No Job for a Lady (9 page)

“How ghastly! I have to attend several each year and dread them.”

I bite the bullet and go on to explain how I tried to get my editor to let me become a foreign correspondent. “He said it was no job for a lady.”

“Balderdash! The only jobs men know of for women are in the bed or the kitchen.”

She spoke loudly enough for heads to turn, and we both scoot down in our seats and smother giggles.

When I am finished with my story, confessing that I was not sent by the newspaper to report, she gives me a big hug.

“I can’t tell you how much I admire you, Nellie. I have the same feelings you do about avoiding spending my life as the helpmate to a man who has all the fun and adventures while I keep the hearth warm and the family nurtured.”

“Then you won’t tell your uncle?”

“He won’t get it out of me even if they break my bones on the rack.”

That sets off another wave of giggling like schoolgirls as we head for the dining car.

“So you’re visiting from England?” I ask as we work our way through the train.

“Oxford. Studying history, my favorite subject. I’m on a short sabbatical to learn about the Aztec Empire. It’s really an excuse to romp around some ancient ruins under a warm sun, rather than sit in a study and stare at winter’s kill outside my window. Besides, my father says you get better knowledge by experiencing something firsthand.” She stops and looks at me. “Now I have a secret to tell you. I want to become an archaeologist. I believe that if we know more about the past, we can advance better with the future.”

“Gertrude, that’s fabulous!”

“Not by man’s way of thinking. Thank goodness I have my father. You and he are the only ones who know my desire. If my stepmother found out…” She pauses for a moment, as if she’s thinking how to word her thoughts, something I am all too familiar with.

“It’s not that she would object—she’s all for causes and strong women, but she’s still of the belief that a woman should get married and have children, first and foremost. Like the person who wrote that editorial that offended you, she believes a woman should be only her husband’s helper when it comes to matters outside the home.

“Take this trip, for example—I knew that when I approached them about it, she would object, which she did, so I talked to Father first and had him in my corner.” She checks the time on her pendant watch. “We must hurry. Don Antonio is quite the connoisseur of fine food and wine. He will have us both on the rack if we spoil his dinner.”

I have complete trust in Gertrude. As my mother would say, “You’re two peas in a pod,” at least when it comes to men and life careers, so I’m tempted to spill the beans about my sharing a compartment with a man. I hold back as we head for the dining car and tell her instead about Mrs. Percy encouraging me to come to Mexico and the lack of resources available to study the country and ancient civilizations. I realize Gertrude probably knows much more about Mexico than I do, having studied it.

“You know a lot about the country and its history?” I ask, certain that anyone who goes to Oxford knows about everything. She’s so lucky. I would have loved to have gone to college.

“A bit. We can get together tomorrow and I can give you some background materials for your dispatches.”

Gertrude Bell

[Gertrude Bell was] the most brilliant student we ever had at Lady Margaret Hall, or indeed I think at any of the women’s colleges. Her journeys in Arabia and her achievements in Iraq have passed into history. I need only recall the bright promise of her college days, when the vivid, rather untidy, auburn-haired girl of seventeen first came amongst us and took our hearts by storm with her brilliant talk and her youthful confidence in herself and her belongings. She had a most engaging way of saying “Well you know, my father says so and so” as a final opinion on every question under discussion.

She threw herself with untiring energy into every phase of college life: she swam, she rowed, she played tennis and hockey, she danced, she spoke in debates; she kept up with modern literature, and told us tales of modern authors, most of whom were her childhood’s friends. Yet all the time she put in seven hours of work, and at the end of two years she won as brilliant a First Class in the School of Modern History as has ever been won at Oxford.

—J
ANET
C
OURTNEY,
“Gertrude Bell, A Personal Study” (Courtney, whose maiden name was Hogarth, attended Oxford with Gertrude in 1886. The article originally appeared in
North American Review,
1926, and the passage above is quoted from the
The Letters of Gertrude Bell,
1927.)

14

Don Antonio rises to greet us in the dining room.

“Ah, I see you two have met.” He gives me a smile and Gertrude a hug. “I must confess that this is one of the reasons I invited you to dinner, Nellie. I thought it would be nice for Gertrude to meet a young lady like herself, so she doesn’t have to be bored on this trip with me.”

Dinner is in a private area at the very far end of the dining car. Our table is elegantly set—embroidered linen, silver utensils, fine china. Vibrant pink roses fill a green vase that is the centerpiece.

I am relieved that Don Antonio has not dressed formally for dinner but has simply changed his business suit for another and that Gertrude has taken off her fancy hat. Her dress is almost as simple and as practical a travel dress as mine, but she has lace around the neck and pearl beading on the bottom of her sleeves that goes a few inches up the outside of each sleeve—these fine touches add a hint of glamour that I wish I could have.

Also, the curse of wanting to travel light meant bringing very little change of clothing. I’m just happy I don’t look out of place. I don’t want to look like a poor relative having dinner with a rich one. However, both Gertrude and Don Antonio are so warm and friendly, it really doesn’t matter. Neither seems to have any pretense to them.

“Uncle, I see we have another place setting.”

“Yes, guilty as charged.”

“And whom did you invite?”

“A very nice young gentleman I met in the smoking lounge. He should be here any min—ah, here he is now.”

Roger enters, and I am unable to hide the surprise and mortification on my face from Gertrude. Fortunately, Don Antonio is preoccupied with rising and shaking hands with Roger.

She starts to say something and I shake my head.

As Don Antonio makes introductions, I force myself to put on a cordial, if not pleasant, face—or at least one that doesn’t make it appear I consider Roger akin to an ax murderer.

“This is my adopted niece, Gertrude Bell, and Nellie Bly, an American news reporter from Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania. Ladies, Roger Watkins.”

Roger smiles and utters a platitude about the pleasure of dining with beautiful women. He gives no clue that he knows me.

After Roger is seated, Don Antonio says, “Roger is studying Mexican history under a professor at Columbia University whom I knew when I was an attaché at our consular office in New York. It appears, Gertrude, that Roger is also taking a leave of absence from book studies to experience history firsthand.”

“I don’t blame you.” Gertrude gives Roger a smile that is so warm and friendly, he looks ready to drool. I can see now why those men in the parlor car were hanging on her every word. “One can take only so much of burying one’s head in books. Did Don Antonio tell you there is a great deal of Mexico’s history still lying in plain sight?”

She doesn’t wait for a response. You can’t miss her excitement about the subject, because her voice goes up an octave. “Just think! Most of the meat off the bones of the great civilizations of Greece, Rome, and Egypt have been scraped clean, but Mexico’s ancient and medieval history has barely been touched.”

She throws up her hands with excitement. “We might discover something astounding at an ancient site because so little attention has been given to its colorful history.”

I can’t blame Roger for liking Gertrude and giving her a big smile. One that, I might add, he’s never offered me. But admittedly, I’ve never been that pleasant to him—for good reason. I am a bit surprised that he is studying history. I never attended college, of course, but I tend to think of students in general as more mild-mannered and bookish than how Roger strikes me.

“I’m hoping that one of my experiences with history will be climbing a pyramid.” He looks at me just as he is finishing the comment.

Uh-huh.

“That tops my agenda, too.” Gertrude grabs my hand. “Nellie, you must join us! It would be wonderful. I think not only that you’ll enjoy yourself, but also that it might provide interesting material to send to your newspaper.”

“Yes, why don’t you, Nellie?” Roger says.

I concede that I’ll consider it and resist the temptation of saying that I’d jump at the opportunity to go to the top of a pyramid with him if it gave me a chance to push him off.

Don Antonio raises his crystal champagne glass.

“A toast. Thank you for joining me and my niece tonight. And may I say, it’s not often I’ve dined with two university scholars and a female newspaper reporter.”

I notice he emphasizes the word
female.
One day, I hope being a reporter and going to college will be considered the norm for women.

“I also admire you for traveling alone, Nellie. Few women would travel unescorted, let alone to a foreign country where most people don’t speak their language. Gertrude also made the trip from London to El Paso by herself, over the objections of her family. I suspect you two are the harbingers of a new age of independent women. Not that all men would agree with the advent of women who are decisively independent. Roger, being young yourself, I would be most interested in your opinion on the subject. How do you feel about it?”

“I wouldn’t dare venture any negative opinion about independent womanhood, lest one of these young ladies scalp me with a steak knife. Besides, I am all in favor of women realizing their full potential.”

Gertrude and her uncle think his reply is clever, but I think he’s hiding his true feelings—no doubt he feels a woman’s realm shouldn’t extend beyond the kitchen and bedroom.

“I was raised by a single mother who showed me what a woman is capable of doing and taught me to respect a woman’s ability to achieve many of the things that are reserved for men.” Roger then addresses me. “Certainly going from a factory girl to a news reporter is a great accomplishment.”

How does he know I had worked in a factory?
I give him a smile and a nod. “Thank you. As far as traveling alone, I believe that if you are polite, respectful, and considerate of a country’s customs, no matter where you go, or what the language, people will reciprocate kindly. Respect and kindness are a universal language.”

“Well said, Nellie.” Don Antonio smiles at me. “You will find my people most helpful and considerate to strangers, especially señoritas.”

I need to divert the conversation away from myself before a can of worms opens. “I’m sure I will. Now, Don Antonio, for my readers, I would really like to hear your evaluation of the tension between the United States and Mexico that is being reported.”

“Mexico wants to be a good neighbor and trading partner with your country. That is the goal,” he replies.

It is an intentionally diplomatic statement and gives little insight into the real problems. I let it pass, knowing he would not want to be quoted as saying anything controversial, especially about the war between the two countries. In addition to the United States taking undisputed control of Texas, which had already broken away from Mexico several years before the war, we took nearly 900,000 square miles from Mexico, which now makes up a lot of America’s West and Southwest, including all or part of California, Nevada, Utah, New Mexico, Arizona, Colorado, Oklahoma, and Kansas.

Even though the war ended nearly forty years ago, it cost Mexico over half its territory, and I don’t care what he professes, that had to have left a bad taste toward Americans with his fellow men, making it a sore subject even today—one, I’m sure, he wants to avoid.

“But let us talk about something more enjoyable,” Don Antonio says.

The diplomat offers a champagne toast to independent women.

I have to admit that because of my stepfather turning from Dr. Jekyll into Mr. Hyde whenever he had what my mother called “demon rum,” I have an aversion to the very notion of imbibing anything stronger than sarsaparilla. However, the champagne goes down nicely and tickles my nose. I’m surprised to find I like it.

I thank Don Antonio for the pleasant new experience. “I’ve never had champagne before. It’s quite delicious. I don’t feel like I’m drinking liquor, it’s so smooth and refreshing. Does it always tickle one’s nose?”

“Yes,” Gertrude says, “but Uncle Antonio says it does that only to beautiful women. Isn’t that true?”

“Absolutely. And tonight I have proof that I am right, for two beautiful women are at my table.”

Unlike Gertrude, who appears comfortable with her uncle’s compliment, I find myself looking down into my champagne glass. I don’t do well with compliments, unless it’s about my work; then I am just proud.

The incident with the prospector has me curious, and I describe how I first had to wade through a sea of cowboys.

“There’s a man with them whom one of the cowboys referred to as a prospector. He was a bit inebriated, to say the least, and he started mumbling about something called ‘Montezuma’s pile’ and that he’s got it. Gertrude believes he might be referring to a legend about Montezuma’s treasure.”

“Sí.”
Don Antonio leans back and shakes his head with a chuckle. “I cannot tell you how many times I have heard a similar story, often from a miner or prospector who claims to have found Montezuma’s gold or at least a map leading to it. Each one told me I would be a very rich man if I grubstaked them, as
norteamericanos
call supplying money to a prospector.”

He refills our glasses with champagne. I already feel warm and pleasantly light-headed from the first glass, but I can handle it, I’m sure, as I have a strong mind that alcohol cannot take control of.