From Memory's Shrine: The Reminscences of Carmen Sylva

by Carmen Sylva

Another lesson in contentment was constantly given us by our humble friends, by the poor folk round about, whom from my earliest years I was allowed to visit. One dear old woman I have spoken of elsewhere; the little sketch I entitled “German Happiness” is but a reproduction of a conversation held with her, for I felt that no better specimen could be given of that peculiar form of contentment with one’s lot in life that is typical of the German people. “Hans in Luck” is perhaps the truest piece of folk-lore that exists—the earliest form in which we find the national characteristic depicted. All happiness, it is well known, lies in ourselves, and to the cheerful temperament I speak of, it is to be found everywhere. In every misfortune such people as my dear old peasant-woman can see some cause for thankfulness; instead of shedding tears over a broken arm they rejoice in the one left sound, and comfort themselves in the direst straits by the thought that things might have been much worse still! The charm of my old friend’s simple words, so faithfully reproduced by me on a former occasion, lies chiefly in the raciness of the Rhenish dialect, and would not lend itself to translation. But I am glad to think that her last moments were brightened by the flowers I sent her, for faithful to the promise I had once given, I took care that these should surround her before she breathed her last, as an earnest that on the coffin and grave they should not be lacking. There were many others, men and women alike, in whom the habit of making the best of things had become a second nature, and the uncomplaining, even cheerful simplicity with which their load of misery was borne, can surely be accounted little less than heroic.

Much suffering was always caused by the inundations, which in certain years spread havoc throughout the whole region. Boats were sent out to carry food from house to house, and I remember going in one of these with Baron Bibra, steward of the domain, and one of our oldest friends, and others of the gentlemen composing our little court, to assist in distributing coffee, bread, and soup, to the poor people in their flooded habitations. In one of these about forty human beings were crowded together in two tiny rooms in which they had taken refuge, and in their midst a corpse—for the churchyard was under water also, like the bakers’ shops and everything else. It was a terrible sight. And another year, somewhat later, much damage was done by a hurricane of exceptional violence that broke out at the same moment, devastating the beautiful park behind the castle. There was one avenue of magnificent linden-trees, which was almost entirely swept away during that terrible night, hardly one out of the scores of fine old trees of many hundred years’ growth being left standing next morning. For the moment my brother was too much occupied in bringing help to his poorer neighbours, many of whose lives were saved by his personal exertions, to have time to mourn the loss of his trees, but afterwards it was a grief to all of us to behold the destruction of our beloved park. An enormous quantity of wood, about eight thousand cubic feet in measurement, was carted away from the wreckage. I wept for my dear old trees. They had been planted by our forefathers in centuries gone by, and had looked on at the good and evil fortunes of our family for all those years. To me they were especially dear. They had been the confidants of my inmost thoughts. How often have I leant out from my window and talked to them! There was one white poplar to which I told all my secrets, and I listened to its murmured replies, as its leaves rustled, gently stirred by the night breeze that came sighing across the rippling Rhine.

That was before the great storm, the one I have just told of, in the year 1876. But long before that, in my childhood and early youth, I had witnessed some only less terrible. The position of Neuwied exposed us to the full force of every gale that swept up the Rhine, each gust of wind being caught as it were in the bend of the river wherein the little town lies, and eddying round and round the castle with pitiless rage, seemed in a trap from which it sought to break away. With the howling of the wind, and the crashing sound of the tiles torn off the roof, we could often scarce hear ourselves speak in the rooms inside, and very often too it was hardly possible to open the doors, so great was the draught. On the river itself, with its waves lashed to fury, the spectacle was one of mingled terror and grandeur. And I was well situated to have a full view of it on each such occasion, my windows directly overlooking the Rhine. I used to watch the boats and rafts, could see them distinctly and hear the rowers sing out, as they dipped their oars in cadence. Those big rafts were most picturesque, and there was something poetic, in harmony with the scene, in the cry of the rowers:—“Hesseland, France!” instead of right and left. “Hesseland, France!”—the sound still rings in my ears.

But one day the wind was wilder than its wont, the sky was murky, the Rhine chocolate-brown, with breakers like the sea, and the rain beat against our window-panes, down which it then streamed in torrents. Suddenly a fearful shriek went up from the river, and looking out I saw a very big raft going to pieces, having been dashed against the landing-stage. The crew shouted for help, as one by one they were washed off their planks and swallowed up by the waves, and boat after boat put off to their assistance, succeeding in rescuing many of their number. But some must have been drowned before my eyes. And I was alone to see it, for mine were the only rooms that looked out that way, and the whole terrible little drama took place so quickly, I had no time to summon anyone.

My beloved Rhine did not, however, always appear under this tragic aspect, nor are all my memories of the old home steeped in such melancholy hues. How beautiful it was, and the grounds how lovely in those old days, before the cyclone had laid low the tallest trees. Some of the finest specimens were quite near the house, and towered above it, white poplars whose silvery foliage contrasted strikingly with the ruddy hue of the copper-beeches, and the soft delicate verdure of the lindens. The world looked lovely and smiling indeed, as I gazed from my window and saw them bathed in sunshine, with the shadows of their waving branches dancing backwards and forwards on the grass. But there were other seasons;—sometimes of long duration,—when the gloom within doors was so great, it seemed as if the sun never shone at all, and I sat alone in my room over my books, listening to the roaring of the wind in the chimney, roaring as it only roars in old and half empty houses, as if the Spirit of the Storm were imprisoned there! Something of this Paganini must surely have one day heard and have borne in mind when he composed those strange, weird variations for the violin, in which the strings sob and moan with more than mortal anguish. Quite recently, when that melody was played before me by our gifted young musician, George Enesco, so vividly did it recall the wailing sound, as of a soul in distress, by which my childhood had been haunted, that I leant over to my young niece, who happened to be present, and whispered, “Do you hear the voice of the wind in the chimneys of the old home?”—and she burst into tears. Ah! how often have I cried too in the old days, when that dismal sound rang in my ears, and all that I looked out upon was a sullen swollen flood carrying along huge blocks of ice, or else tossing its angry foaming waves aloft, beneath a sky that seemed itself weighted with lead and borne down to the earth, unmindful of its true mission to stand arched above our heads to cheer us! And I had no amusing books to distract my thoughts; nothing but grammars and histories! And the latter I abhorred, for they seemed to me to be but a record of human misery on a larger scale, of which I had only seen too much in my own small way, quite at close quarters. I did not want to hear of the wretched squabbles that had gone on all over the earth, of how men hated and vilified one another, how they quarrelled and fought. History is nothing but glorified misery after all! I knew of course that these were frightful heresies, and was very much ashamed of my own deficient powers of admiration, but it was perhaps not very much to be wondered at, considering the way in which historic facts had been rammed down my throat in my lesson-hours. It was natural enough that my thoughts should wander in any other direction, and that I should seize my pen, and try to give them form. These first products of my Muse were surely very poor stuff, but at least I had the good sense to consign the whole of my early verses to the flames. The same fate befell—a little later on—my first dramatic venture, a long play with six-and-twenty characters, and a highly sensational plot, involving murder and madness, arson and similar attractions. I did not destroy this at once, but coming across it a few years later, I enjoyed a good laugh over it, before I burnt it.

I must not forget to mention our town musicians, an institution that was a relic of olden times. Many of these had been in service in the castle, where, as in many another of the smaller German courts, they had formed a most excellent orchestra, trained under their master’s orders. Such an orchestra, composed entirely of servants,—footmen, lackeys, valets, grooms,—existed still when my father married, and both he and his young wife often played quartets and quintets with their own domestics. The service may perhaps sometimes have suffered a little in consequence; it has happened that the flute-player, standing behind my mother’s chair, would begin humming his part, forgetting that he was waiting at table. But if the waiting was indifferent, the music, on the other hand, was very good! After the year 1848, when our whole establishment was so reduced, several of these old servants established themselves as musicians in the town, and not only my brother and I, but his children since, took lessons from some of them.

Connected with our hospital in Neuwied were a number of worthy, kind-hearted people—mostly ladies belonging to the town, who were themselves busy enough in their own households, but who yet found time to work for the poor, and to visit the families in greatest distress. And of all those charitable souls Frau Hachenberg, for nearly forty years president of the Ladies Nursing Union, was the most active and zealous. She was the very essence of Christian charity, and withal of such strong commonsense and so practical in all her methods, that every undertaking flourished in her hands. It was she who founded the hospital with but a thaler to commence building. Her confidence never wavered; she knew the funds would be forthcoming. And the faith and trust which were hers she managed to impart to others in turn; so that her work has continued growing, and has increased to three times its original size. The good deaconesses of Kaiserswerth have been attached to the hospital from the first, and to them also a large share of honour is due.

Immense capability of self-sacrifice must be theirs who would devote themselves to the service of suffering humanity. In Frau Hachenberg the spirit of self-sacrifice knew no bounds. And her talent for organisation was on the same scale. She was no sentimentalist, nor in the least given to the use of pious phraseology. Quiet, determined, straightforward, her simplicity and directness were more improving than the elegant manners of many a more fashionable woman, who would indeed have been at a loss to control the heterogeneous elements which Frau Hachenberg dealt with so skilfully. With a single glance she seemed to survey a whole situation, and grasp all its contingencies. I could never cease admiring her, and it was from her I learnt nearly all that in my youth I knew respecting the management of benevolent institutions. So strongly did she set the seal of her own remarkable personality on every department of our nursing home—for that modest appellation would better befit our little hospital at its start—that her spirit seems to preside and dominate it still, to this day. Whenever on one of my visits to my old home, I attend a meeting of the Union, I feel as if I must find Frau Hachenberg there, in her accustomed place, coming forward to receive me, and it is as if the fifty years had gone past like a single day, for there, at all events, everything seems unchanged.

Unchanged—but grown and developed. From those small beginnings great things have sprung, round that centre a whole wide scheme of benevolent institutions has grouped itself. On its fiftieth anniversary, at the jubilee of the hospital, my thoughts flew back to its founders, and a quaint old rhyme that Baron Bibra, one of them, was fond of repeating, came into my head, telling how—“On each grey grimy town, as the angels look down,”—they weep over the blindness and folly of poor human beings, toiling and struggling to raise mighty monuments here on earth, where we are but passing guests,—“While we build not in Heaven, and scarce have a care for Eternity’s mansions, awaiting us there!” I know not whence he had the homely verses, but they always went to my heart. How few of us build for Eternity, and yet how easy it were to take a small piece of Heaven into the earthly habitations we are at such pains to construct!

Yet those earthly abodes are very dear to us at times, and rightly so, for the sake of all those who have lived in them. I love every corner, every stone of my dear Neuwied. And not merely the castle of my fathers, not merely the cradle of my race, but the little town itself, so bright, and clean and well-kept, the very model of the picturesque Rhenish town, whose simplicity I would not exchange for all the luxury of Cosmopolis, and whose modest dwellings, and narrow, old-fashioned streets may surely compare favourably at all events on æsthetic grounds with the sky-scrapers of the noisy, over-crowded cities of the New World! So dear was ever to me my childhood’s home, in weal and woe, even the inundations seemed something to be proud of, and I knew that I was not alone in this, but that many of the good townsfolk of Neuwied shared in the feeling that made me wind up one of my Rhine-songs with the words: