"A long, long time since that voice was heard,
The only one my heart has stirred.
Nothing has thrilled it quite the same,
As the voice for which I long in vain."
--FROM THE GERMAN.
A young woman is hurrying with quick steps through the wintry
streets. She has approached the Kahring mansion; but instead of
ascending the broad, beautiful entrance, she glides through the
garden and up the narrow, little steps in the rear, asking, upon
answer to the bell:
"Is Fraulein Theodora Von Kahring at home?"
The servant bows assent, and the lady hastens forward as one to whom
the place is familiar.
It is Sibylla who enters Theodora's room, evidently not for the first
time, as her words of greeting plainly show that Theodora is an
intimate friend. Hastily throwing off her wraps, she draws a low
stool close to Theodora's sewing-table, and says without further
ceremony:
"Do you think every girl should marry in order to be happy?"
Sibylla might have found the answer in Theodora's clear, pleasant
face; but the latter looked up smilingly, and said:
"Are you happy in your present condition?"
"No."
"And do you think that an outward change would, of itself, make you
so?"
"No."
"I have often," continued Theodora, "endeavored to answer your
question, and I have come to the conclusion that an unmarried woman's
life need not be joyless because she is single, any more than the
life of a woman will be happy on account of having a husband."
"You also think," exclaimed Sibylla, "that the blame lies in myself
if I am restless and dissatisfied?"
Theodora hesitated to reply; but Sibylla laid her head on her
friend's lap, and said:
"You need not answer; I know all."
It was very still in the room. Did an angel's wings rustle through
it?
Then Sibylla talked softly about experiences which her proud heart
had never revealed; of her home life; of her mamma, who, although so
old, could not pass a single day without some pleasurable excitement;
of the throng of visitors that wearied her, and yet must be tolerated
because solitude was worse, and they at least amused her; of her
discernment of people's follies, which she despised while concealing
it; of coming home evenings with a troubled conscience, reading
Thomas á Kempis, and praying sometimes; concluding with:
"I can do no more, but it does not relieve me."
Theodora laughed:
"Can not you bring out of your company something better?"
"What then?"
"Discern the good," said Theodora; "for society people also have
good, noble sides to their character, and a word is often only
necessary to open to us these closed-up treasures."
Sibylla shook her head.
"Society people are all so superficial."
"Or appear so to you," interrupted Theodora. "How do you appear, and
what do you give to them? I have heard that Fraulein Von Herbig is
the loveliest, happiest of women to count many conquests among
gentlemen as a reward for her coquetry. So, you see, there lies a
mask upon every one in society, and even the best may not show very
often his true self in this circle." After a pause Theodora
continued: "Still another thing may be learned here--compassion for
the weaknesses of people, compassion which strives to show itself in
helpful deeds."
Sibylla winced. To do something--really to do, to bring sacrifice!
That a Theodora might accomplish, whose most agreeable employment
seemed to be able to supply a need. A flood of thoughts passed over
Sibylla; feelings asserted themselves whose existence had always been
disclaimed. Suddenly she asked Theodora:
"Have you ever loved?"
A slight blush suffused Theodora's face; she understood the question.
"Could you love?" pressed Sibylla.
"Never--or always," was the answer.
"Tell me your life-history," entreated Sibylla; and, to her own
astonishment, the reticent Theodora complied with this wild girl's
request, who, half kneeling before her, looked up with her great eyes
full of expectation.
"This will be only for you to know," said Theodora.
Sibylla assented, as one that could be trusted.
"Do not expect any detailed story," began Theodora. "I will tell you
in a few words how it happened that my life is so different from the
rest of our fashionable family. I know you must have often wondered
at it.
"I am my father's eldest child. I have never known my mother, as she
died soon after my birth. My father traveled extensively, and I was
intrusted to the care of a French _bonne_. When I was six years old
my father married again; then there was a mamma, and after a time two
children, Arnold and Eugenie. I can tell you very little about my
childhood. I believe I was a kind of home-body, who continually
bemothered her sister and brother. It is unnecessary to speak of our
home-life, except that I often envied Arnold and Eugenie their
mother's love; for while she was always good to me, I felt that I
stood alone. I had my little troubles, but I need not weary you with
them; suffice to say my life and prospects were not the happiest.
There were questions I could never answer, since the things that most
persons prized as the highest good were worthless to me, and my mind,
guided by no careful hand, often struggled beyond the boundary
restricted to women, and I knocked boldly at portals which opened
only to the wisdom of men.
"Thus I grew to young womanhood. A keen thirst for action possessed
me, and as it found no outlet in external channels, it reverted to
study. I studied with a real burning hunger. I was soon
distinguished as a scholar, although I did not deserve it, and more
and more recognized how little I knew. But in spite of all my
acquired knowledge, there was a longing in my soul which never was
satisfied. Then came--you shall soon know all--a young tutor in the
family to give me instruction in a particular branch. Mamma was
always opposed to this; but papa wished to gratify me. Sibylla, this
young man looked into my being, and saw there a poor soul, which,
despite its struggles and acquisitions, cried out for a delivering
answer. He gave this answer. We continued in our position of
teacher and pupil; but suddenly there beamed forth from nature, as
well as from science, an answer to my unexpressed queries: this
answer was God.
"For the first time I learned that Christianity was not in dogmas and
forms, but in its life. I learned that a deep Christ-like
contemplation of the world elevates to god-like things, that it even
awakens and nourishes spirituality in the most unattractive
occurrences of every-day life. I recognized that Christianity holds
out to us the highest prospect for the future, and that it also
teaches us to be diligent in making a proper use of the opportunities
afforded us in the present.
"Sibylla, I learned all this; but I learned still more. My youth
spread her wings, and flew joyously heavenward. I loved, and I was
beloved. Not a word had been spoken; but there was that secret
outgoing of one soul toward another, in which we find the harmony of
our deepest, innermost life. One day my parents informed me that my
studies must be discontinued, as my teacher had asked for my hand. I
declared simply that I loved him. He was poor, but his salary at the
university would have amply supported us, if we had married; but it
must not be.
"Let me pass over what followed. His teachings would have been in
vain, if I had not learned to obey the Fifth Commandment. I did not
see him again."
"Never?" cried Sibylla.
"Not for a long time. He resigned his position at the university,
and accompanied a gentleman to Austria. I never heard from him. O,
Sibylla! the conflict in my heart was a terrible one. I desired to
do wholly what was my duty, and God helped me, and even gave me new
love to my relatives. But one thing I have never done; in this point
I could not obey my parents: I could never promise love and fidelity
to any other man. But we will come to the end. Three years passed,
when there came a letter from one of the city hospitals, it announced
that I must hasten thither, as a dying patient desired to see me. I
was at home alone. Leaving a note to my father, inclosing the one I
had received, I wrote that I might not return home that night. I
ordered the carriage. O, Sibylla! I was so restful, not morbidly
so, but full of peace. I found my beloved, dying. He had been ill a
long time, and had returned to Berlin to die--at home. Home? He had
no relatives on earth; but where I was, there was his earthly home.
I remained at his side all night. He never lost consciousness for a
moment; could speak but little, but he kept his faith to the end, and
I was permitted to see with my own eyes how faith in the only
begotten Son of God is the victory that vanquishes even death.
"When morning dawned he was in his eternal home. Gladly would I have
remained at the hospital to undertake the self-denying,
self-sacrificing duties of a deaconess if it had been offered to me.
It would have given a purpose to my life; but this was not to be.
Still my parents allowed me, thereafter, to conform my life more in
accordance with my own will, and I sought from without a mission
which was denied me at home. One treasure I held in my hands. My
beloved had bequeathed to me all his spiritual effects--such as
essays, letters, his journal, etc.--and I learned much from these.
He had a rich soul--rich in love toward every one that needed help.
"I was ill for a year after; no heart sickness--my soul had peace in
God--but a physical ailment, which was followed by a painful surgical
operation. This remaining scar, I bless God for it, excuses me from
the burdens of society life, and I can live quietly here in my little
sunny back room, and last Summer I was enabled to enter, as
assistant, the hospital which is so full of associations to me. My
life is now full of work, but it is also full of joy and
happiness--O, full of deep and grateful heart-felt happiness!"
It had grown dark in the room. Sibylla's head lay in Theodora's lap.
As she remained quiet and unresponsive, Theodora exclaimed playfully:
"She is really asleep!" Lightly stroking her face, she felt it wet
with tears.
When the lamp was lighted, Sibylla took a sudden leave, with a
sincere "Thank you, thank you;" and before Theodora could hinder it,
she imprinted a warm kiss on her hands.
Sibylla read late that evening Goethe's "Knowledge of a Beautiful
Soul," and she could not help thinking that Theodora, really and
truly, had just such a beautiful soul.
X
"Work! for the field far reaches,
The laborers' hands are few;
The world's great need beseeches;
There is something for thee to do.
O, linger not, idly dreaming!
The golden moments speed;
While the sun's broad rays are streaming,
The summons to labor heed."
--S. A. STOWE.
The _haute volée_ are to-day in a quandary. A highly gifted man has
been invited to deliver his lecture entitled "The Shady Side of
Modern Culture." His name is distinguished, and his theme an unusual
one. When one is daily satiated with honey, a little mustard or
caviare is desirable. The large hall is crowded. There is not an
empty seat in the crimson plush chairs of the circle. All are eager
to hear, from his own lips, this renowned professor's views in behalf
of the working classes, as they had been promulgated in his
interesting, original books. He enters, and takes his place behind
the speaker's desk, his great, full eyes sweeping over the audience
with searching glance. There before him sit those who pass their
time in worldly dissipation and sensual enjoyments. There they are,
in elegant gowns, fashionable hats, and velvet wraps. There they
sit, with happy, contented faces. What matters the rain to them
behind their closed windows? In long rows before the hall stand
their expensive equipages, for their delicate feet may only tread
inlaid floors. What a different picture the speaker has witnessed in
his intercourse with the poor! What a contrast! Here luxury, there
beggary. He gazes as though he would penetrate the hearts of his
hearers. Then he recollects the time has arrived for him to begin to
speak; for in one brief hour this assemblage must separate to dress
for a party, or they will be too late. If his lips are somewhat
bitterly compressed, his heart is even more so when he thinks, "They
have little time for the poor, and I must embrace it, to drive, if
possible, an entering wedge into their consciences."
With earnest tone he begins: "To the especial glory of Christianity,
which we may here designate 'the kingdom of God,' belongs (after its
inherent nature) the outward exercise of its sublime calling; that
one dominant, universal, regenerating influence which it exerts not
only upon solitary individuals, but upon the social life of
communities, upon all mutual action in the struggle for gain among
men. Christianity is not doctrine alone, but histories, and
histories of awakened life, and a life, indeed, that is designed for
the cure and regeneration of the old faith."
Then the speaker showed, in a few brief touches, the progress of this
kingdom during the past thousand years, which was still far from its
end, having to call forth from sin many who were reluctant to be
embraced within its fold. He then reverted particularly to the
situation at Berlin. How many complaints were heard everywhere over
the condition of affairs in the city. But he did not wish to offer
denunciation like those, who uttered it only to shake the dust from
their feet of this great Sodom-like city, and then depart out of it.
He desired to present unbiased facts, gathered after an unprejudiced,
critical examination of the lower classes, in order to awaken
sympathy in their behalf. Numbers should speak; statistics and
police reports testify.
We shall not follow the lecturer step by step, and only extract a
statement relating to the condition of Berlin tenements. "In the
basements are 11,985 homes, containing 55,942 occupants. Dwellings
of four or more stories in height number 7,260, with 31,699 inmates.
Besides these, 87,641 persons live in underground cellars. What
wretched abodes for body and soul! But further: There are in Berlin
6,228 abodes, consisting of one room, each occupied by six persons;
4,041 rooms, with seven occupants each; 2,328, with eight; 1,160,
with nine; 508, with ten; 196, with eleven; 65, with twelve; 43, with
from thirteen to twenty occupants in each room. And the picture
these numbers reveal," added the speaker, "shows also that 13,771
people have no kitchens; they cook, live, sleep, eat, and often work,
in the same room, Winter and Summer. In the same room where a young
life awakens to the light of the world, frequently lies the dead body
of another, while the daily employment is pursued in the midst of
this death and life. How can such family life prosper?"
But enough. We shall pass over that part of the address in which the
speaker begged the assistance and personal services of the rich. One
fact may, however, be stated. He imputed to women of all ranks a
great part of the blame for the low, depraved condition of many of
their own sex. "Your love of luxury," he said, "your expensive
apparel, your diversions and pleasures, have eaten downward like
poison. Naturally every woman imitates those who occupy a grade
above her. Instead of seeking to do noble deeds, women of influence
and position look scornfully upon poor fallen girls in their sin and
shame. And here it is worth while not to look with resignation for
the strong rolling effects of an avalanche, but to work, with
consideration and hope, to succor and rescue where this is yet
possible."
At length the professor's discourse was ended. It had been followed
throughout with breathless interest, even with agitation and emotion.
An hour later we find the greater part of this audience assembled at
the residence of Counselor Wurtzel. Most of them had cast off with
their garments the effects of the lecture; they were now in full
evening dress. But what a welcome theme for conversation the address
afforded!
"I must confess," remarked Lady Von Herbig, as she reclined upon a
luxurious satin divan, "I find it rather disagreeable to have such
dark pictures presented to us. What if one should dream of them at
night?"
"Yes; such men usually apply their colors strongly," said Herr Von
Lenkseuring; "they are so regardless of the highly strung nerves of
the people before them."
A languishing glance of approbation from Lady Von Herbig rewarded the
young man, while she lightly fanned herself.
"I do not think it is so bad as he represents," said Lady Von
Wurtzel, the hostess. "Certainly one hears and sees nothing of such
misery."
"And I maintain," interrupted a lady who rustled in satin, "that it
is of little use to arouse desires in such people, which they have
never felt. One must always remember that they have been very
differently reared from those in our class."
"There lies a democratic sentiment," piped an elderly, prim-looking
gentleman, in nasal tones. "It only excites the rabble to pay them
so much attention, and gives them a claim to offer complaints. And
as for the class of women for whom he interceded, and whom he would
have assisted, there is nothing better for them than the
whipping-post."
"What do they want of us?" began another society woman. "We have so
much to do already; the obligations of our every-day life are so
exhausting. I am convinced that the majority of these so-called poor
women do not have a tenth part of what is required from us. Our
homes, our social duties, our position--O, we have duties to fulfill
of which these creatures have not the remotest idea."
"Yes, indeed; that is true," said Wulf, softly. "People become hard
through voluptuousness. Visiting becomes duty, dress and finery
important affairs."
"You are right," responded Arnold Von Kahring, who stood near. "I am
disgusted with this masquerade; but I can do nothing either here in
high Olympus, or yonder in the world."
"Papa gives annually a large sum to the Society for the Improvement
of the Poor," added a young woman; "if every one did the same, the
need would not be worth talking about."
"The Nurembergers hang no one, then they have them," retorted Arnold
sarcastically; but the fair maiden did not understand the allusion.
Sibylla had remained silent until now. In spirit she was in sympathy
with wretched rooms in which eight or ten human beings were penned
together amid life and death. And she asked herself whether art
would exercise its heavenly calling in such places, whether it would
elevate and console. Her nature was too practical to answer this
question affirmatively, and she was too noble to assert it against
the truth. Wulf approached her.
"Fraulein Sibylla, what effect has this much-talked-of discourse had
upon you?"
"It has exasperated me," she replied.
"May I ask why?"
"Yes, I will tell you. I can not bear to have such misery pictured
to me when I am not able to alleviate it. I believe every word is
true. The statistics and the professor's honest face affirm this.
But, tell me, what is the use of presenting such horrible scenes to
me--scenes that make me shudder against my will? I love the blue sky
and the sunshine."
"Would it not be possible to help?" asked Wulf.
"On that point the learned professor has not clearly spoken.
Evidently he knows no way. But that is what these gentlemen do: they
thunder down upon us poor sinners, and then go their way."
"One might call upon him, and ask him direct questions," said Wulf.
"O, you are not in earnest, Herr Ericksen! He would send us on the
street with a package of tracts, and say I must wear the dress of a
deaconess and wash all the old women's feet. No; we are both,
honestly speaking, much too great ease-lovers for that."
Sibylla was right. Impressions had been made on Wulf's heart, but he
did not have the moral courage to put them to the test.
"It is terrible to know that twenty or thirty thousand women and
girls come to Berlin annually to seek work. Police reports confirm
this. I ask you what is to become of them?" said another
aristocratic dame.
"Most of them find what they seek," replied the wife of a rich
manufacturer. "My husband employs, in his factory alone, over six
hundred girls, and their work leaves nothing further to wish for.
Their labors are light and they can earn, if they are very diligent,
nearly four dollars weekly."
"O, I am glad to hear that!" exclaimed Lady Von Kaiser. "Early this
morning the manager of an employment bureau called upon me to beg
situations for respectable girls. She has had them under her
personal supervision since their confirmation. When they are
fourteen years old and ready to help themselves, she finds great
difficulty in procuring positions for them. Could not some of these
girls enter your husband's factory?"
"My dear," replied the manufacturer's wife, graciously, drawing
nearer to the speaker, "I am sorry to say to you, send us no
respectable girls. Those in our factory are all fallen."
"But do you make no efforts in their behalf?" exclaimed the
kind-hearted baroness, affrighted.
"Could you not, in your position, remedy such a condition of affairs?"
"Thank you!" heartily laughed the informant. "What would you have me
do? I told you they are all fallen."
The lecture was also being discussed by the younger people. They
talked with great animation, and resolved to take action immediately.
Lady Von Kahring was elected chairman, and it was decided not to
separate before something was determined upon.
"Our young folks," she said, "have to-day, for the first time, had
presented to them a glimpse of misery of which previously they had no
conception. With susceptible, tender hearts, they wish to help with
all their youth and strength. They declare they will not enter upon
dancing until something has been decided."
Her words appeared to give universal satisfaction among the company.
To-day a fresh breeze had passed over the stagnant water; but a few
older heads were doubtfully shaken.
"Doing and repenting--no, no!" echoed another. "We must first make
the necessary inquiries, and gain correct information of the affair."
"We must deliberate slowly," suggested a third. "When we meet again
we can decide further."
"Only let there be nothing rash," said a thoughtful voice.
"Enthusiasm is no fish-commodity, which one pickles for a year," came
from the rear of the room.
Scarcely any one heard the remark, but Sibylla writhed beneath it,
having recognized Dr. Uhlhart's voice. O, how repulsive it was for
her to think that she was in accord with him in so many opinions!
Had not the very same words entered her own mind that he had just
uttered?
The young people seized the word with enthusiasm and became
increasingly animated. Soon the opposing element was silenced.
Resolution after resolution was passed. "We will hold a lottery;"
this was lost. "A bazaar will not be profitable as there have been
so many recently."
"How would a masquerade ball do?" suggested a young officer;
"admittance two dollars. That would insure a handsome amount."
"No, no; we have just danced for the benefit of poor, starving
families," interposed a lady.
A lively discussion followed, in which the object to do good was lost
sight of in the endeavor to combine pleasure with it. They from whom
the idea of doing good had emanated had never dreamed that they could
be deviated in such a way.
Lady Von Kahring still held the chair. Finally it was decided to
have _tableaux_ in a hall which should accommodate a large circle of
acquaintances; admission tickets should be issued at a high rate, and
surely no one would refuse to be interested in _tableaux_.
"What do you think will really be the expense involved by those that
participate in this affair?" Wulf asked, turning to Sibylla.
"Not less than twenty or thirty dollars apiece," she replied.
"If this amount were only offered now for the good cause," continued
Wulf, "we should be taking a speedy step forward."
"Ah! but there would be no enjoyment in that," maintained Sibylla.
"O, please let them have this pittance of joy! Don't you see how
delightfully they all amuse themselves in the very anticipation?"
"And the unfortunates for whom all this will be done will never be
thought of again?"
"Of course not," laughed Sibylla; "and I, too, shall hear no more of
them, for I can not help them. Happy is he who can forget when he
can not alleviate!"
But what says Herr Bolton, the wool-merchant, all this while?
Standing up and clearing his throat, he announces in a loud voice:
"Such a laudable undertaking as the one under consideration deserves
the co-operation of every worthy person. In view of the expense
attendant upon the project, allow me to place in your hand, Mrs.
President, the sum of fifty dollars. Please, please no thanks," he
added graciously. "I know it, and where these come from there will
be more to follow."
Around Sibylla's mouth a scornful smile played. Wulf observed it,
and said:
"He seems to be a very worthy person."
"Yes, his worthiness bores me to death," replied Sibylla.
The conversation continued upon the working-classes, social
questions, etc. The subject must be an important one to have taken
such a hold upon the participants. _Pros_ and _cons_ were advanced
briskly; in general every one seemed to take a pride in the
discussion. Wulf said very little. It affected him painfully to see
these serious topics treated by those present so lightly and
superficially.
"There is a refractory spirit among the common people," said Bolton,
petulantly; "they no longer obey, but only make claims."
"Well," interrupted Lenkseuring, who was persevering in his endeavors
to converse with Olga, "where are the laws and penalties for such
actions? Let them be administered strictly, instead of so
carelessly."
"O, I wish," said Sibylla, "the speaker himself could be laid hold of
and kept strictly, so that for a year he might not deliver his
falsehoods to poor Olga."
Wulf's glance rested upon Olga. She was so young, and appeared so
infatuated with that flatterer. If she only had a mother to warn her
before it should be too late! Olga's condition grieved Wulf
inexpressibly; but he made no reply to Sibylla, who looked at him
with surprise.
"Here in the city," remarked the old Baron Von Kahring, "people are
worse off than elsewhere. They hear so much about 'man's rights' and
their 'claims,' that they make demands which formerly they never
dreamed of doing."
"But should these demands be wholly ignored, even if they go beyond
the limit?" interposed Lady Von Kaiser.
"Certainly; entirely so," emphasized an old excellenz. "Rest
assured, from my personal experience, the common people have every
thing they need."
"But there is real want existing."
"O, may be in isolated cases; but what they do not have they never
miss. This talking to them only gives knowledge of their
deprivations."
"And you must not compare the lower classes with us," said Arnold at
this juncture. "They have, indeed, eyes and ears, as we have, but
they see and hear very differently."
"Yes, indeed!" flustered Lady Von Herbig; "these working people can
not feel the same as we do; they never have great thoughts."
Wulf had listened with increasing indignation. At length he said:
"I beg pardon; but history and experience teach otherwise. Stein,
for example, in one of his essays says that nobility is not acquired
through birth, but by merit. The most beautiful period of German
history knew nothing of hereditary descent. Archbishop Williger Von
Mainz was the son of a poor woman, and Duke Billing of Saxony was the
son of a possessor of seven hides of land. Please also recollect
Fox, Livingstone, Luther, Neander, and many others--they were all
poor children."
"O, well, I grant," said the hostess, "that here and there such
examples may be found. And when any one such child of the common
people does a great deed, we are very willing to overlook the
misfortune of his birth."
"Misfortune of birth!" Wulf arose and stepped backward a few paces,
his hand reaching toward a chair as if he would hurl it in defense.
"But, madame," said the sharp voice of a young lieutenant, "is it not
true that the fact of being one of such children must be very
uncomfortable? When innate crudeness comes in conflict with natural
refinement, the process of passing from one to the other is best
settled by us in complete withdrawal."
Some laughed, others looked embarrassed by these rude words. It had
become very still, when Wulf said in a clear, calm voice:
"I am not the man to remain silent under such aspersion. I am a
working-man's child. My father was a fisherman, and lived by the
labor of his hands, as I have also done."
These words flashed over the assemblage like lightning. Silence fell
everywhere.
Many approved Wulf's words, but waited to see their effect upon
others. He stood there calmly, while a triumphant expression played
over Dr. Uhlhart's face. Suddenly--O, the second terror was far
worse than the first!--suddenly Sibylla arose, walked toward Wulf,
extended her hand, and said in a clear, kindly tone: "You are
perfectly right."
But the working-man's child did not compromise himself. Instead of
cavalierly kissing the proffered hand, he drew himself up as to an
equal, and simply said: "Thank you."