The Hired Girl(112)

“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!”