The Hired Girl (25 page)

Now he’s gone back to New York. Not that I care. I think there might have been some kind of scandal about him coming back from New York so unexpectedly, in the middle of the night. There’s been a lot of shouting upstairs. I didn’t pay much heed to it, because Mr. Rosenbach shouts even when he’s happy. But when Mr. David went back to New York, Mr. Rosenbach went with him, and they were both in a very bad humor. I’m not sure when they’re coming back.

I was a fool ever to think Mr. David was flirting with me. Of course he wasn’t. If he had been, that would have been a little bit interesting, but nothing interesting ever happens to me, because that is not my destiny.

I wonder if Mimi knows what happened in New York.

Friday, August the eleventh, 1911

I can’t see why I even bother writing in this book. This must be the most boring diary ever written. Nothing ever happens to me. My whole life is spent scrubbing and cooking and doing dishes. It’s the same thing over and over, just like on the farm; the work isn’t hard, and I’m paid for my trouble, but it’s always the
same.
I don’t think it’s fair that some girls get to go to school and dances and even Europe, when I’m destined to be nothing but a drudge. Life and youth are rushing by as I chop cabbage and push the carpet sweeper back and forth across the rug.

We’re having another hot spell this week. Mr. Rosenbach and Mr. David are still in New York, so it’s a quiet Shabbos. The pimple on my chin has gone away, but the one on my nose is still big and shiny. It’s frightful.

I found a picture of the Sibyl Mr. David compared me to, in
The Picturesque World.
Her name is the Erythraean Sibyl, and she’s terribly homely. She has arms like a butcher and wears a nasty little hat. The only good thing about her is that people seem to admire her; somebody named Lady Eastlake called her “a grand, bareheaded creature,” just as Mr. David did. I don’t know why neither of them noticed the hat. The author of
The Picturesque World
said the Sibyl was “dignified and majestic,” as befits a warrior goddess of wisdom. Afterward I looked in the mirror and tried to assume a martial air, but all I could see was the pimple on my nose.

Lately I’ve been reading the prayer book, and it seems to me that I lack the spirit of repentance. It isn’t that I haven’t any sins — I am
steeped
in sin — I just don’t seem to be able to repent. The catechism says that true contrition should be interior, supernatural, universal, and sovereign, and that makes me realize that I’m not contrite
at all.
I’m sure I ought to feel repentant about not loving Father, but I don’t. How could I love and honor him when he never spoke a kind word to me? And I guess I should repent of lying about my age, but where would I be if I hadn’t? Back home on the farm, working twice as hard as I work here and not being paid a penny, that’s where. It’s all so unjust. I know I’m sinful, but I don’t think it’s altogether my
fault.

Every time I try to repent, I get angry.

Malka has been having trouble with her bunion and hasn’t been out of the house all week. It’s dreadfully hot and sticky. I wish the weather would change. I wish anything would change.

Tuesday, August the fifteenth, 1911

It’s a curious thing about Mrs. Rosenbach. The minute I think I don’t like her, she changes and then I do. I told her today was the Feast of the Assumption and that’s a Holy Day of Obligation. I said I didn’t know how long the church service would last and I was afraid I might be late coming home. But Mrs. Rosenbach said of course I must go; Malka could manage until I came back.

Then Malka was vexed and wanted to know just how many Holy Days of Obligation there are. She said she couldn’t have me running off to church every time she needed me. Mrs. Rosenbach said in a very calm voice that Malka wasn’t being fair, because I worked hard, and the house has never looked so clean as it has since I came. Of course that made things worse with Malka. I fetched my prayer book and showed her there were only six Holy Days of Obligation all year, plus Sundays. She sniffed.

It was a very inspiring service, though, because everyone brought flowers and fragrant herbs for the Blessed Mother. I went to the flower market and bought pink roses — I meant to buy white ones because blue and white are the Virgin’s colors, but the white ones were all wilted. Anyway, she’d probably like a change. Her altar had so many bouquets they were tumbling over one another, and the smell of flowers and incense blended in the air.

When I got back, Mr. Rosenbach — he is back from New York but Mr. David isn’t — showed me Titian’s
Assumption of the Virgin
in one of his books. The real painting is in Venice and he’s seen it. He says it’s so beautiful it makes you stop short in your tracks. The one in the book is just a line drawing, but you can see what a magnificent painting it must be. Mr. Rosenbach says the red of the Virgin’s dress is the loveliest shade of red there is. He told me to shut my eyes and imagine it. When I opened my eyes he smiled at me and said he could tell from my face that I’d gotten the color exactly right.

Wednesday, August the sixteenth, 1911

Mrs. Rosenbach had her bridge ladies today, and Malka asked me to serve the luncheon. She’s having an awful bad time with her bunion. I found a cure for Malka’s bunion in a magazine, but you’re supposed to rub the bunion with lard, and lard is
treif.
Besides, Malka says it would hurt to rub it. She cut out a big patch in her slipper to let the bunion out, and I could see it. It looks horrifying and unnatural. She’s been in a bad humor all week, but I can’t blame her, now that I’ve set eyes on her bunion.

I didn’t mind waiting on the bridge ladies because I thought it might be interesting to hear them talk. One of them is Miss Himmelrich, who is an old maid but related to Nora Himmelrich. Another is Mrs. Schoenberg, whom I like because she dresses so stylish and always greets me at the door. I don’t like Mrs. Mueller because she’s prissy and has a mean little mouth. I don’t think Mrs. R. likes her much either, because Mrs. Mueller is never invited here except for bridge. The ladies need her for bridge. You have to have four people to play bridge, no more, no less. I don’t know how to play bridge, but I think it must be very exciting, because the ladies play all day long, from morning till late afternoon. They never get tired of it.

We always serve special food to the bridge ladies: dainty things that don’t take long to serve or eat. The china is so thin you can see the shadow of your fingers through the teacups. Everything has to be just so, from the flowers on the sideboard to the little napkins Mrs. R. embroidered with hearts and clubs and diamonds and spades. Usually Malka makes chicken salad, but today Mrs. R. wanted cucumber sandwiches (I never had them before but they’re good) and corn oysters, which aren’t really oysters but fritters. For dessert there were cold berries with sugar syrup and almond cookies and little orange tartlets. The only things served hot were the fritters, so I kept everything in the refrigerator until Mrs. R. rang for me. Then I fried the corn oysters and brought everything upstairs.

I divided the corn oysters between the four plates and gave each lady two tiny sandwiches and a green glass goblet with berries in it. It all looked so pretty. Then I poured iced tea and set out sugar and lemon slices. The ladies were upset because Mrs. Schoenberg is going to the Catskills to get away from the heat, and that means
no bridge for three weeks.
There was a flash of a moment — I can’t believe how naive I was — when I thought of opening my mouth and saying that I could learn to play. I know I could. Miss Chandler always said I was quick to learn. But of course they would never play with the hired girl, no matter how much they wanted their
fourth
(that’s the term they use).

Then old Miss Himmelrich said her great-niece Nora could play. The other ladies didn’t seem too crazy about this idea. I was arranging the dessert things on the sideboard, and I could see Mrs. Mueller’s petulant look in the mirror. Malka told me Mrs. Mueller is the worst gossip in Eutaw Place, and I bet she didn’t want a young girl around at bridge, because she’d have to watch what she says.

Then Mrs. R. said graciously that it would be delightful to have Nora.

Of course I thought of Mr. Solomon. His fragile nymph would be right under his roof. I wondered if there was some way to make sure he knew Nora was coming. If he did, he might seize her in his arms and reveal his faithful passion. Maybe she would yield to him and promise to be his wife. I was so deep in thought that Mrs. Rosenbach said, “Thank you, Janet,” and I looked down and saw that I’d set the cookies in a little wreath with the tartlets in the middle, and I’d run out of things to do.

I said, “Yes, ma’am,” in that bland submissive way that’s right for a housemaid, and went outside, taking care not to flounce. I shut the door. Then Mrs. R. called, “Leave the door open, please,” because in this heat, you have to keep the air moving. There’s a little bit of a breeze today.

I propped the door open with Mrs. R.’s bronze pug dog, and I started down to the kitchen. I had reached the top of the back staircase when I heard Mrs. Schoenberg say, “Your new girl seems to be working out nicely.” That’s when I made my fatal mistake:
I stopped to listen.

Mrs. Rosenbach said, “Janet’s a good girl. A little rough, but very hardworking.”

“She certainly looks hale and hearty,” said Mrs. Mueller. (How I detest that woman!) “Is she honest?”

“I’m sure she’s honest,” said Mrs. R., “though she may have fibbed about her age. She says she’s eighteen.”

Old Miss Himmelrich said, “With that figure and that height, she might be twenty.”

“If she is, she’s very backward,” retorted Mrs. R. “Of course, she was brought up in the country”— she made the country sound like some kind of Home for the Hopelessly Backward —“but even still, she’s rather childish. You should have seen her when I told her she couldn’t keep a kitten! But she works like a horse — Malka says she’s never had a harder worker, and she gets along beautifully with Malka, which none of the others could. Naturally, Malka’s taught her to keep kosher. Last week I asked for oysters and Janet looked me straight in the face and said, ‘Now, ma’am, you know Malka thinks that
treif
isn’t good for you.’”

There was a burst of laughter. I felt my cheeks burn. I couldn’t believe she was
mimicking me.
I could have cried with mortification.

“But your Malka is a treasure,” protested Mrs. Schoenberg. “So loyal! Who can find servants like that these days?”

There was a chorus of agreement. I heard fragments of stories: one lady’s housemaid dressed finer than her mistress; another was bold enough, during the dead of winter, to ask for a fire in her bedroom; another had
followers.
I scarcely listened. My soul was too harrowed up. To be called
rough
and
childish
and
backward —
and I’d worked so hard to please Mrs. Rosenbach! Then, out of the chorus of voices, I heard Mrs. Mueller say she would never trust a
shiksa
in the house — especially with unmarried sons.

“Janet’s not like that,” Mrs. Rosenbach said firmly. “She’s not a flirt. I don’t mean she doesn’t have her little crushes — just now it’s Moritz — but she’s as innocent as a child. I have no worries on that score.”

“Servants always prefer the master to the mistress,” said Miss Himmelrich. “They’d rather take their orders from a man.”

“Moritz is much interested in Janet,” said Mrs. Rosenbach. “He has an idea she’s unusually bright. He’s trying to get her to read the
Meditations
of Marcus Aurelius, poor girl.”

There was another ripple of laughter. I clenched my teeth and vowed I would read every page of those awful
Meditations.
Then Mrs. Mueller said in her vile and insinuating way, “She’s not a bad-looking girl. I wouldn’t want her having her little crushes in my house. What if she falls in love with Solly?”

“I never have to worry about Solly.” Mrs. Rosenbach sounded serene to the point of smugness. “Solly would never look at a girl who wasn’t Jewish. His faith is too important to him. And Janet is scarcely Jezebel.”

“Be grateful David’s not at home,” Mrs. Mueller said meaningfully, and Mrs. Schoenberg trilled, “Oh, David! Such a one for the girls!”

“He’s staying with the Gratzes in New York, isn’t he?” Mrs. Mueller’s voice sounded greedy for details. “I heard there might be a match between David and the Gratz girl.”

“There will be no match,” Mrs. Rosenbach said crisply. “David is far too young to settle down. And Isabelle Gratz is a giddy schoolgirl. I can’t imagine how these rumors get started. Whose turn is it to deal?”

I heard the sound of the cards shuffling and the smack of them being dealt on the table one by one. Mrs. Schoenberg sighed in an exaggerated fashion and said, “Ach, this hand is more like a foot!” and Mrs. Mueller snapped out, “One spade.”

They had finished talking about David — and me. They were back to playing cards again. I lingered a few minutes more but heard nothing.

I went downstairs with my mind reeling. I seethed with indignation — I hated Mrs. Rosenbach for saying I was backward and like a child. And how dare she mistake my gratitude to her husband for a silly crush? Mr. Rosenbach is kind to me and gives me books to read. I should be
base,
I should be
infamous,
if I failed in gratitude to a man who gives me books.

And what did she mean by saying I wasn’t Jezebel?

Tuesday, August the twenty-second, 1911

Today I saw Father Horst. Right off, I asked him if Jezebel was very good-looking. He seemed a little startled, but he opened his Bible to Kings and ran his finger up and down the pages. Once he’d reviewed the scriptures, he explained to me that the Bible didn’t say what Jezebel looked like, except that when she was an old woman, she painted her eyes. He added that she was very wicked, because she encouraged her husband to worship false gods.

I felt a little bit better after that, because I’d thought that what Mrs. Rosenbach meant was that I was too homely to attract Mr. Solomon. But she hadn’t been saying that.