The Hired Girl(71)

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.