Free The Eleventh Year by Monique Raphel High

British and so vulnerable in its fear of appearing ridiculous. “I’d be Rosa Bonheur. I’d paint the most glorious paintings a woman could paint. But Professor Chatterton doesn’t think I have that much talent.”
    Jamie winced. Clarence Chatterton was the artist in residence at Vassar, and she thought: How horrible to have your dearest illusions crushed before you even have a chance to test them out! How dreadful to be told there isn’t enough in you.…Dr. Buck always commended Jamie, read her poems and prose pieces, critiqued them, certainly, but never without encouragement. How did one go on living when a “superior” being—one who truly possessed the talent to which you yourself were aspiring with tears of desire and frustration—informed you, point-blank, that you were never going to have it?
    â€œSo if you’re not going to be Rosa Bonheur,” she plunged in, feeling such compassion that she put forth the most positive front she could muster, “what are you going to be?” She could never recall Lesley’s expressing an enduring interest in any other subject besides art.
    Lesley looked at her gravely. “I don’t have the slightest idea.”
    Jamie was disappointed. “Then…you want to be married, I guess.”
    â€œSo far I’ve not met the man to make me think so. No, I don’t want that,” She leaned on her elbows and said, “What I’d like to do is travel! I want to see something of the world. I’ve thought, now that there’s a war on, of going to England and becoming a nurse. Or to France. There’s such a great need for nurses—for committed women—”
    â€œYou’d put yourself right into a war zone?”
    â€œWell, the boys do, don’t they, over there? My father says it won’t be that long before America has to enter into the conflict. I feel…strange about that. I don’t believe in war. But on the other hand, if the fellows are out there dying, we should also be doing our share. I mean, if we want the vote….”
    â€œNobody seems to care much about the war, here at Vassar,” Jamie reflected pensively.
    â€œNobody cares much about anything here. Except the latest movie! Sometimes I can’t stand it. Everyone wants to be just like everybody else. That’s why I like Chatterton so much. His ideas are different, and he doesn’t give a damn whether anyone agrees with them or not.”
    Jamie was silent. She was thinking of what it must mean to live in an artistic community where others shared your passions and your ideals, where convention was laid at the doorstep like a pair of shoes in front of a house in Tokyo. She said softly: “It would be wonderful to travel. Not to be in the United States.”
    â€œMy father claims it’s the only free country in the world. I don’t agree.”
    Jamie was remembering Willy. “I had a friend in Cincinnati,” she murmured, “who was of German descent. His mother was an immigrant. They all made fun of her accent. He was as American as you or I—but not American enough.”
    Lesley asked, “Was this someone special?”
    â€œVery special. He was my brother—my first love. He’s bitter because he’s never been treated with any decency. He was born illegitimate.”
    â€œAnd he wanted to marry you?”
    â€œYes. But I didn’t think it would work. There’s so much I want to do, and he saw life as encompassed by our home town. He never wanted me to go to college.”
    â€œWould you want children, some day?”
    â€œHow can I tell? I don’t see myself tied down, but then perhaps that’s because of Willy. Married to Willy, I wouldn’t have had any other options. He’s the type of man who’d get a job somewhere, earn his weekly salary, come home, eat his dinner, read his paper, make love, and go to sleep snoring. I’d