The Hired Girl(24)

I never meant to eat in the dining car, because I didn’t know what it might cost. But the man was so nice, and so sure that I would follow him, that I had to go. I didn’t think I could eat a morsel. But the dining car was so splendid that I forgot my melancholy. The table linen was milky white and starched, and the silverware shone like the harvest moon. A waiter saw me and held out my chair as if I was a lady. On the table was a thick glass goblet filled with ice water, and a little bowl full of butter, and a vase with a pink rosebud. And I smelled ham broiling, and my stomach growled with hunger.

So I unfolded the menu — it was beautiful creamy paper, engraved with black. I almost fainted when I saw the prices. Ham and eggs was sixty cents! — with eggs only nine cents a dozen! The train people ought to be ashamed of themselves, asking for that. At first I thought I should just order dry toast (ten cents) because that was the cheapest thing on the menu, and then I thought I’d order buttered toast (fifteen), but then I just threw caution to the wind and ordered everything I wanted. I don’t know what Ma would think of me, wasting a whole dollar on breakfast. I don’t know what got into me. I was just so hungry and shaky and scared and dazzled that I couldn’t think straight.

I guess the truth was that I wanted it — not just the broiled ham, but the thrill of sitting in that big, bright place, with a pink rose on my table. So I ordered. Afterward, I felt terribly guilty and a little scared by the way I was throwing money away, but much more cheerful. While I waited for breakfast, I watched the world dashing by. How beautiful it was! — fields golden with wheat, or green with corn, and overhead the clouds all white and fleecy, like a flock of new-bathed sheep. And the sky — oh, I don’t think the almanac can be right; the sky was so gloriously blue that it must have forgotten all about rain.

When breakfast came, it was delicious and I ate every forkful. I had grapefruit, which was cold and sour, but I never tasted it before and I wanted to see what it was like. And I had buckwheat cakes with maple syrup, and a thick slice of broiled ham, and coffee, because Father never lets me have coffee, and I thought a stimulant might be good for my spirits. At first I found it so bitter that I couldn’t think why anyone likes it. But I put in milk until it was white, and three spoonfuls of sugar, and after that I found it very palatable. I drank the whole pot. I believe it is a stimulant, for I felt much livelier afterward.

When I arrived in Philadelphia, I bought my ticket to Baltimore, and I went to the ladies’ room to turn into a lady. I put on my long dress and fastened up my hair. Then I looked for an unobtrusive place to wait — they have a special room just for ladies — but before I reached it, I came across the most striking piece of artwork I’ve ever seen in my life.

It’s a piece of sculpture, the kind of sculpture that’s fixed to the wall, but some of the figures stick out. It’s called The Spirit of Transportation. I don’t think it’s made of marble because it isn’t shiny, but it is magnificent in every way, and I’m sure it can hold its own with the great works of Classical Antiquity — say, the Parthenon, which I’ve seen through the stereopticon at Miss Chandler’s. I can’t believe that the artist was able to make such a fine piece of work about something as dull as transportation. The central figure is a beautiful lady in a chariot — I think she’s Transportation — and her chariot is drawn by four horses, all with arched necks and muscular, prancing legs. On the far right are some little cupid babies holding models — a steamboat and a train and something else that looks a little like a fish, which I suppose might be an airship. And behind the chariot there is a man who seems to be having trouble with his oxen, and alongside the chariot there is a kind of fairy maiden in a ball gown, who looks admiringly at The Spirit of Transportation.

I quite lost myself, gazing at this work of art. I longed for Miss Chandler, that I might discuss it with her. It surprised me that a great many people rushed by this noble sculpture without a second glance. Of course they had to catch their trains, but here was an opportunity to look at a work of art — it was nothing less; it was a work of art — and they were missing it.

It thrilled me, that sculpture. For one thing, it reminded me that in my new life, I may have other such experiences. I needn’t always be an ignorant girl. The world will offer itself to me like a chalice brimming with immortal wine, and I will quaff from it. Perhaps in Baltimore I will find galleries and libraries — and attend concerts, and go to the theater! I think I’d like to see a Russian ballet. And as I thought over these things, and gazed at the sculpture, I began to fancy that I was the lady in the chariot — that somehow the sculpture was about me and my life. Of course that sounds conceited, but Miss Chandler says that great works of art are universal, and in them we behold our everyday struggles and homely joys.