The Hired Girl(39)

So of course I was wild to read it. Miss Chandler used to say that beauty could ennoble mankind, and maybe that book would ennoble me. Or edify me: that’s another word she used to use. I think I’d rather be ennobled than edified. It sounds loftier.

I thought the Rosenbachs were out, because I’d heard the front door shut. The house was full of a Sunday hush. I opened the library doors without a sound.

My heart leaped. Mr. Solomon was in the room. He sat at his desk with his back to me — there are two desks in the library, one for Mr. Rosenbach, and one for Mr. Solomon. His head was bent over a big book, and he was muttering to himself.

I stood stock-still. The truth is, I’ve been wanting to talk to Mr. Solomon all week, but our paths haven’t crossed. That’s odd, when you think about it, because we’re living under the same roof. I guess it shows how great a gulf stands between a servant girl and her master.

I knew I should withdraw, because that was what a proper servant ought to do. But I didn’t. I stood with my hand on the cut-glass doorknob. I think I was hoping that he’d sense my presence and turn his head and smile at me.

But he didn’t. And for some reason, I couldn’t bring myself to speak. I don’t know how long I stayed there and gazed at him across the carpet. I found myself looking at the carpet, and the mantel, and everything. It’s a fine carpet; I run the carpet sweeper over it every morning. I dust the mantelpiece, which is marble, and the Chinese vases, which have butterflies on them. I reckon I know the things in that room better than Mr. Solomon does, because when you clean things, you see them up close. But at that moment, the room belonged to him: books, vases, carpet, and all. I didn’t belong there.

Mr. Solomon kept muttering. I think he was reading a prayer book, because the muttering wasn’t in English. What I’ve caught on to is that Jews are like Catholics and pray in a foreign language, which is Hebrew. I knew I shouldn’t disturb a man at his prayers. I was afraid Mr. Solomon would see me there, and afraid he wouldn’t.

There was a flash of movement. The Thomashefsky cat had been asleep in the green chair, but he stood up and jumped off, landing with a thud. He crossed the carpet and went straight to Mr. Solomon, making a little friendly chirping noise.

Mr. Solomon said softly, “Ah, Thomas! Am I neglecting you? Do you need petting, you poor morsel?” He leaned sideways so he could stroke the cat. I could hear Thomashefsky purring all the way across the room.

I closed the door slowly, so the latch wouldn’t click. I felt hot and prickly all over.

Now that I write this, I believe I was jealous. For one thing, I’ve never managed to stroke that cat. He always ducks under my hand. And I’m aggravated, because here I am in a place of culture and refinement, but I’m only allowed to dust the books, not to read them. I’m mad at myself for wanting Mr. Solomon to notice me, and I’m mad at him for ignoring me, as if I were invisible.

I shut myself in my room and took off my dress. I tried to take a nap, but there was a fly in the room. Every time I was on the point of falling asleep, the fly would light on me. I tried to swat it, but it buzzed away. At last I got up and found my book.

It’s too hot to write any more.



Monday, July the tenth, 1911

I am so ashamed. I’m just boiling with shame, because of what I wrote about the Jews having a great love of gain. I am to be paid, and handsomely. I’m to earn six dollars a week! My days off will be Sunday mornings and Tuesday afternoons, unless Mrs. Rosenbach is entertaining.

Mrs. Rosenbach sent for me this morning. I felt rather nervous. I wanted to broach the subject of my wages, but I hadn’t figured out how. Everything I thought to say seemed so crude.

Mrs. Rosenbach began by saying that I had done very well. She had feared that Malka would be prejudiced against a Gentile. But it seems that Malka — oh, dear, kind Malka! (I wish I hadn’t insulted her kugel!) — says that I am hardworking and honest and willing. Mrs. Rosenbach said she was surprised by how Malka took to me. I was tempted to tell her that Malka isn’t so bad; she just wants someone to make her laugh and listen to her stories — and of course do every single thing she says, exactly the way she says it, which I do.

Then it occurred to me that it might be better if Mrs. Rosenbach went on thinking that Malka was almost impossible to work with. So I smiled mysteriously, as if I had some power over Malka that no other hired girl could ever possess.

After that, Mrs. Rosenbach talked about her plans for me. I am to be a parlormaid. She asked if I had any objection to wearing a cap. She explained that a lot of girls won’t wear a cap because it makes them look like a servant. I said, “Well, ma’am, I am a servant.” Now that I think it over, it strikes me that I must have seemed right humble and innocent when I said that. Mostly I don’t seem either of those things, because I’m too tall. Then Mrs. Rosenbach mentioned the six dollars a week, and I breathed a sigh of relief.