The Hired Girl(75)

Thursday, August the twenty-fourth, 1911

I’m in disgrace and it’s all my fault. I’m weeping as I write this, but what good are my tears? I can’t take back what I’ve done. Oh, I am nothing but tears, tears and stupidity and regret and mortification. I ought to feel mortified. I am to blame. How can I ever look him in the face again?

This afternoon the doorbell rang. When I ran to open the door, I saw Nora Himmelrich. She looked so pale and apprehensive I scarcely knew her. She asked to see Mrs. Rosenbach, but Mrs. Rosenbach — thank the dear God!— was at the Friedhoffs’, because baby Irma has a rash.

I told Nora that Mrs. Rosenbach wasn’t in and asked if anything was wrong. She wouldn’t look me in the eye because she was almost in tears and didn’t want me to know. Then she steeled herself and said she’d see Solly, if he was at home. I thought maybe there had been a lovers’ quarrel, but of course I couldn’t ask.

I showed her into the parlor. I found Mr. Solomon and told him Nora was downstairs. I thought he would fly to her with the ardor of a true lover, but he didn’t. He said he would come, but he looked taken aback.

I was tempted to linger and try to hear what they said, but I was not quite so base as that, thank God. At least I haven’t that on my conscience. I went downstairs, but my mind was awhirl. I was so hoping they’d settle their quarrel and get engaged. Oh, what folly! When I think of how happy and curious I felt, I burn with mortification!

After a half hour or so, I heard the front door shut. I was in the kitchen, ironing one of Mimi’s dresses — they’re so frilly they take forever, and in this heat it’s awful, ironing. Then Mr. Solomon came down, his feet striking each step quick and hard. Malka woke from her nap and cried, “What is it?” and the Thomashefsky cat leaped off her lap and took shelter under the table.

Mr. Solomon didn’t answer. He never even looked at Malka. He looked at me, and I wouldn’t have known him; his eyes were hard and despising and his mouth was compressed. He said curtly, “Come upstairs. I want to talk to you.” Of course Malka wanted to know what I’d done. But Mr. Solomon said, “I need to speak to Janet alone,” and he headed up the stairs.

I had to follow him, but I was scared. I knew right away that something had gone wrong. My heart was in my throat when I entered the library. Mr. Solomon pointed to a chair, but I was too agitated to sit. I saw he had the sonnet in his hand — not folded up small and tidy, the way it was when I gave it to Nora, but spread out and creased, as if he’d crushed it in his hand.

“What is the meaning of this?” he demanded. “Who do you think you are, sneaking into my private papers? How dare you show this to Miss Himmelrich? She thought you were my messenger! You’ve upset her and made a fool out of me! Is that what you intended?”

I was so shaken by his accusations that I couldn’t find the right words. I stammered out that I’d found the sonnet by accident — I hadn’t sneaked. He paid no attention. He said I had no right to interfere; that I had been presumptuous and deceitful. He said he had no use for a servant who couldn’t be trusted, and he would see to it that I never worked another day in that house. Then — this was the worst part — he asked how I could repay the kindness his family had shown me with malice and ingratitude.

At those words I cried out. “It wasn’t malice,” I said. “It was because I was grateful — I wanted you to be happy! Oh, Solly, can she have refused you?”

I knew the minute his name passed my lips that I shouldn’t have called him Solly. I don’t know how I came to slip like that — I’ve been so careful to call him Mr. Solomon, even in this book. He was red with anger and his color darkened. “Yes, she’s refused me,” he said furiously, “thank God! Not that you have any right to ask. What business is it of yours, after all?” Then he repeated, “Just who do you think you are?” I don’t know why that was so wounding, but it was, and I wept.

“I wanted her to marry you,” I sobbed. “I didn’t mean any harm; I wanted you to marry her, because you love her, and it was such a beautiful poem, and I thought you should send it.” I reached for my handkerchief but it was downstairs, in the pile of things to be ironed. There wasn’t anything to cry into and my nose was running. I had to cover it with my hand, which made me feel low. “Don’t you want to marry her?”

He stepped forward, glaring, and his hands were clenched. There was a flash of a moment when I thought he might hit me, and I scuttled away from him. He must have seen the fear in my eyes because his face changed, and he said, “No, no,” gently, as if he were soothing me. Then his rage burst forth afresh. “What business is it of yours who I marry?” he shouted. “What has any of this to do with you?”