offered to the brilliant girl with the sweet, serious eyes and gentle
voice. As it meant independence and a chance to travel and learn the
ways of the world, Marie agreed to undertake the work.
Now, for the first time in her life, the young Polish girl knew work
that was not a labor of love. Her pupils cared nothing for the things
that meant everything to her. How they loved luxury and show and gay
chatter! How indifferent they were to truth that would make the world
wiser and happier.
"How strangely you look, Mademoiselle Marie," said the little Countess
Olga one day, in the midst of her French lesson. "Your eyes seem to see
things far away."
Marie was truly looking past her pupils, past the rich apartment, beyond
Russia, into the great world of opportunity for all earnest workers. She
had overheard something about another plot among the students of Warsaw,
and knew that some of her father's pupils had been put under arrest.
"Suppose they should try to make me testify against my friends," said
the girl to herself. "I must leave Russia at once. My savings will
surely take me to Paris, and there I may get a place as helper in one of
the big laboratories, where I can learn as I work."
The eyes that had been dark with fear an instant before became bright
with hope. Eagerly she planned a disguise and a way to slip off the very
next night while the household was in the midst of the excitement of a
masquerade ball.
Everything went well, and in due time she found her trembling self
and her slender possessions safely stowed away on a train that was
moving rapidly toward the frontier and freedom. No one gave a second
thought to the little elderly woman with gray hair and spectacles who
sat staring out of the window of her compartment at the fields and
trees rushing by in the darkness and the starry heavens that the train
seemed to carry with it. Her plain, black dress and veil seemed those
of a self-respecting, upper-class servant, who was perhaps going to the
bedside of a dying son.
"I feel almost as old as I look," Marie was saying to herself. "But
how can a girl who is all alone in the world, with no one to know what
happens to her, help feeling old? Down in my heart, though, I know that
life is just beginning. There is something waiting for me beyond the
blackness--something that needs just little me."
It was a wonderful relief when the solitary journey was over and the
elderly disguise laid aside. "Shall I ever feel really young again?"
said the girl, who was not quite twenty-four. But not for a moment did
she doubt that there was work waiting for her in the big, unexplored
world.
During those early days in Paris, Marie often had reason to be grateful
for the plain living of her childhood that had made her independent
of creature comforts. Now she knew actual want in her cold garret,
furnished only with a cot and chair, like a hermit's cell. She lived,
too, on hermit's fare--black bread and milk. But even when it was so
cold that the milk was frozen,--cold comfort, indeed!--the fire of her
enthusiasm knew no chill. Day after day she walked from laboratory to
laboratory begging to be given a chance as assistant, but always with
the same result. It was man's work; why did she not look for a place in
a milliner's shop?
One day she renewed her appeal to Professor Lippman in the Sorbonne
research laboratories. Something in the still, pale face and deep-set,
earnest eyes caught the attention of the busy man. Perhaps this strange,
determined girl was starving! And besides, the crucibles and test-tubes
were truly in sad need of attention. Grudgingly he bade her clean the
various accessories and care for the furnace. Her deftness and skill
in handling the materials, and a practical suggestion that proved of
value in an important experiment, attracted the favorable notice of the
professor. He realized that the slight girl with the foreign look and
accent, whom he had taken in out of an impulse of pity, was likely to
become one of his most valuable helpers.
A new day dawned for the ambitious young woman. While supporting herself
by her laboratory work, she completed in two years the university
course for a degree in mathematics, and, two years later, she won a
second degree in physics and chemistry. In the meantime her enthusiasm
for science and her undaunted courage in the face of difficulties and
discouragements attracted the admiration of a fellow-worker, Pierre
Curie, one of the most promising of the younger professors.
"I love you, and we both love the same things," he said one day. "Would
it not be happier to live and work together than alone?"
And so began that wonderful partnership of two great scientists, whose
hard work and heroic struggle, crowned at last by brilliant success,
has been an inspiration to earnest workers the world over.
Madame Curie set up a little laboratory in their apartment, and toiled
over her experiments at all hours. Her baby daughter was often bathed
and dressed in this workroom among the test-tubes and the interesting
fumes of advanced research.
"Irene is as happy in the atmosphere of science as her mother was,"
said Madame Curie to one of her husband's brother-professors who seemed
surprised to find a crowing infant in a laboratory. "And if I could
afford the best possible nurse, she could not take my place! For my baby
and I know the joy of living and growing together with those we love."
What was the problem that the mother was working over even while she
sewed for her little girl, or rocked her to sleep to the gentle crooning
of an old Polish folk-song whose melody Chopin has wrought into one of
his tenderest nocturnes?
[Illustration: Marie Sklodowska Curie]
The child who used to delight in experiments with light-waves in her
father's laboratory, was interested in the strange glow which Prof.
Becquerel had found that the substance known as uranium gave off
spontaneously. Like the X-rays, this light passes through wood and
other bodies opaque to sunlight. Madame Curie became deeply interested
in the problem of the nature of the Becquerel rays and their wonderful
properties, such as that of making the air a conductor for electricity.
One day she discovered that pitchblende, the black mineral from which
uranium is extracted, was more _radioactive_ (that is, it gave off more
powerful rays) than the isolated substance itself, and she came to the
conclusion that there was some other element in the ore which, could it
be extracted, would prove more valuable than uranium.
With infinite patience and the skill of highly trained specialists in
both physics and chemistry, Madame Curie and her husband worked to
obtain this unknown substance. At times Pierre Curie all but lost heart
at the seemingly insurmountable obstacles in the way. "It cannot be
done!" he exclaimed one day, with a groan. "Truly, 'Nature has buried
Truth deep in the bottom of the sea.'"
"But man can dive, _cher ami_," said his wife, with a heartening smile.
"Think of the joy when one comes up at last with the pearl--the pearl of
truth!"
At last their toil was rewarded, and _two_ new elements were separated
from pitchblende--polonium, so named by Madame Curie in honor of her
native Poland, and radium, the most marvelous of all radioactive
substances. A tiny pinch of radium, which is a grayish white powder not
unlike coarse salt in appearance, gives out a strange glow something
like that of fireflies, but bright enough to read by. Moreover, light
and heat are radiated by this magic element with no apparent waste of
its own amount or energy. Radium can also make some other substances,
diamonds for instance, shine with a light like its own, and it makes
the air a conductor of electricity. Its weird glow passes through bone
almost as readily as through tissue-paper or through flesh, and it even
penetrates an inch-thick iron plate.
The Curies now woke to find not only Paris but the world ringing with
the fame of their discovery. The modest workers wanted nothing,
however, but the chance to go on with their research. You know how
Tennyson makes the aged Ulysses look forward even at the end of his life
to one more last voyage. The type of the unconquerable human soul that
ever presses on to fresh achievement, he says:
All experience is an arch where-thro'
Gleams that untravel'd world, whose margin fades
Forever and forever when I move.
So it was with Pierre Curie and his wife. Their famous accomplishment
opened a new world of interesting possibilities, a world which they
longed above all things to explore.
Their one trouble was the difficulty of procuring enough of the precious
element they had discovered to go on with their experiments. Because
radium is not only rare, but also exceedingly hard to extract from the
ore, it is a hundred times more precious than pure gold. It is said
that five tons of pitchblende were treated before a trifling pinch of
the magic powder was secured. It would take over two thousand tons of
the mineral to produce a pound of radium. Moreover, it was not easy to
secure the ore, as practically all the known mines were in Austria, and
those in control wanted to profit as much as possible by this chance.
"It does seem as if people might not stand in the way of our obtaining
the necessary material to go on with our work," lamented Pierre Curie.
"What we discover belongs to the world--to any one who can use it."
"We have passed other lions in the way. This, too, we shall pass," said
Madame Curie, quietly.
They lived in a tiny house in an obscure suburb of Paris, giving
all that they possessed--the modest income gained from teaching and
lecturing, their share of the Nobel prize of $40,000, which, in 1903,
was divided between them and Professor Becquerel, together with all
their time and all their skill and knowledge, to their work.
For recreation they went for walks in the country with little Irene,
often stopping for dinner at quaint inns among the trees. On one such
evening, when Dr. Curie had just declined the decoration of the Legion
of Honor, because it had "no bearing on his work," his small daughter
climbed on his knee and slipped a red geranium into his buttonhole,
saying, with comical solemnity: "You are now decorated with the Legion
of Honor. Pray, Monsieur, what do you intend to do about it?"
"I like this emblem much better than a glittering star on a bit of red
ribbon, and I love the hand that put it there," replied the father, his
face lighting up with one of his rare smiles. "In this case I make no
objection."
Other honors, which meant increased opportunity for work, were quietly
accepted. Pierre Curie was elected to the French Academy--the greatest
honor his country can bestow on her men of genius and achievement.
Madame Curie received the degree of Doctor of Physical Science, and--a
distinction shared with no other woman--the position of special lecturer
at the Sorbonne, in Paris.
One day in 1906, when Dr. Curie, his mind intent on an absorbing
problem, was absent-mindedly hurrying across a wet street, he slipped
and fell under a passing truck and was instantly killed. When they
attempted to break the news to Madame Curie by telling her that her
husband had been hurt in an accident, she looked past them with a white,
set face, and repeated over and over to herself, as if trying to get her
bearings in the new existence that stretched blackly before her, "Pierre
is dead; Pierre is dead."
Now, as on that night when she was leaving Russia for an unknown world,
she saw a gleam in the blackness--there was work to be done! There was
something waiting in the shadowy future for her, something that she
alone could do. As on that other night, she found her lips shaping the
words: "The big world has need of little me. But oh, it will be hard now
to work alone!" Then her eyes fell on her two little girls (Irene was
now eight years old and baby Eve was three), who were standing quietly
near with big, wondering eyes fixed on their mother's strange face.
"Forgive me, darlings!" she cried, gathering her children into her arms.
"We must try hard to go on with the work Father loved. _Together_ is a
magic word for us still, little daughters!"
Everybody wondered at the courage and quiet power with which Madame
Curie went out to meet her new life. She succeeded to her husband's
professorship, and carried on his special lines of investigation as
well as her own. The value of her work to science and to humanity may
be indicated by the fact that in 1911 the Nobel prize was again awarded
to her--the only time it has ever been given more than once to the same
person.
At home, she tried to be father as well as mother. She took the
children for walks in the evening, and while she sewed on their dresses
and knitted them mittens and mufflers, she told them stories of the
wonderland of science.
"Why do you take time to write down everything you do?" asked Eve one
day, as she looked over her mother's shoulder at the neat note-book in
which the world-famous scientist was summing up the work of the day.
"Why does a seaman keep a log, dearie?" the mother questioned with a
smile. "A laboratory is just like a ship, and I want things shipshape.
Every day with me is like a voyage--a voyage of discovery."
"But why do you put question marks everywhere, Mother!" persisted the
child.
It was true that the pages fairly bristled with interrogation points.
Madame Curie laughed as if she had never noticed this before. "It
is good to have an inquiring mind, child," she said. "I am like my
children; I love to ask questions. And when one gets an answer,--when
you really discover something,--it only leads to more questions; and so
we go on from one thing to another."
When Madame Curie was asked on one occasion to what she attributed her
success, she replied, without hesitation: "To my excellent training:
first, under my father, who taught me to wonder and to test; second,
under my husband, who understood and encouraged me; and third, under my
children, who question me!"
[Illustration: Madame and Dr. Curie and their little daughter Irene]
It is the day of one of Madame Curie's lectures. The dignified halls of
the university are a-flutter with many visitors from the world of wealth
and fashion. There, too, are distinguished scientists from abroad, among
whom are Lord Kelvin, Sir Oliver Lodge, and Sir William Ramsay. The
President of France and his wife enter with royal guests, Don Carlos
and Queen Amélie of Portugal, and the Shah of Persia. The plodding
students and the sober men of learning, ranged about the hall, blink at
the brilliant company like owls suddenly brought into the sunlight.
At a given moment the hum of conversation dies away and the assemblage
rises to its feet as a little black-robed figure steps in and stands
before them on the platform. There is an instant's stillness,--a hush
of indrawn breath you can almost hear,--and then the audience gives
expression to its enthusiasm in a sudden roar of applause. The little
woman lifts up her hand pleadingly. All is still again and she begins to
speak.
She is slight, almost pathetically frail, this queen of science. You
feel as if all her life had gone into her work. Her face is pale, and
her hair is only a shadow above her serious brow. But the deep-set eyes
glow, and the quiet voice somehow holds the attention of those least
concerned with the problems of advanced physics.
Bank and wealth mean nothing to this little black-robed professor. It
is said that when she was requested by the president to give a special
demonstration of radium and its marvels before the Shah of Persia,
she amazed his Serene Highness by showing much more concern for her
tiny tube of white powder than for his distinguished favor. When the
royal guest, who had never felt any particular need of exercising
self-control, saw the uncanny light that was able to pass through plates
of iron, he gave a startled exclamation and made a sudden movement that
tipped over the scientist's material. Now it was the Lady Professor's
turn to be alarmed. To pacify her, the Shah held out a costly ring from
his royal finger, but this extraordinary woman with the pale face paid
not the slightest attention; she could not be bribed to forget the peril
of her precious radium. It is to be doubted if the eastern potentate had
ever before been treated with such scant ceremony.
In 1911, Madame Curie's name was proposed for election to the Academy
of Sciences. While it was admitted that her rivals for the vacancy were
below her in merit, she failed of being elected by two votes. There was
a general protest, since it was felt that service of the first order
had gone unrecognized merely because the candidate happened to be a
woman. It was stated, however, that Madame Curie was not rejected for
this reason, but because it was thought wise to appoint to that vacancy
Professor Branly, who had given Marconi valuable aid in his invention
of wireless telegraphy, and who, since he was then an old man, would
probably not have another chance for the honor. As Madame Curie, on
the other hand, was only forty-three, she could well wait for another
vacancy.
Since the outbreak of the present war the world has heard nothing new
of the work of the Heroine of Radium. We do not doubt, however, that
like all the women of France and all her men of science, she is giving
her strength and knowledge to the utmost in the service of her adopted
country. But we know, also, that just as surely she is seeing the pure
light of truth shining through the blackness, and that she is "following
the gleam." When the clouds of war shall have cleared away, we may see
that her labors now, as in the past, have not only been of service to
her country, but also to humanity. For Truth knows no boundaries of
nation or race, and he who serves Truth serves all men.
THE HEART OF HULL-HOUSE:
JANE ADDAMS
The Russian peasants have a proverb that says: "Labor is
the house that Love lives in"; by which they mean that no two
people, or group of people, can come into affectionate relation
with each other unless they carry on a mutual task.
JANE ADDAMS.
THE HEART OF HULL-HOUSE
Do you remember what the poet says of Peter Bell?
At noon, when by the forest's edge
He lay beneath the branches high,
The soft blue sky did never melt
Into his heart: he never felt
The witchery of the soft blue sky!
In the same way, when he saw the "primrose by the river's brim," it was
not to him a lovely bit of the miracle of upspringing life from the
unthinking clod; it was just a common little yellow flower, which one
might idly pick and cast aside, but to which one never gave a thought.
He saw the sky and woods and fields and human faces with the outward
eye, but not with the eye of the heart or the spirit. He had eyes for
nothing but the shell and show of things.
This is the story of a girl who early learned to see with the "inward
eye"; she "felt the witchery of the soft blue sky" and all the wonder
of the changing earth, and something of the life about her melted
into her heart and became part of herself. So it was that she came to
have a "belonging feeling" for all that she saw--fields, pine woods,
mill-stream, birds, trees, and people.
Perhaps little Jane Addams loved trees and people best of all. Trees
were so big and true, with roots ever seeking a firmer hold on the good
brown earth, and branches growing up and ever up, year by year, turning
sunbeams into strength. And people she loved, because they had in them
something of all kinds of life.
There was one special tree that had the friendliest nooks where she
could nestle and dream and plan plays as long as the summer afternoon.
Perhaps one reason that Jane loved this tree was that it reminded her of
her tall, splendid father.
[Illustration: Jane Addams]
"You are so big and beautiful, and yet you always have a place for
a little girl--even one who can never be straight and strong," Jane
whispered, as she put her arms about her tree friend. And when she crept
into the shelter of her father's arms, she forgot her poor back, that
made her carry her head weakly on one side when she longed to fling
it back and look the world in the face squarely, exultingly, as her
father's daughter should.
"There is no one so fine or so noble as my father," Jane would say to
herself as she saw him standing before his Bible-class on Sundays. Then
her cheek paled, and her big eyes grew wistful. It would be too bad if
people discovered that this frail child belonged to him. They would be
surprised and pity him, and one must never pity Father. So it came about
that, though it was her dearest joy to walk by his side clinging to his
hand, she stepped over to her uncle, saying timidly, "May I walk with
you, Uncle James?"
This happened again and again, to the mild astonishment of the good
uncle. At last a day came that made everything different. Jane, who had
gone to town unexpectedly, chanced to meet her father coming out of a
bank on the main street. Smiling gaily and raising his shining silk
hat, he bowed low, as if he were greeting a princess; and as the shy
child smiled back she knew that she had been a very foolish little girl
indeed. Why of course! Her father made everything that belonged to him
all right just because it _did_ belong. He had strength and power enough
for them both. As she walked by his side after that, it seemed as if the
big grasp of the hand that held hers enfolded all the little tremblings
of her days.
"What are these funny red and purple specks?" Jane asked once as she
looked with loving admiration at the hand to which she clung.
"Those marks show that I've dressed millstones in my time, just as this
flat right thumb tells any one who happens to notice that I began life
as a miller," said her father.
After that Jane spent much time at the mill industriously rubbing the
ground wheat between thumb and forefinger; and when the millstones
were being dressed, she eagerly held out her little hands in the hope
that the bits of flying flint would mark her as they had her father.
These marks, she dimly felt, were an outward sign of her father's true
greatness. He was a leading citizen of their Illinois community by
right of character and hard-won success. Everybody admired and honored
him. Did not President Lincoln even, who was, her father said, "the
greatest man in the world," write to him as a comrade and brother,
calling him "My dear Double D'ed Addams"?
Years afterward, when Jane Addams spoke of her childhood, she said that
all her early experiences were directly connected with her father, and
that two incidents stood out with the distinctness of vivid pictures.
She stood, one Sunday morning, in proud possession of a beautiful new
cloak, waiting for her father's approval. He looked at her a moment
quietly, and then patted her on the shoulder.
"Thy cloak is very pretty, Jane," said the Quaker father, gravely; "so
much prettier, indeed, than that of the other little girls that I think
thee had better wear thy old one." Then he added, as he looked into her
puzzled, disappointed eyes, "We can never, perhaps, make such things as
clothes quite fair and right in this hill-and-valley world, but it is
wrong and stupid to let the differences crop out in things that mean so
much more; in school and church, at least, people should be able to feel
that they belong to one family."
Another day she had gone with her father on an errand into the poorest
quarter of the town. It had always before seemed to her country eyes
that the city was a dazzling place of toy- and candy-shops, smooth
streets, and contented houses with sleek lawns. Now she caught a glimpse
of quite another city, with ugly, dingy houses huddled close together
and thin, dirty children standing miserably about without place or
spirit to play.
"It is dreadful the way all the comfortable, happy people stay off to
themselves," said Jane. "When I grow up, I shall, of course, have a big
house, but it is not going to be set apart with all the other big homes;
it is going to be right down among the poor horrid little houses like
these."