The shore upon which we had landed was thickly populated, as I have
said. Through a sweep of surpassingly beautiful suburbs, we approached
the streets of a town. It is hard to say why I should have been
surprised at finding in this place the signs of human traffic,
philanthropy, art, and study--what otherwise I expected, who can say? My
impressions, as Marie Sauvée led me through the city, had the confusion
of sudden pleasure. The width and shining cleanliness of the streets,
the beauty and glittering material of the houses, the frequent presence
of libraries, museums, public gardens, signs of attention to the wants
of animals, and places of shelter for travelers such as I had never seen
in the most advanced and benevolent of cities below,--these were the
points that struck me most forcibly.
The next thing, which in a different mood might have been the first that
impressed me was the remarkable expression of the faces that I met or
passed. No thoughtful person can have failed to observe, in any throng,
the preponderant look of unrest and dissatisfaction in the human eye.
Nothing, to a fine vision, so emphasizes the isolation of being, as the
faces of people in a crowd. In this new community to which I had been
brought, that old effect was replaced by a delightful change. I
perceived, indeed, great intentness of purpose here, as in all
thickly-settled regions; the countenances that passed me indicated close
conservation of social force and economy of intellectual energy; these
were people trained by attrition with many influences, and balanced with
the conflict of various interests. But these were men and women, busy
without hurry, efficacious without waste; they had ambition without
unscrupulousness, power without tyranny, success without vanity, care
without anxiety, effort without exhaustion,--hope, fear, toil,
uncertainty it seemed, elation it was sure--but a repose that it was
impossible to call by any other name than divine, controlled their
movements, which were like the pendulum of a golden clock whose works
are out of sight. I watched these people with delight. Great numbers of
them seemed to be students, thronging what we should call below
colleges, seminaries, or schools of art, or music, or science. The
proportion of persons pursuing some form of intellectual acquisition
struck me as large. My little guide, to whom I mentioned this, assented
to the fact, pointing out to me a certain institution we had passed, at
which she herself was, she said, something like a primary scholar, and
from which she had been given a holiday to meet me as she did, and
conduct me through the journey that had been appointed for me on that
day. I inquired of her what her studies might be like; but she told me
that she was hardly wise enough as yet to explain to me what I could
learn for myself when I had been longer in this place, and when my
leisure came for investigating its attractions at my own will.
“I am uncommonly ignorant, you know,” said Marie Sauvée humbly, “I have
everything to learn. There is book knowledge and thought knowledge and
soul knowledge, and I have not any of these. I was as much of what you
used to call a heathen, as any Fiji-Islander you gave your missionaries
to. I have so much to learn, that I am not sent yet upon other business
such as I should like.”
Upon my asking Marie Sauvée what business this might be, she hesitated.
“I have become ambitious in Heaven,” she answered slowly. “I shall never
be content till I am fit to be sent to the worst woman that can be
found--no matter which side of death--I don’t care in what world--I want
to be sent to one that nobody else will touch; I think I might know how
to save her. It is a tremendous ambition!” she repeated. “Preposterous
for the greatest angel there is here! And yet I--_I_ mean to do it.”
I was led on in this way by Marie Sauvée, through and out of the city
into the western suburbs; we had approached from the east, and had
walked a long distance. There did not occur to me, I think, till we had
made the circuit of the beautiful town, one thing, which, when I did
observe it, struck me as, on the whole, the most impressive that I had
noticed. “I have not seen,” I said, stopping suddenly, “I have not seen
a poor person in all this city.”
“Nor an aged one, have you?” asked Marie Sauvée, smiling.
“Now that I think of it,--no. Nor a sick one. Not a beggar. Not a
cripple. Not a mourner. Not--and yet what have we here? This building,
by which you are leading me, bears a device above the door, the last I
should ever have expected to find _here_.”
It was an imposing building, of a certain translucent material that had
the massiveness of marble, with the delicacy of thin agate illuminated
from within. The rear of this building gave upon the open country, with
a background of hills, and the vision of the sea which I had crossed.
People strolled about the grounds, which had more than the magnificence
of Oriental gardens. Music came from the building, and the saunterers,
whom I saw, seemed nevertheless not to be idlers, but persons busily
employed in various ways--I should have said, under the close direction
of others who guided them. The inscription above the door of this
building was a word, in a tongue unknown to me, meaning “Hospital,” as I
was told.
“They are the sick at heart,” said Marie Sauvée, in answer to my look of
perplexity, “who are healed there. And they are the sick of soul; those
who were most unready for the new life; they whose spiritual being was
diseased through inaction, _they_ are the invalids of Heaven. There they
are put under treatment, and slowly cured. With some, it takes long. I
was there myself when I first came, for a little; it will be a most
interesting place for you to visit, by-and-by.”