THE LIFE OF THE GOOD ANNA
Anna Federner, this good Anna, was of solid lower middle-class south
german stock.
When she was seventeen years old she went to service in a bourgeois
family, in the large city near her native town, but she did not stay
there long. One day her mistress offered her maid--that was Anna--to
a friend, to see her home. Anna felt herself to be a servant, not a
maid, and so she promptly left the place.
Anna had always a firm old world sense of what was the right way for a
girl to do.
No argument could bring her to sit an evening in the empty parlour,
although the smell of paint when they were fixing up the kitchen made
her very sick, and tired as she always was, she never would sit down
during the long talks she held with Miss Mathilda. A girl was a girl
and should act always like a girl, both as to giving all respect and
as to what she had to eat.
A little time after she left this service, Anna and her mother made
the voyage to America. They came second-class, but it was for them a
long and dreary journey. The mother was already ill with consumption.
They landed in a pleasant town in the far South and there the mother
slowly died.
Anna was now alone and she made her way to Bridgepoint where an older
half brother was already settled. This brother was a heavy, lumbering,
good natured german man, full of the infirmity that comes of excess of
body.
He was a baker and married and fairly well to do.
Anna liked her brother well enough but was never in any way dependent
on him.
When she arrived in Bridgepoint, she took service with Miss Mary
Wadsmith.
Miss Mary Wadsmith was a large, fair, helpless woman, burdened with
the care of two young children. They had been left her by her brother
and his wife who had died within a few months of each other.
Anna soon had the household altogether in her charge.
Anna found her place with large, abundant women, for such were always
lazy, careless or all helpless, and so the burden of their lives could
fall on Anna, and give her just content. Anna's superiors must be
always these large helpless women, or be men, for none others could
give themselves to be made so comfortable and free.
Anna had no strong natural feeling to love children, as she had to
love cats and dogs, and a large mistress. She never became deeply fond
of Edgar and Jane Wadsmith. She naturally preferred the boy, for boys
love always better to be done for and made comfortable and full of
eating, while in the little girl she had to meet the feminine, the
subtle opposition, showing so early always in a young girl's nature.
For the summer, the Wadsmiths had a pleasant house out in the country,
and the winter months they spent in hotel apartments in the city.
Gradually it came to Anna to take the whole direction of their
movements, to make all the decisions as to their journeyings to and
fro, and for the arranging of the places where they were to live.
Anna had been with Miss Mary for three years, when little Jane began
to raise her strength in opposition. Jane was a neat, pleasant little
girl, pretty and sweet with a young girl's charm, and with two blonde
braids carefully plaited down her back.
Miss Mary, like her Anna, had no strong natural feeling to love
children, but she was fond of these two young ones of her blood, and
yielded docilely to the stronger power in the really pleasing little
girl. Anna always preferred the rougher handling of the boy, while
Miss Mary found the gentle force and the sweet domination of the girl
to please her better.
In a spring when all the preparations for the moving had been made,
Miss Mary and Jane went together to the country home, and Anna, after
finishing up the city matters was to follow them in a few days with
Edgar, whose vacation had not yet begun.
Many times during the preparations for this summer, Jane had met Anna
with sharp resistance, in opposition to her ways. It was simple for
little Jane to give unpleasant orders, not from herself but from Miss
Mary, large, docile, helpless Miss Mary Wadsmith who could never think
out any orders to give Anna from herself.
Anna's eyes grew slowly sharper, harder, and her lower teeth thrust a
little forward and pressing strongly up, framed always more slowly the
"Yes, Miss Jane," to the quick, "Oh Anna! Miss Mary says she wants you
to do it so!"
On the day of their migration, Miss Mary had been already put into the
carriage. "Oh, Anna!" cried little Jane running back into the house,
"Miss Mary says that you are to bring along the blue dressings out of
her room and mine." Anna's body stiffened, "We never use them in the
summer, Miss Jane," she said thickly. "Yes Anna, but Miss Mary thinks
it would be nice, and she told me to tell you not to forget, good-by!"
and the little girl skipped lightly down the steps into the carriage
and they drove away.
Anna stood still on the steps, her eyes hard and sharp and shining,
and her body and her face stiff with resentment. And then she went
into the house, giving the door a shattering slam.
Anna was very hard to live with in those next three days. Even Baby,
the new puppy, the pride of Anna's heart, a present from her friend
the widow, Mrs. Lehntman--even this pretty little black and tan felt
the heat of Anna's scorching flame. And Edgar, who had looked forward
to these days, to be for him filled full of freedom and of things to
eat--he could not rest a moment in Anna's bitter sight.
On the third day, Anna and Edgar went to the Wadsmith country home.
The blue dressings out of the two rooms remained behind.
All the way, Edgar sat in front with the colored man and drove. It was
an early spring day in the South. The fields and woods were heavy from
the soaking rains. The horses dragged the carriage slowly over the
long road, sticky with brown clay and rough with masses of stones
thrown here and there to be broken and trodden into place by passing
teams. Over and through the soaking earth was the feathery new spring
growth of little flowers, of young leaves and of ferns. The tree tops
were all bright with reds and yellows, with brilliant gleaming whites
and gorgeous greens. All the lower air was full of the damp haze
rising from heavy soaking water on the earth, mingled with a warm and
pleasant smell from the blue smoke of the spring fires in all the open
fields. And above all this was the clear, upper air, and the songs of
birds and the joy of sunshine and of lengthening days.
The languor and the stir, the warmth and weight and the strong feel
of life from the deep centres of the earth that comes always with the
early, soaking spring, when it is not answered with an active fervent
joy, gives always anger, irritation and unrest.
To Anna alone there in the carriage, drawing always nearer to the
struggle with her mistress, the warmth, the slowness, the jolting over
stones, the steaming from the horses, the cries of men and animals and
birds, and the new life all round about were simply maddening. "Baby!
if you don't lie still, I think I kill you. I can't stand it any more
like this."
At this time Anna, about twenty-seven years of age, was not yet all
thin and worn. The sharp bony edges and corners of her head and face
were still rounded out with flesh, but already the temper and the
humor showed sharply in her clean blue eyes, and the thinning was
begun about the lower jaw, that was so often strained with the upward
pressure of resolve.
To-day, alone there in the carriage, she was all stiff and yet all
trembling with the sore effort of decision and revolt.
As the carriage turned into the Wadsmith gate, little Jane ran out to
see. She just looked at Anna's face; she did not say a word about blue
dressings.
Anna got down from the carriage with little Baby in her arms. She took
out all the goods that she had brought and the carriage drove away.
Anna left everything on the porch, and went in to where Miss Mary
Wadsmith was sitting by the fire.
Miss Mary was sitting in a large armchair by the fire. All the nooks
and crannies of the chair were filled full of her soft and spreading
body. She was dressed in a black satin morning gown, the sleeves,
great monster things, were heavy with the mass of her soft flesh.
She sat there always, large, helpless, gentle. She had a fair, soft,
regular, good-looking face, with pleasant, empty, grey-blue eyes, and
heavy sleepy lids.
Behind Miss Mary was the little Jane, nervous and jerky with
excitement as she saw Anna come into the room.
"Miss Mary," Anna began. She had stopped just within the door, her
body and her face stiff with repression, her teeth closed hard and the
white lights flashing sharply in the pale, clean blue of her eyes.
Her bearing was full of the strange coquetry of anger and of fear,
the stiffness, the bridling, the suggestive movement underneath the
rigidness of forced control, all the queer ways the passions have to
show themselves all one.
"Miss Mary," the words came slowly with thick utterance and with
jerks, but always firm and strong. "Miss Mary, I can't stand it
any more like this. When you tell me anything to do, I do it. I do
everything I can and you know I work myself sick for you. The blue
dressings in your room makes too much work to have for summer. Miss
Jane don't know what work is. If you want to do things like that I go
away."
Anna stopped still. Her words had not the strength of meaning
they were meant to have, but the power in the mood of Anna's soul
frightened and awed Miss Mary through and through.
Like in all large and helpless women, Miss Mary's heart beat weakly in
the soft and helpless mass it had to govern. Little Jane's excitements
had already tried her strength. Now she grew pale and fainted quite
away.
"Miss Mary!" cried Anna running to her mistress and supporting all her
helpless weight back in the chair. Little Jane, distracted, flew about
as Anna ordered, bringing smelling salts and brandy and vinegar and
water and chafing poor Miss Mary's wrists.
Miss Mary slowly opened her mild eyes. Anna sent the weeping little
Jane out of the room. She herself managed to get Miss Mary quiet on
the couch.
There was never a word more said about blue dressings.
Anna had conquered, and a few days later little Jane gave her a green
parrot to make peace.
For six more years little Jane and Anna lived in the same house. They
were careful and respectful to each other to the end.
Anna liked the parrot very well. She was fond of cats too and of
horses, but best of all animals she loved the dog and best of all
dogs, little Baby, the first gift from her friend, the widow Mrs.
Lehntman.
The widow Mrs. Lehntman was the romance in Anna's life.
Anna met her first at the house of her half brother, the baker, who
had known the late Mr. Lehntman, a small grocer, very well.
Mrs. Lehntman had been for many years a midwife. Since her husband's
death she had herself and two young children to support.
Mrs. Lehntman was a good looking woman. She had a plump well rounded
body, clear olive skin, bright dark eyes and crisp black curling
hair. She was pleasant, magnetic, efficient and good. She was very
attractive, very generous and very amiable.
She was a few years older than our good Anna, who was soon entirely
subdued by her magnetic, sympathetic charm.
Mrs. Lehntman in her work loved best to deliver young girls who were
in trouble. She would take these into her own house and care for them
in secret, till they could guiltlessly go home or back to work, and
then slowly pay her the money for their care. And so through this new
friend Anna led a wider and more entertaining life, and often she used
up her savings in helping Mrs. Lehntman through those times when she
was giving very much more than she got.
It was through Mrs. Lehntman that Anna met Dr. Shonjen who employed
her when at last it had to be that she must go away from her Miss Mary
Wadsmith.
During the last years with her Miss Mary, Anna's health was very bad,
as indeed it always was from that time on until the end of her strong
life.
Anna was a medium sized, thin, hard working, worrying woman.
She had always had bad headaches and now they came more often and more
wearing.
Her face grew thin, more bony and more worn, her skin stained itself
pale yellow, as it does with working sickly women, and the clear blue
of her eyes went pale.
Her back troubled her a good deal, too. She was always tired at her
work and her temper grew more difficult and fretful.
Miss Mary Wadsmith often tried to make Anna see a little to herself,
and get a doctor, and the little Jane, now blossoming into a pretty,
sweet young woman, did her best to make Anna do things for her good.
Anna was stubborn always to Miss Jane, and fearful of interference
in her ways. Miss Mary Wadsmith's mild advice she easily could always
turn aside.
Mrs. Lehntman was the only one who had any power over Anna. She
induced her to let Dr. Shonjen take her in his care.
No one but a Dr. Shonjen could have brought a good and german Anna
first to stop her work and then submit herself to operation, but he
knew so well how to deal with german and poor people. Cheery, jovial,
hearty, full of jokes that made much fun and yet were full of simple
common sense and reasoning courage, he could persuade even a good Anna
to do things that were for her own good.
Edgar had now been for some years away from home, first at a school
and then at work to prepare himself to be a civil engineer. Miss Mary
and Jane promised to take a trip for all the time that Anna was away,
and so there would be no need for Anna's work, nor for a new girl to
take Anna's place.
Anna's mind was thus a little set at rest. She gave herself to Mrs.
Lehntman and the doctor to do what they thought best to make her well
and strong.
Anna endured the operation very well, and was patient, almost docile,
in the slow recovery of her working strength. But when she was once
more at work for her Miss Mary Wadsmith, all the good effect of these
several months of rest were soon worked and worried well away.
For all the rest of her strong working life Anna was never really
well. She had bad headaches all the time and she was always thin and
worn.
She worked away her appetite, her health and strength, and always for
the sake of those who begged her not to work so hard. To her thinking,
in her stubborn, faithful, german soul, this was the right way for a
girl to do.
Anna's life with Miss Mary Wadsmith was now drawing to an end.
Miss Jane, now altogether a young lady, had come out into the world.
Soon she would become engaged and then be married, and then perhaps
Miss Mary Wadsmith would make her home with her.
In such a household Anna was certain that she would never take a
place. Miss Jane was always careful and respectful and very good to
Anna, but never could Anna be a girl in a household where Miss Jane
would be the head. This much was very certain in her mind, and so
these last two years with her Miss Mary were not as happy as before.
The change came very soon.
Miss Jane became engaged and in a few months was to marry a man from
out of town, from Curden, an hour's railway ride from Bridgepoint.
Poor Miss Mary Wadsmith did not know the strong resolve Anna had made
to live apart from her when this new household should be formed. Anna
found it very hard to speak to her Miss Mary of this change.
The preparations for the wedding went on day and night.
Anna worked and sewed hard to make it all go well.
Miss Mary was much fluttered, but content and happy with Anna to make
everything so easy for them all.
Anna worked so all the time to drown her sorrow and her conscience
too, for somehow it was not right to leave Miss Mary so. But what else
could she do? She could not live as her Miss Mary's girl, in a house
where Miss Jane would be the head.
The wedding day grew always nearer. At last it came and passed.
The young people went on their wedding trip, and Anna and Miss Mary
were left behind to pack up all the things.
Even yet poor Anna had not had the strength to tell Miss Mary her
resolve, but now it had to be.
Anna every spare minute ran to her friend Mrs. Lehntman for comfort
and advice. She begged her friend to be with her when she told the
news to Miss Mary.
Perhaps if Mrs. Lehntman had not been in Bridgepoint, Anna would have
tried to live in the new house. Mrs. Lehntman did not urge her to this
thing nor even give her this advice, but feeling for Mrs. Lehntman as
she did made even faithful Anna not quite so strong in her dependence
on Miss Mary's need as she would otherwise have been.
Remember, Mrs. Lehntman was the romance in Anna's life.
All the packing was now done and in a few days Miss Mary was to go to
the new house, where the young people were ready for her coming.
At last Anna had to speak.
Mrs. Lehntman agreed to go with her and help to make the matter clear
to poor Miss Mary.
The two women came together to Miss Mary Wadsmith sitting placid by
the fire in the empty living room. Miss Mary had seen Mrs. Lehntman
many times before, and so her coming in with Anna raised no suspicion
in her mind.
It was very hard for the two women to begin.
It must be very gently done, this telling to Miss Mary of the change.
She must not be shocked by suddenness or with excitement.
Anna was all stiff, and inside all a quiver with shame, anxiety
and grief. Even courageous Mrs. Lehntman, efficient, impulsive and
complacent as she was and not deeply concerned in the event, felt
awkward, abashed and almost guilty in that large, mild, helpless
presence. And at her side to make her feel the power of it all, was
the intense conviction of poor Anna, struggling to be unfeeling, self
righteous and suppressed.
"Miss Mary"--with Anna when things had to come they came always sharp
and short--"Miss Mary, Mrs. Lehntman has come here with me, so I can
tell you about not staying with you there in Curden. Of course I go
help you to get settled and then I think I come back and stay right
here in Bridgepoint. You know my brother he is here and all his
family, and I think it would be not right to go away from them so far,
and you know you don't want me now so much Miss Mary when you are all
together there in Curden."
Miss Mary Wadsmith was puzzled. She did not understand what Anna meant
by what she said.
"Why Anna of course you can come to see your brother whenever you
like to, and I will always pay your fare. I thought you understood all
about that, and we will be very glad to have your nieces come to stay
with you as often as they like. There will always be room enough in a
big house like Mr. Goldthwaite's."
It was now for Mrs. Lehntman to begin her work.
"Miss Wadsmith does not understand just what you mean Anna," she
began. "Miss Wadsmith, Anna feels how good and kind you are, and she
talks about it all the time, and what you do for her in every way you
can, and she is very grateful and never would want to go away from
you, only she thinks it would be better now that Mrs. Goldthwaite
has this big new house and will want to manage it in her own way,
she thinks perhaps it would be better if Mrs. Goldthwaite had all new
servants with her to begin with, and not a girl like Anna who knew her
when she was a little girl. That is what Anna feels about it now, and
she asked me and I said to her that I thought it would be better for
you all and you knew she liked you so much and that you were so good
to her, and you would understand how she thought it would be better
in the new house if she stayed on here in Bridgepoint, anyway for a
little while until Mrs. Goldthwaite was used to her new house. Isn't
that it Anna that you wanted Miss Wadsmith to know?"
"Oh Anna," Miss Mary Wadsmith said it slowly and in a grieved tone of
surprise that was very hard for the good Anna to endure, "Oh Anna,
I didn't think that you would ever want to leave me after all these
years."
"Miss Mary!" it came in one tense jerky burst, "Miss Mary it's only
working under Miss Jane now would make me leave you so. I know how
good you are and I work myself sick for you and for Mr. Edgar and for
Miss Jane too, only Miss Jane she will want everything different from
like the way we always did, and you know Miss Mary I can't have Miss
Jane watching at me all the time, and every minute something new. Miss
Mary, it would be very bad and Miss Jane don't really want me to come
with you to the new house, I know that all the time. Please Miss Mary
don't feel bad about it or think I ever want to go away from you if I
could do things right for you the way they ought to be."
Poor Miss Mary. Struggling was not a thing for her to do. Anna would
surely yield if she would struggle, but struggling was too much work
and too much worry for peaceful Miss Mary to endure. If Anna would do
so she must. Poor Miss Mary Wadsmith sighed, looked wistfully at Anna
and then gave it up.
"You must do as you think best Anna," she said at last letting all of
her soft self sink back into the chair. "I am very sorry and so I am
sure will be Miss Jane when she hears what you have thought it best to
do. It was very good of Mrs. Lehntman to come with you and I am sure
she does it for your good. I suppose you want to go out a little now.
Come back in an hour Anna and help me go to bed." Miss Mary closed her
eyes and rested still and placid by the fire.
The two women went away.
This was the end of Anna's service with Miss Mary Wadsmith, and soon
her new life taking care of Dr. Shonjen was begun.
Keeping house for a jovial bachelor doctor gave new elements of
understanding to Anna's maiden german mind. Her habits were as firm
fixed as before, but it always was with Anna that things that had been
done once with her enjoyment and consent could always happen any
time again, such as her getting up at any hour of the night to make
a supper and cook hot chops and chicken fry for Dr. Shonjen and his
bachelor friends.
Anna loved to work for men, for they could eat so much and with such
joy. And when they were warm and full, they were content, and let her
do whatever she thought best. Not that Anna's conscience ever slept,
for neither with interference or without would she strain less to keep
on saving every cent and working every hour of the day. But truly she
loved it best when she could scold. Now it was not only other girls
and the colored man, and dogs, and cats, and horses and her parrot,
but her cheery master, jolly Dr. Shonjen, whom she could guide and
constantly rebuke to his own good.
The doctor really loved her scoldings as she loved his wickednesses
and his merry joking ways.
These days were happy days with Anna.
Her freakish humor now first showed itself, her sense of fun in
the queer ways that people had, that made her later find delight in
brutish servile Katy, in Sally's silly ways and in the badness of
Peter and of Rags. She loved to make sport with the skeletons the
doctor had, to make them move and make strange noises till the negro
boy shook in his shoes and his eyes rolled white in his agony of fear.
Then Anna would tell these histories to her doctor. Her worn, thin,
lined, determined face would form for itself new and humorous creases,
and her pale blue eyes would kindle with humour and with joy as her
doctor burst into his hearty laugh. And the good Anna full of the
coquetry of pleasing would bridle with her angular, thin, spinster
body, straining her stories and herself to please.
These early days with jovial Dr. Shonjen were very happy days with the
good Anna.
All of Anna's spare hours in these early days she spent with her
friend, the widow Mrs. Lehntman. Mrs. Lehntman lived with her two
children in a small house in the same part of the town as Dr. Shonjen.
The older of these two children was a girl named Julia and was now
about thirteen years of age. This Julia Lehntman was an unattractive
girl enough, harsh featured, dull and stubborn as had been her heavy
german father. Mrs. Lehntman did not trouble much with her, but gave
her always all she wanted that she had, and let the girl do as she
liked. This was not from indifference or dislike on the part of Mrs.
Lehntman, it was just her usual way.
Her second child was a boy, two years younger than his sister, a
bright, pleasant, cheery fellow, who too, did what he liked with his
money and his time. All this was so with Mrs. Lehntman because she
had so much in her head and in her house that clamoured for her
concentration and her time.
This slackness and neglect in the running of the house, and the
indifference in this mother for the training of her young was very
hard for our good Anna to endure. Of course she did her best to scold,
to save for Mrs. Lehntman, and to put things in their place the way
they ought to be.
Even in the early days when Anna was first won by the glamour of
Mrs. Lehntman's brilliancy and charm, she had been uneasy in Mrs.
Lehntman's house with a need of putting things to rights. Now that the
two children growing up were of more importance in the house, and now
that long acquaintance had brushed the dazzle out of Anna's eyes, she
began to struggle to make things go here as she thought was right.
She watched and scolded hard these days to make young Julia do the way
she should. Not that Julia Lehntman was pleasant in the good Anna's
sight, but it must never be that a young girl growing up should have
no one to make her learn to do things right.
The boy was easier to scold, for scoldings never sank in very deep,
and indeed he liked them very well for they brought with them new
things to eat, and lively teasing, and good jokes.
Julia, the girl, grew very sullen with it all, and very often won her
point, for after all Miss Annie was no relative of hers and had no
business coming there and making trouble all the time. Appealing to
the mother was no use. It was wonderful how Mrs. Lehntman could listen
and not hear, could answer and yet not decide, could say and do what
she was asked and yet leave things as they were before.
One day it got almost too bad for even Anna's friendship to bear out.
"Well, Julia, is your mamma out?" Anna asked, one Sunday summer
afternoon, as she came into the Lehntman house.
Anna looked very well this day. She was always careful in her dress
and sparing of new clothes. She made herself always fulfill her own
ideal of how a girl should look when she took her Sundays out. Anna
knew so well the kind of ugliness appropriate to each rank in life.
It was interesting to see how when she bought things for Miss Wadsmith
and later for her cherished Miss Mathilda and always entirely from her
own taste and often as cheaply as she bought things for her friends
or for herself, that on the one hand she chose the things having the
right air for a member of the upper class, and for the others always
the things having the awkward ugliness that we call Dutch. She knew
the best thing in each kind, and she never in the course of her strong
life compromised her sense of what was the right thing for a girl to
wear.
On this bright summer Sunday afternoon she came to the Lehntmans',
much dressed up in her new, brick red, silk waist trimmed with broad
black beaded braid, a dark cloth skirt and a new stiff, shiny, black
straw hat, trimmed with colored ribbons and a bird. She had on new
gloves, and a feather boa about her neck.
Her spare, thin, awkward body and her worn, pale yellow face though
lit up now with the pleasant summer sun made a queer discord with the
brightness of her clothes.
She came to the Lehntman house, where she had not been for several
days, and opening the door that is always left unlatched in the houses
of the lower middle class in the pleasant cities of the South, she
found Julia in the family sitting-room alone.
"Well, Julia, where is your mamma?" Anna asked. "Ma is out but come
in, Miss Annie, and look at our new brother." "What you talk so
foolish for Julia," said Anna sitting down. "I ain't talkin' foolish,
Miss Annie. Didn't you know mamma has just adopted a cute, nice little
baby boy?" "You talk so crazy, Julia, you ought to know better than
to say such things." Julia turned sullen. "All right Miss Annie,
you don't need to believe what I say, but the little baby is in the
kitchen and ma will tell you herself when she comes in."
It sounded most fantastic, but Julia had an air of truth and Mrs.
Lehntman was capable of doing stranger things. Anna was disturbed.
"What you mean Julia," she said. "I don't mean nothin' Miss Annie,
you don't believe the baby is in there, well you can go and see it for
yourself."
Anna went into the kitchen. A baby was there all right enough, and a
lusty little boy he seemed. He was very tight asleep in a basket that
stood in the corner by the open door.
"You mean your mamma is just letting him stay here a little while,"
Anna said to Julia who had followed her into the kitchen to see Miss
Annie get real mad. "No that ain't it Miss Annie. The mother was that
girl, Lily that came from Bishop's place out in the country, and she
don't want no children, and ma liked the little boy so much, she said
she'd keep him here and adopt him for her own child."
Anna, for once, was fairly dumb with astonishment and rage. The front
door slammed.
"There's ma now," cried Julia in an uneasy triumph, for she was not
quite certain in her mind which side of the question she was on.
"There's ma now, and you can ask her for yourself if I ain't told you
true."
Mrs. Lehntman came into the kitchen where they were. She was bland,
impersonal and pleasant, as it was her wont to be. Still to-day,
through this her usual manner that gave her such success in her
practice as a midwife, there shone an uneasy consciousness of guilt,
for like all who had to do with the good Anna, Mrs. Lehntman dreaded
her firm character, her vigorous judgments and the bitter fervour of
her tongue.
It had been plain to see in the six years these women were together,
how Anna gradually had come to lead. Not really lead, of course, for
Mrs. Lehntman never could be led, she was so very devious in her ways;
but Anna had come to have direction whenever she could learn what Mrs.
Lehntman meant to do before the deed was done. Now it was hard to
tell which would win out. Mrs. Lehntman had her unhearing mind and her
happy way of giving a pleasant well diffused attention, and then she
had it on her side that, after all, this thing was already done.
Anna was, as usual, determined for the right. She was stiff and pale
with her anger and her fear, and nervous, and all a tremble as was her
usual way when a bitter fight was near.
Mrs. Lehntman was easy and pleasant as she came into the room. Anna
was stiff and silent and very white.
"We haven't seen you for a long time, Anna," Mrs. Lehntman cordially
began. "I was just gettin' worried thinking you was sick. My! but it's
a hot day to-day. Come into the sittin'-room, Anna, and Julia will
make us some ice tea."
Anna followed Mrs. Lehntman into the other room in a stiff silence,
and when there she did not, as invited, take a chair.
As always with Anna when a thing had to come it came very short and
sharp. She found it hard to breathe just now, and every word came with
a jerk.
"Mrs. Lehntman, it ain't true what Julia said about your taking that
Lily's boy to keep. I told Julia when she told me she was crazy to
talk so."
Anna's real excitements stopped her breath, and made her words come
sharp and with a jerk. Mrs. Lehntman's feelings spread her breath, and
made her words come slow, but more pleasant and more easy even than
before.
"Why Anna," she began, "don't you see Lily couldn't keep her boy for
she is working at the Bishops' now, and he is such a cute dear little
chap, and you know how fond I am of little fellers, and I thought it
would be nice for Julia and for Willie to have a little brother. You
know Julia always loves to play with babies, and I have to be away
so much, and Willie he is running in the streets every minute all the
time, and you see a baby would be sort of nice company for Julia,
and you know you are always saying Anna, Julia should not be on the
streets so much and the baby will be so good to keep her in."
Anna was every minute paler with indignation and with heat.
"Mrs. Lehntman, I don't see what business it is for you to take
another baby for your own, when you can't do what's right by Julia and
Willie you got here already. There's Julia, nobody tells her a thing
when I ain't here, and who is going to tell her now how to do things
for that baby? She ain't got no sense what's the right way to do with
children, and you out all the time, and you ain't got no time for your
own neither, and now you want to be takin' up with strangers. I know
you was careless, Mrs. Lehntman, but I didn't think that you could
do this so. No, Mrs. Lehntman, it ain't your duty to take up with no
others, when you got two children of your own, that got to get along
just any way they can, and you know you ain't got any too much money
all the time, and you are all so careless here and spend it all the
time, and Julia and Willie growin' big. It ain't right, Mrs. Lehntman,
to do so."
This was as bad as it could be. Anna had never spoken her mind so to
her friend before. Now it was too harsh for Mrs. Lehntman to allow
herself to really hear. If she really took the meaning in these words
she could never ask Anna to come into her house again, and she
liked Anna very well, and was used to depend on her savings and her
strength. And then too Mrs. Lehntman could not really take in harsh
ideas. She was too well diffused to catch the feel of any sharp firm
edge.
Now she managed to understand all this in a way that made it easy for
her to say, "Why, Anna, I think you feel too bad about seeing what the
children are doing every minute in the day. Julia and Willie are real
good, and they play with all the nicest children in the square. If
you had some, all your own, Anna, you'd see it don't do no harm to let
them do a little as they like, and Julia likes this baby so, and sweet
dear little boy, it would be so kind of bad to send him to a 'sylum
now, you know it would Anna, when you like children so yourself,
and are so good to my Willie all the time. No indeed Anna, it's easy
enough to say I should send this poor, cute little boy to a 'sylum
when I could keep him here so nice, but you know Anna, you wouldn't
like to do it yourself, now you really know you wouldn't, Anna, though
you talk to me so hard.--My, it's hot to-day, what you doin' with that
ice tea in there Julia, when Miss Annie is waiting all this time for
her drink?"
Julia brought in the ice tea. She was so excited with the talk she had
been hearing from the kitchen, that she slopped it on the plate out of
the glasses a good deal. But she was safe, for Anna felt this trouble
so deep down that she did not even see those awkward, bony hands,
adorned today with a new ring, those stupid, foolish hands that always
did things the wrong way.
"Here Miss Annie," Julia said, "Here, Miss Annie, is your glass of
tea, I know you like it good and strong."
"No, Julia, I don't want no ice tea here. Your mamma ain't able to
afford now using her money upon ice tea for her friends. It ain't
right she should now any more. I go out now to see Mrs. Drehten. She
does all she can, and she is sick now working so hard taking care of
her own children. I go there now. Good by Mrs. Lehntman, I hope you
don't get no bad luck doin' what it ain't right for you to do."
"My, Miss Annie is real mad now," Julia said, as the house shook, as
the good Anna shut the outside door with a concentrated shattering
slam.
It was some months now that Anna had been intimate with Mrs. Drehten.
Mrs. Drehten had had a tumor and had come to Dr. Shonjen to be
treated. During the course of her visits there, she and Anna had
learned to like each other very well. There was no fever in this
friendship, it was just the interchange of two hard working, worrying
women, the one large and motherly, with the pleasant, patient, soft,
worn, tolerant face, that comes with a german husband to obey, and
seven solid girls and boys to bear and rear, and the other was our
good Anna with her spinster body, her firm jaw, her humorous, light,
clean eyes and her lined, worn, thin, pale yellow face.
Mrs. Drehten lived a patient, homely, hard-working life. Her husband
an honest, decent man enough, was a brewer, and somewhat given to over
drinking, and so he was often surly and stingy and unpleasant.
The family of seven children was made up of four stalwart, cheery,
filial sons, and three hard working obedient simple daughters.
It was a family life the good Anna very much approved and also she
was much liked by them all. With a german woman's feeling for the
masterhood in men, she was docile to the surly father and rarely
rubbed him the wrong way. To the large, worn, patient, sickly mother
she was a sympathetic listener, wise in council and most efficient in
her help. The young ones too, liked her very well. The sons teased her
all the time and roared with boisterous pleasure when she gave them
back sharp hits. The girls were all so good that her scoldings here
were only in the shape of good advice, sweetened with new trimmings
for their hats, and ribbons, and sometimes on their birthdays, bits of
jewels.
It was here that Anna came for comfort after her grievous stroke at
her friend the widow, Mrs. Lehntman. Not that Anna would tell Mrs.
Drehten of this trouble. She could never lay bare the wound that came
to her through this idealised affection. Her affair with Mrs. Lehntman
was too sacred and too grievous ever to be told. But here in this
large household, in busy movement and variety in strife, she could
silence the uneasiness and pain of her own wound.
The Drehtens lived out in the country in one of the wooden, ugly
houses that lie in groups outside of our large cities.
The father and the sons all had their work here making beer, and the
mother and her girls scoured and sewed and cooked.
On Sundays they were all washed very clean, and smelling of kitchen
soap. The sons, in their Sunday clothes, loafed around the house or in
the village, and on special days went on picnics with their girls. The
daughters in their awkward, colored finery went to church most of the
day and then walking with their friends.
They always came together for their supper, where Anna always was most
welcome, the jolly Sunday evening supper that german people love.
Here Anna and the boys gave it to each other in sharp hits and hearty
boisterous laughter, the girls made things for them to eat, and waited
on them all, the mother loved all her children all the time, and
the father joined in with his occasional unpleasant word that made a
bitter feeling but which they had all learned to pass as if it were
not said.
It was to the comfort of this house that Anna came that Sunday summer
afternoon, after she had left Mrs. Lehntman and her careless ways.
The Drehten house was open all about. No one was there but Mrs.
Drehten resting in her rocking chair, out in the pleasant, scented,
summer air.
Anna had had a hot walk from the cars.
She went into the kitchen for a cooling drink, and then came out and
sat down on the steps near Mrs. Drehten.
Anna's anger had changed. A sadness had come to her. Now with the
patient, friendly, gentle mother talk of Mrs. Drehten, this sadness
changed to resignation and to rest.
As the evening came on the young ones dropped in one by one. Soon the
merry Sunday evening supper was begun.
It had not been all comfort for our Anna, these months of knowing
Mrs. Drehten. It had made trouble for her with the family of her half
brother, the fat baker.
Her half brother, the fat baker, was a queer kind of a man. He was a
huge, unwieldy creature, all puffed out all over, and no longer able
to walk much, with his enormous body and the big, swollen, bursted
veins in his great legs. He did not try to walk much now. He sat
around his place, leaning on his great thick stick, and watching his
workmen at their work.
On holidays, and sometimes of a Sunday, he went out in his bakery
wagon. He went then to each customer he had and gave them each a
large, sweet, raisined loaf of caky bread. At every house with many
groans and gasps he would descend his heavy weight out of the wagon,
his good featured, black haired, flat, good natured face shining with
oily perspiration, with pride in labor and with generous kindness.
Up each stoop he hobbled with the help of his big stick, and into the
nearest chair in the kitchen or in the parlour, as the fashion of the
house demanded, and there he sat and puffed, and then presented to the
mistress or the cook the raisined german loaf his boy supplied him.
Anna had never been a customer of his. She had always lived in another
part of the town, but he never left her out in these bakery progresses
of his, and always with his own hand he gave her her festive loaf.
Anna liked her half brother well enough. She never knew him really
well, for he rarely talked at all and least of all to women, but
he seemed to her, honest, and good and kind, and he never tried to
interfere in Anna's ways. And then Anna liked the loaves of raisined
bread, for in the summer she and the second girl could live on them,
and not be buying bread with the household money all the time.
But things were not so simple with our Anna, with the other members of
her half brother's house.
Her half brother's family was made up of himself, his wife, and their
two daughters.
Anna never liked her brother's wife.
The youngest of the two daughters was named after her aunt Anna.
Anna never liked her half brother's wife. This woman had been very
good to Anna, never interfering in her ways, always glad to see her
and to make her visits pleasant, but she had not found favour in our
good Anna's sight.
Anna had too, no real affection for her nieces. She never scolded
them or tried to guide them for their good. Anna never criticised or
interfered in the running of her half brother's house.
Mrs. Federner was a good looking, prosperous woman, a little harsh and
cold within her soul perhaps, but trying always to be pleasant, good
and kind. Her daughters were well trained, quiet, obedient, well
dressed girls, and yet our good Anna loved them not, nor their mother,
nor any of their ways.
It was in this house that Anna had first met her friend, the widow,
Mrs. Lehntman.
The Federners had never seemed to feel it wrong in Anna, her devotion
to this friend and her care of her and of her children. Mrs. Lehntman
and Anna and her feelings were all somehow too big for their attack.
But Mrs. Federner had the mind and tongue that blacken things. Not
really to blacken black, of course, but just to roughen and to rub on
a little smut. She could somehow make even the face of the Almighty
seem pimply and a little coarse, and so she always did this with her
friends, though not with the intent to interfere.
This was really true with Mrs. Lehntman that Mrs. Federner did not
mean to interfere, but Anna's friendship with the Drehtens was a very
different matter.
Why should Mrs. Drehten, that poor common working wife of a man who
worked for others in a brewery and who always drank too much, and was
not like a thrifty, decent german man, why should that Mrs. Drehten
and her ugly, awkward daughters be getting presents from her husband's
sister all the time, and her husband always so good to Anna, and one
of the girls having her name too, and those Drehtens all strangers to
her and never going to come to any good? It was not right for Anna to
do so.
Mrs. Federner knew better than to say such things straight out to her
husband's fiery, stubborn sister, but she lost no chance to let Anna
feel and see what they all thought.
It was easy to blacken all the Drehtens, their poverty, the husband's
drinking, the four big sons carrying on and always lazy, the awkward,
ugly daughters dressing up with Anna's help and trying to look so
fine, and the poor, weak, hard-working sickly mother, so easy to
degrade with large dosings of contemptuous pity.
Anna could not do much with these attacks for Mrs. Federner always
ended with, "And you so good to them Anna all the time. I don't see
how they could get along at all if you didn't help them all the time,
but you are so good Anna, and got such a feeling heart, just like your
brother, that you give anything away you got to anybody that will ask
you for it, and that's shameless enough to take it when they ain't no
relatives of yours. Poor Mrs. Drehten, she is a good woman. Poor thing
it must be awful hard for her to have to take things from strangers
all the time, and her husband spending it on drink. I was saying to
Mrs. Lehntman, Anna, only yesterday, how I never was so sorry for any
one as Mrs. Drehten, and how good it was for you to help them all the
time."
All this meant a gold watch and chain to her god daughter for her
birthday, the next month, and a new silk umbrella for the elder
sister. Poor Anna, and she did not love them very much, these
relatives of hers, and they were the only kin she had.
Mrs. Lehntman never joined in, in these attacks. Mrs. Lehntman was
diffuse and careless in her ways, but she never worked such things for
her own ends, and she was too sure of Anna to be jealous of her other
friends.
All this time Anna was leading her happy life with Dr. Shonjen.
She had every day her busy time. She cooked and saved and sewed and
scrubbed and scolded. And every night she had her happy time, in
seeing her Doctor like the fine things she bought so cheap and cooked
so good for him to eat. And then he would listen and laugh so loud, as
she told him stories of what had happened on that day.
The Doctor, too, liked it better all the time and several times in
these five years he had of his own motion raised her wages.
Anna was content with what she had and grateful for all her doctor did
for her.
So Anna's serving and her giving life went on, each with its varied
pleasures and its pains.
The adopting of the little boy did not put an end to Anna's friendship
for the widow Mrs. Lehntman. Neither the good Anna nor the careless
Mrs. Lehntman would give each other up excepting for the gravest
cause.
Mrs. Lehntman was the only romance Anna ever knew. A certain magnetic
brilliancy in person and in manner made Mrs. Lehntman a woman other
women loved. Then, too, she was generous and good and honest, though
she was so careless always in her ways. And then she trusted Anna and
liked her better than any of her other friends, and Anna always felt
this very much.
No, Anna could not give up Mrs. Lehntman, and soon she was busier than
before making Julia do things right for little Johnny.
And now new schemes were working strong in Mrs. Lehntman's head, and
Anna must listen to her plans and help her make them work.
Mrs. Lehntman always loved best in her work to deliver young girls who
were in trouble. She would keep these in her house until they could go
to their homes or to their work, and slowly pay her back the money for
their care.
Anna had always helped her friend to do this thing, for like all the
good women of the decent poor, she felt it hard that girls should
not be helped, not girls that were really bad of course, these she
condemned and hated in her heart and with her tongue, but honest,
decent, good, hard working, foolish girls who were in trouble.
For such as these Anna always liked to give her money and her
strength.
Now Mrs. Lehntman thought that it would pay to take a big house for
herself to take in girls and to do everything in a big way.
Anna did not like this plan.
Anna was never daring in her ways. Save and you will have the money
you have saved, was all that she could know.
Not that the good Anna had it so.
She saved and saved and always saved, and then here and there, to this
friend and to that, to one in her trouble and to the other in her joy,
in sickness, death, and weddings, or to make young people happy, it
always went, the hard earned money she had saved.
Anna could not clearly see how Mrs. Lehntman could make a big house
pay. In the small house where she had these girls, it did not pay, and
in a big house there was so much more that she would spend.
Such things were hard for the good Anna to very clearly see. One day
she came into the Lehntman house. "Anna," Mrs. Lehntman said, "you
know that nice big house on the next corner that we saw to rent. I
took it for a year just yesterday. I paid a little down you know so I
could have it sure all right and now you fix it up just like you want.
I let you do just what you like with it."
Anna knew that it was now too late. However, "But Mrs. Lehntman you
said you would not take another house, you said so just last week. Oh,
Mrs. Lehntman I didn't think that you would do this so!"
Anna knew so well it was too late.
"I know, Anna, but it was such a good house, just right you know and
someone else was there to see, and you know you said it suited very
well, and if I didn't take it the others said they would, and I wanted
to ask you only there wasn't time, and really Anna, I don't need much
help, it will go so well I know. I just need a little to begin and
to fix up with and that's all Anna that I need, and I know it will go
awful well. You wait Anna and you'll see, and I let you fix it up just
like you want, and you will make it look so nice, you got such sense
in all these things. It will be a good place. You see Anna if I ain't
right in what I say."
Of course Anna gave the money for this thing though she could not
believe that it was best. No, it was very bad. Mrs. Lehntman could
never make it pay and it would cost so much to keep. But what could
our poor Anna do? Remember Mrs. Lehntman was the only romance Anna
ever knew.
Anna's strength in her control of what was done in Mrs. Lehntman's
house, was not now what it had been before that Lily's little Johnny
came. That thing had been for Anna a defeat. There had been no
fighting to a finish but Mrs. Lehntman had very surely won.
Mrs. Lehntman needed Anna just as much as Anna needed Mrs. Lehntman,
but Mrs. Lehntman was more ready to risk Anna's loss, and so the good
Anna grew always weaker in her power to control.
In friendship, power always has its downward curve. One's strength to
manage rises always higher until there comes a time one does not win,
and though one may not really lose, still from the time that victory
is not sure, one's power slowly ceases to be strong. It is only in a
close tie such as marriage, that influence can mount and grow always
stronger with the years and never meet with a decline. It can only
happen so when there is no way to escape.
Friendship goes by favour. There is always danger of a break or of a
stronger power coming in between. Influence can only be a steady march
when one can surely never break away.
Anna wanted Mrs. Lehntman very much and Mrs. Lehntman needed Anna, but
there were always other ways to do and if Anna had once given up she
might do so again, so why should Mrs. Lehntman have real fear?
No, while the good Anna did not come to open fight she had been
stronger. Now Mrs. Lehntman could always hold out longer. She knew
too, that Anna had a feeling heart. Anna could never stop doing all
she could for any one that really needed help. Poor Anna had no power
to say no.
And then, too, Mrs. Lehntman was the only romance Anna ever knew.
Romance is the ideal in one's life and it is very lonely living with
it lost.
So the good Anna gave all her savings for this place, although she
knew that this was not the right way for her friend to do.
For some time now they were all very busy fixing up the house. It
swallowed all Anna's savings fixing up this house, for when Anna once
began to make it nice, she could not leave it be until it was as good
as for the purpose it should be.
Somehow it was Anna now that really took the interest in the house.
Mrs. Lehntman, now the thing was done seemed very lifeless, without
interest in the house, uneasy in her mind and restless in her ways,
and more diffuse even than before in her attention. She was good and
kind to all the people in her house, and let them do whatever they
thought best.
Anna did not fail to see that Mrs. Lehntman had something on her mind
that was all new. What was it that disturbed Mrs. Lehntman so? She
kept on saying it was all in Anna's head. She had no trouble now at
all. Everybody was so good and it was all so nice in the new house.
But surely there was something here that was all wrong.
Anna heard a good deal of all this from her half brother's wife, the
hard speaking Mrs. Federner.
Through the fog of dust and work and furnishing in the new house, and
through the disturbed mind of Mrs. Lehntman, and with the dark hints
of Mrs. Federner, there loomed up to Anna's sight a man, a new doctor
that Mrs. Lehntman knew.
Anna had never met the man but she heard of him very often now. Not
from her friend, the widow Mrs. Lehntman. Anna knew that Mrs. Lehntman
made of him a mystery that Anna had not the strength just then to
vigorously break down.
Mrs. Federner gave always dark suggestions and unpleasant hints. Even
good Mrs. Drehten talked of it.
Mrs. Lehntman never spoke of the new doctor more than she could help.
This was most mysterious and unpleasant and very hard for our good
Anna to endure.
Anna's troubles came all of them at once.
Here in Mrs. Lehntman's house loomed up dismal and forbidding, a
mysterious, perhaps an evil man. In Dr. Shonjen's house were beginning
signs of interest in the doctor in a woman.
This, too, Mrs. Federner often told to the poor Anna. The doctor
surely would be married soon, he liked so much now to go to Mr.
Weingartner's house where there was a daughter who loved Doctor,
everybody knew.
In these days the living room in her half brother's house was Anna's
torture chamber. And worst of all there was so much reason for her
half sister's words. The Doctor certainly did look like marriage and
Mrs. Lehntman acted very queer.
Poor Anna. Dark were these days and much she had to suffer.
The Doctor's trouble came to a head the first. It was true Doctor was
engaged and to be married soon. He told Anna so himself.
What was the good Anna now to do? Dr. Shonjen wanted her of course to
stay. Anna was so sad with all these troubles. She knew here in the
Doctor's house it would be bad when he was married, but she had not
the strength now to be firm and go away. She said at last that she
would try and stay.
Doctor got married now very soon. Anna made the house all beautiful
and clean and she really hoped that she might stay. But this was not
for long.
Mrs. Shonjen was a proud, unpleasant woman. She wanted constant
service and attention and never even a thank you to a servant. Soon
all Doctor's old people went away. Anna went to Doctor and explained.
She told him what all the servants thought of his new wife. Anna bade
him a sad farewell and went away.
Anna was now most uncertain what to do. She could go to Curden to her
Miss Mary Wadsmith who always wrote how much she needed Anna, but Anna
still dreaded Miss Jane's interfering ways. Then too, she could not
yet go away from Bridgepoint and from Mrs. Lehntman, unpleasant as it
always was now over there.
Through one of Doctor's friends Anna heard of Miss Mathilda. Anna was
very doubtful about working for a Miss Mathilda. She did not think it
would be good working for a woman anymore. She had found it very good
with Miss Mary but she did not think that many women would be so.
Most women were interfering in their ways.
Anna heard that Miss Mathilda was a great big woman, not so big
perhaps as her Miss Mary, still she was big, and the good Anna liked
them better so. She did not like them thin and small and active and
always looking in and always prying.
Anna could not make up her mind what was the best thing now for her
to do. She could sew and this way make a living, but she did not like
such business very well.
Mrs. Lehntman urged the place with Miss Mathilda. She was sure Anna
would find it better so. The good Anna did not know.
"Well Anna," Mrs. Lehntman said, "I tell you what we do. I go with you
to that woman that tells fortunes, perhaps she tell us something that
will show us what is the best way for you now to do."
It was very bad to go to a woman who tells fortunes. Anna was of
strong South German Catholic religion and the german priests in the
churches always said that it was very bad to do things so. But what
else now could the good Anna do? She was so mixed and bothered in her
mind, and troubled with this life that was all wrong, though she did
try so hard to do the best she knew. "All right, Mrs. Lehntman," Anna
said at last, "I think I go there now with you."
This woman who told fortunes was a medium. She had a house in the
lower quarter of the town. Mrs. Lehntman and the good Anna went to
her.
The medium opened the door for them herself. She was a loose made,
dusty, dowdy woman with a persuading, conscious and embracing manner
and very greasy hair.
The woman let them come into the house.
The street door opened straight into the parlor, as is the way in the
small houses of the south. The parlor had a thick and flowered carpet
on the floor. The room was full of dirty things all made by hand. Some
hung upon the wall, some were on the seats and over backs of chairs
and some on tables and on those what-nots that poor people love. And
everywhere were little things that break. Many of these little things
were broken and the place was stuffy and not clean.
No medium uses her parlor for her work. It is always in her eating
room that she has her trances.
The eating room in all these houses is the living room in winter. It
has a round table in the centre covered with a decorated woolen cloth,
that has soaked in the grease of many dinners, for though it should be
always taken off, it is easier to spread the cloth upon it than change
it for the blanket deadener that one owns. The upholstered chairs are
dark and worn, and dirty. The carpet has grown dingy with the food
that's fallen from the table, the dirt that's scraped from off the
shoes, and the dust that settles with the ages. The sombre greenish
colored paper on the walls has been smoked a dismal dirty grey, and
all pervading is the smell of soup made out of onions and fat chunks
of meat.
The medium brought Mrs. Lehntman and our Anna into this eating room,
after she had found out what it was they wanted. They all three sat
around the table and then the medium went into her trance.
The medium first closed her eyes and then they opened very wide and
lifeless. She took a number of deep breaths, choked several times and
swallowed very hard. She waved her hand back every now and then, and
she began to speak in a monotonous slow, even tone.
"I see--I see--don't crowd so on me,--I see--I see--too many
forms--don't crowd so on me--I see--I see--you are thinking of
something--you don't know whether you want to do it now. I see--I
see--don't crowd so on me--I see--I see--you are not sure,--I see--I
see--a house with trees around it,--it is dark--it is evening--I
see--I see--you go in the house--I see--I see you come out--it will
be all right--you go and do it--do what you are not certain about--it
will come out all right--it is best and you should do it now."
She stopped, she made deep gulps, her eyes rolled back into her head,
she swallowed hard and then she was her former dingy and bland self
again.
"Did you get what you wanted that the spirit should tell you?" the
woman asked. Mrs. Lehntman answered yes, it was just what her
friend had wanted so bad to know. Anna was uneasy in this house with
superstition, with fear of her good priest, and with disgust at all
the dirt and grease, but she was most content for now she knew what it
was best for her to do.
Anna paid the woman for her work and then they came away.
"There Anna didn't I tell you how it would all be? You see the spirit
says so too. You must take the place with Miss Mathilda, that is what
I told you was the best thing for you to do. We go out and see her
where she lives to-night. Ain't you glad, Anna, that I took you to
this place, so you know now what you will do?"
Mrs. Lehntman and Anna went that evening to see Miss Mathilda. Miss
Mathilda was staying with a friend who lived in a house that did have
trees about. Miss Mathilda was not there herself to talk with Anna.
If it had not been that it was evening, and so dark, and that this
house had trees all round about, and that Anna found herself going in
and coming out just as the woman that day said that she would do, had
it not all been just as the medium said, the good Anna would never
have taken the place with Miss Mathilda.
Anna did not see Miss Mathilda and she did not like the friend who
acted in her place.
This friend was a dark, sweet, gentle little mother woman, very easy
to be pleased in her own work and very good to servants, but she felt
that acting for her young friend, the careless Miss Mathilda, she must
be very careful to examine well and see that all was right and that
Anna would surely do the best she knew. She asked Anna all about her
ways and her intentions and how much she would spend, and how often
she went out and whether she could wash and cook and sew.
The good Anna set her teeth fast to endure and would hardly answer
anything at all. Mrs. Lehntman made it all go fairly well.
The good Anna was all worked up with her resentment, and Miss
Mathilda's friend did not think that she would do.
However, Miss Mathilda was willing to begin and as for Anna, she knew
that the medium said it must be so. Mrs. Lehntman, too, was sure, and
said she knew that this was the best thing for Anna now to do. So Anna
sent word at last to Miss Mathilda, that if she wanted her, she would
try if it would do.
So Anna began a new life taking care of Miss Mathilda.
Anna fixed up the little red brick house where Miss Mathilda was going
to live and made it very pleasant, clean and nice. She brought over
her dog, Baby, and her parrot. She hired Lizzie for a second girl to
be with her and soon they were all content. All except the parrot, for
Miss Mathilda did not like its scream. Baby was all right but not the
parrot. But then Anna never really loved the parrot, and so she gave
it to the Drehten girls to keep.
Before Anna could really rest content with Miss Mathilda, she had to
tell her good german priest what it was that she had done, and how
very bad it was that she had been and how she would never do so again.
Anna really did believe with all her might. It was her fortune never
to live with people who had any faith, but then that never worried
Anna. She prayed for them always as she should, and she was very sure
that they were good. The doctor loved to tease her with his doubts and
Miss Mathilda liked to do so too, but with the tolerant spirit of her
church, Anna never thought that such things were bad for them to do.
Anna found it hard to always know just why it was that things went
wrong. Sometimes her glasses broke and then she knew that she had not
done her duty by the church, just in the way that she should do.
Sometimes she was so hard at work that she would not go to mass.
Something always happened then. Anna's temper grew irritable and her
ways uncertain and distraught. Everybody suffered and then her glasses
broke. That was always very bad because they cost so much to fix.
Still in a way it always ended Anna's troubles, because she knew then
that all this was because she had been bad. As long as she could scold
it might be just the bad ways of all the thoughtless careless world,
but when her glasses broke that made it clear. That meant that it was
she herself who had been bad.
No, it was no use for Anna not to do the way she should, for things
always then went wrong and finally cost money to make whole, and this
was the hardest thing for the good Anna to endure.
Anna almost always did her duty. She made confession and her mission
whenever it was right. Of course she did not tell the father when
she deceived people for their good, or when she wanted them to give
something for a little less.
When Anna told such histories to her doctor and later to her cherished
Miss Mathilda, her eyes were always full of humor and enjoyment as she
explained that she had said it so, and now she would not have to tell
the father for she had not really made a sin.
But going to a fortune teller Anna knew was really bad. That had to be
told to the father just as it was and penance had then to be done.
Anna did this and now her new life was well begun, making Miss
Mathilda and the rest do just the way they should.
Yes, taking care of Miss Mathilda were the happiest days of all the
good Anna's strong hard working life.
With Miss Mathilda Anna did it all. The clothes, the house, the hats,
what she should wear and when and what was always best for her to do.
There was nothing Miss Mathilda would not let Anna manage, and only be
too glad if she would do.
Anna scolded and cooked and sewed and saved so well, that Miss
Mathilda had so much to spend, that it kept Anna still busier scolding
all the time about the things she bought, that made so much work for
Anna and the other girl to do. But for all the scolding, Anna was
proud almost to bursting of her cherished Miss Mathilda with all her
knowledge and her great possessions, and the good Anna was always
telling of it all to everybody that she knew.
Yes these were the happiest days of all her life with Anna, even
though with her friends there were great sorrows. But these sorrows
did not hurt the good Anna now, as they had done in the years that
went before.
Miss Mathilda was not a romance in the good Anna's life, but Anna gave
her so much strong affection that it almost filled her life as full.
It was well for the good Anna that her life with Miss Mathilda was so
happy, for now in these days, Mrs. Lehntman went altogether bad. The
doctor she had learned to know, was too certainly an evil as well as
a mysterious man, and he had power over the widow and midwife, Mrs.
Lehntman.
Anna never saw Mrs. Lehntman at all now any more.
Mrs. Lehntman had borrowed some more money and had given Anna a note
then for it all, and after that Anna never saw her any more. Anna now
stopped altogether going to the Lehntmans'. Julia, the tall, gawky,
good, blonde, stupid daughter, came often to see Anna, but she could
tell little of her mother.
It certainly did look very much as if Mrs. Lehntman had now gone
altogether bad. This was a great grief to the good Anna, but not so
great a grief as it would have been had not Miss Mathilda meant so
much to her now.
Mrs. Lehntman went from bad to worse. The doctor, the mysterious and
evil man, got into trouble doing things that were not right to do.
Mrs. Lehntman was mixed up in this affair.
It was just as bad as it could be, but they managed, both the doctor
and Mrs. Lehntman, finally to come out safe.
Everybody was so sorry about Mrs. Lehntman. She had been really a good
woman before she met this doctor, and even now she certainly had not
been really bad.
For several years now Anna never even saw her friend.
But Anna always found new people to befriend, people who, in the
kindly fashion of the poor, used up her savings and then gave promises
in place of payments. Anna never really thought that these people
would be good, but when they did not do the way they should, and when
they did not pay her back the money she had loaned, and never seemed
the better for her care, then Anna would grow bitter with the world.
No, none of them had any sense of what was the right way for them to
do. So Anna would repeat in her despair.
The poor are generous with their things. They give always what they
have, but with them to give or to receive brings with it no feeling
that they owe the giver for the gift.
Even a thrifty german Anna was ready to give all that she had saved,
and so not be sure that she would have enough to take care of herself
if she fell sick, or for old age, when she could not work. Save and
you will have the money you have saved was true only for the day of
saving, even for a thrifty german Anna. There was no certain way to
have it for old age, for the taking care of what is saved can never be
relied on, for it must always be in strangers' hands in a bank or in
investments by a friend.
And so when any day one might need life and help from others of the
working poor, there was no way a woman who had a little saved could
say them no.
So the good Anna gave her all to friends and strangers, to children,
dogs and cats, to anything that asked or seemed to need her care.
It was in this way that Anna came to help the barber and his wife who
lived around the corner, and who somehow could never make ends meet.
They worked hard, were thrifty, had no vices, but the barber was one
of them who never can make money. Whoever owed him money did not pay.
Whenever he had a chance at a good job he fell sick and could not
take it. It was never his own fault that he had trouble, but he never
seemed to make things come out right.
His wife was a blonde, thin, pale, german little woman, who bore her
children very hard, and worked too soon, and then till she was sick.
She too, always had things that went wrong.
They both needed constant help and patience, and the good Anna gave
both to them all the time.
Another woman who needed help from the good Anna, was one who was in
trouble from being good to others.
This woman's husband's brother, who was very good, worked in a shop
where there was a Bohemian, who was getting sick with consumption.
This man got so much worse he could not do his work, but he was not
so sick that he could stay in a hospital. So this woman had him living
there with her. He was not a nice man, nor was he thankful for all the
woman did for him. He was cross to her two children and made a great
mess always in her house. The doctor said he must have many things to
eat, and the woman and the brother of the husband got them for him.
There was no friendship, no affection, no liking even for the man
this woman cared for, no claim of common country or of kin, but in the
kindly fashion of the poor this woman gave her all and made her house
a nasty place, and for a man who was not even grateful for the gift.
Then, of course, the woman herself got into trouble. Her husband's
brother was now married. Her husband lost his job. She did not have
the money for the rent. It was the good Anna's savings that were
handy.
So it went on. Sometimes a little girl, sometimes a big one was in
trouble and Anna heard of them and helped them to find places.
Stray dogs and cats Anna always kept until she found them homes. She
was always careful to learn whether these people would be good to
animals.
Out of the whole collection of stray creatures, it was the young Peter
and the jolly little Rags, Anna could not find it in her heart to
part with. These became part of the household of the good Anna's Miss
Mathilda.
Peter was a very useless creature, a foolish, silly, cherished,
coward male. It was wild to see him rush up and down in the back yard,
barking and bouncing at the wall, when there was some dog out beyond,
but when the very littlest one there was got inside of the fence and
only looked at Peter, Peter would retire to his Anna and blot himself
out between her skirts.
When Peter was left downstairs alone, he howled. "I am all alone," he
wailed, and then the good Anna would have to come and fetch him up.
Once when Anna stayed a few nights in a house not far away, she had to
carry Peter all the way, for Peter was afraid when he found himself on
the street outside his house. Peter was a good sized creature and he
sat there and he howled, and the good Anna carried him all the way
in her own arms. He was a coward was this Peter, but he had kindly,
gentle eyes and a pretty collie head, and his fur was very thick and
white and nice when he was washed. And then Peter never strayed away,
and he looked out of his nice eyes and he liked it when you rubbed
him down, and he forgot you when you went away, and he barked whenever
there was any noise.
When he was a little pup he had one night been put into the yard and
that was all of his origin she knew. The good Anna loved him well and
spoiled him as a good german mother always does her son.
Little Rags was very different in his nature. He was a lively creature
made out of ends of things, all fluffy and dust color, and he was
always bounding up into the air and darting all about over and then
under silly Peter and often straight into solemn fat, blind, sleepy
Baby, and then in a wild rush after some stray cat.
Rags was a pleasant, jolly little fellow. The good Anna liked him
very well, but never with her strength as she loved her good looking
coward, foolish young man, Peter.
Baby was the dog of her past life and she held Anna with old ties of
past affection. Peter was the spoiled, good looking young man, of her
middle age, and Rags was always something of a toy. She liked him but
he never struck in very deep. Rags had strayed in somehow one day and
then when no home for him was quickly found, he had just stayed right
there.
It was a very happy family there all together in the kitchen, the good
Anna and Sally and old Baby and young Peter and the jolly little Rags.
The parrot had passed out of Anna's life. She had really never loved
the parrot and now she hardly thought to ask for him, even when she
visited the Drehtens.
Mrs. Drehten was the friend Anna always went to, for her Sundays. She
did not get advice from Mrs. Drehten as she used to from the widow,
Mrs. Lehntman, for Mrs. Drehten was a mild, worn, unaggressive
nature that never cared to influence or to lead. But they could mourn
together for the world these two worn, working german women, for its
sadness and its wicked ways of doing. Mrs. Drehten knew so well what
one could suffer.
Things did not go well in these days with the Drehtens. The children
were all good, but the father with his temper and his spending kept
everything from being what it should.
Poor Mrs. Drehten still had trouble with her tumor. She could hardly
do any work now any more. Mrs. Drehten was a large, worn, patient
german woman, with a soft face, lined, yellow brown in color and the
look that comes from a german husband to obey, and many solid girls
and boys to bear and rear, and from being always on one's feet and
never having any troubles cured.
Mrs. Drehten was always getting worse, and now the doctor thought it
would be best to take the tumor out.
It was no longer Dr. Shonjen who treated Mrs. Drehten. They all went
now to a good old german doctor they all knew.
"You see, Miss Mathilda," Anna said, "All the old german patients
don't go no more now to Doctor. I stayed with him just so long as
I could stand it, but now he is moved away up town too far for poor
people, and his wife, she holds her head up so and always is spending
so much money just for show, and so he can't take right care of us
poor people any more. Poor man, he has got always to be thinking about
making money now. I am awful sorry about Doctor, Miss Mathilda, but
he neglected Mrs. Drehten shameful when she had her trouble, so now I
never see him any more. Doctor Herman is a good, plain, german doctor
and he would never do things so, and Miss Mathilda, Mrs. Drehten is
coming in to-morrow to see you before she goes to the hospital for her
operation. She could not go comfortable till she had seen you first to
see what you would say."
All Anna's friends reverenced the good Anna's cherished Miss Mathilda.
How could they not do so and still remain friends with the good Anna?
Miss Mathilda rarely really saw them but they were always sending
flowers and words of admiration through her Anna. Every now and then
Anna would bring one of them to Miss Mathilda for advice.
It is wonderful how poor people love to take advice from people who
are friendly and above them, from people who read in books and who are
good.
Miss Mathilda saw Mrs. Drehten and told her she was glad that she was
going to the hospital for operation for that surely would be best, and
so good Mrs. Drehten's mind was set at rest.
Mrs. Drehten's tumor came out very well. Mrs. Drehten was afterwards
never really well, but she could do her work a little better, and be
on her feet and yet not get so tired.
And so Anna's life went on, taking care of Miss Mathilda and all her
clothes and goods, and being good to every one that asked or seemed to
need her help.
Now, slowly, Anna began to make it up with Mrs. Lehntman. They could
never be as they had been before. Mrs, Lehntman could never be again
the romance in the good Anna's life, but they could be friends again,
and Anna could help all the Lehntmans in their need. This slowly came
about.
Mrs. Lehntman had now left the evil and mysterious man who had been
the cause of all her trouble. She had given up, too, the new big
house that she had taken. Since her trouble her practice had been
very quiet. Still she managed to do fairly well. She began to talk of
paying the good Anna. This, however, had not gotten very far.
Anna saw Mrs. Lehntman a good deal now. Mrs. Lehntman's crisp, black,
curly hair had gotten streaked with gray. Her dark, full, good looking
face had lost its firm outline, gone flabby and a little worn. She had
grown stouter and her clothes did not look very nice. She was as bland
as ever in her ways, and as diffuse as always in her attention, but
through it all there was uneasiness and fear and uncertainty lest some
danger might be near.
She never said a word of her past life to the good Anna, but it was
very plain to see that her experience had not left her easy, nor yet
altogether free.
It had been hard for this good woman, for Mrs. Lehntman was really a
good woman, it had been a very hard thing for this german woman to do
what everybody knew and thought was wrong. Mrs. Lehntman was strong
and she had courage, but it had been very hard to bear. Even the
good Anna did not speak to her with freedom. There always remained a
mystery and a depression in Mrs. Lehntman's affair.
And now the blonde, foolish, awkward daughter, Julia was in trouble.
During the years the mother gave her no attention, Julia kept company
with a young fellow who was a clerk somewhere in a store down in the
city. He was a decent, dull young fellow, who did not make much money
and could never save it for he had an old mother he supported. He
and Julia had been keeping company for several years and now it was
needful that they should be married. But then how could they marry?
He did not make enough to start them and to keep on supporting his old
mother too. Julia was not used to working much and she said, and she
was stubborn, that she would not live with Charley's dirty, cross, old
mother. Mrs. Lehntman had no money. She was just beginning to get on
her feet. It was of course, the good Anna's savings that were handy.
However it paid Anna to bring about this marriage, paid her in
scoldings and in managing the dull, long, awkward Julia, and her good,
patient, stupid Charley. Anna loved to buy things cheap, and fix up a
new place.
Julia and Charley were soon married and things went pretty well with
them. Anna did not approve their slack, expensive ways of doing.
"No Miss Mathilda," she would say, "The young people nowadays have no
sense for saving and putting money by so they will have something to
use when they need it. There's Julia and her Charley. I went in there
the other day, Miss Mathilda, and they had a new table with a marble
top and on it they had a grand new plush album. 'Where you get that
album?' I asked Julia. 'Oh, Charley he gave it to me for my birthday,'
she said, and I asked her if it was paid for and she said not all
yet but it would be soon. Now I ask you what business have they Miss
Mathilda, when they ain't paid for anything they got already, what
business have they to be buying new things for her birthdays. Julia
she don't do no work, she just sits around and thinks how she can
spend the money, and Charley he never puts one cent by. I never see
anything like the people nowadays Miss Mathilda, they don't seem to
have any sense of being careful about money. Julia and Charley when
they have any children they won't have nothing to bring them up with
right. I said that to Julia, Miss Mathilda, when she showed me those
silly things that Charley bought her, and she just said in her silly,
giggling way, perhaps they won't have any children. I told her she
ought to be ashamed of talking so, but I don't know, Miss Mathilda,
the young people nowadays have no sense at all of what's the right
way for them to do, and perhaps its better if they don't have any
children, and then Miss Mathilda you know there is Mrs. Lehntman. You
know she regular adopted little Johnny just so she could pay out some
more money just as if she didn't have trouble enough taking care of
her own children. No Miss Mathilda, I never see how people can do
things so. People don't seem to have no sense of right or wrong or
anything these days Miss Mathilda, they are just careless and thinking
always of themselves and how they can always have a happy time. No,
Miss Mathilda I don't see how people can go on and do things so."
The good Anna could not understand the careless and bad ways of all
the world and always she grew bitter with it all. No, not one of them
had any sense of what was the right way for them to do.
Anna's past life was now drawing to an end. Her old blind dog, Baby,
was sick and like to die. Baby had been the first gift from her friend
the widow, Mrs. Lehntman in the old days when Anna had been with Miss
Mary Wadsmith, and when these two women had first come together.
Through all the years of change, Baby had stayed with the good Anna,
growing old and fat and blind and lazy. Baby had been active and a
ratter when she was young, but that was so long ago it was forgotten,
and for many years now Baby had wanted only her warm basket and her
dinner.
Anna in her active life found need of others, of Peter and the funny
little Rags, but always Baby was the eldest and held her with the ties
of old affection. Anna was harsh when the young ones tried to keep
poor Baby out and use her basket. Baby had been blind now for some
years as dogs get, when they are no longer active. She got weak and
fat and breathless and she could not even stand long any more. Anna
had always to see that she got her dinner and that the young active
ones did not deprive her.
Baby did not die with a real sickness. She just got older and more
blind and coughed and then more quiet, and then slowly one bright
summer's day she died.
There is nothing more dreary than old age in animals. Somehow it is
all wrong that they should have grey hair and withered skin, and blind
old eyes, and decayed and useless teeth. An old man or an old woman
almost always has some tie that seems to bind them to the younger,
realer life. They have children or the remembrance of old duties, but
a dog that's old and so cut off from all its world of struggle, is
like a dreary, deathless Struldbrug, the dreary dragger on of death
through life.
And so one day old Baby died. It was dreary, more than sad, for the
good Anna. She did not want the poor old beast to linger with its
weary age, and blind old eyes and dismal shaking cough, but this death
left Anna very empty. She had the foolish young man Peter, and the
jolly little Rags for comfort, but Baby had been the only one that
could remember.
The good Anna wanted a real graveyard for her Baby, but this could not
be in a Christian country, and so Anna all alone took her old friend
done up in decent wrappings and put her into the ground in some quiet
place that Anna knew of.
The good Anna did not weep for poor old Baby. Nay, she had not time
even to feel lonely, for with the good Anna it was sorrow upon sorrow.
She was now no longer to keep house for Miss Mathilda.
When Anna had first come to Miss Mathilda she had known that it might
only be for a few years, for Miss Mathilda was given to much wandering
and often changed her home, and found new places where she went to
live. The good Anna did not then think much about this, for when she
first went to Miss Mathilda she had not thought that she would like
it and so she had not worried about staying. Then in those happy years
that they had been together, Anna had made herself forget it. This
last year when she knew that it was coming she had tried hard to think
it would not happen.
"We won't talk about it now Miss Mathilda, perhaps we all be dead by
then," she would say when Miss Mathilda tried to talk it over. Or, "If
we live till then Miss Mathilda, perhaps you will be staying on right
here."
No, the good Anna could not talk as if this thing were real, it was
too weary to be once more left with strangers.
Both the good Anna and her cherished Miss Mathilda tried hard to think
that this would not really happen. Anna made missions and all kinds of
things to keep her Miss Mathilda and Miss Mathilda thought out all the
ways to see if the good Anna could not go with her, but neither the
missions nor the plans had much success. Miss Mathilda would go, and
she was going far away to a new country where Anna could not live, for
she would be too lonesome.
There was nothing that these two could do but part. Perhaps we all be
dead by then, the good Anna would repeat, but even that did not really
happen. If we all live till then Miss Mathilda, came out truer. They
all did live till then, all except poor old blind Baby, and they
simply had to part.
Poor Anna and poor Miss Mathilda. They could not look at each other
that last day. Anna could not keep herself busy working. She just went
in and out and sometimes scolded.
Anna could not make up her mind what she should do now for her future.
She said that she would for a while keep this little red brick house
that they had lived in. Perhaps she might just take in a few boarders.
She did not know, she would write about it later and tell it all to
Miss Mathilda.
The dreary day dragged out and then all was ready and Miss Mathilda
left to take her train. Anna stood strained and pale and dry eyed
on the white stone steps of the little red brick house that they had
lived in. The last thing Miss Mathilda heard was the good Anna bidding
foolish Peter say good bye and be sure to remember Miss Mathilda.