The Hired Girl (9 page)

So I think I’m safe. But all the same, I mean to leave a crooked trail behind me — I went first to Lancaster, then east to Philadelphia, changed my appearance, and will go from here to Baltimore. I considered going to New York City, which Miss Chandler says is an
imposing metropolis
but full of foreigners and a little bit vulgar. If I wanted vulgar, I could get it homegrown. So I won’t go there.

I wasn’t too scared when I took the milk train to Lancaster, because I’ve done that before, but I began to feel frightened when I got on the train to Philadelphia. I couldn’t help thinking about all that lies before me — finding a respectable boardinghouse and looking for work. I guess I could work in a factory, but I’m afraid of that. Last spring there was a terrible fire in one of the New York factories, and all the girls — the workers were almost all girls — were locked inside, and they had to jump out the windows, ten stories down, or be burned to death. Miss Chandler cried when she told me about it. The horror of it haunted me for weeks. Those poor girls! I think I’ll be safer in a regular home, working as a hired girl.

Luckily, I have plenty of money — that’s the great thing. I won’t have to take the first job I see. On the other hand, I’m all alone in the world. Once I was on my way to Philadelphia, I started thinking about that, and the more I thought about it, the more melancholy I felt. I was bound and determined that I would not cry in public, but I kept catching my breath, and my bosom heaved — or is it
hove
? I think
hove
is a real word, but it doesn’t sound right. At any rate, one of the porters — they all seem to be Negroes and awful nice — came to me and told me, in ever such a kind way, that they were having the last sitting for breakfast, and he didn’t want me to miss it if I was hungry. He said he’d show me the way to the dining car.

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.

I decided it was an omen. I told myself I was
the Spirit of Transportation
and that Father was the man at the far left of the sculpture, the one who couldn’t control his oxen. I saw myself leaving him far behind, processing in triumph and majesty toward the future.

I have decided to give myself a new name. This is only practical, but it will also be a symbol of my new self. (Besides, I have always detested my last name.) I have long felt that the two most beautiful names in the world are Isabella and Damaris. But after consideration, I decided not to use them, because I can’t imagine my future mistress calling me Isabella or Damaris. They don’t sound like hired girls’ names. Isabella might be shortened to Izzy — which is dreadful — and Damaris can’t be shortened because that would be profane.

And besides, if I am to have a new name, it ought to be close enough to my old name so that if someone calls me, I’ll lift my head and look sharp.

So I decided on
Janet,
which is close to
Joan,
but ever so much prettier, and not too fancy for a hired girl. Mr. Rochester often calls Jane Eyre
Janet
when he’s feeling especially fond of her. For my last name, I chose
Lovelace
— because I do love lace, or would if I had some, so it isn’t even a lie.

Janet Lovelace! bound for Baltimore, a new servitude, and the wide, wide world!

Monday, July the third, 1911

I have so much to write and so little time! I haven’t yet asked permission to take a candle upstairs at night, and my room is growing dark. Amazing circumstance that I should be living in a house with electric lights! Electricity is a beautiful thing, so clean and easy; you don’t have the work you have with kerosene lamps, trimming the wicks and cleaning the chimneys. But of course there’s no electricity in the servants’ rooms.

All that must be told later. For now, I take up the thread of my tale.

When I left Philadelphia and set off for Baltimore, the train was crowded, and it was mostly gentlemen on board. I couldn’t find a seat next to a lady, and I didn’t want to sit by a man. I pressed forward until I found two empty seats, put my suitcase in the rack, and slid into the window seat. Then a gentleman — no, he was
not
a gentleman, and I will not dignify him with that name — came and sat next to me. He was young, with hair as yellow as sawdust; stout in a puffy, undistinguished sort of way.

He nodded to me and touched the brim of his hat, but I turned and gazed out the window, so that he would understand that I wasn’t the sort of girl who talks to strange men. He didn’t pursue the matter, for which I was grateful, and by and by I forgot about him. I began to regret having had such a big breakfast and drunk so much coffee. I knew that a three-hour journey lay ahead of me, and I became very uncomfortable. (Oh, forgive me, Miss Chandler, but I must be vulgar one last time!) I wondered if there might be a ladies’ washroom on the train. I thought there ought to be — goodness, people spend whole nights on trains! — but I felt bashful about asking where it was. Also, I was afraid that if I left my seat, the yellow-haired man might guess where I was going, and that would be just
too
mortifying.

So I sat and suffered and tried not to think about how uncomfortable I was. After some time, it seemed to me that at least two hours must have gone by — we had passed Wilmington, Delaware — so there was only one more hour to go. But then the train stopped, with squealing brakes and a great jolt, and it didn’t start up again. Outside the window was a cornfield. Presently the passengers began to murmur, and the yellow-haired man got to his feet. “I wonder what’s up,” he said under his breath. He set off down the aisle.

I seized the opportunity to leave my seat. I found one of the porters and whispered my question to him — I’m sure I was as red as a poppy, but he nodded and said, “This way, Miss,” and showed me to the ladies’ washroom. He was so calm about it, so gracious and discreet. For my money,
he
was a gentleman, though he wasn’t a white man.

Afterward, I hurried back to my seat. The yellow-haired man hadn’t come back, so I congratulated myself on that. But then I began to worry, because it seemed to me that we’d been standing still for some time, and I didn’t want to arrive too late in Baltimore. I knew I’d have to find a boardinghouse where I could spend the night. And then, first thing the next day, I’d have to buy a newspaper and look for work.

I was just imagining a kindly landlady who would help me find my way when the yellow-haired man came back. He sat down, and I suppose the next part was my fault, because without thinking I raised my eyes to his. He answered my unspoken question. “Another train broke down in front of us,” he explained. “They’re trying to fix it. Until that train moves, we’re stuck.”

I ought not to have spoken, but I wasn’t thinking. “How long will that be?”

“Another hour, they say. They’re fixing it. Maybe two,” he said. I choked back an exclamation of dismay. I’d planned to get into Baltimore around five thirty; if we were two hours late, it would be starting to get dark. If we were three hours late, it would be dark entirely.

I was determined not to speak again, lest the man grow familiar. I turned back to my window and stared out at the cornfield. Now that the train had stopped, it was very warm. All the windows were open but there wasn’t a breath of air. People around me were talking — even talking to strangers. I wondered if it would be very improper to talk to the man next to me. His clothes were respectable, and he hadn’t tried to press his attentions on me. I glanced at him sideways and saw that he was reading a newspaper. It was a Baltimore paper and I wondered if he lived in Baltimore. If he did, he might know a respectable boardinghouse. But I held my tongue, because a girl traveling alone mustn’t talk to strange men.

It was another three hours before we reached Baltimore. The sky was dark blue, and the air was dim. I thought of trying to find my way through the unfamiliar streets, and my heart quite sank. I was hungry, too. That morning — oh, how long ago the morning seemed! — I’d had the idea that the difficult part of my enterprise would be escaping from Steeple Farm. Now I knew that the hardest part lay ahead.

Around me, people were gathering up their things to go. The yellow-haired man looked up at the luggage rack and said, “That your suitcase?” and swung it down for me. I thanked him, and he smiled. To me it seemed a kind smile. At that moment, he was familiar and everything else was strange.

So I took my courage in my hands and said, “Please, do you know a respectable boardinghouse where I might pass the night?”

“Can’t say that I do,” he said carelessly, and I guess my face fell, because he added, “Bound to be one not too far from the station.”

I said, “Yes, of course,” but to my profound and eternal disgust, my eyes filled with tears. I turned away quickly and didn’t look back. He said something after me; I’m not sure what, but I pretended not to hear.

I found the ladies’ room and tried to repair the damages from the journey. I looked perfectly awful. My dress was creased and my knot of hair was coming undone, and my face was dirty with dust and cinders. I didn’t look respectable — not one bit — and of course the bruise on my face made everything worse. I cried a little, though I’m ashamed to admit it. Then I washed my face and hands and tidied my hair. It took me a little while to find the doors that led to the street.