great good humor. From the rear windows he pointed to the roof which
rose beyond the high back wall. “I’ve found it. That stable is built on
the same timbers as this house. When some horse grows restless towards
morning he stamps and the vibration is carried through them underground
to this building. Now do you believe in ghosts?”
Life was by no means so serious as all this sounds. Amelia had followed
me into the hospital and we continued our gay times together. For that
matter nursing itself often presented amusing aspects. The supply of
registered nurses was very small, and in our last year of training we
were sent out on private cases, thus seeing both the highlights and
lowlights of life, which prepared us well in experience.
One which had romantic overtones took place immediately after Howard
Willett had transferred his house-party from Aiken, South Carolina, to
Gedney Farms Manor in White Plains. The indisposition of young Eugene
Sugney Reynal was pronounced scarlet fever. The contagion began
spreading among the guests and servants, and Dr. Julius Schmid, old and
honored, a noteworthy figure in the community and also our chief of
staff, detailed three of us nurses for service there, practically
turning the place into a hospital for five weeks.
My special charge was Adelaide Fitzgerald, Reynal’s fiancée, but as
necessity arose we shifted around. Reynal’s condition grew steadily
worse. One morning at daybreak when the patient was almost in a coma Dr.
Schmid sent for the priest to administer extreme unction, and said to
me, “You’d better get Miss Fitzgerald and tell her there’s very little
hope.”
She knelt by his bed, “Gene,” she called to him, “Gene, we’re going to
be married—right now.”
Reynal was as near death as a man could be, but her voice reached into
his subconscious and summoned him back. Another nurse and I, hastily
called upon to act as bridesmaids, stood in starched and rustling white
beside the bed. It was extraordinary to watch; Reynal seemed to shake
himself alive until he was conscious enough to respond “I do” to the
priest who had arrived to perform quite a different office.
As an anti-climax to all the excitement, and to my intense disgust, I
myself came down with a mild attack of scarlet fever. I was so
embarrassed that I went right on working and did not take to my bed
until I actually began to peel.
My usual cases offered drama of another sort. Often I was called in the
middle of the night on a maternity case, perhaps ten miles away from the
hospital, where I had to sterilize the water and boil the forceps over a
wood fire in the kitchen stove while the doctor scrubbed up as best he
could. Many times labor terminated before he could arrive and I had to
perform the delivery by myself.
To see a baby born is one of the greatest experiences that a human being
can have. Birth to me has always been more awe-inspiring than death. As
often as I have witnessed the miracle, held the perfect creature with
its tiny hands and tiny feet, each time I have felt as though I were
entering a cathedral with prayer in my heart.
There is so little knowledge in the world compared with what there is to
know. Always I was deeply affected by the trust patients, rich or poor,
male or female, old or young, placed in their nurses. When we appeared
they seemed to say, “Ah, here is someone who can tell us.” Mothers asked
me pathetically, plaintively, hopefully, “Miss Higgins, what should I do
not to have another baby right away?” I was at a loss to answer their
intimate questions, and passed them along to the doctor, who more often
than not snorted, “She ought to be ashamed of herself to talk to a young
girl about things like that.”
All such problems were thus summarily shoved aside. We had one woman in
our hospital who had had several miscarriages and six babies, each by a
different father. Doctors and nurses knew every time she went out that
she would soon be back again, but it was not their business or anybody’s
business; it was just “natural.”
To be polished off neatly, the nurses in training were assigned to one
of the larger city hospitals in which to work during the last three or
six months of our course. Mine was the Manhattan Eye and Ear at
Forty-first Street and Park Avenue, across the street from the Murray
Hill Hotel, and I welcomed the chance to see up-to-date equipment and
clockwork discipline. My new environment was considerably less harsh and
intense, more comfortable and leisurely.
At one of the frequent informal dances held there my doctor partner
received a message—not a call, but a caller. His architect wanted to go
over blueprints with him. “Come along,” he invited. “See whether you
think my new house is going to be as fine as I do.”
The architect was introduced. “This is William Sanger.”
The three of us bent over the plans. The doctor was the only one unaware
of the sudden electric quality of the atmosphere.
At seven-thirty the next morning when I went out for my usual
“constitutional,” Bill Sanger was on the doorstep. He had that type of
romantic nature which appealed to me, and had been waiting there all
night. We took our walk together that day and regularly for many days
thereafter, learning about each other, exploring each other’s minds, and
discovering a community of ideas and ideals. His fineness fitted in with
my whole destiny, if I can call it such, just as definitely as my
hospital training.
I found Bill’s mother a lovely person—artistic, musical, and highly
cultured. His father had been a wealthy sheep rancher in Australia. When
you travel anywhere from there, you practically have to go round the
world, and on his way to San Francisco he had passed through Central
Europe. In a German town he had fallen in love with the Mayor’s youngest
daughter, then only fourteen. When she was of marriageable age he had
returned for her, and it was from this talented mother that Bill had
derived his fondness for music and desire to paint.
Bill was an architect only by profession; he was pure artist by
temperament. Although his heart was not in mechanical drawing, he did it
well. Stanford White once told me he was one of the six best draftsmen
in New York. He confided to me his dream of eventually being able to
leave architecture behind and devote himself to painting, particularly
murals. I had had instilled in me a feeling for the natural relationship
between color and symmetry of line, and sympathized not merely with his
aspirations but was intensely proud of his work. Some day we were going
to be married, and as soon as we had saved enough we would go to Paris,
whither the inspiration of the great French painters was summoning
artists from all over the world.
These plans were nebulous and had nothing to do with my abrupt departure
from New York. One afternoon, about four o’clock, I was standing under a
skylight putting drops in the eyes of a convalescent patient.
Unexpectedly, inexplicably, the glass began to fall apart. Almost by
instinct I pulled my patient under the lintel of the door. A great blast
followed and pandemonium was let loose; the ruined skylight went
crashing down the stairs, plaster and radiators tumbled from the walls,
doors fell out, windows cracked.
I rushed to the bed of the man who needed my first attention. He had
been operated on for a cataract only a few hours previously and my
orders had been not to let him move too soon lest the fluid in his eye
run out and damage his sight permanently. But he with the other
terrified patients was already on his feet.
Rounding up all those under my care and checking their names took
several minutes, and while I was still trying to quiet them, ambulances
from other hospitals came clanging up. By the time I had ushered my
charges down to the ground floor, a way had been cleared through the
debris of fallen brick and wood. Since mine were not stretcher cases I
was able to crowd ten of them into one ambulance, and we were taken to
the New York Hospital. Not until I had them all safely installed did I
learn what had happened to our building. A tremendous explosion in the
new Park Avenue subway had practically demolished it, and it had to be
evacuated.
I returned to White Plains, where Bill came up frequently to see me. On
one of our rambles he idly pulled at some vines on a stone wall, and
then, with his hands, tilted my face for a kiss. The next morning, to my
mortification, four telltale finger marks were outlined on my cheek by
poison ivy blisters. The day after that, my face was swollen so that my
eyes were tight shut, and I was sick for two months; since my training
was finished, I was sent home to convalesce.
_Chapter Five_
CORALS TO CUT LIFE UPON
For a while I stayed at Corning, and then went back to New York to start
nursing in earnest. On one of my free afternoons in August, Bill and I
went for a drive, and he suggested we stop in at the house of a friend
of his who was a minister. All had been prepared. License and rice were
waiting. And so we were married.
The first year is half taken up with love and half with planning a
future together which is to endure forever. These dreams feed youthful
ambitions, but they seldom can come true in their entirety. In our case
the obstacles arose with undue speed.
I was not well. I was paying the cost of long hours in mother’s closely
confined room and of continuous overwork in the hospital. Medical advice
was to go West to live, but I would not go without Bill, and he had a
commission which kept him in New York. Accordingly, I was packed off to
a small semi-sanitarium near Saranac where the great Dr. Trudeau,
specialist in pulmonary tuberculosis, was consulted.
Existence there was depressing. A man might be talking to me one day,
full of life and spirit and hope, and the next morning not appear. The
dead were ordinarily removed in the quiet of the night, and the doctors
made no comment. In this gloomy environment I rested, preparing myself
for motherhood. The flood of treatises on child psychology had not yet
started, and even the books on the care and feeding of infants were few.
But I read whatever I could.
Just before it was time for the baby to be born I returned to the little
apartment on St. Nicholas Avenue at 149th Street, then practically
suburban. Taking every precaution, we had engaged four doctors in a row.
Dr. Schmid had said he would perform the ceremony unless it came at
night, in which case his assistant would have to take charge. The
assistant had provided that, if he were not available, his assistant
would be on call, and this assistant had another assistant to assist
him.
When towards three o’clock one morning I felt the first thin, fine pains
of warning, Bill tried one after the other of our obstetricians—not one
could be located. He had to run around the corner to the nearest general
practitioner. Due almost as much to this young doctor’s inexperience as
to my physical state, the ordeal was unusually hard, but the baby
Stuart, given Amelia’s family name, was perfectly healthy, strong, and
sturdy. I looked upon this as a victory, although it was only partial,
because I had to go right back to the mountains. It was a wrench to
leave again so soon and at such a time, but I could not believe it would
be for long.
With Stuart and a nurse I took rooms in a friendly farmhouse near a
small Adirondack village; I did not want the baby in the midst of sick
people, and, moreover, I was not welcome at Saranac itself, since Dr.
Trudeau did not like to have in residence patients whose illness had
progressed beyond a certain stage. One of the most important parts of
the treatment was stuffing with food. I was being filled with the then
recognized remedy, creosote, and gulped capsule after capsule, which
broke my appetite utterly. Still I had to pour down milk and swallow
eggs, and always I had to rest and rest and rest.
At the end of eight months I was worse instead of better, and had no
interest in living. Nan and Bill’s mother were summoned, and two of Dr.
Trudeau’s associates came to see me. They advised that I should go
nearer Saranac and be separated from all personal responsibilities.
“What would you yourself like to do?” they asked.
“Nothing.”
“Where would you like to go?”
“Nowhere.”
“Would you like to have the baby sent to your brother, or would you
rather have your mother-in-law take it?”
“I don’t care.”
To every suggestion I was negative. I was not even interested in my
baby.
The two doctors left. The younger, however, apparently not satisfied
with the professional attitude, returned almost immediately, not so much
in a medical capacity as one of anxious friendliness. I was still
sitting in the same state of listlessness. He laid his hand on my
shoulder quietly, but I had all the feeling of being violently shaken.
“Don’t be like this!” he exclaimed. “Don’t let yourself get into such a
mental condition. Do something! Want something! You’ll never get well if
you keep on this way.”
I could not sleep that night. I had been rudely jolted from my stupor by
the understanding doctor. Obviously preparations were being made for a
lingering illness which would terminate in death. But if I had to die I
would rather be with those I loved than disappear in the night as a part
of the cold routine.
As the first glimmer of dawn appeared through the curtains I got up and
stared at the steadily ticking clock. It was not yet five. I dressed
quickly, then tiptoed into the bedroom where the nurse and baby were
slumbering soundly. I roused her and told her to pack up; we were going
back to New York. She looked up in drowsy dismay, but obeyed meekly. The
farmer hitched up his horse and we jogged along all the way to the
station in the early summer morning, bright with sunshine and cheery
with birds.
Bill was waiting at the Grand Central Terminal, quite naturally
perplexed. He had that morning received two telegrams, one saying I was
to be removed to Saranac at once, pending his approval as to the care of
the baby by relatives, and the other from me asking him to meet me
because I was coming home. I told him as best I could the reasons for my
sudden decision. Though I probably sounded incoherent he understood and,
instead of scolding, soothed me tenderly and exclaimed, “You did just
the right thing. I won’t let you die.”
“And don’t make me eat! Don’t even mention food to me!” He promised to
let me have my own way.
At the small family hotel in Yonkers in which we settled, I lived pretty
much by myself, keeping the baby and everyone else away from me; I had
by now learned the dangers of contact in spreading tuberculosis. Once
free from the horrors of invalidism and comforted by love and devotion I
began to regain a normal interest in life, and by the end of three weeks
had recovered from my hysterical rejection of food.
As soon as I was strong enough we started to explore Westchester County
for a home site. We wanted something more than a mere house. We wanted
space, we wanted a view, we wanted a garden. At Hastings-on-Hudson we
found what we sought. There on fifty acres of hillside overlooking the
river about ten families—doctors, teachers, college professors,
scientists—had combined to construct the sort of dwellings they liked in
the environment they considered best suited for their children. We too
had in mind a family and a comfortable, serene, suburban existence, and
we joined this Columbia Colony, as it was called, renting a small
cottage until we could build our own.
The other wives and I spent our afternoons conferring over the momentous
problems of servants, gardens, and schools. If we went to town, we took
the children with us, fitting them with special shoes at Coward’s,
introducing them to museums, libraries, or art galleries. Life centered
around them. When Stuart and his little friends began to ask questions,
“Where do babies come from?” I collected them and tried to answer, using
the simple phenomena of nature as illustrations—flowers, frogs, fish,
and animals. I still consider this approach has its place with many
children, although modern sex educationists may smile at this method,
thinking it old-fashioned.
None of the colony played cards. Instead, the women formed a literary
club where we read papers on George Eliot, Browning, and Shakespeare, as
well as on some current authors, and we had occasional political
discussions. Out of this grew the Women’s Club of Hastings.
It was all very pleasant, and at first I was busy and contented. The
endless details of housekeeping did not seem to me drudgery; conquering
minor crises was exciting. Though I was never slavishly domestic, I was
inclined to be slavishly maternal. Bill was a devoted husband. He took
care of me in the little ways—starting for the train and coming back to
put his head in the door and call, “It’s awfully cold. Don’t go out
without your wrap,” or, if it were hot, he offered, “Give me your list
and I’ll send up the groceries.”
I was again leading the life of an artist’s family. Bill was a hard
worker; I can rarely remember one evening of just reading together. I
did the reading and he drew or painted. But I was never quite sure
whether we were rich or poor. He possessed the finest qualities of
creative genius, and with them some of its limitations and liabilities.
When he was paid for a big commission he brought me orchids and
embroidered Japanese robes which I had no occasion to wear, and filled
the house with luxuries. This did not go with my practical sense. If the
grocery account were long unpaid, I protested, “They’re beautiful. Thank
you, but can we afford them?”
“Certainly,” and out of his pocket came tickets for the opera or
theater, his chief pleasures.
“But we shouldn’t,” I remonstrated as I ruffled a sheaf of bills before
him.
Nevertheless, we used the tickets.
Every architect wants to embody his ideas at least once in his own home.
Ours was “modern” in its square simplicity and unadorned surfaces of
stuccoed hollow tile, even being called a show house; people came from
afar to study it. It was designed to have a large nursery opening on a
veranda overlooking the Hudson, a studio, a bath with each bedroom,
fireplaces everywhere, and one especially capacious in the big library.
From this room the open stairway, forking at the lower landing with a
few steps leading down into the kitchen, reached up the wall to the
second story.
The house took long to complete, but it was fun. The moment Bill
finished his work in New York he was back at it. Theoretically he
supervised at night and the builder built by day. But when an arch did
not turn out to be a perfect arch, seizing an ax, he chopped out part of
it, usually pounding his fingers in the process. The neighbors, careful
of their pennies, held their ears at the clatter and clamor and
exclaimed, “There goes another partition.” When the contractor returned
in the morning he found his previous day’s work demolished. Some
portions were entirely done over two or three times.
The color on the woodwork we applied ourselves by artificial light,
plumped on our knees or stretching high overhead. If the effect were
wrong, we had to match it all up again. Evening after evening we labored
on the rose window which was to crown with radiance the head of the
staircase. Far into the night we leaded and welded together every
glowing petal. Our fingers were cut, our nerves were irritated, our eyes
fatigued. But tireless love went into the composition of this rose
window which symbolized the stability of our future. We were aiming at
permanence and security, and our efforts seemed to be fused into
indestructible unity. It was our keystone of beauty.
After the tedious worrying over details we suddenly became too impatient
to wait any more, and, in spite of the raw condition of the house, late
one February afternoon of half-sleet, half-rain, a moving van pulled up
to our front door. Through the semi-twilight boxes, crates, and barrels
were carted in.
The four-year-old Stuart was not well. We put him early to bed, and Bill
stirred up a roaring fire in the furnace against the increasing cold.
Then with hammer and claw we turned to our treasures, which we had not
seen for such a time. It was like opening packages on Christmas morning.
We had almost forgotten the tapestry Mary had sent from Persia, the rug
from Egypt, Bill’s paintings. “What’s in this box? Oh, look here! See
what I’ve found!” A flood of color inundated us. We tried out their
warmth against our immaculate walls and floors. I was carrying my second
baby and was tired hours before I wanted to stop. As I climbed up to bed
I gazed down happily on the litter below.
Some time later I heard dimly through my sleep a pounding, and woke to
realize it was the German maid at the door, crying, “Madam. Come! Fire
in the big stove!”
We jumped out of bed. Acrid smoke was in our nostrils, and we were swept
by the horror of fire by night. Bill shouted to me, “Get right out! I’ve
got to give the alarm.”
Away he rushed in his pajamas; there was no telephone within half a
mile. I seized Stuart from his crib, bedclothes and all. This took only
a few seconds, but the kitchen was already ablaze and flames were
leaping up the staircase. I pulled the blanket over his head and started
cautiously down, hugging the outer side. The blistering treads crunched
as they gave under my feet, but did not collapse until I had reached the
smoke-filled library.
The family across the street welcomed us in. When I had tucked Stuart
into an impromptu bed I went to watch. Not merely was the fire engine
trying to get up the icy hill, two steps forward and one back, but the
whole village was accompanying it to help organize a bucket brigade.
The clouds had cleared and the bright moon was shining on the strange
scene. The weather had turned much colder, and the rain had frozen into
crystals which glittered on the branches of trees and shrubbery. It was
unbelievably fantastic, and in that unreal setting the flames, as though
directed by devilish intent, spurted only through our prized rose
window. I stood silently regarding the result of months of work and love
slowly disintegrate. Petal by petal it succumbed to the licking tongues
of fire; one by one they fell into the gray-white snow. Fitting them
together had taken so long; now relentlessly they were being pulled
apart. A thing of beauty had perished in a few moments.
It was as though a chapter of my life had been brought to a close, and I
was neither disappointed nor regretful. On the contrary, I was conscious
of a certain relief, of a burden lifted. In that instant I learned the
lesson of the futility of material substances. Of what great importance
were they spiritually if they could go so quickly? Pains, thirsts,
heartaches could be put into the creation of something external which in
one sweep could be taken from you. With the destruction of the window,
my scale of suburban values was consumed. I could never again pin my
faith on concrete things; I must build on myself alone. I hoped I should
continue to have lovely objects around me, but I could also be happy
without them.
The next day was filled with neighbors coming to condole and offer help,
and with insurance adjusters peering about and questioning. They found
the too-heavy fire in the furnace had overheated the pipes around which
the asbestos had not yet been wrapped. We lost a good deal because,
although the house was covered, the insurance on the furniture had not
been shifted to its new location, and, moreover, many of our possessions
were irreplaceable, their worth having lain in the sentiment attached to
them.
A personal catastrophe may in the end prove to be a public benefit.
People in the community are brought together in sympathy, and learn by
the experience of others how to protect themselves. After our mischance
every householder in Columbia Colony began to look to his furnace and
insure his home.