Wednesday, August the sixteenth, 1911
Mrs. Rosenbach had her bridge ladies today, and Malka asked me to serve the luncheon. She’s having an awful bad time with her bunion. I found a cure for Malka’s bunion in a magazine, but you’re supposed to rub the bunion with lard, and lard is treif. Besides, Malka says it would hurt to rub it. She cut out a big patch in her slipper to let the bunion out, and I could see it. It looks horrifying and unnatural. She’s been in a bad humor all week, but I can’t blame her, now that I’ve set eyes on her bunion.
I didn’t mind waiting on the bridge ladies because I thought it might be interesting to hear them talk. One of them is Miss Himmelrich, who is an old maid but related to Nora Himmelrich. Another is Mrs. Schoenberg, whom I like because she dresses so stylish and always greets me at the door. I don’t like Mrs. Mueller because she’s prissy and has a mean little mouth. I don’t think Mrs. R. likes her much either, because Mrs. Mueller is never invited here except for bridge. The ladies need her for bridge. You have to have four people to play bridge, no more, no less. I don’t know how to play bridge, but I think it must be very exciting, because the ladies play all day long, from morning till late afternoon. They never get tired of it.
We always serve special food to the bridge ladies: dainty things that don’t take long to serve or eat. The china is so thin you can see the shadow of your fingers through the teacups. Everything has to be just so, from the flowers on the sideboard to the little napkins Mrs. R. embroidered with hearts and clubs and diamonds and spades. Usually Malka makes chicken salad, but today Mrs. R. wanted cucumber sandwiches (I never had them before but they’re good) and corn oysters, which aren’t really oysters but fritters. For dessert there were cold berries with sugar syrup and almond cookies and little orange tartlets. The only things served hot were the fritters, so I kept everything in the refrigerator until Mrs. R. rang for me. Then I fried the corn oysters and brought everything upstairs.
I divided the corn oysters between the four plates and gave each lady two tiny sandwiches and a green glass goblet with berries in it. It all looked so pretty. Then I poured iced tea and set out sugar and lemon slices. The ladies were upset because Mrs. Schoenberg is going to the Catskills to get away from the heat, and that means no bridge for three weeks. There was a flash of a moment — I can’t believe how naive I was — when I thought of opening my mouth and saying that I could learn to play. I know I could. Miss Chandler always said I was quick to learn. But of course they would never play with the hired girl, no matter how much they wanted their fourth (that’s the term they use).
Then old Miss Himmelrich said her great-niece Nora could play. The other ladies didn’t seem too crazy about this idea. I was arranging the dessert things on the sideboard, and I could see Mrs. Mueller’s petulant look in the mirror. Malka told me Mrs. Mueller is the worst gossip in Eutaw Place, and I bet she didn’t want a young girl around at bridge, because she’d have to watch what she says.
Then Mrs. R. said graciously that it would be delightful to have Nora.
Of course I thought of Mr. Solomon. His fragile nymph would be right under his roof. I wondered if there was some way to make sure he knew Nora was coming. If he did, he might seize her in his arms and reveal his faithful passion. Maybe she would yield to him and promise to be his wife. I was so deep in thought that Mrs. Rosenbach said, “Thank you, Janet,” and I looked down and saw that I’d set the cookies in a little wreath with the tartlets in the middle, and I’d run out of things to do.
I said, “Yes, ma’am,” in that bland submissive way that’s right for a housemaid, and went outside, taking care not to flounce. I shut the door. Then Mrs. R. called, “Leave the door open, please,” because in this heat, you have to keep the air moving. There’s a little bit of a breeze today.
I propped the door open with Mrs. R.’s bronze pug dog, and I started down to the kitchen. I had reached the top of the back staircase when I heard Mrs. Schoenberg say, “Your new girl seems to be working out nicely.” That’s when I made my fatal mistake: I stopped to listen.
Mrs. Rosenbach said, “Janet’s a good girl. A little rough, but very hardworking.”
“She certainly looks hale and hearty,” said Mrs. Mueller. (How I detest that woman!) “Is she honest?”
“I’m sure she’s honest,” said Mrs. R., “though she may have fibbed about her age. She says she’s eighteen.”
Old Miss Himmelrich said, “With that figure and that height, she might be twenty.”
“If she is, she’s very backward,” retorted Mrs. R. “Of course, she was brought up in the country”— she made the country sound like some kind of Home for the Hopelessly Backward —“but even still, she’s rather childish. You should have seen her when I told her she couldn’t keep a kitten! But she works like a horse — Malka says she’s never had a harder worker, and she gets along beautifully with Malka, which none of the others could. Naturally, Malka’s taught her to keep kosher. Last week I asked for oysters and Janet looked me straight in the face and said, ‘Now, ma’am, you know Malka thinks that treif isn’t good for you.’”
There was a burst of laughter. I felt my cheeks burn. I couldn’t believe she was mimicking me. I could have cried with mortification.
“But your Malka is a treasure,” protested Mrs. Schoenberg. “So loyal! Who can find servants like that these days?”
There was a chorus of agreement. I heard fragments of stories: one lady’s housemaid dressed finer than her mistress; another was bold enough, during the dead of winter, to ask for a fire in her bedroom; another had followers. I scarcely listened. My soul was too harrowed up. To be called rough and childish and backward — and I’d worked so hard to please Mrs. Rosenbach! Then, out of the chorus of voices, I heard Mrs. Mueller say she would never trust a shiksa in the house — especially with unmarried sons.
“Janet’s not like that,” Mrs. Rosenbach said firmly. “She’s not a flirt. I don’t mean she doesn’t have her little crushes — just now it’s Moritz — but she’s as innocent as a child. I have no worries on that score.”
“Servants always prefer the master to the mistress,” said Miss Himmelrich. “They’d rather take their orders from a man.”
“Moritz is much interested in Janet,” said Mrs. Rosenbach. “He has an idea she’s unusually bright. He’s trying to get her to read the Meditations of Marcus Aurelius, poor girl.”
There was another ripple of laughter. I clenched my teeth and vowed I would read every page of those awful Meditations. Then Mrs. Mueller said in her vile and insinuating way, “She’s not a bad-looking girl. I wouldn’t want her having her little crushes in my house. What if she falls in love with Solly?”
“I never have to worry about Solly.” Mrs. Rosenbach sounded serene to the point of smugness. “Solly would never look at a girl who wasn’t Jewish. His faith is too important to him. And Janet is scarcely Jezebel.”
“Be grateful David’s not at home,” Mrs. Mueller said meaningfully, and Mrs. Schoenberg trilled, “Oh, David! Such a one for the girls!”
“He’s staying with the Gratzes in New York, isn’t he?” Mrs. Mueller’s voice sounded greedy for details. “I heard there might be a match between David and the Gratz girl.”
“There will be no match,” Mrs. Rosenbach said crisply. “David is far too young to settle down. And Isabelle Gratz is a giddy schoolgirl. I can’t imagine how these rumors get started. Whose turn is it to deal?”
I heard the sound of the cards shuffling and the smack of them being dealt on the table one by one. Mrs. Schoenberg sighed in an exaggerated fashion and said, “Ach, this hand is more like a foot!” and Mrs. Mueller snapped out, “One spade.”
They had finished talking about David — and me. They were back to playing cards again. I lingered a few minutes more but heard nothing.
I went downstairs with my mind reeling. I seethed with indignation — I hated Mrs. Rosenbach for saying I was backward and like a child. And how dare she mistake my gratitude to her husb
and for a silly crush? Mr. Rosenbach is kind to me and gives me books to read. I should be base, I should be infamous, if I failed in gratitude to a man who gives me books.
And what did she mean by saying I wasn’t Jezebel?
Tuesday, August the twenty-second, 1911
Today I saw Father Horst. Right off, I asked him if Jezebel was very good-looking. He seemed a little startled, but he opened his Bible to Kings and ran his finger up and down the pages. Once he’d reviewed the scriptures, he explained to me that the Bible didn’t say what Jezebel looked like, except that when she was an old woman, she painted her eyes. He added that she was very wicked, because she encouraged her husband to worship false gods.
I felt a little bit better after that, because I’d thought that what Mrs. Rosenbach meant was that I was too homely to attract Mr. Solomon. But she hadn’t been saying that.
Then I asked Father Horst about a passage in the prayer book that’s been bothering me. It says that we can’t have any pleasure without giving pain to Jesus: We cannot find pleasure to our liking without at the same time offending Him. If that’s true, it’s horrible, and I said so. It’s worried me a good deal.
I think Father Horst was taken aback. At first he was stern. He said if I wanted to be a good Catholic I must learn to be obedient and not ask so many questions. He showed me the IMPRIMATUR in the book, which is a sign that the Church approves of the book and a guarantee that there’s nothing in it that’s bad for morality.
But then he softened and asked me if I was worried about a sin I might have committed. I told him I’d become very worldly lately, and how I’d bought a parasol I didn’t really need for ninety-five cents. He turned this over in his mind. At last he said that he hoped those words in the prayer book wouldn’t be a stumbling block to me. He confided to me that sometimes when he prays to God, he seems to feel the mind and heart of God. (I have felt that myself, but I didn’t say so, because it seemed like boasting.) Anyway, he said he was convinced that God was not petty. He (Father Horst, not God) said he didn’t believe God took offense every time a young girl decided to buy something pretty, though it would be nice if I put a little money in the poor box every week. He said God is our Father, and a good father (not like mine) likes to see his children made happy.
He added that it would be different if I’d been uncharitable. God always minds that, because God loves all His children alike, and if you are uncharitable, even in a small way, God feels sorry for the person you are uncharitable to.
So I tried to think about whether I’ve been uncharitable lately. I have harbored uncharitable thoughts about Mrs. Rosenbach and Mrs. Mueller. And then there’s Father, whom I still haven’t forgiven.
But then I cheered up because I remembered that this morning, I was charitable to Malka. She was mending her black skirt and her mouth was all pursed up and sour, because sewing black on black is hard on the eyes. I knew she would be offended if I offered to help her in the ordinary way, so I was cunning. I said coaxingly that I wished she’d show me one more time how to fry fish the way she does. If she would, I’d finish stitching her dress.
She snorted and said learning to fry fish was a matter of trial and error, even if I had the right knack for it, which she didn’t think I had. But she would try to show me. Then she forked over that dress as if she couldn’t get rid of it fast enough.
I wanted to laugh. But now I see that I was charitable to Malka. I didn’t do it to please God; I did it for kindness, which I think must be good. Only now I’m feeling conceited about it, which is probably bad.
But I’m not going to worry too much. Father Horst says that if I’m in any doubt about what to do, I should ask God for mercy and forgiveness, because He loves to grant us mercy and forgiveness. It makes Him happy when we ask for it. So I do ask for it. And I’ve decided I’ll give one-tenth of my salary to the church — thirty cents for the collection, and thirty for the poor box, which is a lot for the poor. When I was poor, I’d have been thrilled with twenty-five.
After I left Father Horst, I walked in Druid Hill Park and enjoyed my rose-colored parasol. I passed the building that’s going to be Mr. Rosenbach’s school, the one he’s planning with his friends. It’s a handsome building, and the children will be able to play in the park at recess, the lucky things. I wished I was a child and could go to that school.
But it’s also nice to be grown up and earn your own money. I bought a bag of peanuts and ate them in the shade. Then I took out a pencil and paper, and Mr. Solomon’s half-finished sonnet, which I had hidden in my bosom. I’ve been thinking about that sonnet all week, ever since I learned Nora Himmelrich was coming to the house.
I’ve never worked on a sonnet before. Sometimes Miss Chandler had us write poetry, but we only had to rhyme every other line. Even with Mr. Solomon having made most of the verses, it took me a long time to get the lines to scan, but when I finished, I was pleased with myself.
Wednesday, August the twenty-third, 1911
I have given the sonnet to Nora! When she came today, she said, “Hello, Janet,” very heartily, which was nice of her — she might have snubbed me in front of the others, but she didn’t. I tried to give her a meaningful glance, but there was no time to slip her the sonnet. I had to wait until after the bridge game broke up. Then I seized my chance. When old Miss Himmelrich was talking to Mrs. R., I drew close to Nora and said in a low voice, “Excuse me, miss, you dropped this. I found it.” And I put the sonnet in her hand, wrapped up small and folded in a handkerchief.
Nora looked startled and my heart pounded because I thought she might say the handkerchief wasn’t hers, which would have given everything away. But I put one finger to my lips — just for a moment. Her eyes widened.
I must say it was very thrilling. I think I have a gift for intrigue.
While I was washing the dishes tonight, I imagined that Nora accepted Mr. Solomon and they asked me to be their bridesmaid. It isn’t likely they will, because I’m only a hired girl. But I had a good time imagining it — first a winter wedding, with a velvet bridesmaid dress, and then a spring one, with organdy and lace.
Thursday, August the twenty-fourth, 1911
I’m in disgrace and it’s all my fault. I’m weeping as I write this, but what good are my tears? I can’t take back what I’ve done. Oh, I am nothing but tears, tears and stupidity and regret and mortification. I ought to feel mortified. I am to blame. How can I ever look him in the face again?
This afternoon the doorbell rang. When I ran to open the door, I saw Nora Himmelrich. She looked so pale and apprehensive I scarcely knew her. She asked to see Mrs. Rosenbach, but Mrs. Rosenbach — thank the dear God!— was at the Friedhoffs’, because baby Irma has a rash.
I told Nora that Mrs. Rosenbach wasn’t in and asked if anything was wrong. She wouldn’t look me in the eye because she was almost in tears and didn’t want me to know. Then she steeled herself and said she’d see Solly, if he was at home. I thought maybe there had been a lovers’ quarrel, but of course I couldn’t ask.
I showed her into the parlor. I found Mr. Solomon and told him Nora was downstairs. I thought he would fly to her with the ardor of a true lover, but he didn’t. He said he would come, but he looked taken aback.
I was tempted to linger and try to hear what they said, but I was not quite so base as that, thank God. At least I haven’t that on my conscience. I went downstairs, but my mind was awhirl. I was so hoping they’d settle their quarrel and get engaged. Oh, what folly! When I think of how happy and curious I felt, I burn with mortification!
After a half hour or so, I heard the front door shut. I was in the kitchen, ironing one of Mimi’s dresses — they’re so frilly they take forever, and in this heat it’s awful, ironing. Then Mr. Solomon came down, his feet striking each step quick and hard. Malka woke from her nap and cried, “What is it?” and the Thomashefsky cat leaped off her lap and took shelter under the table.
Mr. Solomon didn’t answer. He never even looked at Malka. He looke
d at me, and I wouldn’t have known him; his eyes were hard and despising and his mouth was compressed. He said curtly, “Come upstairs. I want to talk to you.” Of course Malka wanted to know what I’d done. But Mr. Solomon said, “I need to speak to Janet alone,” and he headed up the stairs.
I had to follow him, but I was scared. I knew right away that something had gone wrong. My heart was in my throat when I entered the library. Mr. Solomon pointed to a chair, but I was too agitated to sit. I saw he had the sonnet in his hand — not folded up small and tidy, the way it was when I gave it to Nora, but spread out and creased, as if he’d crushed it in his hand.
“What is the meaning of this?” he demanded. “Who do you think you are, sneaking into my private papers? How dare you show this to Miss Himmelrich? She thought you were my messenger! You’ve upset her and made a fool out of me! Is that what you intended?”
I was so shaken by his accusations that I couldn’t find the right words. I stammered out that I’d found the sonnet by accident — I hadn’t sneaked. He paid no attention. He said I had no right to interfere; that I had been presumptuous and deceitful. He said he had no use for a servant who couldn’t be trusted, and he would see to it that I never worked another day in that house. Then — this was the worst part — he asked how I could repay the kindness his family had shown me with malice and ingratitude.
At those words I cried out. “It wasn’t malice,” I said. “It was because I was grateful — I wanted you to be happy! Oh, Solly, can she have refused you?”
The Hired Girl Page 19