The Hired Girl (38 page)

She flicked a hidden spring and the magnifying glass sprang apart, making two glasses with a bridge in between. She let the bridge rest lightly on her nose, like a butterfly. “It’s a lorgnette,” she explained. “I made Papa buy it for me, so that when I go to parties I don’t look like a dowd. It’s nice, isn’t it, the way it springs apart? I’ve been practicing with it.” She tilted it coquettishly.

I applauded.

“I bet I’ll be the only girl at school with a lorgnette,” Mimi said. “Papa says I should save it for parties, but it’s too good to save. I have a new dress for Rosh Hashanah, white with white lace. Do you want to see it?”

Of course I’d seen it, because I’d ironed it. It took a good half hour to iron, because it’s so delicate; I had to iron it under a cloth. But I didn’t mention that, because I didn’t want to take the bloom off our forgiveness. Mimi explained why her dress was better than the one Maisie Phillips wore to the last school exhibition. It seems that where frills are involved, Maisie doesn’t know when to
stop.

After we exhausted that subject, Mimi brought up another. “You got in trouble,” she said as if she relished my disgrace. “With Oskar. I heard Mama telling Papa about it.”

So Mrs. Rosenbach told her husband. “What did he say?”

“He said
oy,
” Mimi said succinctly. “But it’s all right. He wasn’t as mad as Mama was, and Anna likes you because you let her take a nap.”

I was glad of this, though I still think of Anna as a dull sort of person. Perhaps she wouldn’t be so dull if she had more sleep. I sympathize with her because I can’t sleep either. I lie awake at night and think of David and imagine all sorts of things. But I don’t get to sleep until nearly dawn, and then I can’t get up. I feel so groggy and woolly-headed.

But tomorrow is Thursday, and on Friday, David comes!

Thursday, September the twenty-first, 1911

David’s back, and a day early. I was trying to make aspic from Malka’s pitiful little tomatoes when I heard the front door open. I heard his footsteps and his voice. There’s no voice like David’s.

I was wild to see him, but I couldn’t show it, because Malka was right at my elbow. Presently Mrs. Rosenbach came down and told us there would be five for dinner. I hastened upstairs to lay the fifth place, hoping to catch a glimpse of David, but he’d gone to his room to change. Once the supper dishes were done, I prayed that Malka would nod off with the cat on her lap, but she stayed in the kitchen, planning and replanning the menus for Shabbos. After about a century, she went to bed.

I dashed upstairs to find David. He wasn’t in the library or the parlor, but I’d listened all evening, and I hadn’t heard him leave the house. I was afraid it might seem indelicate to go to his room, but I couldn’t help myself. First I redid my hair. Then I took an armful of clean sheets and pillowcases from the linen closet, in case Mr. Rosenbach or Mr. Solomon saw me. Malka or Mrs. Rosenbach wouldn’t be fooled; they’d know David’s sheets were clean, but men never know about sheets.

I knocked very softly.

“Come in!”

He was lying down with his clothes on — he hadn’t taken off his boots, and the bedspread was sullied. Even though I’m deeply, ardently in love, I felt a flash of pure vexation. The carelessness of men, and the dirt! If Malka sees those boot scuffs, she’ll make me get the summer spread out of the cedar chest, and that means more ironing. But the flash didn’t last long: David got to his feet and tucked in his shirttail. The way he moves — the easy muscles in his shoulders, the way his face went from sleepy to alert — I felt myself tense and melt at the same time. “What is it?” he asked absently.

I set the bed linens on the dresser. “I had to know. Did you get the commission?”

His face darkened and his eyes kindled with a noble indignation. “I didn’t,” he said shortly. Then he burst out: “The wretched woman chose LeClerq! LeClerq, can you imagine? Of course you don’t know LeClerq, but he’s an
idiot
! He can’t draw, his perspective’s faulty; he couldn’t foreshorten if his life depended on it. All he does is slather on a lot of greasy impasto with a palette knife — it’s sickening; the man’s a fake, but he’s French, which makes him a god to Madame Marechaux, and he’s not a Jew —”

“Oh, David!”

“The way he carries on about religion, you’d think he was Beato Angelico. Oily little highlights everywhere; it’s enough to make you sick. Madame Marechaux said his sketches were imbued with the deepest piety. Can you imagine saying that —
imbued with the deepest piety
? Did you ever hear anything so pretentious in your life?” He snorted. “If she hadn’t chosen LeClerq, I could have borne it. Boscov’s not bad, not bad at all, and Findley’s up-and-coming. I could have stood it if she’d chosen Findley. But LeClerq!”

“Oh, David,” I mourned, but he scarcely seemed to hear me. He was wide-awake now, his eyes burning and his hands sawing the air.

“The
time
I’ve spent with that woman, confiding in her, flattering her; I’d have painted her portrait if she’d asked me. . . . Do you know what she wants me to do? She wants a miniature of her lapdog!
Zizi!
” he shouted. I guessed that was the name of the dog, but it sounded like swearing. “She wants a little picture of Zizi! That’s my consolation: I’ve been asked to paint the dog! She says that I’m bound to be at a disadvantage with Joan of Arc because I’m not a Roman Catholic. What does she know about it? When I’m painting, my religion is painting! I could paint Mahomet flying into the sky on a peacock, or a jackass, or whatever the hell it was. I could feel it, I swear I’d feel it, I’d be
imbued with the deepest piety —”

“Oh, David,” I said, “it’s awful! It’s anti-Semitism, that’s what it is!”

He looked startled. It was as if he’d only just remembered that I was in the room. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have said
hell
in front of a girl.”

“That’s all right,” I said. “I guess I’d swear, too.”

He went to the window and opened it wide. Then he swung back to face me. “Do you know what else she said? She asked if
you’d
be willing to come to New York so LeClerq can draw your head! I’m supposed to share my model with that charlatan!”

“You don’t think I’d do it, do you?” I demanded. His indignation was contagious, and I’d caught it.

David seemed to reconsider. “Well,” he said judiciously, “it’d be an opportunity for you. New York’s swell, and Madame Marechaux would find you a respectable place to stay. I wouldn’t blame you if you wanted to go.”

“I wouldn’t think of such a thing,” I said hotly. (Though if anyone but Madame Marechaux were to offer me a trip to New York, I’d jump at it.) “After sitting for you, to sit for a man like LeClerq? I’d scorn it!”

I spoke those words very loftily. It was thrilling, wanting to fight for David. I was sorry he hadn’t gotten the commission, but being angry on his behalf made me feel close to him. I believe I have a fiery disposition. If I were a man, I’d probably fight duels for the girl I loved.

David’s face broke out in a grin. “You’re a peach,” he said. I know
peach
is slang, but a peach is such a lovely thing to be compared to: sweet and fragrant and velvety. “You really are, Janet. I’ve been thinking about you.” Then he spoiled it by sighing. “I’ve been thinking about what happened the other night. I think I should beg your pardon.”

“I don’t want you to beg my pardon,” I said. What I wanted was for him to kiss me again, but I daren’t say so.

David shook his head. “I took advantage of you. It wasn’t the act of a gentleman. I’ve always despised men who do that kind of thing — take advantage of a girl because she’s a servant —”

“No!” I protested. “It wasn’t like that. I told you then; I didn’t mind. I liked it ever so much.”

His face softened. “I liked it, too,” he admitted, “but it was wrong. I hope you’ll forgive me —”

I cut him off. “I don’t think it was so wrong. I believe I’d have felt it if it were wrong. But I didn’t. It felt pure and sweet and —”

“But you’re not Jewish,” argued David, and I frowned at him. It was the second time in two days I’ve been told I’m not Jewish. I don’t think people should take such pains to tell me what religion I am. “Besides, you’re years younger than I am —”

I challenged him. “How old are you?”

“Nearly twenty-one.”

“Well, I’m eighteen,” I said firmly, but all the sudden it struck me that I’m not. I’ve grown so used to being eighteen that I forget. It’s worrying to remember, because I’m not sure it’s legal to marry at fourteen. Of course, I’ll be fifteen in just two months, which is ever so much older. I believe lots of girls get married at fifteen. I added, “And my birthday’s in November.”

“But you’re a servant, living under my father’s roof,” David persisted. “That’s the worst of it. If you don’t like my attentions — no, hear me out! — you can’t run away; you’ve nowhere to go. And if anyone found out, you’d be the one who’d suffer.”

“I’d suffer for you,” I said, and meant it. “I’d do anything for you. I’ll even forgive you, if you want me to, but I don’t see the point in forgiving someone when — when it was
glorious —
and I’m not one bit sorry it happened —” It sounded so brazen that I felt my cheeks get red. I turned my back on him and busied myself gathering up the linen.

I think it did me good to have something to do with my hands, because suddenly I knew what I wanted to say. “Listen,” I said, “about the commission. It doesn’t matter.”

He looked tormented, which wrung my heart. “What do you mean, it doesn’t matter? I’ve spent weeks —”

“It doesn’t matter,” I repeated. “You’re going to be a great artist. You don’t need Madame Marechaux any more than you need her stupid lapdog. Someday you’re going to be famous, and when you are, it won’t matter that you never made a picture of Joan of Arc.”

“But I wanted to tell Papa —”

“Then
tell
him. You don’t need a big commission to tell your father the truth. He loves you. Tell him you want to be an artist. He didn’t mind — well, he minded a little
,
but he got over it — when Mr. Solomon wanted to study Talmud. Why should he refuse you? He’ll
help
you.”

“If only he would!” David said passionately. “I’d go to Paris — that’s the place to study painting; there’s no point trying to make a start in Baltimore. But Papa wants me to work in the store —”

“Mr. Solomon didn’t want to work in the store, either. He told your father so, and he told him about Ruth.” I wondered if David would take the hint. If he’s going to tell his father about wanting to be an artist, he might as well explain about us at the same time.

David raked his fingers through his hair. “It’s different for me. Solly’s always been the good son; I’m the wastrel. When Papa wanted to send me to college, I said, no, I wanted to see the world, so he let me go abroad. The idea was, after I finished traveling, I’d settle down and work in the store. But I keep putting it off. Papa says I waste everything — time and talent and money. He’s always saying how intelligent I am, how I could do anything I put my mind to, but —”

“You
can
do anything,” I said firmly. “But you’ll never put your mind to working in a department store, because God meant you to be a great painter. Tell your father that, and show him your sketches. Once he sees them, he’ll understand everything.”

He looked at me, his head on one side. It was a look — I scarcely dare write the words! — of warm admiration and affection, and my heartbeat quickened. He crossed the room and stood before me. I think he might have reached for my hands, except that I was clutching the bed linens to my breast.

He cupped his hands over my elbows. It wasn’t an embrace, exactly, but he was close to me, and his hands were warm. I could scarcely breathe. I stood absolutely still. At the same time, I was ready to jump out of my skin. Elbows don’t get much affection; I guess that’s why it felt so powerful.

I held my breath and willed him to kiss me.

“Janet,” he said, “you’re a brick. You’re magnificent — and darling — and I’ll think over what you’ve said. I can’t speak to Papa yet — not right on the eve of the holiday — but I’ll think it over. Thank you.”

I tilted my head back, raising my face just a little. The warmth of his hands against my elbows was like a fire: two fires. I felt a shiver go up my spine. Our eyes met — we were very close — but the room was brightly lit. I wanted the dim kitchen to give me courage, and so did he. After a moment, he stepped back and stuck his hands in his pockets.

I murmured, “I’d better go,” and scuttled away like a mouse — only a thousand times larger, of course.

Now it’s past midnight, and once again, I’m waiting in the library. My hair is up, this book is before me, and David hasn’t come. I don’t think he will. Perhaps it’s wrong to kiss a girl the night before Rosh Hashanah. I wouldn’t kiss a man on Good Friday. Maybe David’s upstairs, trying to think holy thoughts, but thinking about me, just as I’m thinking of him.

Friday, September the twenty-second, 1911

I am so mortified! I think I would rather
die
than look Mrs. Rosenbach in the face again. That stern and scornful expression — but I think she was
amused,
too, which makes everything a thousand times worse. It was such an awful, awful moment, and I keep reliving it.

I wish I could stop. I want to think about how David defended me, but my mortification is stronger than my love. How can that be? Love ought to be the stronger.

I was taking up the mail when I heard voices in the library: first Mr. Rosenbach’s and then David’s. I thought perhaps David was telling his father that he wanted to be an artist. I wondered if he might be telling him about
me.
I knew it would be wrong to listen, but the temptation was too great. I drew closer to the library door.

David was shouting. “What do I care if your business friends saw us? I didn’t do anything wrong! Why shouldn’t I take the girl to the opera? She’s never been to the theater, and she loved it. She loved the whole tatty production. Why shouldn’t she —”

“Because a young man of good family doesn’t take a servant girl to the opera!” bellowed Mr. Rosenbach. Then he lowered his voice. I missed the next few words. I heard: “— your mother —”