Maxine
had come to the museum straight out of college, with a B.A. in art history.
She took courses at Tulane to get a master's degree at the same time that
she served as a paid intern. She had worked for both of us, but Elinor
had been her special mentor. She was of medium height, a bit thick in
the waist and with a slightly horsey face. Not of a bohemian mold, and
suitably dressed as a rule, she nevertheless let her hair hang down below
her shoulders, the single sign of a supposed artistic temperament. Sometimes
I thought I liked her, sometimes not. Quite courteous when she wished,
she was also rather prickly and priggish and a bit aggressive. And, in
that well-known defensive combination, she was both arrogant and timid--carrying
an elevated view of her achievements, through an ignorance one had to
forgive but also try to remedy, yet uneasy with strangers and, in particular,
with her fellow interns. I recall in particular her dislike of a charming
Frenchman, much older, whose greater experience and self-assured manner
seemed to challenge her, or at least offered clear competition to her
self-assigned superiority. In the way young, dependent interns often attach
themselves to those they view as sympathetic older staff members, she
latched, after a few weeks, onto Elinor; he didn't need to latch
onto anyone.
Maxine used Elinor
as a sort of confessor, complaining about the French intern, trying to
draw her into her life; she brought her gifts and constantly invited her
to coffee. Elinor found their relationship a bit awkward, something of
a monopoly on her. Yet it's flattering to be singled out as an authority
and guide by someone with intellectual pretensions who shows promise;
moreover, Elinor is the kindest staff member we have, ever ready to assist
others.
After the two had
worked together for a while, Elinor encouraging, even tutoring Maxine
and offering her increased responsibility, the girl seemed more confident;
but the aggression was still there. Having lent to Maxine at her request
the draft of an article she was working on, dealing with Louisiana architectural
prints, Elinor was astonished to find the typescript on her desk, marked
up in Maxine's hand, with rather bizarre and sarcastic comments. On another
occasion the girl had shown displeasure when Elinor told her that she
wasn't free to lunch with her that day. Exclusivity was what Maxine wanted;
as she became professionally and personally closer to Elinor, the friendship
between Elinor and me seemed to her a threat, and I noticed a marked coolness
toward me. She had a very displeased expression one day when, thinking
she was going for coffee with Elinor only, she found me at the table also.
Not long after,
when one morning I popped into my friend's office, I found her considerably
disturbed, her face, by nature even-toned, flushed and blotchy. "Elinor,
what's the matter?"
"Close the door,"
she replied. Then, when I'd done so and moved over to her desk, she spoke:
"It's Maxine; she's just been in here to accuse me of not 'supporting'
her sufficiently."
"What do you mean--what
does she mean, rather? You've been good to her all along, giving her immense
quantities of time and guidance."
"She claims that
I don't show enough interest in her work, her projects, her grant applications--that
I've been 'cold' and unfriendly. She's got in mind her recent grant application,
in particular, saying that I wasn't enthusiastic enough about it."
"That's absurd,"
I countered; "you wrote her a favorable letter of recommendation for it,
didn't you? I've heard you with her--so helpful."
"Well, and even
more, " she added, after a moment's pause, "she claims that in that draft
article of mine she read, the one she marked up, you remember, she found
some plagiarized portions. She said that I'd been a great 'disappointment'
to her." Elinor spoke as one stunned.
"For heaven's sake!"
My tone showed no doubt the annoyance I felt then and I still feel at
the very thought of an accusation of plagiarism against Elinor. "That
is preposterous-- nothing is more so! You wouldn't think of doing it!
Besides, you know more about those prints than anyone else and would have
no source to plagiarize! She's just invented that. Her accusation betrays
her, as envious or spiteful or . . . I don't know what--unbalanced?" Crazy
was the word that came to mind; then I thought of drugs, as you have to,
with anyone that age. Later it occurred to me that, setting a trap, she
might plan to publish something similar and, subsequently, assert that
Elinor had copied from her.
Ill-founded as it
was, her accusation of dishonesty in scholarship could, if she repeated
it elsewhere, bring unfortunate consequences. It's hard to prove the negative
that you haven't plagiarized; even in the absence of any plausible
source, an accuser can always find something to claim as undue "inspiration";
it would be harder yet if some pertinent paper by Maxine came out before
Elinor's research was published. Anyway, who listens to the defense--especially
when a few colleagues are frankly malicious? I wondered what Maxine would
do with her purported discovery--tell her fellow interns, report it to
a hostile staff member or to Mullins, the director, leak it out to another
museum in town or elsewhere? Meanwhile, until she graduated she would
remain a paid intern, under Elinor's supervision and mine, supposedly
working for us.
As Elinor and I talked
the matter over briefly, she added that the girl had thrown out also something
about "improper behavior . . . leading me on" or words to that effect.
That sounded worse than the rest of her complaints. She meant it, I supposed,
in strictly professional terms; but what would prevent someone from taking
it otherwise? Or maybe she had a strong schoolgirl crush on Elinor that
could lead to sexual demands and then the wildest charges. Any "harassment"
complaint was worse than an accusation of plagiarism; it could stick like
Super Glue. Whether on accusations of plagiarism or personal misconduct,
Maxine might hope to achieve Elinor's removal and then, M.A. in hand,
take her place.
Yet, to judge by
appearances, the friendly relationship between the two did not come to
an end after that episode. Maxine continued to work partly under Elinor's
supervision and maintained outwardly a courteous, even strangely warm
attitude toward her. It was as if, having positioned herself aggressively,
like a Tour de France cyclist confident in his abilities, ready to move
at some future moment into the lead, whether--in her case--by public accusations
or some sort of blackmail, she simply chose to hold her relative place
until the final spurt. Or maybe she just wanted to hurt Elinor. As far
as we knew, nothing came of the complaints, which weren't repeated around
the Institute, though we got intimations that Maxine had disseminated
her charges informally elsewhere. She dropped various hints in the hallways
about a couple of forthcoming articles, and she even asserted that a book
would be out soon, but none of us saw anything in print. After her internship
was over, she applied to stay on, but of course was not hired, since there
was really no slot for her and maybe Mullins had seen through her anyway.
She also sent out applications to galleries and museums elsewhere, including
the Art Institute in Chicago. None of them hired her either, and when
she left, she made only vague statements about opportunities somewhere--in
California, I think--the sort of phrase you devise when you want to disguise
the absence of job, or invitations, or friends.
***
So here we were, by chance, in Maxine's presence again, after some years.
Seeing her reminded me of tasting rancid olive oil. It was she, all right,
with her rather elongated face and, fittingly, her olive complexion, but
her hair, which appeared to have been lightened, had been cut short, only
one lock falling across her brow. She wore no makeup. Her outfit--a khaki-colored
trousers suit and tailored shirt--struck me as a bit severe, with no jewelry
or scarf to relieve its slightly androgynous effect. She looked older,
of course, as we must have too, and she had gained further in self-assurance,
I judged, although there was a strain of nervousness, or maybe just surprise,
in her manner. There seemed to be some other change too, a subtle one
I couldn't identify. Not quite bohemian in appearance, she yet had an
aura of . . . well, liberation. Since upon stepping out of the shadow
she was almost upon us, we couldn't avoid speaking, though we hadn't recovered
from our astonishment and, I was sure, Elinor was no more delighted than
I to find her there, suddenly.
"Maxine!" we both
exclaimed at once, while George, unacquainted with her, rose from his
chair but, instead of speaking, just stared off among the lanterns and
bodies, and Grace did nothing. Then I said something, or Elinor did, and
then I managed to add, "What a surprise to see you here. I didn't know
you were in Paris." Of course anyone in the art world might get to Paris;
it was a feeble comment. "We're here on one of our summer jaunts--Roger's
here but at a convention tonight, and Jack is back in New Orleans." Why
had I bothered to explain, I now wonder?
Rather
than posing tourist questions--When did you get here, where are you staying?--Elinor,
as though inspired, meanwhile was asking: "Do you live here--in Paris,
I mean? And do you know our host?"
At the latter question,
a bizarre expression came over the woman's face. "Yes, I know him. In
fact I live here--at this house."
We assumed what
anyone would have: that she was his girlfriend--lover, mistress, what
you will. There was more than a fifteen-year difference in age, but that
was no obstacle; what was astonishing, as Elinor and I agreed later, was
the transformation of the reserved, even priggish young graduate student
into this creature who admitted to living in the house of the hedonistic
expatriate.
What can one say
to such an announcement? "Oh," I managed to reply. Then, in a happy thought,
I added, "But I must introduce you to my friend George Clements, from
New York--a fellow art historian." I touched George's elbow then and he
obligingly turned toward us, pronouncing some formula of courtesy.
She looked him up
and down, assessing not means and breeding, as one might have in a former
time, but something else, unclear to me. I then added, "And you must meet
his wife, too, Grace Clements." Grace smiled and said a polite word or
so to acknowledge the introduction.
In a tone of indifference,
Maxine replied "Bonsoir." No special courtesy to either of them. I reflected
that she must consider her situation in Paris quite permanent; in the
past, she would have replied with interest, thinking that any fellow professional
in New York would be useful to know.
George then helped
us out by inquiring, "Are you also a museum rat, one of our fellowship
of art historians? And are you connected to a gallery here?"
Before Maxine could
frame an answer if she wished, Elinor broke in. "Maxine was with us some
years ago at the Orleanian Institute; she did an internship in print conservation
and worked with both of us." And she turned to me: "Right, Harriett?"
"Yes, but with you
especially," I confirmed. The memory of how Maxine had behaved suddenly
enraged me. I wanted to ask about those articles she'd alluded to with
such confidence; but that wasn't easy, since the ostensible topics, if
ever they'd been known to me, had slipped from my memory. But a reference
to her book wasn't impossible; charity didn't forbid it, given her treatment
of Elinor. "Tell me, Maxine, did you ever publish that book you were at
work on?" The point was made; without waiting for her answer, I rose from
the folding chair and headed toward the house, saying, "Come on, everyone,
aren't you starved? Let's hit the buffet table."
Continued
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