The Hired Girl(69)

“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.