“I’m an artist. Or I’m going to be,” David said, and he sounded confidential again. “That’s why I’ve been away all summer, living with the Gratzes. Isabelle Gratz’s uncle is a painter, and he’s been giving me lessons. Papa thinks it’s just a hobby,” he added, “but it isn’t. Only you mustn’t tell him. I have to tell him myself. What kind of art do you like? What places have you chosen?”
He sounded as if he really wanted to know. I began to thumb through the book. “Lots of places. The Taj in India and the labyrinth at Versailles. And Paris, of course. I’m dying to get to Paris. And Holyrood Chapel in Edinburgh, and the Grotto of Doves at Taormina. And in Spain, the Alhambra.” I turned to the page I’d been admiring before he came in: a courtyard made up of exquisitely carved columns, and a fountain resting on the backs of lions. “Have you ever been there?”
“I was there on the Eve of St. John.”
He spoke as if the last words held something portentous, which surprised me, because the Jews don’t usually go in for saints. “What happens on the Eve of St. John?”
“On the Eve of St. John, the Alhambra is haunted,” Mr. David answered, “and not just by Christian souls.” He tapped the engraving with his fingers. “Those lion statues supporting the fountain are Jewish, by the way. That’s why there are twelve of them. They represent the twelve tribes of Israel.”
I thought that was interesting, but I was more interested in the ghosts. “How do you mean, haunted?”
“The past returns,” said Mr. David. His eyes were faraway and perfectly grave. “On the Eve of San Juan”— he made the words sound foreign, and I felt a thrill go down my spine — “The ghosts walk. I could sense it, Janet. Under the plashing of the water in the fountain, I seemed to hear the clanking of armor and the rattle of swords. At midnight, I heard the lute of the Moorish princess who never eloped with her Christian lover. She appears at the fountain, entreating someone to baptize her and grant her peace. Of course she didn’t trouble me, poor little soul, because she sensed I was a Jew. But I heard her music, and I caught a glimpse of her out of the corner of my eye — a sweet, vaporous little person, with a red, red rose in her hair.”
His eyes questioned mine. He was trying to see if I believed him. Of course I didn’t. I knew he was teasing me — well, I was almost sure — and I thought maybe I ought to be mad at him. It wasn’t the mean kind of teasing, though. There was something about the corners of his mouth that made me think he wanted me to play, too.
I said slowly, “You left out the lions.”
“The lions?”
“Yes. They’re honest Jewish lions, and they can’t abide humbug. On the Eve of St. John, they come alive, and if a liar passes through the courtyard, they lash their tails and roar as loud as thunder.” I darted a sideways glance at him. “I’m surprised you didn’t hear them, sir.”
He caught his breath. There was a fraction of a second when I wondered if I’d gone too far; he was the master’s son, after all, and I’d as good as called him a liar. But then he laughed — oh my, he did laugh! His voice is like his father’s: exuberant and strong and so loud I thought he’d wake the whole house. “I like you,” he said, and his smile bloomed until it lit his whole face.
That took me aback. It seemed like a bold thing for him to say, and I was in my kimono and it was the middle of the night. I think maybe I ought to have been offended. I mean, maybe he was taking a liberty. But then again, he might not have meant the kind of like that would be taking a liberty. And if I acted offended, he might think I was flattering myself, assuming that he meant he liked me the way a man likes a girl. He might laugh at me for being presumptuous. I couldn’t stand the thought of that.
I felt so abashed I took refuge in being the hired girl. I turned my back on him and tidied up the books. I marked my place in the Meditations and shelved it; I closed Volume I of The Picturesque World and set it on the stand next to Volume II. I fiddled with Mr. Rosenbach’s pencils, making sure the points were facing upward —
“Wait a minute!”
I spun around. Mr. David wasn’t grinning anymore; he was gazing at me with narrowed eyes. “Stay there a minute — don’t move a muscle — don’t stir! Can you do that?”
I did. I froze, like a ninny or an obedient child, while he strode to the desk and rummaged in a drawer for a sheet of paper. He grabbed a sharp pencil from Mr. Rosenbach’s stand. From one of the bookcases, he selected a tall, narrow book, which he used as a drawing board. He made a half circle around me, circled back, stopped, and began to sketch rapidly. “Hold still, hold still,” he murmured, and his pencil scratched the page.
I was afraid to breathe. So I stayed right where I was, but the more his pencil moved, the more afraid I was of what might be taking shape on the page. “Don’t freeze your face,” he commanded, and after a minute, “Would you mind unbraiding your hair?”
My hair was in a single braid. In this weather, having it loose is like wearing a wool blanket over my shoulders. I thought I ought to refuse, but I knew I’d look prettier with my hair down. So I undid the ribbon and scattered my hair over my shoulders.
He said, “Better,” in an absentminded tone, and moved more to the side. I didn’t like that because I don’t look too good from the side. I don’t look that good from the front, either, but it’s worse from the side. My jaw is heavy and my neck is too thick. “Why are you drawing me?”
“Don’t move your lips,” he said, and turned over the page. He said, “Aah!”— not like the ah in papa, but like the ah in cat: a sharper sound. “That’s better. I’ve been planning a large canvas — a painting of Joan of Arc. It hasn’t been going well. Now I see the model I’ve been using is too refined looking. I want a strong girl, a real peasant. Why, what’s the matter?” I had turned on him, and I felt as fierce as when I’d swung the poker through the air.
“How dare you?” I cried. “What a horrible thing to say to me — peasant, unrefined.” I was almost too angry to get the words out. “You rude, ungentlemanly pig of a man!” I rushed for the door. I felt so bruised — so angry — so bewildered, with him liking me one minute and disdaining me the next. And I knew I must get away from him before I cried. But he is the quickest man I’ve ever seen — he got to the door ahead of me and stood with his back to it.
“Don’t be mad,” he said coaxingly. “Great Jakes! I never wanted to hurt your feelings! I guess I did, though. I’m sorry. Won’t you give me a chance to explain myself ?”
I didn’t answer because I was near tears. He gazed at me intently. I’ve never had a man look at me like that before. It reminded me of the Thomashefsky cat when I’m fixing fish. In a way I liked it, but I also wanted to hit him. When I thought of him calling me a peasant, I wanted to fell him to the earth.
“Come on, don’t be mad,” he pleaded. “I didn’t mean what you thought I meant. All I meant is that you’re not like the model I’ve been using. She’s a silly doll of a girl, not like you at all. You don’t want to be one of those bitsy little things with a rosebud mouth and a pinched-in waist and a tiny little brain, do you?”
“I do,” I said, almost sobbing, because hearing about the pinched-in waist made things worse. I know I should lace my corsets tighter, but I just can’t bear it.
“No, you don’t,” he said, almost crooning. “No, you don’t. You’re a magnificent creature — you know that, don’t you? Tall and robust and wholesome looking. You’re like one of Michelangelo’s Sibyls — a grand, bareheaded creature. I think Joan of Arc must have been very like you: a strong young girl with honest eyes and a nice fresh complexion. She was sixteen years old when she led an army into battle; did you know that? I can imagine you doing that — galloping along on a splendid horse, and brandishing a sword instead of a poker.”
His eyes sparkled on the last word. He was inviting me to laugh again. I didn’t want to, but I did.
“There, that’s better,” he said, and held out the sheet of paper. “See how I’ve drawn you? You can keep the sketch, if you want
to.”
I looked at it. I wish I’d taken the sketch, because I might have studied it at length and learned more about what he thought of me. But at the time, I was embarrassed. I didn’t want him to see me looking at my picture too long, because then he would think I was vain.
So I only snatched a look. He’d drawn my hair like a river pouring over my shoulders. And my eyes looked large and thoughtful, and my forehead was all right, I guess. But the line of my jaw was just as bad as I’d feared, and I thought my neck looked fat. I said quickly, “I don’t want it.”
“That’s all right,” he said cheerfully. “I can do better. Maybe you’ll let me draw you again. I’d like to make several studies of you.” He took a step back and cocked his head to one side. “The arms,” he said, “and the shoulders. Your ordinary clothes’ll be fine, as long as the sleeves aren’t puffed. I’ll pay you, of course — it’s customary to pay a model. Tell me, Janet, may I draw you again?”
I said, “I don’t know.”
That’s when the clock struck.
It struck twelve, that’s what it struck, and it was only later that I was reminded of Cinderella. The two of us stood there, facing each other, and listened to the twelve chimes. I think both of us realized that it was queer for us — master’s son and servant girl — to be talking together in the middle of the night. It wasn’t proper. I don’t mean there was any harm in it, but it wasn’t proper.
“I have to go upstairs,” I said. I think I hoped he would stop me again, but he moved aside. It became possible to leave the room.
So I went upstairs to bed, but I didn’t sleep, not for a long while. It was a relief to get away from him, because there were too many feelings. I wanted to be alone so I could sort them out and name them. I wish I hadn’t called him a pig, because that wasn’t refined.
I want to see him again. Even though there were too many feelings, it strikes me that having them all at once, all tangled together, is one of the most interesting things that’s ever happened to me.
I wonder if any of Michelangelo’s Sibyls are in The Picturesque World.
Wednesday, August the ninth, 1911
I am completely wretched. In fact, I am so unwell that when I finished the lunch dishes, Malka took pity on me. She threw the dish towel at me and said I was of no use to her when I’m like this and I should go upstairs and lie down. Then she fixed me a hot-water bottle.
It must be a hundred degrees in my room today. The shutters are drawn and there isn’t a breath of air, but I have the hot-water bottle in my lap, because it helps with the pain. Yesterday I decided I would try lacing my corsets a little bit tighter, because maybe I could learn to stand it. But by nightfall, I thought I would scream if I couldn’t take them off. I don’t know how I’m ever going to suffer nobly when I can’t bear my corsets.
To make matters worse, when I woke up today, I found I had two big pimples on my face — one on my chin, where I’m used to having a pimple, but the other one at the end of my nose. Nothing could be more horrid. I tell myself I will bear my trials bravely, but today I just can’t. My stomach aches so, and I’m lonely. I wish Mrs. Rosenbach hadn’t made me get rid of Moonstone. I shall never forgive her for that, no matter what Father Horst says. He thinks forgiveness is a very important Christian virtue.
I saw Father Horst for instruction yesterday, but I wasn’t feeling very religious, because I wanted to take the streetcar down to Rosenbach’s Department Store and buy a parasol and some new stockings. I thought there might be time to go after instruction, but I didn’t know how long Father Horst would talk. I made the mistake of asking how Orthodox Christians are different from real Catholics, and he went on for a long time about how the Orthodox Christians think that the Holy Ghost comes from the Father, instead of proceeding from the Father and the Son. I guess this is important, but I couldn’t seem to fix my mind on it. I kept wondering whether I could find a parasol that would go with my hat.
Then Father Horst apologized, saying that church history was a hobby of his, and he gave me the Baltimore Catechism to learn. It’s awful long. There are more than four hundred questions, and I have to memorize the answers to all of them, word for word. I’m sure I can do it but it will take time, and I have so little time.
I did get to the department store, but I was so rushed I snatched up a rose-colored parasol and paid for it before I thought about it. I know it will fade, because pink always does. A white parasol would match my dresses and wear better, too. After I bought the parasol, I went to the book department and picked up Daniel Deronda. Then I fell into temptation and bought The Woman in White. I know Mr. Rosenbach would lend me his copy, but I didn’t want him to know that I wanted to read Wilkie Collins instead of Marcus Aurelius. The cheapest stockings were three pairs for twenty-nine cents, so I got them. Then I lost all control over myself and bought a bottle of carnation perfume. When I put it on last night, Malka asked me what the stink was, and truthfully, I couldn’t blame her because it does stink. I couldn’t wait to scrub it off. So I wasted thirty-five cents.
Mr. David came down to the kitchen Tuesday morning and hugged Malka — she said she was too old and frail to be bear-hugged like that, but I know she liked it. Of course I had to be scrubbing the inside of the oven when he came down. Why couldn’t I have been doing something pretty, like creaming together butter and sugar? No, there I was, in my canvas apron, with my sleeves rolled up and my hands smeared with stove grease. He said, “So this is the new girl?” and Malka said I was named Janet. And he said, “How do you do?” as if we’d never met.
Now he’s gone back to New York. Not that I care. I think there might have been some kind of scandal about him coming back from New York so unexpectedly, in the middle of the night. There’s been a lot of shouting upstairs. I didn’t pay much heed to it, because Mr. Rosenbach shouts even when he’s happy. But when Mr. David went back to New York, Mr. Rosenbach went with him, and they were both in a very bad humor. I’m not sure when they’re coming back.
I was a fool ever to think Mr. David was flirting with me. Of course he wasn’t. If he had been, that would have been a little bit interesting, but nothing interesting ever happens to me, because that is not my destiny.
I wonder if Mimi knows what happened in New York.
Friday, August the eleventh, 1911
I can’t see why I even bother writing in this book. This must be the most boring diary ever written. Nothing ever happens to me. My whole life is spent scrubbing and cooking and doing dishes. It’s the same thing over and over, just like on the farm; the work isn’t hard, and I’m paid for my trouble, but it’s always the same. I don’t think it’s fair that some girls get to go to school and dances and even Europe, when I’m destined to be nothing but a drudge. Life and youth are rushing by as I chop cabbage and push the carpet sweeper back and forth across the rug.
We’re having another hot spell this week. Mr. Rosenbach and Mr. David are still in New York, so it’s a quiet Shabbos. The pimple on my chin has gone away, but the one on my nose is still big and shiny. It’s frightful.
I found a picture of the Sibyl Mr. David compared me to, in The Picturesque World. Her name is the Erythraean Sibyl, and she’s terribly homely. She has arms like a butcher and wears a nasty little hat. The only good thing about her is that people seem to admire her; somebody named Lady Eastlake called her “a grand, bareheaded creature,” just as Mr. David did. I don’t know why neither of them noticed the hat. The author of The Picturesque World said the Sibyl was “dignified and majestic,” as befits a warrior goddess of wisdom. Afterward I looked in the mirror and tried to assume a martial air, but all I could see was the pimple on my nose.
Lately I’ve been reading the prayer book, and it seems to me that I lack the spirit of repentance. It isn’t that I haven’t any sins — I am steeped in sin — I just don’t seem to be able to repent. The catechism says that true contrition should be interior, supernatural, universal, and sovereign, and that makes me realize that I’m no
t contrite at all. I’m sure I ought to feel repentant about not loving Father, but I don’t. How could I love and honor him when he never spoke a kind word to me? And I guess I should repent of lying about my age, but where would I be if I hadn’t? Back home on the farm, working twice as hard as I work here and not being paid a penny, that’s where. It’s all so unjust. I know I’m sinful, but I don’t think it’s altogether my fault.
Every time I try to repent, I get angry.
Malka has been having trouble with her bunion and hasn’t been out of the house all week. It’s dreadfully hot and sticky. I wish the weather would change. I wish anything would change.
Tuesday, August the fifteenth, 1911
It’s a curious thing about Mrs. Rosenbach. The minute I think I don’t like her, she changes and then I do. I told her today was the Feast of the Assumption and that’s a Holy Day of Obligation. I said I didn’t know how long the church service would last and I was afraid I might be late coming home. But Mrs. Rosenbach said of course I must go; Malka could manage until I came back.
Then Malka was vexed and wanted to know just how many Holy Days of Obligation there are. She said she couldn’t have me running off to church every time she needed me. Mrs. Rosenbach said in a very calm voice that Malka wasn’t being fair, because I worked hard, and the house has never looked so clean as it has since I came. Of course that made things worse with Malka. I fetched my prayer book and showed her there were only six Holy Days of Obligation all year, plus Sundays. She sniffed.
It was a very inspiring service, though, because everyone brought flowers and fragrant herbs for the Blessed Mother. I went to the flower market and bought pink roses — I meant to buy white ones because blue and white are the Virgin’s colors, but the white ones were all wilted. Anyway, she’d probably like a change. Her altar had so many bouquets they were tumbling over one another, and the smell of flowers and incense blended in the air.
When I got back, Mr. Rosenbach — he is back from New York but Mr. David isn’t — showed me Titian’s Assumption of the Virgin in one of his books. The real painting is in Venice and he’s seen it. He says it’s so beautiful it makes you stop short in your tracks. The one in the book is just a line drawing, but you can see what a magnificent painting it must be. Mr. Rosenbach says the red of the Virgin’s dress is the loveliest shade of red there is. He told me to shut my eyes and imagine it. When I opened my eyes he smiled at me and said he could tell from my face that I’d gotten the color exactly right.
The Hired Girl Page 18