The Hired Girl (24 page)

“Yes, sir.” I liked the way he said that. It sounded so cultivated. “I’m choosing all the places I want to see when —” I almost said,
when I grow up,
but I stopped in time.

“I like traveling, too. Especially France and Italy. Are you interested in scenery, or art?”

“Both. Only I don’t know too much about art. I’m trying to learn.” I set my palm against the cover of
The Picturesque World.
I was pleased to see that my hand was steady. “I study the plates. I just — use my eyes.” He nodded emphatically, as if using my eyes was exactly what was called for.

“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.