“I thought of my precious child when he pictured a strong character with exceeding depth of tenderness and gentleness.”
One understands more and more fully the fervour with which S. J.-B. was wont to say in her later years,—“No one ever had such parents as mine!” “How I wish you had known my mother!”
One naturally treats S. J.-B.’s religious life at this time as something apart from her questionings about dogma, for indeed the two belonged to different categories of her being. The following is one of the few letters of this period that have been preserved:
“Darling Mother,—I know you care to hear all your child’s thoughts and hopes and feelings,—I know you will not condemn for conceit and egotism what might seem so to other people.
I want to talk to you,—I feel so sure you want to hear. I want to tell you what a glorious Strength and Power has come out of all the sharp pain,—how I feel that I am a better person, a stronger and more real one, than I ever was before....
Some one says that it is ‘not pain undergone but pain accepted’ that bears fruit an hundredfold. You know the acceptance has not been easy,—you know sometimes the flints have cut my feet deep enough, but thank God for two things—I never for any single moment lost the absolute certainty of Infinite Love and Wisdom ‘brooding over the face of the waters,’—the certainty of my Father’s arms around me,—and secondly that no suffering or pain could shake the love that has never been half so strong, so real, so ideal, so unselfish as now. I doubt if I ever half knew what being a friend was before,—I think I have earned the knowledge now—some of it.
And, Mother, about my work. I cannot tell you the strong exulting feeling that seems to set God’s seal to my work, in that through all the personal agony I have held firm to that: at no moment, I believe, would I have purchased what I longed for most on earth at the price of that,—that I have felt through all ‘The light may be taken out of my life (and thank God how far that is from being so!) but the object never can!’ Don’t you know how the lines that reminded us of the oath upon our head, that bade us ‘never again our loins untie, or let our torches waste or die’ was the strong helpful thing through it all.
And though I did believe in myself—and thou ever didst believe in me, Mother!—yet so long as my work ‘walked in silken shoon’ and lay side by side with the pleasantest life possible for me, there was a certain thought about fair weather sailing,—a certain (not doubt, but) diffidence in looking on to the time of breakers,—a feeling as of David, ‘I have not proved them.’ But now I feel that I have come to the proof,—that my armour has not failed in the battle,—something the sure happy confidence (farthest of all from presumption) ‘I can do all things through Christ which strengtheneth me.’ You can’t think how it ‘heartened’ me (you know that nice old word?) to find that truly as well as verbally my work does hold the first place....
I am beginning to have hope, Mother! If I only suffer enough—and I don’t believe mine will ever be a smooth or easy life—I may yet be fit to be the head for which I am looking so earnestly....earnestly....
But all seems centred in the one thought, ‘Lead Thou me on!’—or rather, not ‘me’ but ‘us,’—all the wanderers.
Not that S. J.-B. was ever conventional even in her religion. Here is a characteristic extract from the diary of the same period:
“You never have the common honesty, Jack, in this most private journal (they say hardly anyone has) to put down the thought if it crosses your mind ‘Well, I think I am rather a fine fellow’ or its equivalent. Because it never comes? Oh, dear your precious ‘humility’! I wish Miss W. could look into you:—do you? Not you, you humbug!
‘Well, but,’ (retorts S. J.-B. accused) ‘I do work with a single purpose,—I have tried very hard, and, am sure, succeeded somewhat in this hard battle of these months,—what is the good of pretending to call myself names? Did not Job ‘maintain his integrity’?
You coward! You must skulk behind Job. Looks respectable, does it? Say honestly ‘I do try harder than some people do,’ for in truth I believe that is all your conceit does amount to.
I know from my heart I do recognize and reverence holiness and purity as far above mine as Snowden to a mole-hill. And is that conceit? I don’t believe it is. No,—‘Not guilty, S. J.-B.’ Plead boldly, and don’t give in for shamefacedness. And besides you have no right to deny His triumph ‘Who giveth us the victory,’—by fighting modest on the sham. You have won some victories. Thank God quietly, and pressing on to the things before. ‘I press towards the mark.’ God knows—and you know—there are enough to win. Oh, how far away lies doing even what is our ‘duty to do.’ But I don’t know that the realest soundest life limits itself to calling itself ‘miserable sinner.’ Zacchaeus told Christ what he tried to do. He did not rebuke him as man does and say, ‘No, believe yourself utterly vile (for the glory of your Maker?)’
There,—go to bed, S. J.-B.”
A few days later she recurs—as often—to the broken friendship:
“... Well, I note markedly how, with all this light, all this growth,—respecting the suffering—(and I think all this would have brought a ‘right judgement’ too) I do not swerve one iota from my judgement of facts. I cannot conceive it one hairsbreadth more possible that any but a mental cloud can have worked in the way it has,—that under any possible circumstances my child, with her glorious nature and heart, can have acted as her image has....[26]
But while I have at last manfully and honestly and cheerily faced the possibility of never seeing her again on earth—while I believe my loins are girded for the way quite irrespective of any future fate regarding her and me—while, having put my hand to the plough, God shall grant me grace never to look back even for her (who, God knows, is far enough before me) never to linger irresolute with thoughts that should and shall urge me to double speed,—yet it is curious how the whole fashion of my life shapes itself with the arrière-pensée of being ready for her ‘at midnight or cock-crowing or in the morning,’—saving with the thought of her as well as myself,—looking at every path as it opens to see that it is wide enough to tread together if she joins me ere its end,—making the most of the working time now that a pause of rest may fall due whenever she comes to claim the ‘moon.’
And I think, could she see my thoughts, my plans, my work, my resolves, she would not have them otherwise.”
It was perhaps well that an interesting new factor came into S. J.-B.’s life at this moment. Miss Elizabeth Garrett (afterwards Mrs. Garrett Anderson, M.D.) had made up her mind to be a doctor, and, in the teeth of many difficulties and much opposition, was striving to obtain the requisite education and prospect of examination. A great effort had been made to get the examinations of London University opened to women, but the resolution (brought forward by Mr. Grote) had been negatived by the casting vote of the chairman—the vehement feeling shown by the opposition being, in the opinion of the proposer, quite out of proportion with the cogency of the arguments brought forward.
Miss Garrett had been in correspondence with S. J.-B. for some time as to the nature of the prospects in Edinburgh, in case London University should fail, and after talking the matter over with Mr. Begbie and other friends, S. J.-B. urged her to “come and see.” Small prevision had anyone concerned of all that they were to see in Edinburgh a few years later.
“Miss Garrett and her strength!” writes S. J.-B. in her diary on May 19th, “making me break the 10th commandment. She doing Trigonometry, Optics, etc. Running where I crawl!”
And on the 20th:
“Today Miss Garrett’s business. Wrote about ‘Commission.’ Twice to [Royal] Circus with very sore feet. Mrs. Darts, friend of Lord Ardmillan. Lady Monteith (Lord Advocate). Argyle. Hope she will come. It will be everything to have her to help a little if I can.”
“May 29th. E. G. coming tomorrow,—sent her off a telegram this afternoon in case she might stay another day for the report I promised, and so lose tomorrow’s appointment with Balfour, whom I saw today with that splendid man, Begbie, who went down last night and this morning with me, and is to arrange with Newbiggin tonight for an appointment for her. My sore foot quite lame and not helpful for this bustle. However I believe I shall have done a bit of real work for her, and, as I said to Begbie, if there are such people, ready to face such an ordeal let’s help them in God’s name. One great obstacle the (sometimes) ‘faux air’ of consideration for ladies’ delicacy. People don’t seem to see how that is her affair. Besides she has faced it: it’s a day too late.”
How familiar all this talk was to become some half dozen years later!
Miss Garrett remained in Edinburgh for a fortnight, and during that period the canvassing went on. Mr. Burn Murdoch used to say that, when the two young women went about, interviewing great ladies and important citizens, considerable surprise was expressed that Miss Jex-Blake was not the applicant. She was so tall and high-spirited, with great flashing dark eyes, while the real heroine was small and almost pretty, and fair.
Strangely enough, S. J.-B. was not at all fired at this time by Miss Garrett’s example. She meant to be a teacher, and medicine as a profession did not tempt her in the least. She had her doubts even about the value to herself of a University degree in Arts (supposing it could be had!) although Miss Garrett and Miss Emily Davies were both anxious that she should be of their number. “Chiefly I want you to make up your mind to obtain the University degree,” writes Miss Garrett. “You are one of the few who could do so pretty soon, and it would take most women a year and a half or two years to prepare for the Matriculation.”
In any case the opportunity did not arise. The following letter to Mrs. Burn Murdoch explains the situation:
Dearest Dora,
I do not know whether we are to look upon the result of the Physicians’ meeting most as a defeat or as a triumph,—the motion ‘to consider the question of admitting Miss Garrett’ was negatived by 18 votes to 16,—very disappointing as regards immediate results, but very much as a victory for the principle, just as at London University. You see they have not refused to admit,—only postponed the question indefinitely, so that, when time and opinion have been brought to bear, they can again entertain it without inconsistency.
In the meantime the expedition to St. Andrews was very successful,—Dr. Day and Principal Tulloch were both warmly favourable, and it seems quite probable that Miss Garrett would be admitted to the University there,—only unfortunately you see there is no medical school there, and so it would be but half a solution to the difficulties as she couldn’t get ‘nice little subjects’[27] there....
I have only just come to anchor after some 36 hours’ incessant trotting about, etc., so I daresay my intellects are ‘even weaker than usual’ as C. A. would say.
I suppose I may now thank you again on paper for all your help, dear Dora. You can’t cough me down so conveniently. You don’t know how much you have helped me through.
Previously to this decision, S. J.-B. had published sensible letters on the subject in The Scotsman, The Daily Review and other papers. She also drafted an amusing letter in reply to her own, supposed to have been written by one of the retrogressive “unco guid.”
“Well, it was grand fun,” she says in her diary, “and, if it had got in, might have played very well; but the chief temptation was the immense fun it would be. E. G. and I both thought we could command our faces. Her sister opposed, but we agreed, ‘No harm. We don’t sign to it,—and it’s what some might say; and, if the Review puts it in, it’s their look-out. It’s so weak, it can’t do harm that way.’way.’ She said, ‘Don’t let me know about it.’ I said she was very much like ‘Tom, steal the apple, and I’ll have half.’
Well, we agreed to send it and no harm done. I went to bed. I wasn’t quite content, yet I didn’t see any exact wrong,—and it was such fun!...
Then somehow those dear eyes fixed themselves on me and I felt their sad grieved look. I can’t, I can’t,—they would grieve,—‘Oh, Sophy!’
For a minute I went back,—‘Nonsense, no harm,’—then—
and those words ‘righteous altogether’ rang in my ears....
I went out to the sitting-room and sat down to write, and my first words to E. G. were, ‘Oh, I’ve annihilated the Review paper; it’s not righteous altogether.’ She said instantly, ‘No, I’ve been thinking in the night. I was going to advise you not to send it.’
My darling would be glad. God bless her!”
“‘Let all thy converse be sincere’: ‘and righteous altogether’.”
A real fighting life lay before S. J.-B.—a life in which she received and gave hard blows, and lost sight sometimes in the dust and turmoil—as a fighter must—of the right on the adversary’s side; but the words quoted above were the rock on which she built her achievement. One sees now that often when lawyers and other well-wishers thought her candid to the point of stupidity, she was simply determined that her converse should be sincere, simply striving to be righteous altogether.
Her great desire for years had been to fit herself for the work of a teacher, to found—or assist at the founding of—a wonderful college and (as the very height of her ambition) to be perhaps herself the headmistress. As she had planned Sackermena of old, so now she drafted detailed schemes of work, organization, finance. Such schemes, however, have been so much more than realized by the work of others that it is useless to quote them. She took a keen interest in the school at Bettws-y-Coed, offered prizes, set delightful examination papers in general knowledge, and wrote stimulating letters to some of the elder girls. Long before this she had written in her diary:
“Read the account of the College in Ohio for both sexes. Well, ‘Be thou but fit for the wall, and thou shalt not be left in the way.’ I do trust some day to graduate there or elsewhere. But still the great thing is to be able; the actual fact matters little.”
The reader will recall, too, the letter to her Mother:
“I am beginning to have hope, Mother! If I only suffer enough,—and I don’t believe mine will ever be a smooth or easy life,—I may yet some day be fit to be the head for which I am looking so earnestly.”
Any girl in the present day who was fired with such enthusiasm would have countless advisers ready and anxious to give the necessary guidance. How different things were in S. J.-B.’s girlhood may be gathered from the facts of her pilgrimage to Edinburgh and search for education there. She wanted now to go farther afield—to study the state of women’s education in France and Germany, and—after some considerable hesitation—her Mother supported her in this desire. To her father, however, the feminist point of view remained a sealed book—“Truly to him,” she says at this time, “my whole life is as the ‘sight of dancers to him who heareth not the music,’”—and many objections on his part had to be overcome. Germany was so far away, and France was peopled with Roman Catholics on the look-out to pervert Protestant girls.
“While you are so young,” writes Mrs. Jex-Blake, “there will be a fearful struggle to make Daddy bear your going abroad. We belong to a Society for Governesses to protect them when they go for the language,—young women have been sorely tried by bad R.C.s to make them perverts or corrupt them. And he has heard so much of this that Germany would be less terrible to him than Paris.”
“Written to Mummy at length about Germany,” she says. “Oh, the weary kind of languor that deprecates work and talk! It seems almost too much to have to do what is so hard, and to have, too, to justify it to others.”
The letter to her Mother has been preserved:
Darling Mother,
... I had hoped that Germany was an accepted fact,—not only to you, but to my Father, as at his (or your ?) wish I took that before France, and at your’s before America.
I believe, my darling, that I am trying to look simply and earnestly at my life simply as an instrument for my work,—and shaping the one to serve the other.
I have long formed the conviction (which daily experience and the opinion of others strengthens) that best of all now for my object will be the devotion of years to the observation of other systems and the endeavour to glean everywhere materials for my future edifice. I believe that my work has come definitely before me as early as it did, with the express intention that I should make this use of years which later I could never recall.
It seems to me the simplest verbal expression of the presenting our lives a holy sacrifice, as is our reasonable service, to say,—God has, I believe, given me this work. I have certain qualifications and facilities for it. I will give up my life first to perfect those qualifications and then to use them as He shows me how. So now my whole intention and bent is to go anywhere in the world where, as it seems to me on sufficient grounds, I may expect to learn most for my work,—to learn what will make me myself a better scholar and to learn what will most help me to organize (if organization falls to my lot) a better system here in England.
If I am myself to be the head, I will make myself as good a one, God helping me, as He has put in my nature the material to make,—if I am to be a servant I will certainly be as thorough and complete a one as is in my utmost power. I do from the bottom of my heart pray God that on no failure may be written, ‘Had I worked more earnestly, more wisely, more diligently,—this had been avoided.’
You know, Mother, the purpose of my life,—you know the consecration, as I trust, of every power to one aim,—you have helped me nobly, gloriously to keep it in view,—you have told me that ‘manfully to fight under His banner’ is more blessed than ‘dreaming out life even on Mother’s shoulder’....
Well, Mother, you know my object, you know my hope. Look for yourself and tell me if you see for its fulfilment any course to be adopted rather than the one which seems to me marked out. Look at the work and that alone. Look at my life merely as the instrument,—see how it may best be turned to account,—most solemnly it is my deepest desire to arrive at a true answer.
What could I be doing that would as readily and as really forward my aim? In what way could I as usefully devote my time and power?
I believe most earnestly that it is not to any one plan or scheme of my own that I cling,—show me anything better for my work—show me anything even that you yourself think as good for it (looking at it only) and I am willing, renouncing every present thought, to take the new into deep consideration, and trust to the guidance of the Light to show me which is my appointed path.
But take the question by itself,—satisfy yourself whether you think I have judged rightly, as at least I have striven to judge honestly,—and, if you arrive at my own conclusion I think you will feel that that is the only important thing,—that if we are enabled to ‘perceive and know what things we ought to do’ we shall also surely be given ‘power faithfully to fulfil the same.’
As I have said often before, if you and my Father ever need me at home,—ever even desire my presence there,—I will relinquish for the time everything to that which I am sure God would have me hold my highest and dearest duty,—But I believe nothing else on earth must be suffered to come between me and my work, and, please God, nothing shall.
I see ‘my Father’s business’ clearly before me,—help me, Mother, wholly to consecrate my life as I would wish, to it.
As to all questions of detail, I think, darling, you need not be disturbed or anxious. Acting rightly, I am quite sure I shall be always cared for far more than I deserve. I think you have, and may have entire confidence in my practical common sense,—I think I have already shown that I am not very likely to get into difficulties. You have trusted me a great deal, Mother, have you had to repent it?
You may be sure that I shall strive my utmost to do wisely as well as rightly—indeed the one cannot be without the other. I think, moreover, you will be almost certainly satisfied with my plans and arrangements,—I am sure I have ‘caution’ strongly developed. And, though it may seem more new to you, I am very unlikely to find in my new life as difficult circumstances as those in which I have already had to act. I think that you may have confidence that I know you trust me, and that I shall not fail your trust. I think you may believe that I shall know and think of your wishes.
Then, as to any anxiety for myself. You have said much to me in the trials of the last months which I would ask you to repeat to yourself. You have told me to trust my darling in perfect faith to ‘Him who keepeth Israel’ and whose love you tell me is deeper and truer than mine. Can you not trust me to Him too?
I think there were some circumstances which there are not here, which did not make it easier.
And in truth, Mother, what is there to fear? If God (as I believe) needs my life to do a work for Him, He will surely keep it safely till that work is accomplished. If He does not, wherefore should one live? Could you regret for anyone you loved that they ‘in youth should find their rest’? When one feels completely how each of us is a link in God’s great chain,—how individual life and care sink out of sight, as hardly worthy notice. How one feels the whole object and end of life to be that God’s will should be done in us and by us in life and in death.
And whether in one or the other matters so little....
You see, Mother, I have had very much lately to realise all this;—that time and distance,—that all severance—are things of time—and shall be cast into the lake of fire. That now we have to do God’s work, ... that here we are not even to look for the fruition....
I have to cling very very earnestly now to principles,—I cannot see for myself,—my teachers are removed out of my sight,—I can only cling to the belief which is above and beyond all that that very sight and those very teachers were but instruments of the great Guide,—and that now without them, as before with them, ‘the Lord alone doth lead him.’ As I said this morning, so it seems to me tonight the root and fountain of everything ‘The Lord reigneth,—let the earth rejoice.’
It is not to be supposed—nor desired—that all her letters to her Mother were on such a plane. Doubtless the weary flesh and spirit found expression often enough.
Of course that wonderful mother-heart never failed in sympathy, though naturally the Mother’s mind did not know what the strain of a modern woman’s life meant in those early days when circumstances were all unadapted to meet the new demand. “Little darling shall have all the rest I can help her to,” she writes about this time, “for greatly does her troubled spirit need it.”
And for a few weeks S. J.-B. really settled down to a restful time at home. “I am just now chiefly living in the garden and stable in my waking life,” she writes to Miss Lucy Walker, “but there is a sufficient portion not included in that.”
Meanwhile Miss de Dreux had recommended a family at Göttingen, who would be glad to have an English boarder, and S. J.-B. arranged to go to them. To the last moment before leaving home she was occupied in trying to persuade the mother of a sick friend to let the invalid accompany her, in the hope that change of air and scene might check the course of a mortal malady. One cannot be altogether sorry—nor surprised—that the mother refused.
So S. J.-B. started alone on July 21st, and crossed from London to Antwerp. “Delicious, cool and pleasant passage—smooth and comfortable. Beds on deck in a kind of room knocked up under the ‘bridge.’ Quaint night,—with crashing machinery, flashing lights, rough voices,—altogether weird and quaint.”
The choice of adjectives is curious, as it was not till many years later that “weird” and “quaint” became the stock adjectives in the vocabulary of the young.
She spent the night at Cologne, and went on next day to Hanover and thence to Göttingen. She was pleased with her quarters, her hostess, and her reception. What the family thought of her is another question, to which the records furnish no answer; for she was still feeling worn-out in body and mind, and nature simply insisted on a rest cure. She seems to have made little effort even to learn the language, much to the amazement of the elder daughter, who had enjoyed the advantage of a conscientious visit to England. So weary, indeed, was S. J.-B. that she actually chronicles the “great blessing” of being freed from Sundays for a while—of having rest all days, and “Calvinism, separation, none.”
“How peacefully came over me today ‘One sweetly solemn thought’ as they sat talking (I knew but a word or two) of someone found dead. How uncongenial A.P.’s remark, ‘I find these so sudden deaths awful.’ What she thought I don’t know, but I could not but say, ‘Oh, no!—going home?’
August 18th. Everybody going ‘zu reisen,’—Rhine, Harz, everywhere. Ah, childie, if you would only come quickly, we could have such a tour!—Alps,—Mont Blanc,—Geneva,—Venice, wherever you would; in a few weeks it will be too late. Too late! For that. But truly all is ‘in the fulness of time,’ and could we see and know, even our restless impatience would not hurry it....
As to money, well enough. I really expect to clear £20 of my allowance this quarter. I have that and about £1. 15s. in hand for stamps, washing and wine to the end of the quarter, besides £9 for rent. How jealously I do watch it! Really between my tour, my E.E.U.,[28] and my distant college, I must look out that I don’t turn into a miser in earnest! I get such a trick of watching and scraping halfpence! And yet I don’t believe I should grudge them either if need were.
And one must look to pence if one would do anything with pounds.
Still, I believe of the two I have really more to look out against ‘nearness’ than extravagance. I was right enough when I told Frid (that poor little darling, I am sure her’s are ‘vicarious sufferings’)[29] that she need never fear my spending 1/2d. I did not see my way to.
I expect, with my work, this is perhaps a fitness for it,—a surety against a great danger....
“Today Lina and I reading English. Frau brought a young man out, and Lina shut up all books at once—for the benefit of his remarks, I suppose. I, rather wrath, took up Rawlinson.”
During these weeks of comparative idleness, S. J.-B. was making enquiries as to a place where she could profitably study the position of the education of girls in Germany. Finally she applied for the post of English teacher in the Grand Ducal Institute at Mannheim.
As the Institution had embarked on a policy of strict retrenchment and economy, this was refused, but she had quite made up her mind to become an inmate in some capacity (as an ordinary pupil if necessary) and finally she set out without announcing her intention, in a fashion that recalls an adventure in the life of Lucy Snow in Villette.[30] The condensed account of this in her diary could scarcely be bettered:
“Sept. 13th. Saturday.[31] Left Göttingen at 5 a.m. with pleasant gifts from the children, and the famous glass knife from Frau B.
The morning cold, dank and misty,—darker than mornings are here even yet, I think. As we came south, perceptible increase of heat, till, leaving a cold autumn at Göttingen, we found a hot summer at Frankfurt. Went to Pfälzer Hof,—clean, cheap, and civil. Had a bedroom opening on a balcony, and very good night considering,—though, as I lay down, the venture rose strongly before me,—quite alone,—without counsel,—having come 200 miles to a place which had already refused me,—with the slender chance of personal representation prevailing,—uncertain, even if accepted, whether I could do the work,—in fact feeling strongly ‘not knowing whither I went’ yet trusting, like Abraham, I ‘went forth’. So fell asleep, seeing all perplexities, yet laying my head very softly on the pillow, ‘Oh, Lord, in Thee have I trusted: let me never be confounded!’
Well, I slept long,—breakfasted deliciously in my room,—dressed in black silk, etc., with no end of care, wrote a little note to Mother, almost to the beating of my own heart all the time.
Frl. E. had promised to come at 11. I waited till 12,—then came Frl. H. and Frl. M. Walked with them to the Institut,—was shown into the ‘parloir’ and left. They fetched me again,—walked round the square garden with its high convent walls[32] (oh, how I remember those white berries!) Then out came Frl. von Palaus with her fine port and clear good eyes, and round hat. I told her how I wanted to study German education, and wished so much to enter here.
She asked ‘mes conditions’. ‘Moi, je n’en ai pas, Mlle.’ She would ‘parler aux autres dames.’
Marie M. was to show me the house. Then in Miss von Palaus’ room:—
‘Would I come again at four?’ ‘Certainly’. Then a series of warnings for my own comfort:—‘ Very simple here.’ ‘I most happy to hear it.’ ‘Very plain little room.’ ‘I am no sybarite.’ ‘Mixed communions.’ ‘I only ask toleration for myself, and am most willing to give it.’ ‘But as to money!’ I leave it entirely to them,—any arrangement of theirs I agree to. Enfin I said I was sure to be more than content. I had no fears.
‘Would I stay and dine?’ ‘Very gladly.’ ‘Very plain food.’ I was no epicure, and sure to be pleased. So the result was, in fine, that I have never dined anywhere else since, and find my prophecy well fulfilled.
After dinner talked to the governesses; they said how comfortable they were. I thought, ‘I only wish I were in your shoes,’ for I had only asked to come anyhow, as pupil or anything. Then Frl. von Gruben came from Frl. von Palaus:—A teacher (a Frl. von Endert) was absent from illness for 6 months (was it not wonderful?) would I take her place?—but (as the Institution was only just struggling straight again after its shocks) without salary? ‘Very gladly.’ How my heart leaped, though I spoke very quietly. What a chance for saving, if not gaining, money,—literally to earn my bread. Now I could hope for money for my E.E.U., for the £50 for Christmas /63,—perhaps for Bettws school,—perhaps for a tour!
Well, again I saw Frl. von Palaus,—her face had satisfied me from the first. ‘Did I quite understand? Was I willing to have no salary and no expense?’ ‘Very gladly.’
So off I went at 4 p.m., gay as a lark. Settled my bill, got a cab, and by 5 p.m. (less than 24 hours from my arrival) was established in my little cell at the G.D.I., Mannheim!—‘au comble de mes voeux.’ Thank God!
And now I have been here nearly a month,—already established as if for years, in full sunshine of content.
At work again! And, thank God, with such strength for it! A new sap and strength in all my veins,—my heart in songs of gladness.
The heavy burden seems to have rolled away,—the sting and bitterness quite gone; strength and power returned to my hand,—colour and brightness to my life. Again I understand ‘the thrill, the leap, the gladness’—again the sunshine has broken over earth. Now I go up and down the long corridors, catching with my hand at a great beam, in ‘superfluous energy’ again, (my darling!)—a smile over my whole face as I think I will tell her of my life in this weird old monastery—young bounding life all around—I myself no longer ‘going softly’.
‘Thank God! Thank God!’ I can say nothing else.”
To her Mother she writes:
My own Darling,
Though I must now be rather more economical of space (for I can send but 1/4 instead of 1/2 oz) I cannot resist beginning a fresh letter to you, having but just posted my last, with one also to Daddy. I am afraid Mr. Bevan must be again disappointed to learn that there is still no kind of prospect of starvation for me,—quite the contrary.
I will tell you our plans as far as I know them yet. We get up, as you know, at 5.30 a.m., breakfast at 6.30, begin work at 7. At 10 we have bread handed round, then at one we dine, very well, I think.... At 3 we teachers (!) have cups of coffee, and at 5 or 6 some grapes before going out for a walk. At 6 tea (or perhaps at 7) and then at 8.30 a regular meat supper. So you see we are not so very badly off,—indeed it seems to me to be something going all day almost!...
Mother, I can’t lie down without telling you of the very beautiful, soothing influence one thing has (perhaps unexpectedly) over me. I mean the perfect lovingness and charity in which we all of such opposite faiths live together, and have just knelt and prayed together. There seems to me something so inexpressibly touching and happy in it,—everyone seems so loving to the rest, so far from cavilling for ‘words and names’: each so absolutely free and all so far from seeking to proselytize. At meals we stand round the table,—‘Nous voulons prier, mesdemoiselles,’ and in silence everyone together thanks God ‘in his own tongue’,—one marking only that some cross themselves silently and some do not. Then at night we kneel together,—we have a fine loving German hymn, and a text for us all,—words lovingly pronounced by our Roman Catholic head that yet every Presbyterian minister might say. There seems to me something so inexpressibly soothing in this union,—so far stronger than all differences. I can hardly tell you the rest and refreshment it is to me now, worn and weary as my spirit is. It struck me very much in its beauty tonight as Miss von Palaus pronounced,—‘There is but one name given under heaven among men whereby we may be saved’, and we all received it on our knees,—Protestants and Romanists, Unitarians and Trinitarians,—each ‘in his own tongue.’ Was it not beautiful how just that name bound us all together,—Christians,—seeking at least the spirit of Christ who loved us all,—our Master,—that we might ‘love one another’....
I am charmed to learn the Scotch girl, Janet McDonald, has learned both Latin and Algebra,—both wonderful acquirements here,—and I look forward to perhaps doing some work with her, if she gets on well enough with other things.
2 p.m. Tuesday. The politeness of these girls is really quite refreshing. Last night, going up to my room after dark, there were several girls at the candle-stand, and, when I asked for a candle, one of them lighted one, and, with a reverence and ‘Permettez-moi, mademoiselle,’ carried it the whole way upstairs for me in spite of my efforts to get hold of it,—it being quite out of her way.... 7 p.m. Well, Mother darling, I wonder if you can sympathize in my intense exaltation and delight at the—for the first time in my life—literally earning my bread,—something like ‘My First Penny’, you know. I have had my ‘surveillance de musique’, but am longing quite childishly for the commencement of my special work,—I see teaching all around, and am just wild to be at it. Can Mother understand and sympathize?
Thursday 18th. My letter at last. I have been several times to the post in hopes of it.... Today I have had one lesson, and am just going to give another,—delicious! It’s really like oats to a horse who has been kept a year on hay. Miss Garrett was right enough when she said, ‘Get teaching!’ I quite laugh at myself to feel how radiant I am with delight at being again in harness.”
To Miss Walker she writes:
Dear Lucy,
You will, I think, already have heard from my Mother that I cannot now offer myself to accompany L. to Paris. I do not know if you are aware that three weeks ago I wrote to Mrs. B., urging her, as strongly as I knew how, to entrust L. to me for the winter, and offering to take her to any part of Europe which was thought best. I believe, at Mrs. Z.’s entreaty, Mrs. B. did consult some medical man on the subject, but I am sorry to say they confirmed her resolution of ‘keeping her under her own eye’—of course not understanding, as you and I think we do, all the circumstances.
I therefore got so decided a refusal that even I felt further entreaty to be useless, and, giving up the point, I entered at once into a six months’ engagement as English Teacher at the Grand Ducal Institution at Mannheim, where I have now been just a week, and therefore, of course, no further change is now in my power as regards my own movements....
I am much pleased on the whole with the kind of tone I find between teachers and pupils, and with the general principles, which, if not the very highest, are yet greatly superior to what you find in most English boarding schools.
By the bye, before I say Goodbye, I must tell you what horror my open window at night (even now) occasions the natives! Having violent headache some time back, an old servant assured me it was ‘the window’, and since I have been here I have been entertained with the account of a gentleman who went mad, as I understand, entirely from sleeping with an open window! So now you see the fate before you as well as me! Besides that, the doctor here (more shame for him) assures me I shall get a fever!
Goodbye, dear Lucy. Remember me to the B.s when you write.
And again to her Mother:
My own Darling,
... It amuses me very much as a proof of how soon a habit is acquired (and also, I think, an evidence that it suits me very well indeed) to find that now, and indeed for a week past at least, I always wake of myself just at 5.30 a.m.,—usually just 5 or 10 minutes before I am called.[33] I wasn’t wrong about my power of adaptability, was I, Mother? Indeed I thrive greatly on hours, fare and all other circumstances; I have not been so strong for many months,—indeed now it is just a year. What a strange, grey, weird year!...
You see idleness and listlessness is about the worst thing possible (I was feeling that in Göttingen): now my days are full, not only materially, but really, for it is the kind of employment that does fill and satisfy me. And, I suppose, next to idleness, the worst thing would be over mental fatigue.... It is, too, another advantage, which anybody else can hardly appreciate, to have my day mapped out for me with military exactness,—to find my work always ready before me, and quite definite and imperative,—yet making no demand on my strength almost—always pleasant and always changing.
It would have been impossible to have planned a life suiting me personally more exactly to my finest need,—and the glory is that at the same time it is part of my work, and serving it very really and materially. I don’t suppose in that point of view either it would be possible to put my time to better advantage....
You see, Mother, how you get my sunny day-dreams now, as you used to get the weary ones. I don’t know if everyone has words running all day long in their head as I have,—it makes a glorious song sometimes—silently enough, but running like a golden thread through daily work and labour, raising it all till ‘the parapets of heaven with angels leaning’ come full in view.... Do you remember George Herbert’s delicious poem—?
‘My Joy! my Life! my Crown! My heart was meaning all the day Something it fain would say,— And yet it runneth muttering up and down With only this,— My Joy! my Life! my Crown!’
It is to me so exquisitely significant of the joy and peace that floods one’s whole being, but does not very readily find words, except in those already familiar to it, like those Psalm utterances,—or like sometimes fragments of our own dear Liturgy or hymns;—and I think that is perhaps one of the greatest uses and values of such things. In the deep struggle times, one of the things that helped me most of all was always those glorious words of consecration that reminded me of the cross on the brow ‘In token that thou shalt not be ashamed to confess the faith of Christ crucified, and manfully to fight under His banner against the world, the flesh, and the devil, and to continue Christ’s faithful Soldier and servant unto thy life’s end!’ And again, the Communion words about ‘ourselves, our souls and bodies’.
Oh, dear, how one does write on! But I think it pleases Mother, and I’m sure it helps me....
I fancy my darling will be pleased to get a kiss from her little one to welcome her in London, as she cannot see her knight at Shoreditch!—dear old lady,—would she could! But, Mother, you would let Daddy go with you if you really wished for anyone? I tell you, as I have told you a hundred times before, how gladly your child will stay at home altogether if ever Mother really wishes for and wants her there, or will come from anywhere at any moment as rapidly as trains can bring her, if only Mother wishes for her for any purpose or none.”
It is very unlikely that she gave those about her the impression of being dévote: that never was her way. The “spikes” Miss Octavia Hill referred to were probably in full evidence. In her diary she writes,—