[Transcriber's Note: Footnotes have been renumbered and moved to the end.]
A Practical Illustration of "Woman's Right to Labor;"
or,
A Letter from Marie E. Zakrzewska, M.D.
Late of Berlin, Prussia
Edited By
Caroline H. Dall,
Author of "Woman's Right To Labor,"
"Historical Pictures Retouched," &c. &c.
"Whoso cures the plague,
Though twice a woman, shall be called a leech."
"And witness: she who did this thing was born
To do it; claims her license in her work."
Aurora Leigh.
1860.
To the Hon. Samuel E. Sewall, Faithful Always To "Women And Work," and One
of the Best Friends of The New-England Female Medical College, The Editor
Gratefully Dedicates This Volume.
"The men (who are prating, too, on their side) cry,
'A woman's function plainly is ... to talk.'"
"What
He doubts is, whether we can _do_ the thing
With decent grace we've not yet done at all.
Now do it."
"Bring your statue:
You have room."
"None of us is mad enough to say
We'll have a grove of oaks upon that slope,
And sink the need of acorns."
Preface.
It is due to myself to say, that the manner in which the Autobiography is
subordinated to the general subject in the present volume, and also the
manner in which it is _veiled_ by the title, are concessions to the
modesty of her who had the best right to decide in what fashion I should
profit by her goodness, and are very far from being my own choice.
Caroline H. Dall.
49. Bradford Street, Boston,
Oct. 30, 1860.
Practical Illustration of "Woman's Right to Labor"
It never happens that a true and forcible word is spoken for women, that,
however faithless and unbelieving women themselves may be, some noble men
do not with heart and hand attempt to give it efficiency.
If women themselves are hard upon their own sex, men are never so in
earnest. They realize more profoundly than women the depth of affection
and self-denial in the womanly soul; and they feel also, with crushing
certainty, the real significance of the obstacles they have themselves
placed in woman's way.
Reflecting men are at this moment ready to help women to enter wider
fields of labor, because, on the one side, the destitution and vice they
have helped to create appalls their consciousness; and, on the other, a
profane inanity stands a perpetual blasphemy in the face of the Most High.
I do not exaggerate. Every helpless woman is such a blasphemy. So, indeed,
is every helpless man, where helplessness is not born of idiocy or
calamity; but society neither expects, provides for, nor defends, helpless
men.
So it happened, that, after the publication of "Woman's Right to Labor,"
generous men came forward to help me carry out my plans. The best printer
in Boston said, "I am willing to take women into my office at once, if you
can find women who will submit to an apprenticeship like men." On the same
conditions, a distinguished chemist offered to take a class of women, and
train them to be first-class apothecaries or scientific observers, as they
might choose. To these offers there were no satisfactory responses. "Yes,"
said the would-be printers, "we will go into an office for six months;
but, by that time, our oldest sisters will be married, and our mothers
will want us at home."
"An apprenticeship of six years!" exclaimed the young lady of a chemical
turn. "I should like to learn very much, so that I could be a chemist, _if
I ever had to_; but poison myself for six years over those 'fumes,' not
I." It is easy to rail against society and men in general: but it is very
painful for a woman to confess her heaviest obstacle to success; namely,
the _weakness of women_. The slave who dances, unconscious of degradation
on the auction-block, is at once the greatest stimulus and the bitterest
discouragement of the antislavery reformer: so women, contented in
ignominious dependence, restless even to insanity from the need of healthy
employment and the perversion of their instincts, and confessedly looking
to marriage for salvation, are at once a stimulus to exertion, and an
obstacle in our way. But no kind, wise heart will heed this obstacle.
Having spoken plain to society, having won the sympathy of men, let us see
if we cannot compel the attention of these well-disposed but thoughtless
damsels.
"Six years out of the very bloom of our lives to be spent in the
printing-office or the laboratory!" exclaim the dismayed band; and they
flutter out of reach along the sidewalks of Beacon Street, or through the
mazes of the "Lancers."
But what happens ten years afterward, when, from twenty-six to thirty,
they find themselves pushed off the _pavé_, or left to blossom on the
wall? Desolate, because father and brother have died; disappointed,
because well-founded hopes of a home or a "career" have failed;
impoverished, because they depended on strength or means that are
broken,--what have they now to say to the printing-office or the
apothecary's shop? They enter both gladly; with quick woman's wit,
learning as much in six months as men would in a year; but grumbling and
discontented, that, in competing with men who have spent their whole lives
in preparation, they can only be paid at half-wages. What does common
sense demand, if not that women should make thorough preparation for
trades or professions; and, having taken up a resolution, should abide by
all its consequences like men?
Before cases like these my lips are often sealed, and my hands drop
paralyzed. Not that they alter God's truth, or make the duty of protest
against existing wrong any less incumbent: but they obscure the truth;
they needlessly complicate the duty.
Perplexed and anxious, I have often felt that what I needed most was an
example to set before young girls,--an example not removed by superiority
of station, advantage of education, or unwonted endowment, beyond their
grasp and imitation.
There was Florence Nightingale. But her father had a title: it was fair
to presume that her opportunities were titled also. All the girls I knew
wished they could have gone to the Crimea; while I was morally certain,
that the first amputation would have turned them all faint. There was
Dorothea Dix: she had money and time. It was not strange that she had
great success; for she started, a monomaniac in philanthropy, from the
summit of personal independence. Mrs. John Stuart Mill: had she ever
wanted bread? George Sand: the woman wasn't respectable. In short,
whomsoever I named, who had pursued with undeviating perseverance a worthy
career, my young friends had their objections ready. No one had ever been
so poor, so ill educated, so utterly without power to help herself, as
they; and, provoking as these objections were, I felt that they had force.
My young friends were not great geniuses: they were ordinary women, who
should enter the ordinary walks of life with the ordinary steadfastness
and devotion of men in the same paths; nothing more. What I wanted was an
example,--not too stilted to be useful,--a life flowing out of
circumstances not dissimilar to their own, but marked by a steady will, an
unswerving purpose. As I looked back over my own life, and wished I could
read them its lessons,--and I looked back a good way; for I was very
young, when the miserable destitution of a drunkard's wife, whom I
assisted, showed me how comfortable a thing it was to rest at the mercy of
the English common law,--as I looked back over my long interest in the
position of woman, I felt that my greatest drawback had been the want of
such an example. Every practical experiment that the world recorded had
been made under such peculiar circumstances, or from such a fortuitous
height, that it was at once rejected as a lesson.
One thing I felt profoundly: as men sow they must reap; and so must women.
The practical misery of the world--its terrible impurity will never be
abated till women prepare themselves from their earliest years to enter
the arena of which they are ambitious, and stand there at last mature and
calm, but, above all, _thoroughly trained_; trained also at _the side of
the men_, with whom they must ultimately work; and not likely, therefore
to lose balance or fitness by being thrown, at the last moment, into
unaccustomed relations. A great deal of nonsense has been talked lately
about the unwillingness of women to enter the reading-room of the Cooper
Institute, where men also resort.
"A woman's library," in any city, is one of the partial measures that I
deprecate: so I only partially rejoice over the late establishment of such
a library in New York. I look upon it as one of those half-measures which
must be endured in the progress of any desired reform; and, while I wish
the Cooper Institute and its reading-room God-speed with every fibre of my
consciousness, I have no words with which to express my shame at the
mingled hypocrisy and indelicacy of those who object to use it. What woman
stays at home from a ball because she will meet men there? What woman
refuses to walk Broadway in the presence of the stronger sex? What woman
refuses to buy every article of her apparel from the hands of a man, or to
let the woman's tailor or shoemaker take the measure of her waist or foot;
try on and approve her coiffure or bernouse?
What are we to think, then, of the delicacy which shrinks from the
reading-room frequented by men; which discovers so suddenly that magazines
are more embarrassing than mazourkas; that to read in a cloak and hat
before a man is more indelicate than to waltz in his presence half denuded
by fashion?
Of course, we are to have no patience with it, and to refuse utterly to
entertain a remonstrance so beneath propriety.
The object of my whole life has been to inspire in women a desire for
_thorough training_ to some special end, and a willingness to share the
training of men both for specific and moral reasons. Only by sharing such
training can women be sure that they will be well trained; only by
God-ordained, natural communion of all men and women can the highest moral
results be reached.
"Free labor and free society:" I have said often to myself, in these two
phrases lies hidden the future purification of society. When men and women
go everywhere together, the sights they dare not see together will no
longer exist.
Fair and serene will rise before them all heights of possible attainment;
and, looking off over the valleys of human endeavor together, they will
clear the forest, drain the morass, and improve the interval stirred by a
common impulse.
When neither has any thing to hide from the other, no social duty will
seem too difficult to be undertaken; and, when the interest of each sex is
to secure the purity of the other, neither religion nor humanity need
despair of the result.
It was while fully absorbed in thoughts and purposes like these, that, in
the autumn of 1856, I first saw Marie Zakrzewska.[1] During a short visit
to Boston (for she was then resident in New York), a friend brought her
before a physiological institute, and she addressed its members.
She spoke to them of her experience in the hospital at Berlin, and showed
that the most sinning, suffering woman never passed beyond the reach of a
woman's sympathy and help. She had not, at that time, thoroughly mastered
the English language; though it was quite evident that she was fluent,
even to eloquence, in German. Now and then, a word failed her; and, with a
sort of indignant contempt at the emergency, she forced unaccustomed words
to do her service, with an adroitness and determination that I never saw
equalled. I got from it a new revelation of the power of the English
language. She illustrated her noble and nervous thoughts with incidents
from her own experience one of which was told in a manner which impressed
it for ever on my consciousness.
"Soon after I entered the hospital," said Marie, "the nurse called me to a
ward where sixteen of the most forlorn objects had begun to fight with
each other. The inspector and the young physicians had been called to
them, but dared not enter the _mêlée_. When I arrived, pillows, chairs,
foot-stools and vessels had deserted their usual places; and one stout
little woman, with rolling eyes and tangled hair, lifted a vessel of
slops, which she threatened to throw all over me, as she exclaimed, 'Don't
dare to come here, you green young thing!'
"I went quietly towards her, saying gently, 'Be ashamed, my dear woman, of
your fury.'
"Her hands dropped. Seizing me by the shoulder she exclaimed, 'You don't
mean that you look on me as a woman?'
"'How else?' I answered; while she retreated to her bed, all the rest
standing in the attitudes into which passion had thrown them.
"'Arrange your beds,' I said; 'and in fifteen minutes let me return, and
find every thing right.' When I returned, all was as I had desired; every
woman standing at her bedside. The short woman was missing; but, bending
on each a friendly glance, I passed through the ward, which never gave me
any more trouble.
"When, late at night, I entered my room, it was fragrant with violets. A
green wreath surrounded an old Bible, and a little bouquet rested upon
it. I did not pause to speculate over this sentimentality, but threw
myself weary upon the bed; when a light tap at the door startled me. The
short woman entered; and humbling herself on the floor, since she would
not sit in my presence entreated to be heard.
"'You called me a woman,' she said, 'and you pity us. Others call us by
the name the world gives us. You would help us, if help were possible. All
the girls love you, and are ashamed before you; and therefore _I_ hate
you--no: I will not hate you any longer. There was a time when I might
have been saved,--I and Joanna and Margaret and Louise. We were not bad.
Listen to me. If _you_ say there is any hope, I will yet be an honest
woman.'
"She had had respectable parents; and, when twenty years old, was deserted
by her lover, who left her three months pregnant. Otherwise kind, her
family perpetually reproached her with her disgrace, and threatened to
send her away. At last, she fled to Berlin; keeping herself from utter
starvation, by needlework. In the hospital to which she went for
confinement, she took the small-pox. When she came out, with her baby in
her arms, her face was covered with red blotches. Not even the lowest
refuge was open to her, her appearance was so frightful. With her baby
dragging at her empty breast, she wandered through the streets. An old hag
took pity on both; and, carefully nursed till health returned, her good
humor and native wit made those about her forget her ugly face. She was in
a brothel, where she soon took the lead. Her child died, and she once more
attempted to earn her living as a seamstress. She was saved from
starvation only by her employer, who received her as his mistress. Now her
luck changed: she suffered all a woman could; handled poison and the
firebrand. 'I thought of stealing,' she said, 'only as an amusement: it
was not exciting enough for a trade.'. She found herself in prison; and
was amused to be punished for a trifle, when nobody suspected her crime.
It was horrible to listen to these details; more horrible to witness her
first repentance.
"When I thanked her for her violets, she kissed my hands, and promised to
be good.
"While she remained in the hospital, I took her as my servant, and trusted
every thing to her; and, when finally discharged, she went out to service.
She wished to come with me to America. I could not bring her; but she
followed, and, when I was in Cleveland, inquired for me in New York."
It will be impossible, for those who have not heard such stories from the
lips and in the dens of the sufferers, to feel as I felt when this dropped
from the pure lips of the lecturer. For the first time I saw a woman who
knew what I knew, felt what I felt, and was strong in purpose and power to
accomplish our common aim,--the uplifting of the fallen, the employment of
the idle, and the purification of society.
I needed no farther introduction to Marie Zakrzewska. I knew nothing of
her previous history or condition; but when I looked upon her clear, broad
forehead, I saw "Faithful unto death" bound across it like a phylactery. I
did not know how many years she had studied; but I saw thoroughness
ingrained into her very muscle. I asked no questions of the clear, strong
gaze that pierced the assembly; but I felt very sure that it could be as
tender as it was keen. For the first time I saw a woman in a public
position, about whom I felt thoroughly at ease; competent to all she had
undertaken, and who had undertaken nothing whose full relations to her sex
and society she did not understand.
I thanked God for the sight, and very little thought that I should see
her again. She came once more, and we helped her to establish the Women's
Infirmary in New York; again, and we installed her as Resident Physician
in the New-England Female Medical College.
I had never felt any special interest in this college. I was willing it
should exist as one of the half-way measures of which I have spoken,--like
the reading-room in New York; but I was bent on opening the colleges which
already existed to women, and I left it to others to nurse the young life
of this. The first medical men, I felt assured, would never, in the
present state of public opinion, take an interest in a _female_ college;
and I desired, above all things, to protect women from second-rate
instruction.
But, when Marie Zakrzewska took up her residence in Springfield Street, it
was impossible to feel indifferent. Here was a woman born to inspire
faith; meeting all men as her equals till they proved themselves superior;
capable of spreading a contagious fondness for the study of medicine, as
Dr. Black once kindled a chemical enthusiasm in Edinburgh.
Often did I ponder her past life, which had left significant lines on
face and form. We met seldom,--always with perfect trust. Whatever I might
have to say, I should have felt sure of being understood, if I had not
seen her for six months; nor could she have failed to find a welcome in my
heart for any words of hers.
Then I heard the course of lectures which she delivered to ladies in the
spring of 1860. For the first time, I heard a woman speak of scientific
subjects in a way that satisfied me; nor should I have blushed to find
scientific men among her audience. I had felt, from the first, that her
life might do what my words never could: namely, inspire women with faith
to try their own experiments; give them a dignity, which should refuse to
look forward to marriage as an end, while it would lead them to accept it
gladly as a providential help. I did not fear that she would be untrue to
her vocation, or easily forsake it for a more domestic sphere. She had not
entered it, I could see, without measuring her own purpose and its use.
It was with such feelings, and such knowledge of Marie, that in a private
conversation, last summer with Miss Mary L. Booth of New York, I heard
with undisguised pleasure that she had in her possession an autobiography
of her friend, in the form of a letter. I really longed to get possession
of that letter so intensely, that I dared not ask to see it: but I urged
Miss Booth to get consent to its publication; "for," I said, "no single
thing will help my work, I am convinced, so much."
"I look forward to its publication," she replied, "with great delight: it
will be the sole labor of love, of my literary life. But neither you nor I
believe in reputations which death and posterity have not confirmed. What
reasons could I urge to Marie for its present publication?"
"The good of her own sex," I replied, "and a better knowledge of the
intimate relations existing between free labor and a pure society. I know
nothing of our friend's early circumstances; but I cannot be mistaken in
the imprint they have left. This is one of those rare cases, in which a
life may belong to the public before it has closed."
I returned to Boston. Later in the season, Miss Booth visited Dr.
Zakrzewska. Imagine my surprise when she came to me one day, and laid
before me the coveted manuscript. "It is yours," she said, "to publish if
you choose. I have got Marie's consent. She gave it very reluctantly; but
her convictions accord with yours, and she does not think she has any
right to refuse. As for me," Miss Booth continued, "I resign without
regret my dearest literary privilege, because I feel that the position you
have earned in reference to 'woman's labor' entitles you to edit it."
In an interview which I afterwards held with Marie Zakrzewska, she gave me
to understand, that, had she been of American birth, she would never have
consented to the publication of her letter in her lifetime. "But," she
said, "I am a foreigner. You who meet me and sustain me are entitled to
know something of my previous history. Those whom I most loved are dead;
not a word of the record can pain them; not a word but may help some life
just now beginning. It will make a good sequel to 'Woman's Right to
Labor.'"
"Only too good," I thought. "May God bless the lesson!"
It was agreed between Miss Booth and myself, that the autobiography should
keep its original, simple form, to indicate how and why it was written: so
I invite my friends to read it at once with me. Here is something as
entertaining as a novel, and as useful as a treatise. Here is a story
which must enchant the conservative, while it inspires the reformer. The
somewhat hazy forms of Drs. Schmidt and Müller, the king's order to the
rebellious electors, the historic prestige of a Prussian locality,--all
these will lend a magic charm to the plain lesson which New York and
Boston need.
* * * * *
New York, September, 1857.
Dear Mary,
It is especially for your benefit that I write these facts of my life. I
am not a great personage, either through inherited qualifications or the
work that I have to show to the world; yet you may find, in reading this
little sketch, that with few talents, and very moderate means for
developing them, I have accomplished more than many women of genius and
education would have done in my place, for the reason that confidence and
faith in their own powers were wanting. And, for this reason, I know that
this story might be of use to others, by encouraging those who timidly
shrink from the field of action, though endowed with all that is necessary
to enable them to come forth and do their part in life. The fact that a
woman of no extraordinary powers can make her way by the simple
determination, that whatever she can do she will do, must inspire those
who are fitted to do much, yet who do nothing because they are not
accustomed to determine and decide for themselves.
I do not intend to weary you with details of my childhood, as I think that
children are generally very uninteresting subjects of conversation to any
except their parents, who naturally discover what is beautiful and
attractive in them, and appreciate what is said in correspondence with
their own feelings. I shall, therefore, only tell you a few facts of this
period of my life, which I think absolutely necessary to illustrate my
character and nature.
I was born in Berlin, Prussia, on the 6th of September, 1829; and am the
eldest of a family of five sisters and one brother. My early childhood
passed happily, though heavy clouds of sorrow and care at times
overshadowed our family circle. I was of a cheerful disposition; and was
always in good humor, even when sick. I was quiet and gentle in all my
amusements: my chief delight consisting in telling stories to my sister,
one year younger than myself, who was always glad to listen to these
products of my imagination, which were wholly original; for no stories
were told me, nor had I any children's books. My heroes and heroines were
generally distinguished for some mental peculiarity,--being kind or
cruel, active or indolent,--which led them into all sorts of adventures
till it suited my caprice to terminate their career. In all our little
affairs, I took the lead, planning and directing every thing; while my
playmates seemed to take it for granted, that it was their duty to carry
out my commands.
My memory is remarkable in respect to events that occurred at this time,
while it always fails to recall dates and names. When twenty years of age,
I asked my father what sort of a festival he took me to once, in company
with a friend of his with only one arm, when we walked through meadows
where daisies were blossoming in millions, and where we rode in carriages
that went round continually until they were wound up. My father answered,
with much surprise, that it was a public festival of the cabinet-makers,
which was celebrated in a neighboring village; and that I was, at that
time, only nineteen months old.
He was so much interested in my story, that I related another of my
memories. One dark morning, my mother wakened me, and hastened my
dressing. After this was accomplished, she handed me a cup of something
which I had never tasted before, and which was as disagreeable as
assafoetida in later years. This was some coffee, which I had to take
instead of my usual milk. Then I went with my father to the large park
called Thiergarten, where we saw the sun rise. I began to spring about;
looking at the big oaks which seemed to reach into the heavens, or
stooping down to pluck a flower. Birds of all kinds were singing in
chorus, while the flower-beds surrounding the statue of Flora scented the
pure morning air with the sweetest of perfumes. The sun ascended,
meanwhile, from the edge of a little pond covered with water-lilies. I was
intoxicated with joy. The feeling of that morning is as fresh to-day as
when I related this to my father. I know I walked till I got fairly tired,
and we reached a solitary house beyond the park. Probably fatigue took
entire possession of me; for I remember nothing more till we were on our
way home, and the sun was setting. Then I begged for some large yellow
plums which I saw in the stores. My father bought some, but gave me only a
few; while I had a desire for all, and stole them secretly from his
pockets; so that, when we reached home, I had eaten them all. I was sick
after I went to bed, and remember taking some horrible stuff the next
morning (probably rhubarb); thus ending the day, which had opened so
poetically, in rather a prosaic manner. When I repeated this, my parents
laughed, and said that I was only twenty-six months old, when my father's
pride in his oldest child induced him to take me on this visit; when I
walked the whole way, which was about _nine miles_. These anecdotes are
worth preserving, only because they indicate an impressionable nature, and
great persistence of muscular endurance. It is peculiar, that between
these two events, and a third which occurred a year after, every thing
should be a blank.
A little brother was then born to me, and lay undressed upon a cushion,
while my father cried with sobs. I had just completed my third year, and
could not understand why, the next day, this little thing was carried off
in a black box.
From that time, I remember almost every day's life.
I very soon began to manifest the course of my natural tendencies. Like
most little girls, I was well provided with dolls; and, on the day after a
new one came into my possession, I generally discovered that the dear
little thing was ill, and needed to be nursed and doctored. Porridges and
teas were accordingly cooked on my little toy stove, and administered to
the poor doll, until the _papier-mâché_ was thoroughly saturated and
broken; when she was considered dead, and preparations were made for her
burial,--this ceremony being repeated over and over again. White dresses
were put on for the funeral; a cricket was turned upside-down to serve as
the coffin; my mother's flower-pots furnished the green leaves for
decoration; and I delivered the funeral oration in praise of the little
sufferer, while placing her in the tomb improvised of chairs. I hardly
ever joined the other children in their plays, except upon occasions like
these, when I appeared in the characters of doctor, priest, and
undertaker; generally improving the opportunity to moralize; informing my
audience, that Ann (the doll) had died in consequence of disobeying her
mother by going out before she had recovered from the measles, &c. Once I
remember moving my audience to tears by telling them that little Ann had
been killed by her brother, who, in amusing himself with picking off the
dry skin after she had had the scarlatina, had carelessly torn off the
real skin over the heart, as they could see; thus leaving it to beat in
the air, and causing the little one to die. This happened after we had all
had the scarlatina.
When five years old, I was sent to a primary school. Here I became the
favorite of the teacher of arithmetic; for which study I had quite a
fancy. The rest of the teachers disliked me. They called me unruly because
I would not obey arbitrary demands without receiving some reason, and
obstinate because I insisted on following my own will when I knew that I
was in the right. I was told that I was not worthy to be with my
playmates; and when I reached the highest class in the school, in which
alone the boys and girls were taught separately, I was separated from the
latter, and was placed with the boys by way of punishment, receiving
instructions with them from men, while the girls in the other class were
taught by women. Here I found many friends. I joined the boys in all their
sports; sliding and snow-balling with them in winter, and running and
playing ball in summer. With them I was merry, frank, and self-possessed;
while with the girls I was quiet, shy, and awkward. I never made friends
with the girls, or felt like approaching them.
Once only, when I was eleven years old, a girl in the young ladies'
seminary in which I had been placed when eight years of age won my
affection. This was Elizabeth Hohenhorst, a child of twelve, remarkably
quiet, and disposed to melancholy. She was a devout Catholic; and, knowing
that she was fated to become a nun, was fitting herself for that dreary
destiny, which rendered her very sentimental She was full of fanciful
visions, but extremely sweet and gentle in her manners. My love for her
was unbounded. I went to church in her company, was present at all the
religious festivals, and accompanied her to receive religious instruction:
in short, I made up my mind to become a Catholic, and, if possible, a nun
like herself. My parents, who were Rationalists, belonging to no church,
gave me full scope to follow out my own inclinations; leaving it to my
nature to choose for me a fitting path. This lasted until Elizabeth went
for the first time to the confessional; and, when the poor innocent child
could find no other sin of which to speak than the friendship which she
cherished for a Protestant, the priest forbade her to continue this, until
I, too, had become a Catholic; reminding her of the holiness of her future
career. The poor girl conscientiously promised to obey. When I came the
next morning and spoke to her as usual, she turned away from me, and burst
into tears. Surprised and anxious, I asked what was the matter; when, in a
voice broken with sobs, she told me the whole story, and begged me to
become a Catholic as soon as I was fourteen years old. Never in my whole
life shall I forget that morning. For a moment, I gazed on her with the
deepest emotion, pitying her almost more than myself; then suddenly turned
coldly and calmly away, without answering a single word. My mind had
awakened to the despotism of Roman Catholicism, and the church had lost
its expected convert. I never went near her again, and never exchanged
another word with her. This was the only friend I had during eight and a
half years of uninterrupted attendance at school.
A visit that I paid to my maternal grandfather, when seven or eight years
old, made a strong impression on my mind. My grandfather, on his return
from the war of 1813-15, in which he had served, had received from the
authorities of Prenzlau (the city in which he lived) a grant of a
half-ruined cloister, with about a hundred acres of uncultivated land
attached, by way of acknowledgment for his services. He removed thither
with his family; and shortly after invited the widows of some soldiers,
who lived in the city, to occupy the apartments which he did not need. The
habitable rooms were soon filled to overflowing with widows and orphans,
who went to work with him to cultivate the ground. It was not long before
crippled and invalid soldiers arrived, begging to be allowed to repair the
cloister, and to find a shelter also within its walls. They were set to
work at making brick, the material for which my grandfather had discovered
on his land: and, in about five years, an institution was built, the more
valuable from the fact that none lived there on charity, but all earned
what they needed by cultivating the ground; having first built their own
dwelling, which, at this time, looked like a palace, surrounded by trees,
grass, and flowers. Here, in the evening, the old soldiers sung martial
songs, or told stories of the wars to the orphans gathered about them,
while resting from the labors of the day.
I tell you of this institution so minutely, to prove to you how wrong it
is to provide charitable homes for the poor as we provide them,--homes in
which the charity always humiliates and degrades the individual. Here you
have an instance in which poor crippled invalids and destitute women and
children established and supported themselves, under the guidance of a
clear-headed, benevolent man, who said, "Do what you like, but work for
what you need." He succeeded admirably, though he died a very poor man;
his younger children becoming inmates of the establishment, until they
were adopted by their relatives.
When I visited my grandfather, the "convent," as he insisted on calling
it,--rejecting any name that would have indicated a charitable
institution,--contained about a hundred invalid soldiers, a hundred old
women, and two hundred and fifty orphans. One of the wings of the building
was fitted up as a hospital, and a few of the rooms were occupied by
lunatics. It was my greatest delight to take my grandfather's hand at
noon, as he walked up and down the dining-room, between the long tables,
around which were grouped so many cheerful, hearty faces; and I stood
before him with an admiration that it is impossible to describe, as he
prayed, with his black velvet cap in his hand, before and after dinner;
though I could not comprehend why he should thank another person for what
had been done, when every one there told me that all that they had they
owed to my grandfather.
One afternoon, on returning from the dining-room to his study, I spied on
his desk a neatly written manuscript. I took it up, and began to read. It
was a dissertation on immortality, attempting by scientific arguments to
prove its impossibility. I became greatly interested, and read on without
noticing that my grandfather had left the room, nor that the large bell
had rung to call the family to dinner. My grandfather, a very punctual
man, who would never allow lingering, came back to call and to reprimand
me; when he suddenly started on seeing the paper in my hands, and,
snatching it from me, tore it in pieces, exclaiming, "That man is insane,
and will make this child so too!" A little frightened, I went to the
dinner-table, thinking as much about my grandfather's words as about what
I had read; without daring, however, to ask who this man was. The next
day, curiosity mastered fear. I asked my grandfather who had written that
paper; and was told, in reply, that it was poor crazy Jacob. I then begged
to see him; but this my grandfather decidedly refused, saying that he was
like a wild beast, and lay, without clothes, upon the straw. I knew
nothing of lunatics; and the idea of a wild man stimulated my curiosity to
such an extent, that, from that time, I teased my grandfather incessantly
to let me see Jacob, until he finally yielded, to be rid of my
importunity, and led me to the cell in which he was confined. What a
spectacle presented itself in the house that I had looked on as the abode
of so much comfort! On a bundle of straw, in a corner of a room, with no
furniture save its bare walls, sat a man, clad only in a shirt; with the
left hand chained to the wall, and the right foot to the floor. An
inkstand stood on the floor by his side; and on his knee was some paper,
on which he was writing. His hair and beard were uncombed, and his fine
eyes glared with fury as we approached him. He tried to rise, ground his
teeth, made grimaces, and shook his fist at my grandfather, who tried in
vain to draw me out of the room. But, escaping from his grasp, I stepped
towards the lunatic, who grew more quiet when he saw me approach; and I
tried to lift the chain, which had attracted my attention. Then, finding
it too heavy for me, I turned to my grandfather and asked, "Does not this
hurt the poor man?" I had hardly spoken the words when his fury returned,
and he shrieked,--
"Have I not always told you that you were cruel to me? Must this child
come to convince you of your barbarity? Yes: you have no heart."
I looked at my grandfather: all my admiration of him was gone; and I said,
almost commandingly,--"Take off these chains! It is bad of you to tie this
man!"
The man grew calm at once, and asked imploringly to be set free;
promising to be quiet and tractable if my grandfather would give him a
trial. This was promised him: his chains were removed the same day; and
Jacob was ever after not only harmless and obedient, but also a very
useful man in the house.
I never afterwards accompanied my grandfather. I had discovered a side in
his nature which repelled me. I spent the remainder of my visit in the
workrooms and the sickroom, always secretly fearing that I should meet
with some new cruelty; but no such instance ever came to my view.
On my return from my grandfather's, I found that a cousin had suddenly
become blind. She was soon after sent to the ophthalmic hospital, where
she remained for more than a year; and, during this time, I was her
constant companion after school-hours. I was anxious to be useful to her;
and, being gentler than the nurse, she liked to have me wash out the
issues that were made in her back and arms. The nurse, who was very
willing to be relieved of the duty, allowed me to cleanse the eyes of the
girl next my cousin; and thus these cares were soon made to depend on my
daily visit. Child as I was, I could not help observing the carelessness
of the nurses, and their great neglect of cleanliness. One day, when the
head-nurse had washed the floor, leaving pools of water standing under the
beds, the under-nurse found fault with it, and said, "I shall tell the
doctor, when he comes, why it is that the patients always have colds."
"Do," said the head-nurse. "What do men understand of such matters? If
they knew any thing about them, they would long ago have taken care that
the mattress upon which one patient dies should always be changed before
another comes in." This quarrel impressed itself upon my memory; and the
wish rose in my mind, that some day I might be head-nurse, to prevent such
wrongs, and to show kindness to the poor lunatics.
At the end of the year, my cousin left the hospital At the same time,
trouble and constant sickness fell upon our family. My father, who held
liberal opinions and was of an impetuous temperament manifested some
revolutionary tendencies, which drew upon him the displeasure of the
government and caused his dismissal, with a very small pension, from his
position as military officer. This involved us in great pecuniary
difficulties; for our family was large, and my father's income too small
to supply the most necessary wants; while to obtain other occupation for
the time was out of the question In this emergency, my mother determined
to petition the city government for admission to the school of midwives
established in Berlin, in order in this manner to aid in the support of
the family. Influential friends of my father secured her the election; and
she was admitted to the school in 1839, I being at that time ten years of
age.
The education of midwives for Berlin requires a two years' course of
study, during six months of which they are obliged to reside in the
hospital, to receive instructions from the professors together with the
male students. My mother went there in the summer of 1840. I went to stay
at the house of an aunt, who wished my company; and the rest of the
children were put out to board together.
In a few weeks, my eyes became affected with weakness, so that I could
neither read nor write; and I begged my mother to let me stay with her in
the hospital. She applied for permission to the director, and received a
favorable answer. I was placed under the care of one of the physicians
(Dr. Müller), who took a great fancy to me, and made me go with him
wherever he went while engaged in the hospital. My eyes being bandaged, he
led me by the hand, calling me his "little blind doctor." In this way I
was constantly with him, hearing all his questions and directions, which
impressed themselves the more strongly on my mind from the fact that I
could not see, but had to gain all my knowledge through hearing alone.
One afternoon, when I had taken the bandage off my eyes for the first
time, Dr. Muller told me that there was a corpse of a young man to be seen
in the dead-house, that had turned completely green in consequence of
poison that he had eaten. I went there after my rounds with him: but
finding the room filled with relatives, who were busily engaged in
adorning the body with flowers, I thought that I would not disturb them,
but would wait until they had gone before I looked at it; and went
meanwhile through the adjoining rooms. These were all freshly painted. The
dissecting-tables, with the necessary apparatus, stood in the centre;
while the bodies, clad in white gowns, were ranged on boards along the
walls. I examined every thing; came back, and looked to my heart's content
at the poisoned young man, without noticing that not only the relatives
had left, but that the prosector had also gone away, after locking up the
whole building I then went a second time to the other rooms, and looked
again at every thing there; and at last, when it became dark and I could
not leave the house, sat down upon the floor, and went to sleep, after
knocking for half an hour at the door, in the hope that some passer might
hear.
My mother, who knew that I had gone with Dr. Müller, did not trouble
herself about me until nine o'clock, when she grew uneasy at my stay; and,
thinking that he might have taken me to his rooms, went there in search of
me, but found that he was out, and that the doors were locked. She then
inquired of the people in the house whether they knew any thing about me,
and was told that they had last seen me going into the dead-house. Alarmed
at this intelligence, my mother hastened to the prosector, who unwillingly
went with her to the park in which the dead-house stood, assuring her all
the way that I could not possibly be there; when, on opening the door, he
saw me sitting close by, on the floor, fast asleep.
In a few days after this adventure, I recovered the use of my eyes. As it
was at this time the summer vacation, in which I had no school-tasks, I
asked Dr. Müller for some books to read. He inquired what kind of books I
wanted. I told him, "Books about history;" upon which he gave me two huge
volumes,--The "History of Midwifery" and the "History of Surgery." Both
were so interesting that I read them through during the six weeks of
vacation; which occupied me so closely that even my friend Dr. Müller
could not lay hold of me when he went his morning and evening rounds. From
this time I date my study of medicine; for, though I did not continue to
read upon the subject, I was instructed in the no less important branch of
psychology by a new teacher, whom I found on my return to school at the
close of the summer vacation.
To explain better how my mind was prepared for such teaching, I must go
back to my position in school. In both schools that I attended, I was
praised for my punctuality, industry, and quick perception. Beloved I was
in neither: on the contrary, I was made the target for all the impudent
jokes of my fellow-pupils; ample material for which was furnished in the
carelessness with which my hair and dress were usually arranged; these
being left to the charge of a servant, who troubled herself very little
about how I looked, provided that I was whole and clean. The truth was, I
often presented a ridiculous appearance; and once I could not help
laughing heartily at myself, on seeing my own face by accident in a
glass, with one braid of hair commencing over the right eye, and the other
over the left ear. I quietly hung a map over the glass to hide the
ludicrous picture, and continued my studies; and most likely appeared in
the same style the next day. My face, besides, was neither handsome, nor
even prepossessing; a large nose overshadowing the undeveloped features:
and I was ridiculed for my ugliness, both in school and at home, where an
aunt of mine, who disliked me exceedingly, always said, in describing
plain people, "Almost as ugly as Marie."
Another cause arose to render my position at school still more
intolerable. In consequence of the loss of his position in the army, my
father could no longer afford to pay my school-bills; and was about, in
consequence, to remove me from school; when the principal offered to
retain me without pay, although she disliked me, and did not hesitate to
show it, any more than to tell me, whenever I offended her, that she would
never keep so ugly and naughty a child _without being paid for it_, were
it not for the sake of so noble a father.
These conditions and harsh judgments made me a philosopher. I heard myself
called obstinate and wilful, only because I believed myself in the right,
and persisted in it. I felt that I was not maliciously disposed towards
any one, but wished well to all; and I offered my services not only
willingly, but cheerfully, wherever they could be of the least use; and
saw them accepted, and even demanded, by those who could not dispense with
them, though they shunned and ridiculed me the same as before. I felt that
they only sought me when they needed me: this made me shrink still more
from their companionship; and, when my sister did not walk home from
school with me, I invariably went alone.
The idea that I might not wish to attach myself to playmates of this sort
never occurred to any one; but I was constantly reproached with having no
friends among my schoolfellows, and was told that no one could love so
disagreeable and repelling a child. This was a severe blow to my
affectionate nature; but I bore it calmly, consoling myself with the
thought that they were wrong,--that they did not understand me,--and that
the time would come, when they would learn that a great, warm heart was
concealed beneath the so-called repulsive exterior. But, however soothing
all this was for the time, a feeling of bitterness grew up within me. I
began to be provoked at my ugliness, which I believed to be excessive. I
speculated why parents so kind and good as mine should be deprived of
their means of support, merely because my father would not consent to
endure wrong and imposition. I was indignant at being told, that it was
only for my father's sake that I was retained in a school where I tried to
do my best, and where I always won the highest prizes; and I could not see
why, at home, I should be forced to do housework when I wanted to read,
while my brother, who wished to work, was compelled to study. When I
complained of this last grievance, I was told that I was a girl, and never
could learn much, but was only fit to become a housekeeper. All these
things threw me upon my own resources, and taught me to make the most of
every opportunity, custom and habit to the contrary notwithstanding.