Another roll of felt, more close examination. “Very fine,” he said, with a reverential sigh. “Very fine indeed. Are you quite sure that you don’t wish to sell these? Even these two minor pieces would increase the value of the set significantly.”
“I’m sure,” I said. “These are the last things I have, you see, from my mother.”
“She died, I believe, in the firebombing.” He shook his head. “Terrible. Terrible. Dresden, too … such a jewel-box of a city.”
“Yes.” I kept my voice steady, grateful for Joe’s strength beside me. “She and my father both. And many others. Many, many others.”
“Most tragic. Of course. Sentiment—that is beyond price.” Upon which he returned the earrings carefully to their pouch and handed them over with a regretful sigh. I suspected that hedidput a price on sentiment, and that his price was rather low. “Still, I believe we can do very well for you. Oh, yes. Very well.”
“How long will it take?” I asked.
“Oh, some months. The necklace will be included in an auction of our finest pieces, and we’ll wait until we have a collection that will draw the sort of interest such a piece requires. I will, of course, keep you informed of our progress.”
“And the amount? Have you any idea?”
“Oh, now, there, you know,” he said, “it is most difficult to say. Royal provenance … oh, yes, there is value there. Howmuchvalue, though … The Bonaparte connection,hmm,yes. I would expect the reserve on such a piece—the price below which one won’t sell, you know—to be somewhere around …hmm …I will say—only estimating, of course, based on the values of the jewels themselves, and the craftsmanship—by Nitot, court jeweler to Napoleon—one sees the mark of the house of Chaumet most clearly on the clasp … very fortunate, you know—between …hmm …let us say, twenty to thirty thousand.”
“Twenty to thirty thousanddollars?”I asked, when I had my breath back.
“Oh, pounds, dear lady.” Now he was polishing his glasses. “Oh, certainly, pounds.”
28
ALTERNATE ROUTE
On the seventh day of September, I rode my bicycle down University Avenue. The orderly rows of plane trees marched along like soldiers, and I was grateful for the shade. All the same, I was rather damp by the time I reached the Stanford campus, and spent some time in the toilets putting myself to rights before venturing down a long hall and entering the office at the end. The office of the Dean of the College of Letters and Sciences; a most imposing place.
The secretary looked up from her typing at my entrance. “Yes?” she asked. Middle-aged, and a very efficient-looking person.
“Good morning,” I said, and didnotoffer my hand. “My name is Marguerite Stark. I have an appointment with Professor Webster.”
“Yes, Mrs. Stark. You may go on in. Just knock first.”
“Thank you.” My mouth was rather dry. This was foolish; it wasn’t even my first time meeting the professor! I added, “You type very quickly.”
“Thank you,” she said.
I nodded, walked through the office, and tapped at theinner door, then entered at the bark from inside. Ithoughtit had been “Come in.”
“Good morning,” Professor Webster said, standing to greet me. I offered him my hand—surely it was appropriate in this context?—and at his motioning me to sit, did so.
He said, “To what do I owe the pleasure? Looking for another class, are you? I think we may be able to accommodate you. Your final essay, I must say, was fine work. Fine work. If only I could convince the rest of my female students to take their studies as seriously as you do.” He sighed. “But they seem most interested in meeting young men instead. The MRS degree, we call it.”
“Pardon?” I asked.
“Looking to become a Mrs. instead of a Miss.”
“Oh.” I hesitated, and he said, “Go on, let’s have it. I’ve seen that look enough by now to know that you have something to say.”
“Perhaps,” I said, “it’s that their studies are not likely to bring them as much reward as is true for the men. This is one reason I haven’t wished to pursue a more serious course of study. It’s very difficult for a woman to find a position outside of certain fields, and I don’t wish to work as a nurse or a secretary or a teacher. I’m not preciselypatient,you see, and I believe I may lack a certain … facility for taking orders.”
“In other words,” he said, so clearly laughing inside, “you’re a princess.”
“Alas,” I said, and we both smiled. “But to answer your question more seriously: A woman who wishes to be a scholar, for example, or a scientist … what is her path? In such circumstances, might a woman not think marriage a more attractive option?”
“Well,” he said, “that’s one thought, certainly.”
“You think me ungrateful for the opportunities you’ve given me,” I said. “This isn’t so. I’m very aware of my goodfortune. For women in Germany under Hitler, it was allKinder, Küche, Kirche. Children, the kitchen, and the church. A married woman was required to remain at home, a good GermanHausfrau.Not even the demands of the war could justify her moving from that sphere. No Rosie the Riveter or Land Girl for her!For preference she would be earning herEhrenkreuz der Deutschen Mutter—The Cross of the German Mother. Bronze for four or five children; silver for six or seven; and for eight or more, gold. Clearly, the United States is very different, but not, perhaps, as different as it might be.”
