I hope it isn’t improper to accept a sketchpad from a young man, because if he remembers to buy me one (he might not remember), I mean to accept it.
As we walked home together, I remembered he was a man. I felt proud, walking with a man, but I also felt shy. Then I had a brilliant idea; I asked him if he knew that bridge in Florence where the poet Dante met his beloved. That got him started on all the things he’s seen abroad. Oh, how I envy him! He hasn’t really seen the Alhambra — he confessed that he made up the ghost stories he told me, because he wanted to impress me. But he’s seen the Swiss Alps and Venice and other places where there’s real life. Once he lived in Paris for a whole month, just the way the natives do. He told me about his favorite café in Paris — he used to sit in a café and draw. I wish I could draw in a café in Paris.
Outside the park, we ran straight into Mimi. It wasn’t as bad as if she’d been Nora Himmelrich, but she grinned at me in the most provoking way and said she’d thought I was at Mass. I was too mortified to answer.
David answered with aplomb. “I persuaded her to help me instead. I need a model for my new painting — Janet’s going to be my Joan of Arc.”
He showed her the sketches he’d made — he calls them studies. Figure drawings, those are the charcoals; and color studies, that’s what he called the pastels. I wish I looked better in profile. There was one sketch where I thought I looked pretty, and I said I liked that one, and he said briskly not to be silly; that was the weakest one of the lot. Then he ruffled Mimi’s hair and asked her if she’d like an ice-cream sundae. He asked me if I couldn’t be a little bit late, just this once.
I said no, because I was already late, and how would I explain to Malka? But Mimi said yes. David asked me if I’d take his portfolio home, so he wouldn’t have to carry it to the pharmacy, and the two of them sauntered off together. He said we’d have our ice cream another time. Another time, another time! That’s the phrase that sang in my heart as I walked home, carrying the sketches and the portfolio — it was heavier than it looked — and my parasol.
I think David must like me pretty well if he’s going to buy me a sketchpad and see me another time. Perhaps he will teach me more about how to draw.
I was nervous when I went inside, because I didn’t know what Malka would say if she saw me with Mr. David’s things, but she was dozing with the cat in her lap, and I crept past her on tiptoe. I put David’s things back in his room and went to tidy my hair. My skirts were grass stained and there were chalk streaks on my dress, but they’ll wash out, I’m sure. At any rate, my apron covered them, and Malka didn’t notice. Once she woke up, she scolded me dreadfully, because last night I forgot to scald the dishcloths, so this morning they smelled.
I bore her scolding without fretting, because the truth was I wasn’t listening. I was thinking about David.
Tuesday, September the fifth, 1911
Today was a very irritating day. But there! I begin too many entries in this book with “today.” I’ll start over.
I am not in a good humor this evening. (I don’t think that’s any better.) I sinned, to begin with, and I didn’t even enjoy it. I suppose that’s what it means when they talk about miserable sinners.
The way I sinned was I skipped instruction with Father Horst. I wasn’t sure he’d be willing to see me, not after last week’s quarrel and my missing Mass. I thought he might rebuke me or even send me away. But the sinful part was I wanted to meet Mimi so I could ask her not to tell Mrs. Rosenbach about seeing David and me in the park. And I wanted to buy a new dress, because it’s getting cooler and my uniforms are summery, and the stains from the pastels didn’t come out of my blue dress. My apron covers them, but the dress isn’t perfect anymore. I always want to have my clothes be nice, but then I rip them or stain them and I never feel the same about them after that.
So there was that. The morning began all wrong because I overslept, and Malka was in a bad humor because she tried to put a shoe over her bunion, which was a mistake. Now the bunion is throbbing again, and she’s in agony. Also, she’s sulking because she wants an electric carpet sweeper. It’s the latest thing, and her sister, Minna, has one. It doesn’t just brush the carpet; it sucks the dust right out. Mrs. Rosenbach doesn’t believe in it, so she refused to order one. That meant I had to hear about all the years Malka’s worked for this family and the sacrifices she’s made on their behalf.
I felt sorry for Malka, but I thought she would never stop talking so I could get out of the house. My conscience irked me because I thought a really nice girl would have sacrificed her afternoon off to spare Malka’s bunion. But I’d planned to meet Mimi at the store, and I wanted that new dress. So I left Malka close to tears and making doomed noises in Yiddish.
I caught the streetcar and met Mimi at Rosenbach’s. We went shopping and I spent nine dollars and twelve cents, which is dreadful. And what’s worse, I’m not sure I like what I bought. I bought a brown suit, and I don’t really like brown, no matter how well it wears. Mimi can call it fawn-colored all she likes, but it’s still brown. I wish I’d bought the blue one, but the skirt was too short and I’m sick of blue.
I wanted to buy a jumper suit, because it seems to me that they’re cheaper than shirtwaist suits. But Mimi said I needed a good shirtwaist suit, German linen or serge, and two white waists: one plain with tucks, and another with lace. She says my uniform dresses make me look like a hired girl, but I’ll look like a lady in a good shirtwaist suit.
I gave in to her because she really does know about clothes. And the brown suit was a bargain and it fit nicely. If it weren’t brown, I’d be pleased with it. The skirt has eleven gores and flares at the hem, and the jacket has little arrow decorations on the sleeves, which are fancy. I found a plain pleated shirtwaist for thirty-nine cents, and a lacy one for ninety-five cents. Then Mimi made me buy a new pair of gloves. Mine are white, and she said I needed tan ones. That was another eighty-three cents.
I was shocked when she added up all the prices for me — she is surprisingly quick when she adds numbers in her head. But then she said I needed a new hat, because my Cheyenne hat is summery. The new hat is trimmed with brown velvet ribbon and three pinky-brown roses, or maybe they’re meant to be peonies.
Then Mimi said I ought to have a little bit of jewelry — a brooch or a necklace with a little cross. The little crosses were quite cheap, but I told her I was a Catholic and I didn’t want a cross but a crucifix. I thought perhaps that might be a moment when I could tell her a little about the True Faith. I started to, but she saw a case full of bracelets and we went over to look at them. There was a silver bracelet I liked, but Mimi wrinkled her nose and said it was too plain. That surprised me because it was beautifully engraved with curvy scrolls and lilies of the valley.
In the same department, we stopped to examine a tray of watch lockets. They were enameled with tiny flowers and oak leaves and shamrocks. They were so delicate and bright; they reminded me of Thumbelina. The fronts were gold and enamel, but the backs were only silver, so I thought I might be able to afford one. I didn’t need it, of course, but I had this image of myself in all my new clothes and David asking me what time it was. I imagined myself bending my head beautifully — in the vision I had a swan-like neck — and lifting the watch so he could see. I think I must be crazy to have ideas like that, but I did, and it made me want one of those enameled watches terribly.
But they were nine dollars. I turned away, aghast. I think if it had been five dollars, I would have been wicked and taken the money from my Belinda fund. Ma told me that money isn’t for toys, or pretty clothes, or even books, but I think I’d have bought one of those watches if they’d been five dollars, though five dollars is a dreadful, dreadful price to pay for something you don’t need. The funny thing is, I think I wanted the watch even more after I found out it was so expensive. I wonder if I’ll ever have anything expensive.
But nine dollars. Ma would turn over in her grave. I’d already bought a hat and a suit
and two waists and gloves, and I had to buy Mimi an egg cream so I could beseech her not to tell Mrs. Rosenbach about David and me walking in the park.
We left Rosenbach’s and went to the drugstore. Mimi wanted a chocolate ice-cream soda instead of an egg cream, so I ordered two. I was wondering how to get to the subject of David and me, but Mimi got there first. She used the tip of her spoon to shave the tiniest bit of ice cream off the dollop in her glass. “You don’t have to buy me a soda, you know. David already told me not to tell.”
She is the most provoking child! It took my breath away, the way she could see through me. I couldn’t think of a thing to say back.
“I’m not a tattletale,” Mimi said. I could tell she was enjoying herself. “But you’d better not fall in love with David.”
“I’m not in love with David,” I said hotly. “I’m too young to be in love.” And at that moment, I would have given anything to tell her that I’m fourteen, because that would have proved it. If you’re fourteen, you shouldn’t even be accused of anything as horrid as being in love with someone’s brother. “I don’t care one bit about boys; you know that.”
“I know, but I thought I should warn you,” said Mimi, still playing with her ice cream. It’s not manners to play with your food, but she does it daintily, which is how she expects to get away with it, I guess. “David likes girls, and girls always like David. Malka says he used to chase girls when he was in short pants. Even then they liked him. It’s funny, because he has that awful nose —”
“Yes, isn’t his nose ridiculous?” I said eagerly. “When he sneezes it must be like a tornado. And when it bleeds, the Red Sea —”
Mimi lifted her eyebrows in a way that made her look just like her mother. “Did he say that speech for you? He didn’t make it up, you know. It’s from a play.”
“Oh, I know,” I said, but I hadn’t. I bent my head over my soda.
“He likes saying clever things, but they aren’t original,” Mimi pointed out. “And he quotes poetry to girls, and they like that. I wouldn’t; I hate poetry. But David likes it and he uses it on the girls. Then they get spoony and fall in love. Like that Isabelle Gratz.”
My ears pricked up. I’ve wondered if Isabelle Gratz was David’s first model for Joan of Arc — the girl with the pinched-in waist and the tiny little mind. “Who’s Isabelle Gratz?”
“She lives on Long Island,” Mimi explained, “and her father is in banking. He does a lot of business with Papa. David stayed with the Gratzes this past summer and studied painting. He partnered Isabelle at dances and played tennis and croquet and flirted with her — I’m sure he did, though he says he didn’t. So of course Isabelle fell in love with him. What made it scandalous is that the Gratzes are more Orthodox than we are — well, if you’re really Orthodox, a matchmaker chooses your husband, but the Gratzes aren’t as Orthodox as that. But Mr. Gratz didn’t like Isabelle spending so much time with David, and he told her it wasn’t maidenly, the spoony way she carried on when David was around. So Isabelle told him they were practically engaged. It wasn’t true, because David never had any idea of proposing to her. But Mr. Gratz took David aside and asked what were his intentions, and David said he didn’t have any. It wasn’t as if he’d kissed her or anything. Mr. Gratz was furious and said some very sharp things, and David caught the night train and came home in the middle of the night. Papa had to go back to New York to smooth things over. It isn’t the first time David’s gotten into a scrape. That’s why I’m warning you. David flirts with girls and then he’s surprised when they like him back. He says Isabelle’s silly, and I guess she is. She has a perfectly elegant way of dressing her hair, though.”
“Does she?” I said. I played with my ice cream. “How does she do it?”
Mimi at once went into a long description, dramatizing with gestures and tugging her curls. I concentrated on my soda. It tasted good, but it felt fizzy and funny in my stomach. It’s almost the time of the month for me to be unwell, and I wondered if I’d already begun. I was trying to work out exactly how many days it had been since the last time, when Mimi said, “I think David’s writing letters to a shiksa.”
I know now what a shiksa is. It turns out I really am one, but there’s nothing wrong with being a shiksa — it’s just a girl who isn’t Jewish. “He is?”
Mimi nodded. “She’s French,” she breathed as if this made matters worse, “and the name on the envelopes is Madame Jean-Baptiste Marechaux. Jean-Baptiste,” she repeated, and I felt a pang of envy because she pouted so prettily and sounded so foreign. “That means John the Baptist. It’s not a name a Jew would give his son. And it’s Madame Marechaux, so David’s exchanging letters with a married woman. I expect there will be another scandal,” she concluded placidly, and drew on her straw.
“Don’t suck your straw like that,” I said sharply. “That’s not a polite noise.” The truth was, she was getting on my nerves. “And stop talking about scandals and flirtations. You’re a little girl.”
Mimi put out her tongue. “You’re not much older,” she said. “I still don’t believe you’re eighteen. Just then you sounded like the worst kind of grown-up. I thought you were better than that.”
I didn’t know how I felt when she said that. I didn’t know whether I wanted to be a grown-up, or a child like Mimi, self-possessed and spoiled and happy so long as she had an ice-cream soda to drink. Luckily it was getting late, and I said so. Mimi consulted her little gold watch and said it was only half past three, but I pointed out it was half past four.
We bickered together on the streetcar. By the time we were home, I was thoroughly tired of her.
I found Malka very low. She’s decided that all the rugs must be taken up and beaten before the High Holy Days. Everything has to be very clean for Rosh Hashanah. The electric carpet sweeper would have made the carpets clean enough, but since we have only the ordinary kind, the carpets will have to come up. Malka made up a timetable of how many carpets we’ll have to do between now and the twenty-second. It’s a dreadful list, because this house is full of carpets. I know this is her way of punishing Mrs. Rosenbach — she’s going to shame her by working her fingers to the bone. But it’s really my fingers that are going to be worked to the bone, because I can kneel to get the carpet tacks up, and Malka can’t. And I’ll be the one beating the carpets and doing the lion’s share of dragging them up and down the stairs.
I felt exasperated, but Malka was crying hard. Sometimes the work is too much for her, but she’d rather die than admit it. I tried to make her laugh by flexing my arm muscles and boasting about how strong I was. She did laugh a little. I can’t help worrying, though, because some of those carpets will need two people to carry them, and Malka shouldn’t be one of those people. The natural thing would be to ask one of the Rosenbach sons for help, but I can’t ask Mr. Solly for anything, not after I almost ruined his life by sending that sonnet to Nora Himmelrich. I hate the thought of David seeing me in my oldest dress with my hair tied up in a handkerchief. Beating carpets makes you so dirty. Sometimes it seems to me that David’s more powerful than I am — not with his muscles but in some way I can’t put my finger on — and if he sees me beating carpets, he’ll be even more powerful.
I reckon Thomashefsky sensed I was trying to comfort Malka — I was kneeling on the floor next to her chair — because he actually came up to me and put his front paws in my lap. I was so surprised; I scarcely dared breathe. After all these months of not liking me, he walked straight into my lap, lowered himself into a crouching position, and began to purr.
I think that was the only really nice thing that happened today. That and the fact that I’m not unwell yet, though all the symptoms are there. I bet tomorrow will be awful.
Altogether it has been a most irksome day.
Wednesday, September the sixth, 1911
I thought today would be horrid, but I’m in a good mood tonight. Just as I expected, I felt poorly when I got up this morning, and after breakfast, Malka wanted to
get started on the carpets. When she heard I wasn’t well, she took pity on me and said we’d start with the smallest ones, the ones from Mimi’s room and the room that used to be Anna’s. We tackled them before the bridge ladies came.
Anna’s room was easy because she doesn’t live here, and it’s neat as a pin. But Mimi’s room was a mess, as usual, so I had to pick up after her. Neither of the carpets was very heavy, so I was able to carry them downstairs by myself. I hung them over the clothesline and beat them soundly. I got so dirty and damp — I had on my old brown shmatte from the farm — oh, such clouds of dust! It was warm and sticky today. Malka says the longer it stays warm, the better it’ll be for us, because soon we’ll have to feed coal to the octopus. That’s what she calls the furnace — it looks like a big black octopus, with arms that send heat to all the different rooms. Malka says the housework is harder in the winter, because of the coal dust.
But I’m not afraid of coal dust. And I believe I can manage the octopus. I don’t look forward to shoveling coal all day, but at least I won’t have to carry a coal scuttle up and down the stairs.
It’s a queer thing, but beating the carpets did me good. After I finished them, the pains in my stomach were gone. I hauled them upstairs and hammered them down again. By the time I finished, Malka had made lunch for the bridge ladies. She said I was a good girl and allowed me a break to change and wash up.
At quarter to twelve my packages were delivered from Rosenbach’s, and because Malka was still in a good humor, I snatched time to try everything on. I did look like a lady, with my new hat and fawn-colored suit. I looked downright citified, and so grown-up! My fall hat is a perfect darling.
Tonight I had a surprise. I came down to read in the library, and there was a package on Mr. Rosenbach’s desk with a note on it: For Janet. Inside was a sketchbook — oh, such a handsome one, with a dark-green cover and rough paper! David explained to me that rough patches in the paper hold the chalk the way a waffle holds butter.
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