The Hired Girl(93)

It strikes me how few friends I have in Baltimore. During the week, I’m busy with the work I have in hand, and Mass takes my Sunday mornings, and instruction takes my Tuesdays. I’ve been to Druid Hill Park, and Rosenbach’s Department Store, and the markets where we buy food, but I haven’t seen a library or a picture gallery, and I haven’t made friends, unless you count Nora Himmelrich, who probably doesn’t like me anymore. Unless you count David —

I feel very lonely tonight.



Sunday, September the tenth, 1911

It’s past midnight and I’m in the library, hoping that David might surprise me with a visit. I tried to read Theaetetus, but I couldn’t keep my mind on it. That’s not Socrates’ fault. I believe philosophy is very fascinating and lofty, and I know I’m going to like it. But you can’t read philosophy if you’re listening for the sound of an opening door. After I failed with Theaetetus, I tried learning my catechism, but that was no better. In fact, it was worse.

He won’t come. Why should he? I’ll see him on Tuesday; that’s plenty soon enough. I’m busy with my diary. It’s just as well he won’t come.

This morning I wore my fawn-colored suit to Mass. When I was halfway to church, I heard running footsteps behind me. It was David, and he was calling my name. “I’ve caught you!” he said, and captured my fingers in his. “Don’t go to Mass! Come back with me! I’ll fetch my drawing things, and we’ll go to the park. There’s not a moment to lose! Come on!”

I wanted to go. There’s a kind of momentum about David; it’s as if he were a strong wind that could sweep me off my feet. But I’m not a feather to be tossed about. I was on my way to Mass. I wanted to see Father Horst.

So I said, “I can’t. I have to go to Mass.”

“Skip it,” he said. I think something in my face told him I wasn’t going to be as biddable as that, because he switched his tone from breezy to coaxing. “Can’t you miss it just this once? I wouldn’t ask, but time is of the essence — I need you; I really do. Walk with me, and I’ll tell you all about it.”

He swung about and began walking as if he expected me to follow him. But I didn’t, and after a moment he turned, ran ahead of me, and walked backward. “You’re mad because I asked you too late. I don’t blame you. Honest to Mike, I didn’t know before this morning! We don’t open mail on Shabbos, and I didn’t see the letter. I only just opened it. Madame Marechaux likes your face!” He spoke the words as if he expected a trumpet fanfare. “The commission’s almost mine, don’t you see? Only Madame Marechaux wants you facing out, not seen in profile, so I’ve got to send her more sketches —”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” I complained. “What commission? Who’s Madame Marechaux? Why should I care if she likes my face?”

“Great Jakes, haven’t I told you?” All at once he was serious. He fell into step beside me. “Madame Marechaux’s name is Shon.” I must have looked blank, because he repeated it. “Shon. That’s French for Joan. Joan of Arc is Shon Daar. Madame Marechaux grew up near Orléans, and Joan of Arc was her heroine. Two years ago, Joan of Arc was beatified, and Madame is praying that the Church will make her a saint. She’s very devout, Madame Marechaux — and very fashionable; her husband’s just rented a splendid house on Fifth Avenue. She wants a picture of Joan of Arc to hang at the top of the stairs — a big canvas, almost life-size. Madame has asked all the up-and-coming artists in New York to submit sketches, and she said I might, too. She likes me — the other fellows are more experienced, and two of them are almost famous, but she likes me — and now she likes your face. It’s the chance of a lifetime. So you see, I’m not just flirting with you — well, I’m flirting a little, can’t help myself! — but I really do need you, don’t you see? I have to draw you as soon as I can and send the drawings to Madame Marechaux!”

I pondered this. It was interesting to find out who Mimi’s mysterious shiksa was. She was a wealthy lady who wanted a painting, not a sweetheart. So that was good. But I was piqued, too, because I’d thought that David chose to paint me as Joan of Arc because I was like her, not in order to please a lady of fashion. It made the whole thing less romantic.

“Can’t you?” pleaded David. “Won’t you?”

Oh, but I wanted to skip Mass and go with him! I reckon he saw me weakening, because his face lit up with mischief, and he made a dash at me — feinting, as if we were playing that old school game Steal-the-Bacon. He sprang to one side of me, dodged to the other, and snatched my missal out of my hand. Then he retreated, holding the book high in the air and laughing.