Authors: Laura Amy Schlitz
There was worse to come. In the last act, Violetta was on her deathbed, which was the rose-colored sofa. She wore her hair loose, like a girl’s, and a lacy white nightgown. She looked oh, so pale and pathetic! All I could think of was that Alfredo
must
come back before she died. She was gasping and coughing as she sang: “All of life must end, all of life must end!” I felt terrible sitting there, strong as an ox, enjoying myself while she was dying. Because I
was
enjoying myself, no doubt about that. Even though I was crying my eyes out, it was so
satisfying:
grandeur and tragedy and her doomed, true love.
Just when hope had fled, Alfredo came! And Violetta rallied, and she and Alfredo sang together about how they would go away and be happy together, and she would get well. I believed it. Even though I’d read the libretto, I thought there was still hope. There was one moment, infinitely happy and pathetic, when she rose from her couch and held out her trembling arms and her face was alight! But then she collapsed, and Alfredo flung himself down on her dead body. And the curtain came down.
When I came to myself I realized I was clutching my throat with one hand and squeezing David’s handkerchief with the other. My face was soaked with tears. The curtains rose and there were the singers, smiling and bowing, and oh, how I clapped! Some people shouted
“
Bravo!
”
which is what you shout when a man is a good singer. David taught me that if the singer is a lady, it’s more proper to shout
“
Brava!
”
Of course ladies do not shout at all, but I wanted to. I wanted to shout and stamp my feet and whistle. Girls aren’t supposed to know how to whistle, but I know how.
David asked me if I enjoyed the opera. I could scarcely speak. He showed me a drawing he’d done of me during the opera — I never saw him drawing me, but I certainly did look rapt. He gave me his arm so he could guide me through the crowd. I ought to have been afraid someone might see us, but all I could think about was Violetta and Alfredo.
Oh, why can’t real life be as glorious as the opera? Of course, in real life people fall in love and get consumption and die, but it isn’t the
same.
In the opera, the music makes everything deeper and truer and grander. I don’t know how to express it. All I know is that it was a good thing that I had David’s arm to hold on to, because I stumbled on the grand staircase, and would have fallen if he hadn’t steadied me. The people around me were only shadows. Reality was what I had known when I was watching the opera — rapture and torment and the love that palpitates throughout the universe.
When we reached the doors, we saw it was pouring great sheets of rain, so that you could scarcely see. I came back to earth and cried, “Oh! My new hat!” and David said, “My sketches!” because he hadn’t brought his wooden portfolio, just his sketchpad. He thrust the sketchpad into my arms and said, “Stay inside and keep dry. Don’t stir a step!” And he dashed out into the rain.
I stood by the doorway and stared after him. At first I was glad to be alone, because I wanted to think about the opera, but then I began to worry. I knew I was going to get home late, and I didn’t know where David had gone. More people left the theater, and I began to wonder what would happen if I was the last one there. Outside the traffic was dreadful; carriages and umbrellas and a broken-down auto whose driver kept honking the horn.
Then I noticed a red umbrella, bobbing and thrusting its way through a sea of black ones. It was a lady’s umbrella, but the lady must have been the forceful kind, because she was cutting through traffic like a hot knife through butter. When the red umbrella came closer, I saw that David was underneath it. He was soaking wet, and there were raindrops in his hair, but he looked quite happy.
I stepped outside, under the overhang. He gave the umbrella to me, and put out his hand for the sketchpad. From under his coat he took a piece of dry canvas and wrapped it around his sketches. “You waited! Good girl! I dashed over to the store and bought you an umbrella.”
“It’s too much,” I protested. “First the opera, and now —”
“
I
can’t keep it,” said David. “Get a look at that tassel! I felt like Lord Fauntleroy, carrying it through town. Besides, I have an umbrella at home, and I bet you don’t.”
He was right about that, so I gave in. At first we meant to take the streetcar, but the ones that passed were all full, because of the rain. David and I walked home together, sharing the red umbrella. David asked what I thought about the opera and I told him I had never, never seen anything so fine. He said he was proud —
stuck on himself
was the way he put it — because he’d known it was just what I would like. He says I have an instinct for art. What a beautiful thing for him to say! I asked him about the operas he’s seen, and he told me about Caruso and Nellie Melba. And then — I felt shy, but it was easier with the umbrella over us both — I asked him about his painting.
He has very noble aspirations. He feels that every artist has a gift to give to the ordinary laboring man. The ordinary laboring man — or woman — needs to be inspired and uplifted, the way I was this afternoon. David likes painting portraits. He says that some artists look down on portrait painting because portraits make money, and landscapes are more distinguished. But David says a portrait painter can tell the truth about the human soul just as Rembrandt did. He said he wouldn’t mind being a great portrait painter, even a society painter like John Singer Sargent.
It’s terribly important that he should get this commission from Madame Marechaux
(who is forty-six!)
because she has a vast amount of influence. If she hires him to paint Joan of Arc, he’s going to tell his father that he means to be a great artist, instead of the owner of a department store. When he spoke of breaking the news to his father, he looked wretched, because he knows Mr. Rosenbach will be disappointed. He (David) had thought his brother would carry on the family business, but Mr. Solomon is going to move to New York so he can attend a Jewish school called yeshiva. That means Mr. Rosenbach is counting on David. But David has no head for business, and Mr. Rosenbach must see that it would be cruel to force an artist into a life of sordid commerce.
I told David that Mimi could manage the store, and he said, “But she’s a girl!” Then I flared up and said a girl could do anything a man could do. David said I was a regular fire-eater but maybe I was right.
I wanted our walk to last forever. My boots aren’t watertight, so my feet got wet and cold, but I would have followed David to the ends of the earth. That’s how fascinating our conversation was.
At last we got home, and I had to face Malka. When I came through the back door, she flew at me and shook me with all her might, which isn’t saying much, as she isn’t strong. But her nails are sharp and they dug into my arms like an owl’s talons. She said I was a bad, disrespectful girl, and she had imagined me murdered somewhere and my body thrown into a back alley. When she stopped railing, she told me that she’d had to make the whole dinner herself. But she didn’t get me in trouble. She never told Mrs. Rosenbach that I hadn’t come home.
I thanked her profusely. Her eyes narrowed and she asked me where I got that fancy new umbrella. I said hastily that I’d bought it at Rosenbach’s, and the price was reduced because one of the ribs was a little bit bent. Oh, what a liar I am! I’m sure I ought to be ashamed.
Then Malka demanded to know where else I’d been. She told me not to say I’d been having religious instruction, because no girl ever looked so happy after an afternoon of religious instruction.
I hedged, saying I’d gone shopping, but Malka caught sight of the libretto under my arm. She jabbed her forefinger at me and exclaimed that I’d been to the opera.
I admitted it. I thought she would scold because it’s above my station to go to an opera. But to my amazement, she didn’t seem to mind it. She said I’d get up to less trouble at the opera than I would with that lying priest Father Horst. And at least I hadn’t run off with a man. Malka’s never seen an opera, but she’s seen the Yiddish theater, which is more thrilling than any Gentile theater, she says. She saw the great Thomashefsky play Hamlet, which was tremendous.
So she told me all about Thomashefsky, and I wedged in a few words about
La Traviata,
and I happened to mention that Violetta had consumption, which meant I hit upon one of Malka’s favorite things to talk about: disease. She took over the conversation and told me all about the people she’d known who had consumption. Not a single one recovered. Telling me about all the long-drawn-out deaths took us through eating supper and cleaning up after it. By the time Malka went to bed, she’d forgiven me for being late (though it’s not to happen again).
Now I sit here and wonder what was the best part of the day. The glory of seeing the Academy of Music, David saying I have an instinct for art, Alfredo’s aria, Violetta dying in white lace, the red umbrella and the walk in the rain . . . I can’t decide. It was all so glorious. But though I’m happy, I’m also aware of a kind of restlessness: a yearning, a suspense that is more agreeable than any satisfaction.
If every day could be like this one, I would die of joy.
Wednesday, September the thirteenth, 1911
I am
oysgematert.
That’s Yiddish for
completely worn out.
The bridge ladies are meeting at Mrs. Mueller’s house this week, so Malka said we should change the summer curtains for the winter draperies.
We scrubbed the windowsills, and we took down the curtains, examining the lace for places that need mending. Then we unearthed the draperies, miles of damask and velvet, and pressed them and hauled them upstairs and hung them. It was hard, heavy work, and Malka was in tears most of the time because Thomashefsky never came home last night. He didn’t come caterwauling for his breakfast, either.
Malka says he’s too old to survive another cat fight, and he’s likely been run over by one of those
farshtinkener
automobiles. She feels in her bones that he’s dead. As the afternoon wore on, she began to say she was like Thomashefsky, too old to be of use to anyone, and the sooner she was in her grave, the better. (This last was because I told her that if anyone was going to stand on a tall ladder to hang curtains, it was going to be me.)
I sure hope that cat comes home.
I tried to comfort Malka, but by the end of the day I was ready to scream. This house has so many windows. The draperies are hard to iron and so cumbersome that the ironing board kept falling over. I burned my hand on the iron.
Mimi’s new eyeglasses have come, and just as I suspected, she looks quaintly pretty in them. When I passed her on the stairs, I told her how becoming her glasses were. She prissed up her mouth and acted as if she hadn’t heard.
She’s still mad at me. But I went through my things this evening and nothing’s out of place. She hasn’t touched Belinda, who is still wedged at the back of the drawer.
Mimi’s new tutor comes to the house every day. Her name is Miss Krumm, and she has yellow-brown hair in a knobby bun, and a grim expression. Her clothes are dull and respectable — a dun-brown suit — and she carries an umbrella even when the sun is shining. Catch Miss Krumm being caught in the rain! She looks as if she hasn’t a particle of humor, and I’ve been feeling sorry for Mimi, but today Miss Krumm came downstairs with a bashful expression on her face and her hair done up in coronet braids. She looked a hundred times better. So I guess Mimi is holding her own.
I haven’t seen David all day.
Thursday, September the fourteenth, 1911
Thomashefsky is still missing, and Malka is very sad. Today she decided we should scrub the inside of the dish cupboard and wash the Passover dishes. I thought that was a waste of time, because the Passover dishes won’t be used until spring, and by that time they’ll need washing again. But Malka insisted, so I gritted my teeth and filled the sink with hot water. Of course there are two sets of china for Passover — service for twelve.
I forgot to say that it was raining. It has rained without stopping since my beautiful Tuesday, and the house was dead silent, except for the rain. Mr. Rosenbach and David were at the store, and Mr. Solomon had taken Mimi to the Klemans’. Mrs. Rosenbach was at her literary society.
The rain plashed, and I washed the dishes, and Malka sniffed and dried. It was all very melancholy. When the doorbell rang, I snatched off my canvas apron, put on my cap, and raced upstairs.
Mrs. Friedhoff stood on the porch with Irma in her arms and Oskar clinging to her hand. She looked just awful. She has a dumpy figure, but a thin face, and today it was downright haggard. She asked if her mother was in, and I said she wasn’t.
Mrs. Friedhoff’s face fell. Then she began to cry. Not loudly, but she blinked and her mouth wobbled and tears rolled down her cheeks. Oskar gazed at his mother with stricken eyes.
I forgot I was the hired girl. I said, “Mrs. Friedhoff, you’d better come on in,” which was presumptuous, because it isn’t my house.
But in she came. I took Irma from her and led Mrs. Friedhoff to the parlor. She sank down in the rocking chair, and Oskar climbed into her lap and buried his face in her neck. I asked Mrs. Friedhoff if she wanted a cup of coffee. Then Anna — I know I shouldn’t call her that, but it’s what Malka and Mimi call her — began to tell me her troubles.
It seems her housemaid and cook, who are sisters, are both leaving. Mr. Isaac Friedhoff is in the Arizona Territory — something to do with the railroad — and earlier this week, Oskar was sick. (At this point in the story, Oskar twisted around to face me so he could boast about all the things he’d coughed up.) Mrs. Friedhoff was up all night caring for him Monday and Tuesday. But by Wednesday morning, he had the appetite of a wolf and had begun to tear around the house, though the doctor said he should be kept quiet. “He didn’t say
how
I should keep him quiet,” sobbed poor Mrs. Friedhoff, “only that he should rest. But Oskar never rests. The first three years of his life, he never slept through the night, and he
won’t
take a nap. But around eight last night, he went off to sleep, and I thought
I
should sleep, only Irma had an attack of croup, a dreadful attack, and I thought I might lose her.” She found a handkerchief in her handbag and swiped at her eyes. “It was terrible. I’d have sent Isaac for the doctor, if he’d been home, but when is he ever home? I’ve
told
him we need to get a telephone, but Isaac doesn’t like them. I ran hot water until the bathroom filled with steam so that the poor child could breathe. The walls were dripping. Just before dawn, she stopped coughing and slept. Only then Oskar woke up, and he’s been like a little wild animal all day.” Oskar wiggled guiltily. “I wanted Mother to watch him. If I don’t sleep, I’m going to be ill.” And with that, poor Mrs. Friedhoff wept afresh. Oskar flung his arms around her neck and choked her with his sympathy.