The Hired Girl (19 page)

I didn’t listen to her as closely as I might’ve, because I was wondering what else Mr. Rosenbach might have said about me. I know he likes me, and I think Mr. Rosenbach is a
little
bit like Mr. Rochester. I even wondered (though I know this is conceited) if he might have been struck by me the way Mr. Rochester was struck by Jane. Jane wasn’t good-looking, but she was pure and innocent and all that. I started to daydream about Mr. Rosenbach being touched by my purity, but the daydream ran into a snag, because I don’t feel very pure. I
am
pure, mostly, because to be impure there have to be men, but I don’t
feel
pure because of all the things I’ve had to clean in my life. Things like privies and chicken houses take the bloom off a girl.

By the time Mimi finished telling me her troubles, we had arrived at the department store. I’ve never been inside a department store before. There was a fine store in Lancaster called Watt & Shand, but Ma said Father would skin us alive if we ever went in. I believe Rosenbach’s is larger and more beautiful — I think I’ll describe it at length in a future entry. It’s like a palace, with high ceilings and electric lights and glass-fronted cases full of dazzling things. Everything is so shiny and sumptuous and new smelling.

We went first to the book department, to Mimi’s disgust. I searched for
Daniel Deronda,
but I didn’t find it. The sales clerk is going to order a copy. I did find a copy of
Jane Eyre,
and it was the same edition Miss Chandler gave me. I had to buy it — I
just
had to — even though it was three dollars. I’ve missed Jane dreadfully, and I’ve missed the feeling of owning a book. Not having any books makes me feel empty and strained and pathetic.

So I bought
Jane Eyre,
and after that we went and bought my hat. By then Mimi’s good humor was restored, because she loves shopping. She bought new hair ribbons and a bottle of lilac perfume and a little parasol with fringe. She was so cunning in the hat department, trying on all the hats, and standing way back from the mirror to admire each one. She told me she’s made up her mind to run the store when she grows up, instead of being a concert pianist. Her father once told her she could be a lady doctor if she liked, and selling things is easier than saving lives, so she supposes it will be all right.

She was the one who found the Cheyenne-style hat for me and made me buy it. Afterward, I wanted to see if there were any nightgowns I could afford, because I only have the one, and Malka says it’s a
shmatte.
She says that about my underthings, too. I asked Mimi what it meant, and she says it means a
rag.

I’d already spent four dollars and seventy cents, so I wasn’t in a hurry to separate myself from any more money. But the idea that all my things were
shmatte
s
stung. Mimi took me to the nightgown counter and showed me an entire outfit of ladies’ underthings — two corset covers, two petticoats, two pairs of drawers, and two nightgowns — all for four dollars and fifty cents. She said I should buy the entire outfit. Then I wouldn’t have to wear the
shmatte
s
.

I was torn in two. Four dollars and fifty cents is an awful price. But when Mimi added up what the things would cost if I bought them separately — she’s quick as a bird when she adds in her head — the price was even higher. Of course, the cheapest thing would be for me to buy muslin and make the things myself, but it would take hours, and they wouldn’t have any lace or ruffles on them. And the hours would be hours I could spend reading.

The truth is, I felt this wild longing to have nothing but new clothes. I wanted them right away: crisp, clean, fresh things, all the way down to my skin. I lost my head. When I put down my money, my hand was shaking, but I bought the outfit.

While the saleslady was wrapping everything in tissue paper, Mimi jogged my elbow and said, “Look, that’s Nora Himmelrich!” and I turned and saw the girl who captured Mr. Solomon’s heart.

It was almost a shock, because I’d imagined her wrong. I thought she would be tall and slender and haughty. But this girl was like a girl on a Valentine: fresh and soft and sweet as a puppy. She has fawn-colored curls and big brown eyes and pink cheeks. She looks like the kind of girl who would teach Sunday school — the children would all fall in love with her, but she wouldn’t be able to get them to behave.

What she
doesn’t
look like is the kind of girl who would break Solomon Rosenbach’s heart.

Mimi introduced me with her usual aplomb: “This is Janet, our new hired girl. It’s her afternoon off. She’s eighteen, too.”

I could see that Miss Himmelrich was taken aback, being introduced to the hired girl. She looked at me anxiously. Then she put out her hand, and said, “How nice of you to spend your day off giving Mimi a treat!”

She smiled at me. Of course she has dimples. I could tell she meant to be friendly, but she was nervous, and so was I. I’ve never met an heiress before. I said, “It’s nice of Mimi to show me around. I’ve never been in a department store until today.”

“Really?” she said breathlessly. “Do you like it?”

“I certainly do,” I said, and I guess that broke the ice, because we laughed.

After that, we were almost like three girls together — I mean, three girls the same age. It was such fun, going through the store and pointing out things we admired, and giggling together. Nora — I mean, Miss Himmelrich — saw my hatbox, and Mimi made me open the box and try on my hat for her. Miss Himmelrich says my eyes are the same color as the cornflowers. That is the prettiest compliment I ever had. I always thought I had
plain
blue eyes, but maybe I was mistaken. At any rate, it’s astounding what a difference a good hat makes.

Then Nora said she wanted a new hat, too, so we went back to the hat department to help her choose. She bought a five-dollar hat covered with pink roses, not a bit nicer than mine, I thought. The store was warm, and Mimi announced that she wanted an egg cream, and we went to the soda fountain across the street. There isn’t any egg, or any cream, in an egg cream. There’s fizzy water, a little bit salty, chocolate syrup, and milk. I don’t think I ever tasted anything better. I felt so happy and festive.

Afterward I thought a good deal about Nora Himmelrich and Mr. Solomon. I see now that Mr. Solomon would never have done for me: he’s too old, for one thing, and too tame for my impetuous nature. But he and Nora might be very happy together. And perhaps I could help him to win his true love. Sooner or later, I’m bound to see Nora again, and perhaps I can persuade her to confide in me. I could tell her what a true gentleman Mr. Solomon is, and how he rescued me, and how he always wipes his feet before he comes into the house. Or perhaps I could carry messages between them; that would be very romantic.

At any rate, I hereby renounce all claims to Mr. Solomon myself. And if there is any way I can help him to prosper in his suit, I vow I will do it.

Monday, July the twenty-fourth, 1911

It’s a hundred and two degrees today. Last night the attic was so stifling that I slept on the library sofa, which was probably taking a liberty of some kind. Luckily no one found me out, because I woke before dawn and crept back to my own bed.

I’m in a bad mood because of Mrs. Rosenbach. She’s still after those oyster patties for her bridge ladies. Last week she made Malka go to the market on Lexington Street and talk to the fish seller, who’s a Gentile. He said he didn’t get much in the way of oysters this time of year, and frankly, ma’am, he didn’t recommend them, not in this heat. Malka was triumphant. This morning, when we went upstairs to discuss the week’s meals, Malka told Mrs. Rosenbach what the fish seller said, but I don’t think Mrs. Rosenbach believed her. Mrs. Rosenbach thinks Malka won’t serve the oysters because they’re
treif
— which is true. But Malka wasn’t lying about what the fish man said, and I spoke up and said so.

They argued back and forth about what to give the bridge ladies. Malka suggested a nice cold chicken salad, but Mrs. R. said she was tired of nice cold chicken salad. So I said if she was tired of Jewish food, I could fry up some pork chops. The
look
she gave me! Malka, too! It was as if I’d proposed to give the bridge ladies
a
dead man’s hand,
or some kind of cannibal feast — though that is the sort of metaphor that Miss Chandler never favored. She once told me that my metaphors were too forceful and that I should try to quiet them down.

At any rate, it seems that some
treif
— like oyster patties — is less
treif-y
than other
treif,
and pork chops are completely
treif
and repulsive to both Malka and Mrs. R. I am calling her Mrs. R. because she hurt my feelings and I begrudge her the dignity of her full name. She was very cool and superior. She began by saying that if I wanted to be a good servant, I must learn not to put myself forward so much. And I mustn’t interrupt.

I said, “I’m sorry, ma’am,” but that wasn’t the end of it, because she said she’d been meaning to speak to me. She was pleased by my efforts to improve my personal appearance, and she hoped I would take equal pains with my
deportment.
It seems that my
deportment
does not please her. She says I walk with too much bounce, and my strides are too long, and I shouldn’t swing my hands. She wants me to keep my hands hanging limp at my sides when I walk — not
stiff,
you understand, but relaxed. And she wants me to talk in a softer voice, more
subdued.
Especially when there are guests.

I could feel my cheeks burning. It was like the day Miss Lang spoke to me about not being fresh in my person. I felt ashamed, even though I haven’t failed in any of my duties. When you’ve done something wrong, you expect to be scolded, though you dread it, and you feel sore afterward. But if you’ve done your best, and someone rebukes you, it’s worse. I thought Mrs. Rosenbach liked me. But now I see she’s like the girls at school and thinks of me as a big, clumsy ox.

While I was still reeling from her insults, she said that Mr. Rosenbach had invited me to join the family for Shabbos dinner this week. He told her I’d been asking questions about Judaism, so he wanted me to be present. It took some of the blush from my cheek to know that Mr. Rosenbach still likes me.

On the way down to the kitchen, I started to cry. I couldn’t help it; I think it was partly the heat. Malka caught me at it, and it was no good telling her I had a cold. That’s a funny thing: people in books are always saying they have colds when they’re really crying, but having a cold and crying are two separate things, and I don’t know why people in books haven’t noticed this. In real life, no one would fall for such a weak lie.

At any rate, Malka didn’t. But she was nice and said she doesn’t know what gets into the mistress sometimes. Usually on Mondays I give the kitchen floor a good scrubbing, but today Malka said it would be good enough if I just mopped it. I had a feeling she was more interested in talking about Mrs. Rosenbach than in having a clean floor. She poured out two glasses of cold lemonade, and we settled down in the cozy corner and she told me about some of the times when Mrs. R. hurt
her
feelings. Of course I’ve heard some of those stories before, because Malka likes to tell them and relive how indignant she was.

After a little of that, Malka asked me if there was any particular reason why Mrs. R. might have been so chilly with me. At first I couldn’t think of one, but then I told her — Malka, I mean — about going with Mimi to Rosenbach’s Department Store. Malka exclaimed in Yiddish and said
of course,
that was what was the matter. She said no lady would want her daughter going out in public with the hired girl. She seemed to think I was crazy not to have known this.

I guess I was crazy. But the Rosenbachs seem so nice — at least, Mr. Rosenbach is nice and Mimi and Mr. Solomon. It didn’t occur to me that they’d look down on me for being the hired girl. The truth is, most of the time, I don’t think of myself as the hired girl. I think of myself as somebody
disguised
as the hired girl. After all, I’m not going to be a servant all my life. It’s temporary. At some point I’m going to get an education and become a schoolteacher, just as Ma planned.

It isn’t as if I was born to be a servant. Heaven knows Father’s a miserly man, but he owns his own land and has no debts except the mortgage; he’s no one’s servant but his own. And besides, this is America, and if Mimi doesn’t mind going out with me, why shouldn’t I go with her?

Friday, July the twenty-eighth, 1911

Thanks to Mr. Rosenbach, I have attended Shabbos! It was a
mitzvah
— that means a
good deed
— for him to invite me. Until tonight, I almost felt as if I knew more about Shabbos than Mr. Rosenbach; I don’t mean the holy parts of Shabbos, but the unreligious parts, like cooking and cleaning the house. There’s a lot of work preparing for Shabbos, and most of it is women’s work. The men do only the holy parts: the praying and going to temple.

Now I’ve seen how the holy parts and the women’s parts fit together, like two clasped hands. I think that’s a good simile. Two other metaphors for Shabbos are the
Bride
and the
Queen.

I just stopped writing this in order to examine the sole of my foot. The toe of my stocking has a hole in it, and it’s been driving me crazy all day. The hole kept lassoing my big toe and strangling it, and there was no time for me to unlace my shoe and fix it. Then the wrinkled part of the stocking crawled under the ball of my foot and made a blister. I really need new stockings, but I haven’t recovered from all the money I spent last week. But I shouldn’t be writing this, because talking about money on Shabbos is forbidden, and even though I’m not Jewish, I feel a little bit holy.

Just before sundown this evening, I ran upstairs and put on my robin’s-egg dress for Shabbos dinner; you’re supposed to look nicer than usual on Shabbos. Malka lent me an ugly little brooch made to look like a bunch of grapes, so I could look more dressed up. For once my hair went up perfectly, and I didn’t have to cover it with a cap, because I was a guest.