God's Children

by Mabli Roberts

  Wellington was a pleasant enough place, but for me then it meant only Annie, only her, only her bedside and her fading. When father died our family had been scattered across the globe in search of a living. And of course the disease would not let her slip quietly from this life. The little house in which she had been living her unremarkable life contained an atmosphere devoid of hope, tainted by the smell of encroaching death, heavy with the weight of sorrow. My mother found herself unable to endure witnessing the fierce attacks of coughing where her child was compelled to fight for every breath, and took herself off to another part of the house. She would visit only when Annie was calmer and resting in a laudanum-laced slumber. Mother would sit and hold her hand, stroking her daughter’s skin and humming to her softly. I do not know if Annie was aware of her presence, but I convinced our mother that she was, and saw my heartsore parent draw some comfort from that.

  She was sitting thus when Annie died. My poor sister had spent a long, embattled night, and needed only a little medication to bring about sleep. Her body was failing, her heart worn out, her will diminished. I put the spoon to her blue-tinged lips and she smiled at me after she had sipped, though she had not the strength to speak.

  ‘There, Annie,’ I said, brushing her hair back from her damp brow with my palm. ‘There. All shall be well.’ Her smile did not falter. I knew she shared my deep faith, and that she was ready to go to Him. ‘I will fetch Mother,’ I told her.

  And so we sat, one either side of the bed. Sisters. Mother and daughters. An hour passed thus. And another. And then Annie drew in a breath that she appeared never to release.

  ‘Ooh!’ my mother wailed, as if her passing was an unexpected thing, though of course it was not. She fell to silent weeping then. I urged her to pray with me, but she would not.

  After the funeral there was the question of what we were to do. Mother was ill with grief, and I feared that the long sea voyage home would tax her beyond endurance. Better that we stay, at least until she regained her strength. And so it was that I took up the position of Superintendent Nursing Sister at the Wellington Hospital. It was a fine building, with good sized rooms and tall windows, and sufficient funds to provide more than adequate care for its patients. I was to be in charge of three wards, one surgical, one general, and one which would serve as a final place of care for its resident patients.

  On my first morning I summoned the nursing staff to my office. I was to oversee all of the nurses, but my particular remit was to supervise the work and training of the newer recruits. In all, there were three of these more junior nurses, and nine more senior. I had them gather before the day shift started, so that I might introduce myself. My office was large enough for all the nurses to stand while I gave a short speech. They were well-turned out and able to stand without fidgeting, though I sensed their apprehension.

  ‘I am both delighted and honoured to have been appointed to this post,’ I told them. ‘It is a privilege to be asked to work at such a fine and well regarded hospital as the Wellington. From what I have been told, I am to take charge of a nursing team every bit as excellent as the hospital itself. This comes as no surprise to me, for it is the nurses that make the hospital, not the other way around.’ The women before me relaxed a little beneath such praise. I did not give it lightly. I believed it to be deserved. ‘You will, I hope, find me fair and approachable, though I will not tolerate sloppy work, nor laziness. A lazy nurse puts the health of her patients in jeopardy and it is her fellow nurses who must do the work she shuns. We shall work as a team, together, supporting one another. I trust you will feel able to come to me with any concerns you may have.’ My aim was to put them at their ease, whilst still maintaining the formality befitting my post. Looking at the wary faces, however, I suspected it would take time to win their confidence. ‘You may have heard a little of my nursing experience to date. I am happy to answer questions on that subject now. Better openness than rumour, I believe.’ I waited. No one met my eye or was brave enough to speak. ‘Come now, I won’t bite,’ I assured them. ‘Or, if I do, there are plenty here who could dress the wound.’ This at least drew a little laughter.

  A nurse with pretty hair the colour of pale heather honey raised her hand. I nodded at her. ‘Is it true, Sister, that you have met the great Florence Nightingale?’ she asked.

  ‘What is your name?’

  ‘Rose, Sister. Rose Farley.’

  ‘Well, Nurse Farley, I’m sorry to say I have never had that honour. I did, however, travel to the continent and serve as a war nurse shortly after her time in the Crimea. I went to Bulgaria, where I nursed in the Russian-Turkish war. Miss Nightingale’s methods were already in evidence there, and the use of them saved lives, of that there is no doubt.’

  ‘What was it like?’ Nurse Farley went on. ‘Being near to the battle and nursing those poor soldiers, I mean, were you close enough to hear the cannon?’

  ‘Indeed we were.’

  ‘I should have been terrified!’ she said, and others muttered their agreement.

  ‘There was not time for terror,’ I told her. ‘When you are nursing in such circumstances each moment is reduced to the wounded soldier in front of you. His pain, his suffering, and what you can do about it. Beyond that, there is no room for one’s own fear.’ I stepped out from behind my desk and walked in front of the nurses as I spoke. ‘You are aware of the dangers, of course. That awareness lingers in your mind, and perhaps it is what keeps you safe. You are reminded with every limbless patient, every youthful face imploring you for help, just how violent and terrible a place you have come to. The hospitals themselves are beyond the reach of the cannon, but you hear them still, they are so incredibly loud. The thunder of the artillery becomes as normal to you as the sound of a busy street. The stink of cordite as familiar as the aroma of baking bread or the smell of a farmyard. What before you could not comprehend, becomes the rhythm by which you live your life. And if you are asked to go forward to a field hospital, onto the battlefield itself at times to help the fallen, then you can feel the heat of those explosions, the blast of the guns, and of course, the pitiful cries of the men. It is their voices you hear the most. It is for them that you are there. Though the mud drag at your feet, though chaos rain about your head, you seek them out, you take them God’s word, and your skill as a nurse, and you do what you can.’

  They were listening in quite a different way then, their minds whirling with the notion of finding themselves in such a place.

  I stopped in front of Nurse Farley. Her clear blue eyes met mine, and I saw that she was moved by what she had heard.

  ‘To be a war nurse is a noble calling,’ I told her. ‘But in the end, it is the hand you hold in yours as you do your work that matters. Not the circumstances or surroundings in which you hold it.’

  My first meeting with the Tsarina was, I only later understood, typical of her thoughtfulness. She could have received me, as Queen Victoria had done, in a state room, seated while I stood, our introduction coldly formal, her aide taking notes, the distance between us maintained and underlined by every aspect of the meeting. But she did not. Instead she chose to have me shown into one of her favourite rooms in the Winter Palace. It could not have been called small, by any measure, but it was modest compared to others in that voluptuous building. I stood waiting for her, my own sombre, simple garments a foil for the ornate beauty and exquisite detail of the room. The windows faced south, and the late spring sunshine fell through them, setting the exotic rug aglow, making the gilt worked into the edges of the elegant furniture gleam and shine. The walls were covered in silk wallpaper depicting birds of bright plumage, green and blue, singing from leafy boughs. The ceiling, high, high above, was worked with more gold, its chalky whiteness like nothing so much as the pristine icing of a wedding cake. I made myself quite dizzy gazing upwards, so that when Maria Feodorovna entered the room my head swam as I dipped an unsteady curtsey.

  She held out her hand, her eyes warm with a smile.

&nbs
p; ‘Nurse Marsden!’ she exclaimed, her voice sweet, even a little girlish, as if discovering me where I was meant to be was the most pleasant of surprises. ‘I am so very pleased that you have come to me,’ she went on, ‘and that you have given me the opportunity to be a part of your tremendous mission.’ Her English was excellent, softly accented with the music of the Russian language. I knew she would more usually have conducted such meetings in French, and was grateful not to be put at such a disadvantage. It would have been a stilted conversation indeed, had we to rely on my poor skills as a linguist.

  I reached tentatively for her outstretched fingers, uncertain as to the protocol regarding touching the Empress of Russia, but I need not have concerned myself. The Tsarina clutched my hand in hers and gestured for me to rise, before leading me to a little table and chairs by the window. She took the seat facing the sun, and indicated I should sit opposite her. Even in this small gesture she showed her kindness; for with my back to the sunlight my own awkwardness was not highlighted. Instead I could look upon her – and she was surely accustomed to the gaze of others – and remain comfortably in shadow.

  A liveried servant, his spotless hose and braided jacket matching the decor of the room, held the door open for two maids, who scurried in with trays of tea things, followed by a further manservant whose job it was to carry aloft upon a gilded tray an intricately fashioned silver samovar. These things were set on the table between us with no small ceremony. The Tsarina quickly waved the servants away, content to serve me herself!

  As she poured hot tea into glass and silver cups she questioned me about my proposed journey. Even now, thinking of it, I recall how that simple action prompted another memory, though not a pleasant one. I had been watching my mother pour tea as we sat in the small living room of our home in New Zealand. Mama was still frail with grief, and her hand shook as she held the teapot. There came a knock at the door and, the maid being out, I went to answer it.

  On the doorstep I found a smartly dressed young man of wiry build. He had about him a restless energy and a wariness in his eyes. He raised his hat, though the polite gesture clearly cost him.

  ‘Miss Marsden?’ he asked. ‘Miss Kate Marsden?’ He did not wait for me to respond before continuing. ‘Desmond Mackintosh of the New Zealand Times.’

  He took out a notebook and pencil. I resisted the desire to close the door upon him.

  ‘What can I do for you, Mr Mackintosh?’

  ‘I am writing a piece regarding your proposed work for the lepers.’

  ‘My plans are as yet unformed, though my intention is a mission to India, or possibly the outcasts in Siberia.’

  ‘Quite so. You are acquainted with my cousin, I believe. Miss Jessy Brodie?’

  This put me on my guard. I withdrew from the threshold a little, and as I did so I noticed that the doorstep was cracked and less than safe. A legacy, perhaps, of the earthquakes to which the country is subjected. I felt then that the very ground on which I stood, in that place and in my life, might not be stable.

  I responded to his query. ‘Jessy and I share a passion to do work that will help those abandoned by their own communities through the scourge of leprosy.’

  ‘And she has been very generous in her support, has she not?’ His tone was sharp.

  ‘It is necessary to raise funds if we are to progress our plans at all.’

  ‘My sources tell me you claim to have monies promised by wealthy

  philanthropists, rich businessmen, even royalty. The truth is you have no benefactors, nor any funds available, save those you take from vulnerable women. Women you exercise an unholy hold over. Women you manipulate, caring nothing for their reputations or their financial security, as long as you get what you want. Is that not the truth of it, Miss Marsden?’

  ‘Nurse Marsden? A little sugar?’

  And there I was again, in the Winter Palace, with the person who understood my mission more clearly than anyone else ever had. She handed me the glass cup. ‘You aim to travel far to the east, I understand. To Yakutsk?’

  ‘And beyond, Your Imperial Majesty. That is to say, beyond the city itself, further into the province.’ I sipped the tea, breathing in the aromatic steam which helped both clear my thoughts and soothe my taut nerves.

  ‘How I envy you the freedom to travel to such a magical place, to experience such magnificent wilderness.’ Her comment made me smile. Seeing this, she asked, ‘You’re laughing at me. Do you think me insincere?’

  ‘Oh no, Majesty! It is simply that my mother would be astonished to hear I have the envy of an empress!’

  She laughed lightly at this. ‘Katerina – may I call you that? – what sights you will see! Such adventures! And I understand you are to write a chronicle of your expedition.’

  ‘As a means to raise funds for the hospital we hope to build, yes.’

  ‘I am certain it will be a marvellous book.’ She was thoughtful for a moment and then continued. ‘Such a pitiless disease, by all accounts, anything that can alleviate the suffering of those afflicted by it is to be welcomed.’

  ‘It is heartening to hear such sentiments from you, Your Majesty. Were you to lend your support to my endeavour, well, the effect would be immeasurable.’

  ‘The people you encounter on your journey will be impressed by you, Nurse Marsden. By your courage and your charity.’

  ‘I am sustained by God’s love, Majesty. It is He who sends me where I am to go.’

  ‘But, tell me, why Siberia? I know that you have nursed the sick and the wounded in many places around the world. And alas, there are many countries besides our own who have lepers among them. What is it that compels you to travel to a place so little known, and so inaccessible?’

  I hesitated. It is not a simple thing, to tell of a miracle.

  Surely you were afraid, out there, so far from civilisation, alone with only guides and soldiers, horsemen, peasants. Any woman would have been afraid at times.

  Why would any of those who had agreed to help me do me harm?

  You were beyond the reach of propriety, of law.

  If you think that you do not understand people. The men who acted as my guides did so willingly. They were paid for their services. We treated one another with respect. Why do you imagine them to be without morality? Without restraint?

  But who would have known, if they had behaved… inappropriately? It would have been their word against yours.

  Their word? We did not have so much as a common language. For many months I was without a translator. We travelled in a spirit of fellowship. Once somebody agreed to help me they took upon themselves a care for what it was I was trying to do. We overcame the obstacles of different languages, of my being a woman, of our differing cultures. These things were incidental, matters to be dealt with simply and quickly. Our journey was arduous, the terrain and weather extremely testing. Why would we do anything to make our circumstances more difficult?

  Men can be… opportunists, can they not? And some were drinkers, you said as much in your journal.

  A man may drink without losing all sense of what is right and what is wrong.

  Some may.

  I promise you, though they may not have been born such, each and every one of those who accompanied me on my journey behaved as a gentleman, beyond reproach.

  Don’t you think that strange?

  I do not.

  Could it be they had very singular reasons for taking so little interest in the fact that there was a lone woman among them?

  I do not understand the point you are trying, rather rudely if I may say so, to make.

  Truly? Do you truly not understand?

  My first ball at the Winter Palace was an experience to match any in my life for dazzling spectacle, and was as strange to me as any custom I later encountered on the far side of the wilderness. Everything about the building, and in particular the ballroom, seemed designed expressly to make one feel insignificant. The scale was grander than could ever be necessary, wilfully so, one
might say. Up until my visit to St Petersburg I had believed all such splendour reserved for the glory of God as demonstrated in the construction of cathedrals. I confess I was uncomfortable within the palace when I brought this comparison to mind. Did the Tsar who ordered its design set himself so high? Was I in some way acknowledging this lofty status by being there? Of course, I was. There was no escaping the fact. I satisfied my conscience by reminding myself of the reason that had taken me to such a place. The ball was to find sponsors for my mission, to raise money for the cause of the lepers in Yakutsk and establish a hospital and colony for them. All around me were men and women of wealth and influence, summoned by the Tsarina herself for my benefit. I must not quail. Though I felt near overwhelmed by the press of people, by the sophistication of the occasion, by the company of such society, I must be bold, I must hold fast to my purpose. At the far end of the ballroom the orchestra were taking their seats. Soon there would be music and dancing. Would I be compelled to dance also?

  ‘Katerina? Katerina?’ The Tsarina’s voice reached me through the hubbub. I turned to see her making her way through the throng with ease as her adoring subjects bowed, curtseyed, or stepped back in haste to allow their Empress to pass. She was wearing a gown of cream, encrusted with pearls and gold stitching. The cut of it was glamorous yet decorous, and the colour and fabric showed off the lustre of her skin to best advantage. Her dark hair was piled high upon her head and crowned with a tiara of diamonds that caught the light as she moved. She wore a matching necklace and earrings. On many, such ostentatious jewels would have seemed vulgar, but on Maria Feodorovna they appeared somehow right. Somehow fitting. As if they were an outward manifestation of her shining soul.