But at last it was time for my afternoon off. As I dressed to go out, I remembered that this time last week I was getting ready to see David. He took me to La Traviata, and he bought me my red umbrella. Two nights ago, he kissed me. It seems a hundred years ago. I recall Miss Chandler once read me a poem with the line in it: Ah, love, let us be true to one another! I don’t recollect the rest of that poem, but I’ve always remembered that line. As I walked to church, I whispered it over and over, like a prayer.
Then I felt bad, because it was almost as if I didn’t trust David. It must be the bad dream I had, because I’m sure I do. Only, the way things were, there was no time for us to swear fidelity to each other. We kissed and I am bound to him forever. But we didn’t have time to talk about what might lie ahead.
I went to see Father Horst, and he was kind but I felt too dull-witted to pay much attention to him. While he droned on about the suffering souls in Purgatory, I remembered Ma. I thought of what I wrote in this book about kissing, and it struck me that Ma never kissed Father, not once that I recall. Marriage doesn’t always mean kissing and happiness. Ma understood that. She wanted me to be a schoolteacher, not a wife; she saved the Belinda money so I could escape from all that, but here I am, thinking of marrying David Rosenbach, who isn’t even a Catholic. No wonder she was angry in my dream.
But Ma never met David, and not all marriages go bad, I’m sure. I blurted out, “Father Horst, isn’t marriage a sacrament?”
He looked astonished and well he might, because I’d veered away from the poor souls in Purgatory. I tried to explain. “I mean, if marriage is a sacrament, it’s holy, isn’t it? So if someone tried to warn a girl never to get married — I don’t mean warning a girl against any particular man, but saying that marriage was a bad thing for a woman — why, that would be a mistake, wouldn’t it?”
Father Horst took off his glasses. The way he did it, I wondered if he had a headache, too. He rubbed his closed eyes with his fingertips. “Miss Lovelace, are you thinking of getting married?”
“No,” I said hastily, but that wasn’t true, because I’d kissed David, and kissing someone and getting engaged are pretty much the same thing. Even Mimi acknowledged as much, when she said that David wasn’t engaged to Isabelle Gratz.
“Has one of your employers told you that there’s something wrong with getting married?”
“No, Father,” I said. I could see where his thoughts were tending. Father Horst is always sure the Rosenbachs are up to no good. “I was just wondering. That’s all.”
“In my opinion,” Father Horst said, “it would indeed be a mistake. Marriage is a woman’s destiny. There can be no higher calling for a woman than to marry a man and bear his children, unless”— a light came into his eyes —“you wish to enter the consecrated life. Is it possible you may have a vocation?”
I was a little slow to see what he meant. “A nun?” I said at last. “Me? Oh, no! I could never be a nun!”
“The calling can be extremely subtle,” Father Horst said pleadingly. “It can be a very delicate thing, that still, small voice that speaks from the soul. Have you heard that voice, Miss Lovelace?”
“No,” I said hastily. It sounded brusque, and I was sorry, because I could see that it would brighten his day if I wanted to be a nun. “I’m sorry, Father, but I’m pretty sure I’m not going to be a nun. I don’t think I have it in me. I just wanted to see what you thought about marriage.”
Father Horst looked at me quizzically. Then he sighed. “I have to admit, I find it hard to imagine you as a nun,” he said, “but God’s ways are often mysterious, and I wouldn’t want to discourage you. Is there anything else you want to ask, my daughter?”
“No, Father,” I said. It was nice of him to be interested, but by then I wanted to get out of there. My conscience is uneasy because I lied to him, and I know he wouldn’t like me kissing a Jew.
After I left him, I went to the church to pray. I lit a candle for David before the statue of St. Joseph, because he is the patron saint of artists. St. Luke would have been better, because he was a painter, but there’s no altar for St. Luke in Corpus Christi. Then I went to the statue of the Blessed Mother.
It’s a fine statue, but I don’t much like the expression on her face. I hope it’s not blasphemy to say that. The statue is white marble, or maybe it’s glazed china; it’s very polished looking, but the face always makes me think of the word perturbed. It’s easy to imagine that statue disapproving of me.
I began by praying that David would get his commission. After that, I was tongue-tied, because what I want most is for David to come back and kiss me some more, but I didn’t know whether the Blessed Mother would understand about that. I’m not sure how she feels about me being in love with a Jew. If David and I are going to be together, one of us will likely have to convert. I can see that David might not want to because of the Christians who persecuted and tortured the Jews. But if I convert, I won’t have Jesus and the Blessed Mother any longer. I can’t expect the Blessed Mother to be in favor of that.
I prayed that something would happen to David so that he might see the light and want to be a Catholic. But I didn’t have much faith as I prayed. The day was overcast and the church was dark and my head hurt. At last I just bowed my head and asked God for mercy and forgiveness. Then I got off my knees and left the church. The sky was white and it had begun to drizzle. I didn’t have my red umbrella, which would have raised my spirits. I walked home in the rain and longed for David.
Wednesday, September the twentieth, 1911
We’re almost ready for Rosh Hashanah. I’d thought we’d cleaned everything that could be cleaned, but today Malka remembered the chandeliers. We washed the prisms in hot water and vinegar to make them sparkle. Tomorrow we’ll begin preparing for Friday night’s dinner. There have to be sweet things for Rosh Hashanah, so that the New Year will be sweet.
David will be home on Friday!
Something nice happened this afternoon. While I was pressing the table linens, Mr. Solomon came downstairs. He saw that Malka was dozing with the Prodigal Cat in her lap, and he pointed to the ceiling. I took the hint, unplugged the iron, and followed him up the stairs.
Once we were out of Malka’s earshot, I asked him if he wanted anything. He said he hoped I would grant him my forgiveness. It seems that Rosh Hashanah has a lot to do with forgiveness. Before the New Year, the Jews try to atone for any injuries they’ve done.
I was confused. I said very fast: “I’m sorry I read your poem and sent it to Nora Himmelrich.”
“No, no, no,” said Mr. Solomon, showing the palms of his hands. “I’m not asking you to apologize to me. You said you were sorry. No, I’m asking your forgiveness. I shouted at you and made you cry.”
It touched my heart when he said that. Most men don’t give two pins when they make a girl cry. “It was my fault,” I said awkwardly. “Anyway, I forgive you.”
“You’re a generous girl, Janet,” said Mr. Solomon, and his sweet-for-a-man smile lit up his face. “Thank you. Now that we’ve forgiven each other, I’ll tell you a secret. Two secrets.”
In a flash, I thought of David. I thought maybe he’d written Solly and sent a message for me. “Oh, what is it?”
Mr. Solomon lowered his voice in a teasing way. “I’ve never been so happy in my life.”
“Are you?” I said. I was glad he was happy, but disappointed because his secret had nothing to do with David.
“Yes, because Miss Kleman has agreed to be my wife, and Father is willing to send me to yeshiva. If you hadn’t sent that sonnet to Miss Himmelrich, those things might never have come to pass. Or they might not have come to pass so soon.”
I think this might be true. I guess Mr. Solomon would have asked Miss Kleman to marry him eventually, but he might have needed a little push. Sooner or later, he would have told his father that he wanted to study Talmud, but it might have been later. Mr. Solomon isn’t a go-ahead like David. “What’s the other secret?”
>
His smile broadened to a grin. “The part of the sonnet you wrote was better than the part I wrote.”
I was so surprised that I said, “Was it?” and he gave a little nod and turned away, because he’d said everything he had to say.
I looked after him, smiling. I do like Mr. Solomon, even though he isn’t David. I don’t always like Mrs. Rosenbach, but she raised good sons. David and Mr. Solomon are the two nicest young men I’ve ever met. Likely they take after their father.
With a peaceful heart, I went back downstairs and finished ironing. Then I took an armful of Mimi’s freshly ironed petticoats and made my way up to her room.
I was lucky to find her in. Mimi’s almost as much of a gadabout as David, but she was sitting on her bed, playing a game of bridge with herself — she told me she’s a demon at bridge, though she’s too young to play with the bridge ladies. I put her clothes in the proper drawers and banged the last one shut. “Rosh Hashanah,” I announced, “is a time of forgiveness.”
Mimi scowled. I noticed she was wearing her glasses. She often “forgets” them when she goes out, but she wears them at home. “I don’t see what that has to do with you,” she said coolly.
“Well, you haven’t forgiven me,” I retorted, “which is mean, because I never meant anything bad by you. I just wanted you to be able to read properly, so you wouldn’t be a dunce. Anyway, your glasses are becoming. If you were a proper Jewess, you’d forgive me, because it’s Rosh Hashanah.”
Mimi’s face was a study. Her mouth looked fierce, but the eyes behind her glasses were thoughtful. The silence between us lengthened.
“It’s Rosh Hashanah,” I repeated, “and I’ve missed you. And starting on Friday, God’s going to be making up His mind whether to write your name in the Book of Life. How do you think He’s going to feel when He finds out you haven’t forgiven a poor servant girl?”
Mimi’s mouth quivered. “I don’t believe He’ll mind,” she retorted, “because you’re not a Jew. Rosh Hashanah is a time of forgiveness for Jews. You’re not Jewish.”
“You are,” I reminded her.
She frowned again. “You think of yourself as a member of this family,” she said slowly, “as if you’re almost Jewish. But you’re not. You’ll never be one of us.”
She couldn’t have known how those words would hurt my feelings, but they did. I guess it showed in my face, because suddenly she cried, “Oh, poor Janet!” She leaped off the bed, scattering the cards, and hugged me.
I was startled, because I’m not used to people hugging me. There was David, and before that, the awful man on the train, and before that, Mark, when Cressy kneed me in the eye. Mimi must have felt my surprise, because after a few seconds, she stepped back.
“Do you forgive me?” I persisted.
“Yes,” said Mimi. “I’ve missed you, too. It was abdominable what you did to me, but it’s Rosh Hashanah, so I’ll let you off.” She flashed me one of her starry-eyed smiles. “It’s been awful dull with David back in New York and that Miss Krumm coming every day. Did you ever see anything as hideous as that suit she wears? I want to show you something.”
She went to her dresser and opened her jewel box. The child is twelve years old, and she really does have a jewel box. It’s ridiculous, but she has a set of real pearls and a necklace of green glass beads that came from Venice. Now she took out a gold filigree chain with a magnifying glass at one end. The glass was enameled with sparkling stones and mother-of-pearl. Mimi looped the chain around her neck and lifted the glass by its stem. “Watch.”
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.”
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