The Hired Girl

by Laura Amy Schlitz

  I guess the truth was that I wanted it — not just the broiled ham, but the thrill of sitting in that big, bright place, with a pink rose on my table. So I ordered. Afterward, I felt terribly guilty and a little scared by the way I was throwing money away, but much more cheerful. While I waited for breakfast, I watched the world dashing by. How beautiful it was! — fields golden with wheat, or green with corn, and overhead the clouds all white and fleecy, like a flock of new-bathed sheep. And the sky — oh, I don’t think the almanac can be right; the sky was so gloriously blue that it must have forgotten all about rain.

  When breakfast came, it was delicious and I ate every forkful. I had grapefruit, which was cold and sour, but I never tasted it before and I wanted to see what it was like. And I had buckwheat cakes with maple syrup, and a thick slice of broiled ham, and coffee, because Father never lets me have coffee, and I thought a stimulant might be good for my spirits. At first I found it so bitter that I couldn’t think why anyone likes it. But I put in milk until it was white, and three spoonfuls of sugar, and after that I found it very palatable. I drank the whole pot. I believe it is a stimulant, for I felt much livelier afterward.

  When I arrived in Philadelphia, I bought my ticket to Baltimore, and I went to the ladies’ room to turn into a lady. I put on my long dress and fastened up my hair. Then I looked for an unobtrusive place to wait — they have a special room just for ladies — but before I reached it, I came across the most striking piece of artwork I’ve ever seen in my life.

  It’s a piece of sculpture, the kind of sculpture that’s fixed to the wall, but some of the figures stick out. It’s called The Spirit of Transportation. I don’t think it’s made of marble because it isn’t shiny, but it is magnificent in every way, and I’m sure it can hold its own with the great works of Classical Antiquity — say, the Parthenon, which I’ve seen through the stereopticon at Miss Chandler’s. I can’t believe that the artist was able to make such a fine piece of work about something as dull as transportation. The central figure is a beautiful lady in a chariot — I think she’s Transportation — and her chariot is drawn by four horses, all with arched necks and muscular, prancing legs. On the far right are some little cupid babies holding models — a steamboat and a train and something else that looks a little like a fish, which I suppose might be an airship. And behind the chariot there is a man who seems to be having trouble with his oxen, and alongside the chariot there is a kind of fairy maiden in a ball gown, who looks admiringly at The Spirit of Transportation.

  I quite lost myself, gazing at this work of art. I longed for Miss Chandler, that I might discuss it with her. It surprised me that a great many people rushed by this noble sculpture without a second glance. Of course they had to catch their trains, but here was an opportunity to look at a work of art — it was nothing less; it was a work of art — and they were missing it.

  It thrilled me, that sculpture. For one thing, it reminded me that in my new life, I may have other such experiences. I needn’t always be an ignorant girl. The world will offer itself to me like a chalice brimming with immortal wine, and I will quaff from it. Perhaps in Baltimore I will find galleries and libraries — and attend concerts, and go to the theater! I think I’d like to see a Russian ballet. And as I thought over these things, and gazed at the sculpture, I began to fancy that I was the lady in the chariot — that somehow the sculpture was about me and my life. Of course that sounds conceited, but Miss Chandler says that great works of art are universal, and in them we behold our everyday struggles and homely joys.

  I decided it was an omen. I told myself I was the Spirit of Transportation and that Father was the man at the far left of the sculpture, the one who couldn’t control his oxen. I saw myself leaving him far behind, processing in triumph and majesty toward the future.

  I have decided to give myself a new name. This is only practical, but it will also be a symbol of my new self. (Besides, I have always detested my last name.) I have long felt that the two most beautiful names in the world are Isabella and Damaris. But after consideration, I decided not to use them, because I can’t imagine my future mistress calling me Isabella or Damaris. They don’t sound like hired girls’ names. Isabella might be shortened to Izzy — which is dreadful — and Damaris can’t be shortened because that would be profane.

  And besides, if I am to have a new name, it ought to be close enough to my old name so that if someone calls me, I’ll lift my head and look sharp.

  So I decided on Janet, which is close to Joan, but ever so much prettier, and not too fancy for a hired girl. Mr. Rochester often calls Jane Eyre Janet when he’s feeling especially fond of her. For my last name, I chose Lovelace — because I do love lace, or would if I had some, so it isn’t even a lie.

  Janet Lovelace! bound for Baltimore, a new servitude, and the wide, wide world!

  Monday, July the third, 1911

  I have so much to write and so little time! I haven’t yet asked permission to take a candle upstairs at night, and my room is growing dark. Amazing circumstance that I should be living in a house with electric lights! Electricity is a beautiful thing, so clean and easy; you don’t have the work you have with kerosene lamps, trimming the wicks and cleaning the chimneys. But of course there’s no electricity in the servants’ rooms.

  All that must be told later. For now, I take up the thread of my tale.

  When I left Philadelphia and set off for Baltimore, the train was crowded, and it was mostly gentlemen on board. I couldn’t find a seat next to a lady, and I didn’t want to sit by a man. I pressed forward until I found two empty seats, put my suitcase in the rack, and slid into the window seat. Then a gentleman — no, he was not a gentleman, and I will not dignify him with that name — came and sat next to me. He was young, with hair as yellow as sawdust; stout in a puffy, undistinguished sort of way.

  He nodded to me and touched the brim of his hat, but I turned and gazed out the window, so that he would understand that I wasn’t the sort of girl who talks to strange men. He didn’t pursue the matter, for which I was grateful, and by and by I forgot about him. I began to regret having had such a big breakfast and drunk so much coffee. I knew that a three-hour journey lay ahead of me, and I became very uncomfortable. (Oh, forgive me, Miss Chandler, but I must be vulgar one last time!) I wondered if there might be a ladies’ washroom on the train. I thought there ought to be — goodness, people spend whole nights on trains! — but I felt bashful about asking where it was. Also, I was afraid that if I left my seat, the yellow-haired man might guess where I was going, and that would be just too mortifying.

  So I sat and suffered and tried not to think about how uncomfortable I was. After some time, it seemed to me that at least two hours must have gone by — we had passed Wilmington, Delaware — so there was only one more hour to go. But then the train stopped, with squealing brakes and a great jolt, and it didn’t start up again. Outside the window was a cornfield. Presently the passengers began to murmur, and the yellow-haired man got to his feet. “I wonder what’s up,” he said under his breath. He set off down the aisle.

  I seized the opportunity to leave my seat. I found one of the porters and whispered my question to him — I’m sure I was as red as a poppy, but he nodded and said, “This way, Miss,” and showed me to the ladies’ washroom. He was so calm about it, so gracious and discreet. For my money, he was a gentleman, though he wasn’t a white man.

  Afterward, I hurried back to my seat. The yellow-haired man hadn’t come back, so I congratulated myself on that. But then I began to worry, because it seemed to me that we’d been standing still for some time, and I didn’t want to arrive too late in Baltimore. I knew I’d have to find a boardinghouse where I could spend the night. And then, first thing the next day, I’d have to buy a newspaper and look for work.

  I was just imagining a kindly landlady who would help me find my way when the yellow-haired man came back. He sat down, and I suppose the next part was my fault, because without thinking I raised my eyes to his
. He answered my unspoken question. “Another train broke down in front of us,” he explained. “They’re trying to fix it. Until that train moves, we’re stuck.”

  I ought not to have spoken, but I wasn’t thinking. “How long will that be?”

  “Another hour, they say. They’re fixing it. Maybe two,” he said. I choked back an exclamation of dismay. I’d planned to get into Baltimore around five thirty; if we were two hours late, it would be starting to get dark. If we were three hours late, it would be dark entirely.

  I was determined not to speak again, lest the man grow familiar. I turned back to my window and stared out at the cornfield. Now that the train had stopped, it was very warm. All the windows were open but there wasn’t a breath of air. People around me were talking — even talking to strangers. I wondered if it would be very improper to talk to the man next to me. His clothes were respectable, and he hadn’t tried to press his attentions on me. I glanced at him sideways and saw that he was reading a newspaper. It was a Baltimore paper and I wondered if he lived in Baltimore. If he did, he might know a respectable boardinghouse. But I held my tongue, because a girl traveling alone mustn’t talk to strange men.

  It was another three hours before we reached Baltimore. The sky was dark blue, and the air was dim. I thought of trying to find my way through the unfamiliar streets, and my heart quite sank. I was hungry, too. That morning — oh, how long ago the morning seemed! — I’d had the idea that the difficult part of my enterprise would be escaping from Steeple Farm. Now I knew that the hardest part lay ahead.

  Around me, people were gathering up their things to go. The yellow-haired man looked up at the luggage rack and said, “That your suitcase?” and swung it down for me. I thanked him, and he smiled. To me it seemed a kind smile. At that moment, he was familiar and everything else was strange.

  So I took my courage in my hands and said, “Please, do you know a respectable boardinghouse where I might pass the night?”

  “Can’t say that I do,” he said carelessly, and I guess my face fell, because he added, “Bound to be one not too far from the station.”

  I said, “Yes, of course,” but to my profound and eternal disgust, my eyes filled with tears. I turned away quickly and didn’t look back. He said something after me; I’m not sure what, but I pretended not to hear.

  I found the ladies’ room and tried to repair the damages from the journey. I looked perfectly awful. My dress was creased and my knot of hair was coming undone, and my face was dirty with dust and cinders. I didn’t look respectable — not one bit — and of course the bruise on my face made everything worse. I cried a little, though I’m ashamed to admit it. Then I washed my face and hands and tidied my hair. It took me a little while to find the doors that led to the street.

  When I stepped outside, the man with the yellow hair was standing under a lamppost. “Look here!” he said. “You’ve been on my conscience, not knowing where you’re going to spend the night and all. Fact is, I’ve thought of just the place for you. It’s four blocks from here. I’ll take you there.”

  I was so relieved that I exclaimed, “Oh, that is so kind!” but then I remembered caution. So I said, “I mustn’t trouble you to take me, sir. If you’ll just direct me, I can find my way. Is it a clean place, and respectable?” Though at that moment, I really didn’t care about the clean part; I’d have settled for respectable, even if there were mice.

  “First-rate respectable,” said the yellow-haired man, “but you’ve got to let me put in a word for you. They wouldn’t take just anyone, that’s the thing. They know me at this boardinghouse. I’m a commercial traveler, you see.”

  I said, “Thank you,” and he started telling me about being a commercial traveler, but I didn’t listen very hard. I was worrying about whether the first-rate boardinghouse would be expensive. I walked beside that man all unsuspecting, like a lamb to the slaughter. Now that I write this, I can see how rash I was. But I’m not used to men being depraved, because I never have any nice clothes.

  So I let him lead me to a row of houses with steps in front and deep porches. None of them had a sign saying there were vacancies, and that troubled me, but he pointed to one and stood aside so that I could go up the stairs. He followed me. Once we were by the doorway, in the shadows — oh! the horror and shame of it! — he swung me around, seized me in his arms, and kissed me.

  Never could I have imagined such an insult. And the thing itself — the kiss — was disgusting. His mouth was wet, and I could feel how hot and sweaty he was under his jacket. But I didn’t say a word. I froze like a rabbit. I was so taken aback — the whole thing was so disagreeable — that it robbed me of my power of speech. And then — between the first loathsome kiss and the second one — he murmured that if I didn’t have that shiner, I’d be a fine-looking girl. And then — oh, God! — he put his nasty hand on the front of my dress!

  That infamous touch shocked me into action. I remembered that I was as strong as an ox, and I shoved him with all my strength. I kicked him in the shins so hard my boot hurt. He yelped, and tried to grab hold of me again, but I kicked him again, higher up this time, the way I used to kick Luke when I was a little girl and he tried to bully me. And with that kick, I gained my freedom and preserved my virtue.

  I fled. It’s a queer thing about cities. If you raced through the streets in a small town, everyone would ask why you were running. But Baltimore’s a big city, and the people I rushed by paid no heed to my flight. I had but one idea in my head — to get away from that awful, horrid, nasty man. I was sure he was right on my heels. So I ran like a deer, never looking left or right, darting across streets at random. I was convinced that if I didn’t run mighty fast, he would renew his horrid attentions.

  I ran until I had a stitch in my side. When at last I stopped, I was at the edge of a park: a beautiful park, with a big fountain trickling water, and beds of flowers.

  It’s now so dark that I can’t see the page.

  I will write more tomorrow.

  Wednesday, July the fifth, 1911

  I have a candle tonight. I was a little afraid to ask for one — Malka and I have been getting on so well — but I desperately wanted to write this evening. I am so far behind with my diary! New things happen every day, and I can’t write them because I haven’t caught up yet.

  So I asked for the candle, and Malka looked at me. Malka’s eyelids come down over her eyes like hoods, but she can work the muscles around them in a way that makes her look more solemn and shocked than anyone I’ve ever met. The first time she looked at me that way, I thought I should turn to stone. Since then, I’ve learned that she gives out that look all the time. I can’t say I blame her, because it’s awfully effective.

  She said accusingly, “You’ve been going upstairs in the dark?”

  I said, yes, I had.

  “Take a candle,” she said, and she handed me a china chamberstick. “Matches are in the dresser. There’s a brass box near your bed to keep them in. Don’t burn the house down.”

  I promised I wouldn’t — but here I must stop, because I haven’t yet come to Malka. I left off my story in the park of Eutaw Place, only I didn’t yet know it was Eutaw Place.

  It was there that I stopped running. I’d imagined that a big city like Baltimore would be row upon row of houses, all squeezed together; I’d never pictured a park. This park was sandwiched between two broad avenues, so that on both sides of the street, the houses overlooked the garden. Even in the dark — and it wasn’t altogether dark, because of the streetlamps — I could see how fine the garden was.

  I looked at the houses. They were row houses, but they looked more like palaces — tall and spacious, with balconies and porches and great bay windows to let in the light. Some of them had turrets and panes of colored glass over the doors. Wealthy people lived there, I could tell; it was no place for the likes of me. But the great houses and the tended garden made me feel a little safer. It seemed like a place where criminals wouldn’t feel at home. />
  I glimpsed an iron bench under a tree and sank down upon it. I knew I didn’t have time to waste: it was near nine o’clock, and the boardinghouses would be shutting up. I promised myself that after I’d rested a minute, I’d find a place to spend the night.

  But I didn’t keep that promise. I knew I ought to go back to the train station. This neighborhood wasn’t the kind of place where I’d find a boardinghouse. But I was afraid that awful man might be lurking by the station. The thought of running into him again — and him thinking, maybe, that I’d come back for more — oh, I just couldn’t bear it! I felt like Thumbelina after she’d been carried off by the ugly toad.

  The truth is, I didn’t have the gumption to carry on. It makes me feel bad to reflect upon that, because I want to be noble and courageous. On the other hand, it had been a long day. Even during the good parts of it — having breakfast in the dining car and seeing The Spirit of Transportation — I’d been frightened underneath. And that man had scared me right down to the bone.

  So I stuck to the bench. After a while I realized that I was going to spend the night there. I felt sheltered by the big tree over my head. The night was warm, and I was in a respectable part of town. I put down my suitcase to serve as a pillow and curled up on the bench.

  It was horribly uncomfortable. The bench wasn’t as long as I was, and the suitcase mashed my ear. I thought of all the comforting things inside it — Jesus and Belinda and Ma’s money and Miss Chandler’s handkerchief — and I started to cry. I was frightened because I was sleeping outdoors like a tramp, and I didn’t know a single soul in Baltimore, and I didn’t know how I was going to find a job. It seemed to me that Baltimore might be full of wicked men who would force their attentions on me, and I was no match for them. I even thought about going back home.