“Sort of. My father works at the cannery in Southwest Harbor. James Concord? But I grew up with my mother in Ohio. I like it here, though.”
“And are you working in the library full-time?”
“I am! I’m so excited! To be around books all the time? It was my dream, and it came true.”
That can’t be too difficult an ambition to fulfill, especially in a small town, where not everyone wants to be a librarian, but I smiled and agreed. “Have you learned the inventory yet?”
“No, not. But I am aware of all the categories. How may I help?”
I described my needs in some detail. She took on my request with the authority of her position, and we headed for the art books and carried a few over to a table. We rifled the pages until we found three good landscape paintings, and then spread the books open and studied the reproductions.
“Daunting,” I said. “I have no idea how to paint trees in perspective.”
She sympathized. “The last time I tried a tree at all was in second grade, a straight line and a ball of scribbles on top.”
I laughed. “Oh, I did that, too.”
“I guess everyone goes through that stage. I’ll leave you to your work, Miss Lee. Call me if you need me.”
“You can stay.” That was impulsive, but she had one of your qualities. Your thin fingers.
We looked at the books together, admiring the paintings, talking quietly in a library hush even though no one else was there. We speculated about how leaves were painted. This sparked a memory, and I told her the story. It’s not one of my happiest, and I hadn’t thought of it in a long time. I told the whole thing to Karen, pent-up speech tumbling out. “There was a girl in my class who knew how to draw trees with far more technique than anyone else. Her work looked like a real tree. I went home that night and practiced how I’d seen her do it until I drew a tree that also was far more artistic and suggestive of real nature than my usual straight line with the scribble on top. During the next art class, I drew my version of what I’d learned from copying her. She looked across the table at what I was doing and ran for the teacher. Look, look, Agnes stole my tree! The teacher looked at her drawing, then at mine. The similarity was undeniable. The teacher said, ‘She copied you. She knows you did it first. Don’t you, Agnes?’ I nodded. The girl wasn’t mollified, and made the point, accurately, that we’d been taught we weren’t allowed to copy. ‘You aren’t allowed to copy in some classes,’ the teacher said, ‘but artists learn by copying. It’s a compliment.’？”
“Did the girl understand that?” Karen asked.
“No. She only knew she’d been the best until I came along and copied her tree. I only knew that what she made was prettier than what I made, and I wanted to do that, too. The teacher settled it by saying I’d done nothing wrong. It was normal to learn by imitation, and art had always depended for progress on the admiration of one artist for another. She told the other girl to draw a few of her realistic trees and she’d hang an exhibit for Father’s Day.”
“Did that end it?”
Astute Karen Concord!
“No, she confronted me at lunch and accused me of being jealous.”
“You weren’t jealous?”
“No! I’m not a jealous person.”
“That’s good. I don’t know if I am or not, I’ve never really had reason to be.”
“Actually, I suppose I haven’t either.”
“I learned how to draw a horse from a book,” Karen said.
“Show me.”
She crossed to the desk for supplies. The library was pleasant on a cool afternoon. Out the window, sun-struck leaf dust turned to gold. When she came back, I gave a particularly interested and expectant smile. Poor little mouse.
“It’s very easy,” she said, “just a series of lines. The nose is a triangle.…” She drew slowly, so I could follow. When she pushed the paper and pencil over to me, I realized she was making up for the girl at school. An uncanny empathy. I tried but couldn’t replicate her animated creature. I have drawn about thirty horses this evening!
We went back to looking at the art books, and I was faced with no clear solutions. Some trees were drawn meticulously, while others were rendered as dots of color that nevertheless made effective impressions. Karen returned to her post at the desk, and I stayed at the table for quite some time, puzzling out the problem, with no real luck.
I took the books out, and a couple of novels.
“It was nice to talk to you, Miss Lee.”
“It was nice for me, too, Karen. Please call me Agnes.”
“Thank you.”
I turned to go.
“Miss Lee… I wonder if…”
She hesitated. I was curious.
“I wonder if the next time you come, you might recommend some books for me to read. I want to go to college. But I don’t think I know enough to even apply.”
“Surely you can go to the campus in Bangor.”
“Yes.” She nodded thoughtfully, hesitating. She is young, and still equates trust with sharing a confidence. I watched her deciding whether or not to tell me a secret.
“I want to go to Radcliffe,” she said.
“Radcliffe!” I showed my own hand with that outburst, but I was too startled to hide my surprise.
“It’s the best school for girls, isn’t it?”
I recovered rapidly. “Yes, it’s considered one of the best. It’s very difficult to get in to.” Was I protecting her, or dubious of her ability?
She nodded, modest yet intractable. “I’ve heard that. That’s why I need help.” She looked at me. “I need a list of books that I should read. Books that girls who go to Radcliffe would have read by the time they get there.”
“Of course.” Why not? She may as well try. Someone has to go to Radcliffe. Not me—I would never have left Philadelphia for Boston. Penn was fine. You may have done better by going to Bryn Mawr, away from boys. I learned my lesson!
At home, I set the heavy art books on the dining room table, our same old Philadelphia Chippendale, El. I haven’t yet jettisoned it, because in size and sturdiness it’s useful. Mrs. Circumstance shines it so brightly I can see myself in it, and when I laid the books out next to each other, they threw reflections out to their sides, and the wood swam with color. The sensation of moving light was abetted, as always during the hours of lowering sun, by the rainbows thrown from the crystal pendants dangling from the candlesticks.
Is Nan short for Eleanor?
Dear Elspeth,
Children find a chink and creep in.
This morning, even before I heard her footsteps, I sensed her coming. A vibration in the ether preceded her.
The door opened and shut. I was practicing my drawing at the dining room table, pencils and paper spread out voluptuously. I continued working, but tracked her movements by sound through the rooms. She now has the confidence of the familiar, and walks around the first floor as if she grew up here. I don’t warn her, as I was so often admonished, against the possibility of hurting herself or breaking this or that. What does it matter if she breaks something, compared to her feeling as though she belongs?