The Hired Girl (33 page)

He found out my day off.
“Yes, but —” I thought of my Tuesday instruction. I’d told Father Horst that I might not always be able to meet him, because of Mrs. Rosenbach’s bridge ladies. If I saw him after Mass, I could tell him that the Rosenbachs need me to work this Tuesday. (As a matter of fact, that’s what I did tell him. It wasn’t a complete lie, because David’s a Rosenbach, and sitting for a portrait is a kind of work, but it’s more lie than truth. I’d say it’s about ninety-five percent lie. Sweet Mother of God, I’ve lied to a
priest
!)

I wavered. “I guess I could see you Tuesday.”

“You’re a peach!” he said, and he let out his breath as if he’d been holding it. “Thank you, Janet — I’m truly grateful.” He came straight to me, bowed in the most courtly way, and handed back my missal. “I’ll walk you to church.”

That rattled me, because I hadn’t expected it. “No, don’t,” I said hastily. “There isn’t time. I’m going to be late. I have to run —”

Then I did run, or I walked so fast that it wasn’t dignified. I felt like a branch that had been snatched from the burning.

I got to Mass in the nick of time. I wanted to pray
hard,
but I couldn’t keep my thoughts away from David. I was afraid God would be furious with me, because I’m going to miss instruction two weeks in a row. And I was plotting to deceive a priest. I don’t believe even the Blessed Mother could have any patience with that. Finally I remembered what Father Horst said and just begged God for mercy and forgiveness.

For a few moments after that, I felt at peace. But then thoughts of David filled my mind again. I’ve spent this whole day in a daze, and now I’m waiting. I told David I’m in the library most nights; he might not have known it before, but he knows it now. He
might
stop by after the dance and look in on me and say hello. It would just be friendliness, but he
is
friendly. There wouldn’t be anything improper, because I’m not in my nightgown. I changed into my blue dress, the one that doesn’t have the chalk stains.

But he hasn’t come. Oh, he
won’t
come! It will be Tuesday before I talk to him again. All the same, he
might
come back from the Phoenix Club and see the light under the library door. He hasn’t come home yet. I’d have heard him. So he might still come.

I wish I’d let him walk to church with me.

I keep thinking of that moment when he said he wasn’t flirting, but then he said he was, because he couldn’t help it. Does that mean he can’t help flirting with anybody, or just with me? He remembered to buy me a sketchbook, and he knows my day off. . . . But then I imagine him dancing at the Phoenix Club — there will be society girls there, dressed in silk and lace, pretty girls with tiny waists and soft white hands. And I want to laugh scornfully — imagine thinking that David Rosenbach might be interested in me!

And just how old is that fashionable lady, Madame Marechaux?

It’s getting late. My hand aches from writing. Tomorrow the Ladies’ Sewing Society is coming: luncheon for ten. Malka says it’s one thing to cook for the bridge ladies, because they want to eat quickly and get back to their cards, but the sewing ladies are sewing for charity. They take their time eating, and they like a substantial meal.

I’m sleepy and I ought to go to bed.

I might as well go to bed.

I’ll wait another five minutes, and if he still hasn’t come, I’ll go to bed.

Tuesday, September the twelfth, 1911

Oh, what a day I’ve had! I don’t believe any girl ever spent a more beautiful afternoon, even with the rain — and indeed, the rain turned out to be one of the best parts! I want nothing more than to wield my pen and relive it all. No. One thing more I want: for the library door to open and for David to come in. But I must not be greedy; my cup of happiness is full.

Everything went well today. To begin with, Malka let me off early. She saw me rushing through the lunch dishes and said she’d rather do them herself and save the china. Dear, good, grumbly Malka! I flew upstairs and changed into my suit. I wish I’d worn my lacy waist instead of the plain one, but how was I to know the delights that lay in store for me?

The day was overcast, which was a disappointment, because David wanted me in dappled sunlight, like a woman in an Impressionist painting. David has told me all about the Impressionists, who are modern. He says they’re as good as the Old Masters any day, but they aren’t much appreciated because some of them are still alive, and the ones that are dead aren’t dead
enough.
I like a man who can make me laugh.

We went to the park and David posed me beneath a tree and told me to look rapt. Then he sat on the grass and sketched furiously. From time to time, he consulted his watch. After a little while, he said I could pin up my hair, because it was time to go.

I was disappointed, because I’d hoped we’d be together all afternoon. Only then, David gave me a great mischievous grin and asked me when was the last time I’d been inside a theater. I had to admit I’d
never
been inside a theater, and he said in that case I’d better hurry, because the opera started at two, and he wouldn’t miss taking me for a farm.

An opera! I was so excited that my hands were all thumbs and I couldn’t manage my hair. But David said it looked fine. We ran to catch the streetcar. All the while, I was thinking,
An opera, an opera! I’m going to the opera, and David Rosenbach is taking me!

Actually, it wasn’t a whole opera I was going to see but what’s called a
cabinet opera.
David explained it to me: there would be only a few singers, in costume, and they would sing the finest airs from
La Traviata.
There would be scenery, but no ballet and no big choruses. David said he’d set his heart on taking me to the theater, but there isn’t much playing on Tuesday afternoons. Luckily the Columbia Parnassus Touring Company is at the Academy of Music for a week, and they do Tuesday and Wednesday matinees. David said he had a hunch that I’d like the opera better than an ice-cream soda.

Wasn’t that beautiful of him? I do think David Rosenbach is the kindest, most agreeable, most gallant man I ever met. To think of him working out in his head what I’d like best, and guessing right, too! Why, it beats everything I ever heard. I almost feel worshipful when I think of it. I try not to feel too worshipful, though, because I think it’s bad when girls think too highly of the men. It’s more suitable when the men worship the ladies.

On the streetcar, David started to tell me about the opera. He explained that
traviata
is Italian for
lost,
because Violetta, the heroine, is a lost woman. I asked how she got lost, and he said that Violetta had abandoned herself to a life of giddy pleasures. I said that didn’t sound too bad to me, which made David laugh. Just then an elderly lady got onto the streetcar. She wasn’t at all well dressed, poor thing, but David got right up and gave her his seat. That shows how chivalrous he is. But it meant we couldn’t talk anymore until we got to the Academy of Music.

I was tremendously excited, but a little bit scared, too. I wasn’t sure I was dressed fine enough for the theater, and I don’t know what Mrs. Rosenbach would say about me going to the opera with her son. And though I knew that Grand Opera must be the very summit of culture and refinement, I was just a little bit scared that I wouldn’t like it. Miss Chandler once saw a Grand Opera called
Norma,
and it was four hours long and there wasn’t a word of English in it. She said it was very edifying.

The Academy of Music is a very imposing building, red-brick trimmed with sandstone. It has a mansard roof, which is French — David told me there was an architect named François Mansart, which is how the roof got its name. David knows so much about everything. He took me inside, and oh, how I wished I’d worn the fancy waist! It was like fairyland, with marble floors and lofty ceilings and two majestic staircases — two carriages could drive up those staircases side by side, that’s how wide they are. There was a crystal chandelier, and velvet draperies, and exquisite paintings of nymphs and muses and little rosy cherubs with wreaths in their hands. David called the cherubs
putti,
which is Italian for
little artistic babies.

Most of the ladies present were better dressed than I was. But there were a few that were in suits, so I didn’t feel too bad. I was so awed by the grandeur around me, I was afraid I was gawking like a country bumpkin. So I lowered my eyes and tried to act nonchalant. I think David read my mind, because he murmured into my ear that the privilege of looking around the theater was included in the price of the ticket. He led me over to the frescoes and started telling me about the Greek gods and Muses and the parts where the flesh tones had been well painted. I blushed a little because some of those nymphs didn’t have too much on. It seemed funny to be looking at them with a man. But Miss Chandler says the ancient Greeks thought the unclothed form was beautiful, and there can be nothing vulgar or unchaste in the world of fine art.

Our seats were close to the stage. David bought me a libretto, a little pamphlet that explained the story and translated the Italian. I read it, and what I caught on to was that Violetta’s giddy pleasures weren’t what I’d thought they were. She wasn’t just frivolous. She was wanton and depraved, like Céline Varens in
Jane Eyre.
That was how she made her living. I guess she couldn’t be a hired girl because she had consumption.

When the music began, it was soft and mournful, almost as if you were in a sickroom and shouldn’t wake the patient. I found it beautiful, but I was worried the whole opera might be slow and soft like that. I think my tastes in music are unrefined, because I like fast music better than slow music. Of course you can’t have a tragedy with frisky music. But just as I was thinking that, the music became merry and skittish, and the curtain rose.

There were three gentlemen in black frock coats, and two ladies in hoopskirts with ringlets falling over their bare shoulders, and earrings in their ears and fans in their hands. I guess hoopskirts are nonsensical, but I should dearly like to wear one, because they make your waist look small. And oh, the scenery! On one side of the stage there was a little garden, with roses ambling up trellises, and a fountain that spouted real water. But most of the stage was like a ballroom, with sconces and candles, and mirrors and little fragile gilded chairs. There was a long rose-colored couch, which Violetta used when she had to faint. She fainted very gracefully. Her step would falter, and she’d sidle over to the couch. Then her whole body would droop, and she would tumble onto the rose-colored silk. It was awfully effective. I tried fainting onto Mr. Rosenbach’s couch, but I was like a load of bricks being dumped from a wheelbarrow.

When the people first sang, I didn’t know if I liked it or not. The men’s voices were as strong as a team of horses, and the women sang like wrens: shrill and tight and complicated. The acting wasn’t like real people, either; the men pumped their arms up and down, and raised their eyebrows, and the ladies rolled their eyes and fluttered their fans. It took some getting used to.

But then the shortest, stoutest man — he played Alfredo — began to sing a song called “One Day a Rapture”— that’s what it would be in English, but he sang it in Italian, which is better. Violetta was languishing on the sofa after an attack of coughing. He seized her hand and sang about the love that palpitates throughout the whole universe. He sang
misterioso,
which I knew must mean
mysterious.
And he said his love was rapture, rapture and torment. The significance of those words — the way the tune explained them — gave me a thrill like nothing I’ve ever known. I understood then that it wasn’t the libretto that told the story of the opera. It was the music, the way it yearned and swelled — the suspense and depth and mystery of those sounds. At that moment, I knew I loved Grand Opera. I felt those notes in the very fibers of my soul.

When Violetta sang, I began to see why she was twittering like a wren when you get too near its nest. She was afraid of love, as if it were a wave that could drown her. But she desired it, too: the love that palpitates through the whole universe. How could she resist it? Alfredo’s love was
true,
pure love, unlike anything she’d ever known. So of course his love conquered her, and he took her to the side of the stage with the trellises and the fountain. That was the country.

Once the lovers were in the country, it seemed like things were going to work out. Violetta’s consumption got better. Her love was as pure and true as Alfredo’s. She would never have forsaken him, and he would never have betrayed her. But then Alfredo’s father came to visit and he was as cruel as mine, maybe even worse, because Father’s no hypocrite. Alfredo’s father was the kind who acts pious. He told Violetta she must make a
sacrificio
and give up Alfredo, because the way they were living together, without being married, was a scandal. (I don’t know why Alfredo didn’t marry Violetta. But he didn’t.)

Now, if Alfredo’s father had come to me, I’d have sent him away with a flea in his ear. But Violetta had a tender conscience, because of having been depraved so long. Once Alfredo’s father convinced her it would be best for Alfredo if she left him, she couldn’t stand it: she had to make the
sacrificio.
She left the country and went back to her life of giddy pleasures in the ballroom.

That’s when I started crying. I knew it wasn’t going to go well after that. It seemed so tragic that this poor sick girl had found true love, only to lose it again. I knew it would kill her, and it did.

After the intermission, Violetta came back onstage in the most glorious black dress. It had jet beads on it and black rosebuds and lace around the shoulders. I wish I had a dress like that. Alfredo came to the ballroom and reviled Violetta in front of all the guests, because he thought she was untrue to him. She swooned and fainted dead away on the sofa. By that time, I’d soaked my handkerchief, and David had to give me his.