A GROUP OF HUMBLE FRIENDS
Of these there are so many--kind honest hearts, whose worth I learnt to
recognise in bygone days, and whom it would be impossible for me to
leave unnoticed here. I cannot name them all, but all are in my
thoughts, as I select just a few from their number to inscribe among my
Penates.
The one I would mention first, the truly excellent women who when
Weizchen retired undertook the management of our household, was with us
through those especially trying years in which my parents’ ill-health
and poor Otto’s constant sufferings made the interior of our house more
resemble that of a hospital than of an ordinary home. Frau Baring was a
gentle-voiced, mild-eyed woman past middleage, who had herself
experienced much sorrow, and this very fact made her more fitted for the
surroundings than a younger, livelier person would have proved. Not that
there was anything morose or depressing about our new housekeeper, of
whom I happened to see a good deal, it being my mother’s wish now that
my more serious studies were finished, that I should gain some practical
knowledge of the matters under her control. So I was duly initiated into
some of the mysteries of her domain, watching her at her work of
superintending, and giving orders, learning the art of book-keeping and
even making an occasional inspection with her of larders, pantry and
linen-closet. As for the results achieved, I cannot look back on these
with very great satisfaction, as all such commonplace details of daily
life seemed to me scarcely worth the time and trouble bestowed on them,
and I by no means relished being called upon to waste any thought on
such dry and prosaic matters. Entering the daily or weekly expenditure
in an account-book appeared to me the most cruel trial of human patience
that could possibly have been devised, but the very horror with which
the sight of these dreary ledgers inspired me, did but increase my
admiration and respect for all those whose duty compels them to pass
their days in the contemplation of dull columns of meaningless figures!
In my personal distaste for all the petty details pertaining to the
direction of a household, I was therefore but the more disposed to feel
sympathy for good Frau Baring, and indeed for all her myrmidons, having
often had occasion to observe the conscientious zeal with which all of
these, every maid-servant and laundress down to the meanest scullion,
performed the duties laid on them. So many instances have I known of
these humblest functions patiently and punctiliously discharged, that I
for one can never join in the complaints too often raised against the
servant-class. Every service rendered us seemed always to be a labour of
love, and this experience can surely not have been confined to ourselves
alone.
I have often thought that I perhaps owed my magnificent health in a
certain measure to my nurse, the simple peasant-woman picked out for her
own
[Illustration: H. M. QUEEN ELISABETH OF ROUMANIA]
fine _physique_ and sound constitution to be my foster-mother. In any
case it must have been from her that I derived my simple tastes in
matters gastronomic, and this has doubtless much contributed to my
well-being my whole life long. As a young girl I exulted frankly in my
health and strength, nor was I in the least ashamed of my rosy cheeks
and plumpness, the pallid and enervated type of woman not being then
proposed as a model, and no one having the slightest desire to look like
a ghost. But I thought little enough of such matters--I was better
employed, with my books, my work, my music, and whenever our own dear
invalids did not demand my special care, in paying visits to the sick
people on our estates.
A dull sad existence, some might say, for a growing girl, but it had its
joys, and deeper and holier ones than can ever spring from the mere
quest of happiness. Moments of depression and discouragement at times
were mine, for who is there has not known such, but the natural buoyancy
of youth prevailed, and already in the exercise of my pen, I had a
source of comfort ever at hand.
And certainly the example of the good faithful souls around me, of their
untiring devotion, contributed not a little to nerve and strengthen me
whenever my own courage seemed like to fail. How weak and faint-hearted
must I account myself, when I looked in Frau Baring’s face, to read
there the tale of bygone suffering--of struggles valiantly fought out,
despair triumphantly lived down. Little by little I won her confidence,
and she told me the story of her life--of the grim fight sustained with
direst poverty, since the day when her husband, a government
under-official, had lost his post through ill-health, and the task of
providing for him as well as for their child had devolved on her alone.
She could speak quite calmly of her bereavement, could take comfort in
the thought that the husband and daughter she had loved so dearly and
tended so well, were both at rest at last, and could suffer no more, but
when she told of the privations they had endured, her lips quivered
uncontrollably, and the tears trickled down her faded cheeks. No sermon
preached me on the duty of resignation could have been half as effective
as this living testimony to the severity of the hardships borne thus
uncomplainingly. And this woman, herself so sorely tried, was full of
sympathy for the troubles that pressed so heavily on my young life. Of
these we never spoke, but I saw that she understood, and felt for me,
and the knowledge made my burden lighter.
For several years we lived as if on an island, shut off from the rest of
the world, and out of reach of even most intimate friends. It was better
so. There seemed to be no leisure then for the pleasures of social
intercourse. They only who themselves were suffering or in need of help,
were encouraged to draw near. Besides the serious view of life which
solitude thus engendered in us, it had another salutary effect, in
preventing any comparison between our lot and that of others, in keeping
far from us the faintest suspicion that there was aught unusual in our
existence. From our parents’ example, as well as from their precepts, we
learned a lesson of deep import, that of the absolute subordination of
bodily to spiritual needs--we were taught to regard our bodies as mere
servants and ministers to the nobler half of our nature, and to treat
any mere physical suffering or inconvenience as a matter of but small
moment. Any of the little ailments or accidents which weaker parents are
inclined to bemoan as real misfortunes to their offspring, were put on
one side by my mother as wholly unworthy of attention, with the remark
that such things might happen to anyone, that few people had not
something more to complain of! Her own fear was of being betrayed into
any weakness, and I still remember the tone in which she murmured--“I
must not give way!” when in watching by her side the protracted agony of
poor Otto’s death-struggle, I had given vent to a cry of anguish and
despair. So I learnt from her to smother my feelings, and I told myself
how thankful I ought to be, in being blest with parents so exceptionally
endowed, that I could but look up to them with reverence, and strive to
follow in their steps.
Another lesson in contentment was constantly given us by our humble
friends, by the poor folk round about, whom from my earliest years I was
allowed to visit. One dear old woman I have spoken of elsewhere; the
little sketch I entitled “German Happiness” is but a reproduction of a
conversation held with her, for I felt that no better specimen could be
given of that peculiar form of contentment with one’s lot in life that
is typical of the German people. “Hans in Luck” is perhaps the truest
piece of folk-lore that exists--the earliest form in which we find the
national characteristic depicted. All happiness, it is well known, lies
in ourselves, and to the cheerful temperament I speak of, it is to be
found everywhere. In every misfortune such people as my dear old
peasant-woman can see some cause for thankfulness; instead of shedding
tears over a broken arm they rejoice in the one left sound, and comfort
themselves in the direst straits by the thought that things might have
been much worse still! The charm of my old friend’s simple words, so
faithfully reproduced by me on a former occasion, lies chiefly in the
raciness of the Rhenish dialect, and would not lend itself to
translation. But I am glad to think that her last moments were
brightened by the flowers I sent her, for faithful to the promise I had
once given, I took care that these should surround her before she
breathed her last, as an earnest that on the coffin and grave they
should not be lacking. There were many others, men and women alike, in
whom the habit of making the best of things had become a second nature,
and the uncomplaining, even cheerful simplicity with which their load of
misery was borne, can surely be accounted little less than heroic.
Much suffering was always caused by the inundations, which in certain
years spread havoc throughout the whole region. Boats were sent out to
carry food from house to house, and I remember going in one of these
with Baron Bibra, steward of the domain, and one of our oldest friends,
and others of the gentlemen composing our little court, to assist in
distributing coffee, bread, and soup, to the poor people in their
flooded habitations. In one of these about forty human beings were
crowded together in two tiny rooms in which they had taken refuge, and
in their midst a corpse--for the churchyard was under water also, like
the bakers’ shops and everything else. It was a terrible sight. And
another year, somewhat later, much damage was done by a hurricane of
exceptional violence that broke out at the same moment, devastating the
beautiful park behind the castle. There was one avenue of magnificent
linden-trees, which was almost entirely swept away during that terrible
night, hardly one out of the scores of fine old trees of many hundred
years’ growth being left standing next morning. For the moment my
brother was too much occupied in bringing help to his poorer neighbours,
many of whose lives were saved by his personal exertions, to have time
to mourn the loss of his trees, but afterwards it was a grief to all of
us to behold the destruction of our beloved park. An enormous quantity
of wood, about eight thousand cubic feet in measurement, was carted away
from the wreckage. I wept for my dear old trees. They had been planted
by our forefathers in centuries gone by, and had looked on at the good
and evil fortunes of our family for all those years. To me they were
especially dear. They had been the confidants of my inmost thoughts. How
often have I leant out from my window and talked to them! There was one
white poplar to which I told all my secrets, and I listened to its
murmured replies, as its leaves rustled, gently stirred by the night
breeze that came sighing across the rippling Rhine.
That was before the great storm, the one I have just told of, in the
year 1876. But long before that, in my childhood and early youth, I had
witnessed some only less terrible. The position of Neuwied exposed us to
the full force of every gale that swept up the Rhine, each gust of wind
being caught as it were in the bend of the river wherein the little town
lies, and eddying round and round the castle with pitiless rage, seemed
in a trap from which it sought to break away. With the howling of the
wind, and the crashing sound of the tiles torn off the roof, we could
often scarce hear ourselves speak in the rooms inside, and very often
too it was hardly possible to open the doors, so great was the draught.
On the river itself, with its waves lashed to fury, the spectacle was
one of mingled terror and grandeur. And I was well situated to have a
full view of it on each such occasion, my windows directly overlooking
the Rhine. I used to watch the boats and rafts, could see them
distinctly and hear the rowers sing out, as they dipped their oars in
cadence. Those big rafts were most picturesque, and there was
something poetic, in harmony with the scene, in the cry of the
rowers:--“Hesseland, France!” instead of right and left. “Hesseland,
France!”--the sound still rings in my ears.
But one day the wind was wilder than its wont, the sky was murky, the
Rhine chocolate-brown, with breakers like the sea, and the rain beat
against our window-panes, down which it then streamed in torrents.
Suddenly a fearful shriek went up from the river, and looking out I saw
a very big raft going to pieces, having been dashed against the
landing-stage. The crew shouted for help, as one by one they were washed
off their planks and swallowed up by the waves, and boat after boat put
off to their assistance, succeeding in rescuing many of their number.
But some must have been drowned before my eyes. And I was alone to see
it, for mine were the only rooms that looked out that way, and the whole
terrible little drama took place so quickly, I had no time to summon
anyone.
My beloved Rhine did not, however, always appear under this tragic
aspect, nor are all my memories of the old home steeped in such
melancholy hues. How beautiful it was, and the grounds how lovely in
those old days, before the cyclone had laid low the tallest trees. Some
of the finest specimens were quite near the house, and towered above it,
white poplars whose silvery foliage contrasted strikingly with the ruddy
hue of the copper-beeches, and the soft delicate verdure of the lindens.
The world looked lovely and smiling indeed, as I gazed from my window
and saw them bathed in sunshine, with the shadows of their waving
branches dancing backwards and forwards on the grass. But there were
other seasons;--sometimes of long duration,--when the gloom within doors
was so great, it seemed as if the sun never shone at all, and I sat
alone in my room over my books, listening to the roaring of the wind in
the chimney, roaring as it only roars in old and half empty houses, as
if the Spirit of the Storm were imprisoned there! Something of this
Paganini must surely have one day heard and have borne in mind when he
composed those strange, weird variations for the violin, in which the
strings sob and moan with more than mortal anguish. Quite recently, when
that melody was played before me by our gifted young musician, George
Enesco, so vividly did it recall the wailing sound, as of a soul in
distress, by which my childhood had been haunted, that I leant over to
my young niece, who happened to be present, and whispered, “Do you hear
the voice of the wind in the chimneys of the old home?”--and she burst
into tears. Ah! how often have I cried too in the old days, when that
dismal sound rang in my ears, and all that I looked out upon was a
sullen swollen flood carrying along huge blocks of ice, or else tossing
its angry foaming waves aloft, beneath a sky that seemed itself weighted
with lead and borne down to the earth, unmindful of its true mission to
stand arched above our heads to cheer us! And I had no amusing books to
distract my thoughts; nothing but grammars and histories! And the latter
I abhorred, for they seemed to me to be but a record of human misery on
a larger scale, of which I had only seen too much in my own small way,
quite at close quarters. I did not want to hear of the wretched
squabbles that had gone on all over the earth, of how men hated and
vilified one another, how they quarrelled and fought. History is nothing
but glorified misery after all! I knew of course that these were
frightful heresies, and was very much ashamed of my own deficient
powers of admiration, but it was perhaps not very much to be wondered
at, considering the way in which historic facts had been rammed down my
throat in my lesson-hours. It was natural enough that my thoughts should
wander in any other direction, and that I should seize my pen, and try
to give them form. These first products of my Muse were surely very poor
stuff, but at least I had the good sense to consign the whole of my
early verses to the flames. The same fate befell--a little later on--my
first dramatic venture, a long play with six-and-twenty characters, and
a highly sensational plot, involving murder and madness, arson and
similar attractions. I did not destroy this at once, but coming across
it a few years later, I enjoyed a good laugh over it, before I burnt it.
I must not forget to mention our town musicians, an institution that was
a relic of olden times. Many of these had been in service in the castle,
where, as in many another of the smaller German courts, they had formed
a most excellent orchestra, trained under their master’s orders. Such an
orchestra, composed entirely of servants,--footmen, lackeys, valets,
grooms,--existed still when my father married, and both he and his young
wife often played quartets and quintets with their own domestics. The
service may perhaps sometimes have suffered a little in consequence; it
has happened that the flute-player, standing behind my mother’s chair,
would begin humming his part, forgetting that he was waiting at table.
But if the waiting was indifferent, the music, on the other hand, was
very good! After the year 1848, when our whole establishment was so
reduced, several of these old servants established themselves as
musicians in the town, and not only my brother and I, but his children
since, took lessons from some of them.
Connected with our hospital in Neuwied were a number of worthy,
kind-hearted people--mostly ladies belonging to the town, who were
themselves busy enough in their own households, but who yet found time
to work for the poor, and to visit the families in greatest distress.
And of all those charitable souls Frau Hachenberg, for nearly forty
years president of the Ladies Nursing Union, was the most active and
zealous. She was the very essence of Christian charity, and withal of
such strong commonsense and so practical in all her methods, that every
undertaking flourished in her hands. It was she who founded the hospital
with but a thaler to commence building. Her confidence never wavered;
she knew the funds would be forthcoming. And the faith and trust which
were hers she managed to impart to others in turn; so that her work has
continued growing, and has increased to three times its original size.
The good deaconesses of Kaiserswerth have been attached to the hospital
from the first, and to them also a large share of honour is due.
Immense capability of self-sacrifice must be theirs who would devote
themselves to the service of suffering humanity. In Frau Hachenberg the
spirit of self-sacrifice knew no bounds. And her talent for organisation
was on the same scale. She was no sentimentalist, nor in the least given
to the use of pious phraseology. Quiet, determined, straightforward, her
simplicity and directness were more improving than the elegant manners
of many a more fashionable woman, who would indeed have been at a loss
to control the heterogeneous elements which Frau Hachenberg dealt with
so skilfully. With a single glance she seemed to survey a whole
situation, and grasp all its contingencies. I could never cease admiring
her, and it was from her I learnt nearly all that in my youth I knew
respecting the management of benevolent institutions. So strongly did
she set the seal of her own remarkable personality on every department
of our nursing home--for that modest appellation would better befit our
little hospital at its start--that her spirit seems to preside and
dominate it still, to this day. Whenever on one of my visits to my old
home, I attend a meeting of the Union, I feel as if I must find Frau
Hachenberg there, in her accustomed place, coming forward to receive me,
and it is as if the fifty years had gone past like a single day, for
there, at all events, everything seems unchanged.
Unchanged--but grown and developed. From those small beginnings great
things have sprung, round that centre a whole wide scheme of benevolent
institutions has grouped itself. On its fiftieth anniversary, at the
jubilee of the hospital, my thoughts flew back to its founders, and a
quaint old rhyme that Baron Bibra, one of them, was fond of repeating,
came into my head, telling how--“On each grey grimy town, as the angels
look down,”--they weep over the blindness and folly of poor human
beings, toiling and struggling to raise mighty monuments here on earth,
where we are but passing guests,--“While we build not in Heaven, and
scarce have a care for Eternity’s mansions, awaiting us there!” I know
not whence he had the homely verses, but they always went to my heart.
How few of us build for Eternity, and yet how easy it were to take a
small piece of Heaven into the earthly habitations we are at such pains
to construct!
Yet those earthly abodes are very dear to us at times, and rightly so,
for the sake of all those who have lived in them. I love every corner,
every stone of my dear Neuwied. And not merely the castle of my fathers,
not merely the cradle of my race, but the little town itself, so bright,
and clean and well-kept, the very model of the picturesque Rhenish town,
whose simplicity I would not exchange for all the luxury of Cosmopolis,
and whose modest dwellings, and narrow, old-fashioned streets may surely
compare favourably at all events on æsthetic grounds with the
sky-scrapers of the noisy, over-crowded cities of the New World! So dear
was ever to me my childhood’s home, in weal and woe, even the
inundations seemed something to be proud of, and I knew that I was not
alone in this, but that many of the good townsfolk of Neuwied shared in
the feeling that made me wind up one of my Rhine-songs with the words:
If in our town the river
Is a more frequent guest,
’Tis surely that he loves us
Better than all the rest!
Seriously enough, it will ever seem to me a favoured spot, and I would
have it as it is, and tremble when I hear the schemes discussed--it may
be half in jest--of throwing a big bridge across the Rhine and giving to
the industries of the quiet little place such development as would soon
convert it into an important commercial town. It were a thousand pities!
There is little fear, I think, of our seeing such changes, and come what
may, the Past is ours. I can still say my Rhine and my Neuwied, for my
strong attachment to my birthplace and my native land will be with me to
the last.