Legacy of Mercy

by Lynn Austin

  As soon as I step onto the porch, I hear children’s voices and the sound of activity inside. Several minutes pass before a middle-aged woman who is clearly not a servant replies to my knock. “Sorry about the delay,” she says, puffing slightly. “Come in, come in.”

  “Good afternoon,” I say as I step into the foyer. “My name is Miss Anna Nicholson. I read about the work you’re doing here at Hull-House in this morning’s newspaper, and I was inspired to come and see it for myself. I realize I should have made an appointment, but I didn’t know when I would have another free afternoon.”

  “Of course. Welcome, Miss Nicholson. I’m Mrs. Smith.” She is sizing me up and can probably discern from the way I’m dressed that I’m from a wealthy family. “This way, please. I’ll see who’s available to give you a tour.”

  I expected the interior to be as run-down as the exterior, so I’m very surprised when Mrs. Smith leads me into a lovely parlor filled with gracious furnishings, shelves of books, delicate artwork, and fresh flowers. The squeals and giggles I overheard are coming from the drawing room, where two women are herding a noisy group of children dressed like ragamuffins toward the back of the house.

  “The kindergarten children are going out to play now,” Mrs. Smith says. “Please, have a seat, and I’ll fetch someone to guide you.” I look around as I wait and notice that the rooms seem to have been decorated with family heirlooms. This isn’t a sterile institution but a home. I can’t imagine Mother or any of our acquaintances opening their homes to working-class children. Yet I was born into a poor, working-class family just like those children. Rich or poor, we are all the same on the inside, with the same needs for food and shelter and a family to love. Only our material circumstances differ. How wonderful it would be if I could work to correct some of those differences.

  My excitement continues to grow as a pleasant-looking woman named Mrs. Pelham conducts me on a tour of Hull-House. “Everything you see here began when Miss Addams and Miss Starr simply opened their door to the people of this neighborhood and invited them in. The working-class children were especially in need of a place where they could learn and play and grow up safely. So we set up a kindergarten for them right here in our drawing room. As the children grew, our work also grew to include a variety of children’s clubs, including my own pet project, a theater group.”

  We move into the adjoining building, the Butler Gallery, which I’m amazed to learn houses an art gallery, classroom space, and even a branch of the public library. “The families in our neighborhood come from a variety of ethnic backgrounds,” Mrs. Pelham explains. “We share our lives and our experiences with them, and they are eager to share their heritages with us. And so we host ethnic nights to enjoy the food, music, and folk dancing that celebrate our neighbors’ heritage. In fact, tonight is German Night. You are welcome to come back and join us, Miss Nicholson.”

  I am reminded of my own Dutch heritage and the fascinating glimpse of it that I saw while visiting Oma in Holland. “What a wonderful idea. I thank you sincerely for the invitation. And although I would love to join you, I’m sorry to say that I’m already engaged this evening.”

  “Perhaps another time.” She shows me the Hull-House Men’s Club, a large room furnished with card and billiard tables. “We want to offer the young men a better place to socialize than the saloons. And you may want to join our Women’s Club, comprised of reform-minded women from the neighborhood and all over the city. We work to find solutions to sanitation and public health issues as well as other social ills. We’re also fighting to enact laws to end child labor and promote compulsory school attendance. Education is an important avenue out of poverty.”

  “How fascinating! I would love to join your club, Mrs. Pelham.” My excitement grows. I can scarcely imagine attending a meeting with a purpose other than eating petit fours and discussing Greek tragedies.

  Mrs. Pelham points out the children’s public playground that Hull-House created across the street. “It’s the only one of its kind in Chicago,” she explains. “All children should have a place where they can run and play in safety, don’t you agree?”

  “I do.” But my heart truly quickens when Mrs. Pelham points out the resources for women who are alone and struggling in the city—like my mama once was. “This is our Jane Club,” she explains. “A safe, cooperative boardinghouse for single working women. It’s also a place where they can support each other during union strikes. For married women, our kindergarten and day nursery provide a refuge for their young children while they are at work.”

  I can feel the Lord nudging me into action. “Inasmuch as ye have done it unto one of the least of these my brethren, ye have done it unto me.” When Oma Geesje advised me to return to my privileged life in Chicago, she said, “Think of all the young women like Christina who are trapped in Chicago, poor and alone in a huge city with no family to help them.” I want to be part of the work that Hull-House is doing. It’s what Jesus would want me to do.

  The two hours fly by, and much too soon it’s time for me to leave. Mrs. Pelham provides me with information about the Women’s Club as well as a variety of other volunteer opportunities. I can’t wait to share my excitement with William this evening. We will be attending a political fund-raising dinner in the home of one of Chicago’s aldermen, a first step for William into the world of politics.

  “I had the most fascinating day today,” I say as soon as we’re seated in his carriage.

  “Tell me all about it, darling.”

  “First I need to back up a little and tell you about the Bible verse I read this morning.” His smile seems to dim. Or am I imagining it? “The Lord said that when we feed and clothe the poor, it’s as though we are doing it for Him. And then right after I read those words, I happened to read an article in the newspaper about a place here in Chicago where people are doing those exact things. It’s called the Hull-House settlement, and—”

  “Is that the place that Jane Addams founded?”

  “Yes! You’ve heard of it, too?”

  “I certainly have.” His smile has vanished completely. “Stay away from that place, Anna.”

  “But … but why? When I visited there today and saw the wonderful work—”

  “You went there?”

  “Yes, they gave me a tour, and I learned all about the work they’re doing. They have classes and cultural events and a safe place where hardworking mothers can leave their children and—”

  “Those people call themselves progressives, but they are socialists in disguise. You can’t have anything to do with them.”

  I couldn’t be more stunned if William had slapped me across the face. “I don’t understand. Don’t we have an obligation to help the poor? What difference do their political views make?”

  “Jane Addams is not only a social progressive, she’s anti-capitalism. Those people support trade unions and women’s suffrage. You cannot be associated with them and their outrageous ideas, Anna. Does your father know you went there?”

  “I haven’t had a chance to—”

  “Make sure you tell him. I know he will agree with me. He won’t want his daughter affiliated with that place.”

  My disappointment is overwhelming. I turn away from William to stare out of the carriage window at the wide, gas-lit boulevard and handsome stone houses we’re passing. This clean, tree-lined street might well be in a different world from the neighborhood I visited this afternoon. I struggle to control my tears so I won’t arrive with red eyes and a running nose. I hesitate to argue with William, yet I must make him see the benefits of the settlement house and why I feel compelled to be part of it. “Why is it so wrong to help immigrants and poor, working-class people, William? My mama was a cook in a boardinghouse, and her husband was a railroad worker. My grandma Geesje and her family were all immigrants. How can it be wrong for me to spend my time helping people like them instead of attending tea parties and luncheons?”

  “There are plenty of acceptable charities h
ere in Chicago that you can volunteer for and contribute to. But you aren’t an immigrant or a poor, working-class woman, Anna. Your true family is the one that raised you—the Nicholsons. Your social obligations are to them, not to the people who gave birth to you. And you will become part of my family after we’re married.”

  I pull a handkerchief from my reticule and dab the tears from my eyes. William is right, I suppose. But I can’t escape the feeling that what I read in Scripture and saw in person at Hull-House was the true path I should be taking if I want to follow Jesus. William lifts my gloved hand and kisses the back of it.

  “I’m sorry if I sounded brusque, darling, or if I upset you. But those sorts of people are some of our harshest critics. They dismiss the hard work of men like my grandfather, who started with nothing and worked hard to succeed. They treat us as if we’re the enemy. Anyone in America can get ahead and make something of himself if he’s willing to work hard, even if he’s an immigrant.”

  I swallow the lump in my throat and ask, “Have you ever seen the tenements where they live?”

  He kisses my hand again and says, “Of course I have. Listen, I admire your tender, generous heart, Anna dear. I will ask Mother to give you the names of the wonderful charities she supports. But please don’t ever mention Hull-House again, especially at the dinner tonight.”

  The subject is closed and sealed. But it leaves a hollow place inside me, and I don’t know what will replace it. I stay by William’s side for the remainder of the evening and fill the role that’s expected of me. But I feel like I’m playacting, reciting lines that someone else has written in a drama that I no longer enjoy.

  I am still hurt and confused the next morning when I open my Bible. I’m almost afraid to read it, afraid that I’ll learn of another command that I won’t be able to fulfill. Today these words of our Lord stand out: “But I say unto you, That every idle word that men shall speak, they shall give account thereof in the day of judgment. For by thy words thou shalt be justified, and by thy words thou shalt be condemned.” The full import of what the Lord means doesn’t hit me until later that day when I’m at a meeting with Clarice Beacham and the other women in our club. We’re discussing ways to raise funds, not for charity but to build a permanent home for our Women’s Literary Club. I can think of more deserving causes to donate my time and money to, but I remain silent. Have any of these ladies ever visited Chicago’s Near West Side?

  After the meeting ends and we’re having refreshments, the other ladies begin to gossip. They slice into an acquaintance of ours named Dorothea as if dissecting a botanical specimen, criticizing everything from her hair and facial features to her fashion taste and her family’s financial status. I recall the Lord’s warning about being accountable for our words, and I feel an arrow of guilt.

  “No one of any importance will ever court her, you know,” one of the ladies says. “I heard—”

  “Please stop.” I am as surprised as the others when I finally say aloud what I’ve been thinking. The ladies stare at me as if I’ve tossed my cup of tea in their faces. My heart is racing, but I simply can’t bear to hear any more. Might I be held accountable for remaining silent?

  “What did you say?” one of them asks.

  “I’m very uncomfortable talking about Dorothea behind her back this way. It isn’t kind. Can we please talk about something else?” They all look to Clarice as if she is the leader. They will tailor their response to match hers. I wait, wondering what will happen. Clarice could gracefully change the subject and all would be well, even if she doesn’t admit any wrongdoing.

  “Do you think you’re better than we are?” Clarice asks instead. My heart pounds harder.

  “No, of course not. But we’re supposed to be kind and compassionate to one another. The Bible says we will have to give an account, someday, for all the idle words we speak.”

  Clarice laughs as if I’ve told a joke. The others follow her lead, smiling and smirking. “I heard all about your religious conversion, Anna,” she says. “But I didn’t realize you’ve turned into a preacher.”

  My cheeks feel as though they are on fire. “It was never my intention to preach. I merely asked if we could change the subject.” I want to ask why it’s so controversial to do what the Bible says, but my courage is quickly draining away.

  Clarice takes a challenging stance, hands on hips, and although she continues to smile, I see contempt in her eyes. “Who are you to dictate what we talk about?”

  I set down my teacup, fearing I might drop it. “I think it would be best if I leave now.” My legs feel as if they may not support me much longer as I make my way to the door. The butler fetches my coat, and I ask him to tell my mother that I have already left. I can’t even imagine what she will say. Probably that I have humiliated myself and her.

  Outside, I find our driver and ask him to hail a cab for me. Once I’m safely inside and heading home, my tears begin to fall. I’m not even sure why I’m crying. Is it because Clarice and the others are certain to shun me and gossip about me next? Or because, once again, I tried to do what the Lord commanded and to stand up for what’s right, and it ended all wrong?

  I long to talk to Oma Geesje. I know she will listen while I tell her about Hull-House and about William and Clarice and everything else that has happened these past two days. Maybe she can help me figure out what I’m doing wrong. I want to serve God, but I’m obviously not going about it the right way. The carriage slows to a halt near the river, and I hear gears grinding as the swing bridge opens to let a sailing vessel and a tugboat with a long string of barges pass through. The longer I wait, the more I realize how badly I need to get away and take time to pray and to think. I need to figure out how the lessons I’m learning in the Bible can fit together with my life here in Chicago.

  I’m not used to making decisions for myself, but I make one now. I rap on the window of the carriage to get the driver’s attention. “Take me to the nearest Western Union office, please. I need to send a telegram. Then take me to Union Station.”

  I’m in my bedroom later when I hear Mother return home. Sending the telegram has halted my tears, and I decide to face Mother directly with the truth. She is in the foyer, pulling out her hatpins, but she pauses as she sees me descend the stairs, as if watching a stranger.

  “What in the world happened after the meeting, Anna? You stirred up a hornet’s nest. All the ladies are buzzing about your unusual behavior.”

  “I expressed my opinion, and the others misinterpreted it. Listen, Mother, I’ve decided to go away for a few days and—”

  “You can’t run from your problems.”

  “I’m not running, but I need some advice, and—”

  “Tell me the whole story.” She removes her hat and places it on the hall table for the maid to attend to. Then she starts pulling off her gloves, one finger at a time. I’ve seen Mother do this countless times, but today I recognize it as her way of stalling for time as she controls her temper. I admire her forbearance, knowing how upset and embarrassed she must be.

  “The other girls were spreading gossip about Dorothea, and I asked them to stop. They were being very unkind. I merely asked if we could please talk about something else. Clarice became offended.”

  Mother lifts her chin. “I’ll see what I can do to mend fences. There are ways to remedy this. I’m sure Mrs. Wilkinson will help you—”

  “Please don’t interfere, Mother.” She looks startled, so I hurry on. “I need to learn how to fight my own battles. Besides, I’m not sorry for asking them to stop, because they were wrong to gossip that way. The Bible says—”

  “You didn’t quote the Bible, did you?” she asks in horror. I nod. “No wonder they were offended. I thought you knew better than to discuss religion or politics in polite society.”

  I’m getting nowhere. This is an argument I cannot win. I draw a deep breath, steeling myself. “I’m going to take the train up to Michigan for a few days.”

  “You’re doing
what? All by yourself?”

  “Yes, unless you would like to come with me.”

  “I can’t spare the time. I have too many obligations. And you do, too, with your wedding in a few months.”

  The reminder of the dwindling time until my marriage causes me to shiver. “I’ll only be away for a few days. I need a chance to think. And maybe it will give everyone else time to see that they were unkind to gossip that way.”

  “Let’s discuss it with your father first.”

  “Please don’t be angry with me, Mother, but I already sent Oma Geesje a telegram to tell her I’m coming. My train leaves tomorrow morning.”

  Mother closes her eyes. “This is a fine mess you’ve made.”

  She may be right, but I still don’t regret any of the decisions I’ve made today. I go upstairs to my room and ring the bell to summon Lucy to help me pack.

  “Where are you going, Miss Anna?” she asks as I choose a plain skirt and shirtwaist from my closet. “Will you need jewelry and eveningwear?”

  “I’m going to visit my grandmother in Michigan. I won’t need anything fancy because it’s a much simpler way of life up there.”

  “I would be happy to come along, Miss Anna, and help with your hair and tend to your clothing.”

  I release a sigh. Dragging along a maid would defeat the purpose. I want to be free from all the fuss, if only for a day or two. “Thank you, but that won’t be necessary.”

  “As you wish, miss,” she says with a little curtsy. “I suppose your family up there has plenty of servants to help you.”

  I look at her in surprise. “Not at all. My grandmother lives in a very modest house and does all the cooking and washing herself. She even grows vegetables in her own garden.”

  Lucy looks doubtful. “Hardly the life you’re used to, is it?”

  I don’t reply. Oma’s life is very different from mine, it’s true. I wouldn’t know how to get by if I had to cook all my own meals and wash my clothes and do all the other chores that our servants perform for us. Yet I can’t deny how content I was when I stayed with Oma and how unhappy I am with the direction my life is taking now. Once again, I make up my mind to regain control of it, somehow. I’m hoping that Oma will help me figure out how to do it.