The Hired Girl

by Laura Amy Schlitz

  “I wouldn’t think of such a thing,” I said hotly. (Though if anyone but Madame Marechaux were to offer me a trip to New York, I’d jump at it.) “After sitting for you, to sit for a man like LeClerq? I’d scorn it!”

  I spoke those words very loftily. It was thrilling, wanting to fight for David. I was sorry he hadn’t gotten the commission, but being angry on his behalf made me feel close to him. I believe I have a fiery disposition. If I were a man, I’d probably fight duels for the girl I loved.

  David’s face broke out in a grin. “You’re a peach,” he said. I know peach is slang, but a peach is such a lovely thing to be compared to: sweet and fragrant and velvety. “You really are, Janet. I’ve been thinking about you.” Then he spoiled it by sighing. “I’ve been thinking about what happened the other night. I think I should beg your pardon.”

  “I don’t want you to beg my pardon,” I said. What I wanted was for him to kiss me again, but I daren’t say so.

  David shook his head. “I took advantage of you. It wasn’t the act of a gentleman. I’ve always despised men who do that kind of thing — take advantage of a girl because she’s a servant —”

  “No!” I protested. “It wasn’t like that. I told you then; I didn’t mind. I liked it ever so much.”

  His face softened. “I liked it, too,” he admitted, “but it was wrong. I hope you’ll forgive me —”

  I cut him off. “I don’t think it was so wrong. I believe I’d have felt it if it were wrong. But I didn’t. It felt pure and sweet and —”

  “But you’re not Jewish,” argued David, and I frowned at him. It was the second time in two days I’ve been told I’m not Jewish. I don’t think people should take such pains to tell me what religion I am. “Besides, you’re years younger than I am —”

  I challenged him. “How old are you?”

  “Nearly twenty-one.”

  “Well, I’m eighteen,” I said firmly, but all the sudden it struck me that I’m not. I’ve grown so used to being eighteen that I forget. It’s worrying to remember, because I’m not sure it’s legal to marry at fourteen. Of course, I’ll be fifteen in just two months, which is ever so much older. I believe lots of girls get married at fifteen. I added, “And my birthday’s in November.”

  “But you’re a servant, living under my father’s roof,” David persisted. “That’s the worst of it. If you don’t like my attentions — no, hear me out! — you can’t run away; you’ve nowhere to go. And if anyone found out, you’d be the one who’d suffer.”

  “I’d suffer for you,” I said, and meant it. “I’d do anything for you. I’ll even forgive you, if you want me to, but I don’t see the point in forgiving someone when — when it was glorious — and I’m not one bit sorry it happened —” It sounded so brazen that I felt my cheeks get red. I turned my back on him and busied myself gathering up the linen.

  I think it did me good to have something to do with my hands, because suddenly I knew what I wanted to say. “Listen,” I said, “about the commission. It doesn’t matter.”

  He looked tormented, which wrung my heart. “What do you mean, it doesn’t matter? I’ve spent weeks —”

  “It doesn’t matter,” I repeated. “You’re going to be a great artist. You don’t need Madame Marechaux any more than you need her stupid lapdog. Someday you’re going to be famous, and when you are, it won’t matter that you never made a picture of Joan of Arc.”

  “But I wanted to tell Papa —”

  “Then tell him. You don’t need a big commission to tell your father the truth. He loves you. Tell him you want to be an artist. He didn’t mind — well, he minded a little, but he got over it — when Mr. Solomon wanted to study Talmud. Why should he refuse you? He’ll help you.”

  “If only he would!” David said passionately. “I’d go to Paris — that’s the place to study painting; there’s no point trying to make a start in Baltimore. But Papa wants me to work in the store —”

  “Mr. Solomon didn’t want to work in the store, either. He told your father so, and he told him about Ruth.” I wondered if David would take the hint. If he’s going to tell his father about wanting to be an artist, he might as well explain about us at the same time.

  David raked his fingers through his hair. “It’s different for me. Solly’s always been the good son; I’m the wastrel. When Papa wanted to send me to college, I said, no, I wanted to see the world, so he let me go abroad. The idea was, after I finished traveling, I’d settle down and work in the store. But I keep putting it off. Papa says I waste everything — time and talent and money. He’s always saying how intelligent I am, how I could do anything I put my mind to, but —”

  “You can do anything,” I said firmly. “But you’ll never put your mind to working in a department store, because God meant you to be a great painter. Tell your father that, and show him your sketches. Once he sees them, he’ll understand everything.”

  He looked at me, his head on one side. It was a look — I scarcely dare write the words! — of warm admiration and affection, and my heartbeat quickened. He crossed the room and stood before me. I think he might have reached for my hands, except that I was clutching the bed linens to my breast.

  He cupped his hands over my elbows. It wasn’t an embrace, exactly, but he was close to me, and his hands were warm. I could scarcely breathe. I stood absolutely still. At the same time, I was ready to jump out of my skin. Elbows don’t get much affection; I guess that’s why it felt so powerful.

  I held my breath and willed him to kiss me.

  “Janet,” he said, “you’re a brick. You’re magnificent — and darling — and I’ll think over what you’ve said. I can’t speak to Papa yet — not right on the eve of the holiday — but I’ll think it over. Thank you.”

  I tilted my head back, raising my face just a little. The warmth of his hands against my elbows was like a fire: two fires. I felt a shiver go up my spine. Our eyes met — we were very close — but the room was brightly lit. I wanted the dim kitchen to give me courage, and so did he. After a moment, he stepped back and stuck his hands in his pockets.

  I murmured, “I’d better go,” and scuttled away like a mouse — only a thousand times larger, of course.

  Now it’s past midnight, and once again, I’m waiting in the library. My hair is up, this book is before me, and David hasn’t come. I don’t think he will. Perhaps it’s wrong to kiss a girl the night before Rosh Hashanah. I wouldn’t kiss a man on Good Friday. Maybe David’s upstairs, trying to think holy thoughts, but thinking about me, just as I’m thinking of him.

  Friday, September the twenty-second, 1911

  I am so mortified! I think I would rather die than look Mrs. Rosenbach in the face again. That stern and scornful expression — but I think she was amused, too, which makes everything a thousand times worse. It was such an awful, awful moment, and I keep reliving it.

  I wish I could stop. I want to think about how David defended me, but my mortification is stronger than my love. How can that be? Love ought to be the stronger.

  I was taking up the mail when I heard voices in the library: first Mr. Rosenbach’s and then David’s. I thought perhaps David was telling his father that he wanted to be an artist. I wondered if he might be telling him about me. I knew it would be wrong to listen, but the temptation was too great. I drew closer to the library door.

  David was shouting. “What do I care if your business friends saw us? I didn’t do anything wrong! Why shouldn’t I take the girl to the opera? She’s never been to the theater, and she loved it. She loved the whole tatty production. Why shouldn’t she —”

  “Because a young man of good family doesn’t take a servant girl to the opera!” bellowed Mr. Rosenbach. Then he lowered his voice. I missed the next few words. I heard: “— your mother —”

  “Great Jakes, you didn’t tell her!”

  “I did not,” responded Mr. Rosenbach. He had his voice under control now. “For the girl’s sake, not yours. Why should Janet take the
blame for your folly? It’s you I hold responsible.”

  “Art is supposed to be for the people,” raged David. “All the people, even the servants. This is America, isn’t it? Haven’t you always said that? Wasn’t I brought up hearing about democracy and equality —”

  “Democracy does not mean,” interjected Mr. Rosenbach, his voice rising, “that society doesn’t have laws and won’t punish those who break them. These laws are important to your mother, which you know very well; you wouldn’t have kept your outing a secret if you didn’t. You ought to be thanking God it was one of my friends who saw you, instead of one of the bridge ladies.”

  There was an interval of silence. I imagined David on the other side of the door, clutching his curls with his hands. When he spoke again, I had to strain to catch the words. “All right, I suppose it was rash. But I’m sick of all these shibboleths — rules and rites and taboos. It’s a free country; but how is a man supposed to be free in it?”

  Mr. Rosenbach’s reply was inaudible. David went on, gaining momentum: “The girl let me do some sketches of her head. I needed a model. Afterward, I wanted to give her a treat. She loved the opera. She loved it. She’s never been to a theater in her life, but she’s hungry for art and music and books. Doesn’t it ever strike you as a waste? The girl’s got brains and grit and imagination, and we’ve got her downstairs cleaning the oven!”

  “Somebody has to clean the oven!” exploded Mr. Rosenbach. I realized David was right: he does aggravate his father. “Do you want Malka to get down on her knees and clean it, at her age? Janet’s young and strong and she gets a fair wage. About which she does not complain, because young as she is, she has more sense than you —”

  “All the same, she’s better than that,” argued David. “She gets Sunday morning off for church, and one paltry afternoon. Has anyone even thought to tell her where the Pratt Library is? She could have a library card; she loves books —”

  “I know she loves books,” Mr. Rosenbach broke in. “I lend her my books; she’s welcome to read anything in the house.”

  “What if she wants to read a book by someone who isn’t dead?” demanded David. “The world is changing, Papa —”

  “Since when has the world not been changing?” retorted Mr. Rosenbach. I never heard him sound so testy before. “Am I to assume you are now a Socialist? Because we have a zaftig hired girl cleaning the oven, you are unhappy with the rules of society? Last year, when the sales clerks wanted an increase in their wages, you refused to go over the books with me. You said it was tedious, and off you went with your tennis racket! Now you’re tearing your hair out because we hire someone to keep Malka out of the oven! Are you offering to clean it yourself ? And what, may I ask you, is wrong with a library of classic literature? Du lieber Gott, but you try my patience! First you flirt with the Gratz girl, and I have to go to New York and patch things up, and now you are full of half-hatched ideas about culture and the lower classes —”

  “Janet,” said a voice behind me, “you are eavesdropping.”

  It was Mrs. Rosenbach. I spun round to face her. I’d been so intent; I hadn’t heard the rustle of her petticoats.

  My hands flew to my face. I know I was red as a brick, and I couldn’t defend myself. I fled. I felt so common, so much like an ordinary, vulgar servant girl. And that’s just what Mrs. Rosenbach thinks of me. How can I blame her? There I was, listening at doors. That’s what servants do.

  No wonder she despises me. Now it will be worse, and she’ll never accept me as a wife for her son.

  David defended me. That’s what I have to remember. He said I have brains and grit and imagination. He thinks I’m made for finer things than cleaning ovens; that I ought to have a library card, and go to the opera.

  But he also said the opera was tatty, and that makes me feel ashamed, because I didn’t know it was tatty. I thought it was sublime.

  I wish I weren’t so low-down and ignorant. I wish I were sophisticated and had poise like Mrs. Rosenbach, or even Mimi. I wish I had fine clothes and a slender waist and never lost my dignity. I wish I had some dignity to lose.

  David likes me the way I am, I know. He says I’m a peach. But when he spoke to his father, he didn’t call me Janet; he never once used my name. He called me “the girl” as if I were any old hired girl, and not his girl.

  Saturday, Rosh Hashanah, September the twenty-third, 1911

  It’s quiet now. Everyone is at Temple. Even Malka went, though she doesn’t often go to services; she says they’re for the men. But she went today. The services for Rosh Hashanah are very long, and it’s a family tradition to take a walk around Druid Lake afterward. So I’m alone in the house, and I can write at the kitchen table.

  My stomach is growling. I can smell roast chicken and brisket and potato kugel (no raisins!). I can smell the vinegar dressing for the cucumber salad and the honey from the cakes. That’s one thing the books have wrong about love. I haven’t lost my appetite. I’m hungry all the time. Last night Malka fussed at me because I ate all the almond cookies in the green tin. We don’t need them; we have honey cakes and pomegranates for dessert, and dough balls called tayglach.

  The table’s set and the kitchen’s tidy. When I hear the front door, I’ll heat up the soup we made Friday morning, put the rolls in the oven to warm, carve the chicken and the brisket, and slice the apples.

  It seems so strange to be sitting here, almost idle. I worked for a while learning my catechism, but it made me want to go to sleep. I wish I could sleep, but I have to baste the chicken from time to time, and I ought to think; these past two days have been so busy I haven’t had time.

  Last night I dreamed about Ma again. I don’t remember much — only that she was displeased with me and wouldn’t look me in the face. Oh, Ma, I can’t help it! I can’t help being in love! I never knew that love was so irresistible, so desperate. It’s just like that song from La Traviata — rapture, rapture and torment. The torment’s worse than I expected, but I don’t want it to stop.

  I think about David all day long. There’s nothing more absorbing than thinking about him. I count and recount the proofs that he cares for me. From the beginning he said he liked me. He says I’m a magnificent creature and a peach and the limit. He gave me a sketchbook. He took me to the opera, and bought me a red umbrella, and kissed me. He said I’m darling, and that’s a real love word. (I wish he’d said my darling; that would be better.)

  I run my mind over these things, and I am dizzy with joy, but then I’m afraid. I’m afraid because Ma warned me against men — though she never knew David. I tremble, because I’ve given away my heart. I’ve given it to a Jew, which is all right on the one hand, because I no longer believe that Jews are so different from other people, or that they’re not as good. But on the other hand, the Rosenbachs won’t want David to marry a shiksa. If David marries me, our children won’t be Jewish, because a Jew is the child of a Jewish woman.

  I don’t know how much David will care about that. He isn’t religious like Solly. But Mr. Rosenbach will mind. He’ll want all his grandchildren to be Jews. That makes me feel terrible, because I love Mr. Rosenbach. He’s never been anything but good and kind to me.

  So then I wonder if I could convert to Judaism. If I converted, would my children be Jewish, or would I have to be born a Jew in order to pass it on? I can’t find out about this because there’s no one I can ask without exciting suspicion. And I don’t want to convert, because I’m a Catholic. Even though I’ve never taken the Blessed Sacrament, in my very bones I’m a Catholic. I don’t want to be an apostate. I pray about it, but even when I’m at my prayers, my mind wanders off to David and I can’t pray properly. Father Horst says that God loves to grant mercy and forgiveness, but it seems to me that God must be getting awfully tired of me and my problems.

  I don’t know what to do. I don’t know what will happen. I love David and I believe he loves me. I know I could be a good wife to him, though I don’t know if our marriage would be lega
l because of my only being fourteen. David needs someone to believe in him, and I do, with all my heart. If his father disinherited him, I’d work for him. I’d go on being a hired girl so he could paint. We’d be poor, but I’m not afraid of poverty, not if I had David.

  In books, lovers have happy endings. Mr. Rochester had to go blind, but Jane came to find him, and they were married. And Walter Gay came back from shipwreck to marry Florence. In The Woman in White, Walter Hartright had to rescue Laura Fairlie from an insane asylum, but then they got married. The only person who didn’t get married was Rebecca in Ivanhoe. Ivanhoe couldn’t marry her, because she was a Jew. But that was long ago, and Daniel Deronda —

  There’s the front door. The others are back.

  Sunday, September the twenty-fourth, 1911

  I am writing from the eighth floor of the Marlborough apartment building. I’ve never been so high up in my life. It’s dark as I write, and the windows are open; I can look out and see the streetlamps below. The view makes my stomach feel queer. I know I won’t fall out the window, but I’m afraid I might be tempted to jump.

  I feel like a princess in a tower. I don’t mean the aristocratic part of being a princess, because I’m still a hired girl. What I mean is that I’m high above the earth, and I’m here against my will. The Marlborough apartments are luxurious; even the servants’ rooms have electric lights. But I don’t want to be here. I want to be back at the Rosenbachs’, close to David.

  When I came back from Mass this morning, Malka said Mrs. Rosenbach wanted to see me in the parlor. I went upstairs in a state of clammy trepidation. I haven’t spoken to her since Thursday, unless you count things like “Shall I clear, ma’am?”

  Mrs. Friedhoff was in the parlor with Mrs. Rosenbach, and Mr. Rosenbach was there, too, reading his newspaper. He lowered his paper to smile at me. Then he went back to reading.

  Mrs. Rosenbach addressed me courteously. She said she had a favor to ask. It seems that Mrs. Friedhoff’s mother-in-law and aunt-by-marriage are coming to stay tomorrow and won’t leave until Friday morning. That puts Anna in a fix, because she still has no housemaid. Mrs. Rosenbach asked if I would be willing to stay at the Friedhoffs’ apartment for a week, partly to tidy up, but mostly to look after Oskar.