising me with great interest, but I refused to meet his eye.
* * *
Later, as we stood in the grand lobby of the De Vere, Eugène, who was coming home with us, was saying his good nights and giving final thanks to Professor Haeckel. Mr. Conrath took the opportunity to approach Father and me.
“Like I said, Professor, you’re right on the mark with Africa, but take my word for it, Gabon’s got the limestone formations you fossil hunters have the most luck with, and I know where to find ’em.” He handed Father his card and spoke to us in low tones. “I’ve got something of great interest to show you. Why don’t you let me tell you more about it?” Then he looked straight into my eyes and said quite suddenly and entirely out of context, “It’s rare to see a woman with a steel backbone.”
“That’s my Jane,” Father said, not in the least offended by the man’s familiarity.
“It’s refreshing in the extreme,” Ral added.
Far from blushing with embarrassment, I felt a rush of excitement that shuddered through my frame, and I said, “I hope you do come and talk to us, Mr. Conrath. We would be very happy to hear what you have to say about West Africa.”
“It would be my pleasure,” he said, pumping Father’s hand. When he gave me his little finger-to-forehead salute, I hoped nothing in my expression gave away my strange discomfiture.
The Snake Charmer
Ral Conrath had been expected at noon and by five had neither come nor called on the telephone. I was sorely disappointed at missing the larger-than-life expedition leader. I’d spent an afternoon of unspeakable boredom with
“West Central Africa? Do you mean Gabon?” I felt myself grow suddenly warm beneath my high-necked blouse and serge jacket. Gabon was the location of the Ogowe River. “Then you must be familiar with Mary Kingsley and her several expeditions.”
Ral Conrath looked momentarily blank, but Ernst Haeckel, certainly progressive in some quarters but not, as it appeared, with a woman’s right to be heard as well as seen, interrupted, dismissing Miss Kingsley’s adventures as mere trifles—“fishes and fetishes”—and clearly unworthy of serious discussion.
“A woman alone has no business trekking around Africa,” Haeckel said. “It is unseemly. Very unseemly.”
The professor’s words left me chastised and uncomfortable, and I began tucking into my untouched roast beef with less gusto than violence. Father noticed, of course, but it was neither the time nor the place to defend independent womanhood.
In fact, the talk had turned to the plight of the Belgian Congo in the past fifty years—King Leopold’s horrible slaughter of ten million black Africans in that country he claimed to own. The men argued about whether the Englishman Sir Henry Morton Stanley had been tricked or had gone willingly at Leopold’s behest, leading one of the great exploratory expeditions into the Congo. One that led to further exploitation.
“Well,” Father observed wryly, “it wasn’t much worse than what President Andrew Jackson did to the American Indians with his Indian Removal Act.”
And with that, I found my voice once more. Who was any man—even the great Ernst Haeckel—to shut me up? “I believe the urge to colonize and subjugate is universal in the human species.”
All the men quieted and turned to look at me. I put down my knife and fork and straightened my back. “My once-favorite monarch, Elizabeth Tudor, ran riot over Ireland. She killed damn near half the Irish population in her lust for power.”
Ernst Haeckel looked scandalized and Dubois amused, but the only reproach I perceived from Father for my vulgar language was a single raised eyebrow.
That said, I felt my appetite return, a real appetite, and I finished my dinner, every carrot and pea and roasted potato, sopping up the gravy with a bread roll.
I was well aware that Ral Conrath was appraising me with great interest, but I refused to meet his eye.
* * *
Later, as we stood in the grand lobby of the De Vere, Eugène, who was coming home with us, was saying his good nights and giving final thanks to Professor Haeckel. Mr. Conrath took the opportunity to approach Father and me.
“Like I said, Professor, you’re right on the mark with Africa, but take my word for it, Gabon’s got the limestone formations you fossil hunters have the most luck with, and I know where to find ’em.” He handed Father his card and spoke to us in low tones. “I’ve got something of great interest to show you. Why don’t you let me tell you more about it?” Then he looked straight into my eyes and said quite suddenly and entirely out of context, “It’s rare to see a woman with a steel backbone.”
“That’s my Jane,” Father said, not in the least offended by the man’s familiarity.
“It’s refreshing in the extreme,” Ral added.
Far from blushing with embarrassment, I felt a rush of excitement that shuddered through my frame, and I said, “I hope you do come and talk to us, Mr. Conrath. We would be very happy to hear what you have to say about West Africa.”
“It would be my pleasure,” he said, pumping Father’s hand. When he gave me his little finger-to-forehead salute, I hoped nothing in my expression gave away my strange discomfiture.
The Snake Charmer
Ral Conrath had been expected at noon and by five had neither come nor called on the telephone. I was sorely disappointed at missing the larger-than-life expedition leader. I’d spent an afternoon of unspeakable boredom with
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