The house on Henry Street

by Lillian D. Wald

The settlement, through its preservation of several of the fine old houses of the neighborhood, maintains a curious link with what, in this city of rapid changes, is already a shadowy past. The families of some of the residents once lived nearby, and recall, when they visit us, the schools and churches they attended, their dancing classes, and the homes where they were entertained. One visitor told of the scandal in the best society, more than half a century ago, at the extravagance of a proud father, then an occupant of one of the settlement houses, who gave his young daughter a necklet of pearls on the day of her “coming-out” party. Old men and women for whom the names of the streets evoke reminiscences delight to revive the happy memories of their youth and to identify the few buildings, greatly altered as to their uses, that still remain.

Cherry Street and Cherry Hill, a short distance away, call up traditions of a great orchard to which we owe their names, its beauty in the blossoming time, the quaint, clean houses, each in its garden, all the pleasant, comfortable life of a bygone time. There is nothing pleasant or comfortable about Cherry Street to-day. Legends of the daring deeds of the Cherry Hill gang lend a dubious glamour to some parts of it, but for the rest it is dingy and dull.

We met Lena in one of the dull houses where we had been called because of her illness. The family were attractive Russians of the blond type, and the patient herself was very beautiful, her exceeding pallor giving her an almost ethereal look. The rooms were as bare as the traditional poor man’s home of the story-books, but the mother had hidden the degradation of the broken couch with a clean linen sheet, relic of her bridal outfit.

Here and There Are Still Found Reminders of Old New York

After convalescence Lena was glad to accept employment and resume her share of the family burden. One day she rushed in from the tailor’s shop during working hours, and, literally upon her knees, begged for other work. She could no longer endure the obscene language of her employer, which she felt was directed especially to her. The story to experienced ears signaled danger, but to extricate her without destruction of the pride which repelled financial aid was not simple. Readjustments had to be made to give her a belated training that would fit her for employment outside the ranks of the unskilled. Fortunately, the parents needed little stimulus to comprehend the humiliation to their daughter, and they readily agreed to the postponement of help from her, although they were at a low tide of income.

The very coarseness of this kind of attack upon a girl’s sensibilities I have learned in the course of years, makes it easier to combat than the subtle and less tangible suggestions that mislead and then betray. Sometimes these are inherent in the work itself.

A girl leading an immoral life was once sent to me for possible help. She called in the evening, and we sat together on the pleasant back porch adjoining my sitting-room. Here the shrill noises of the street came but faintly, and the quiet and privacy helped to create an atmosphere that led easily to confidence.

It was long past midnight when we separated. The picture of the wretched home that she had presented,—its congestion, the slovenly housekeeping, the demanding infant, the ill-prepared food snatched from the stove by the members of the family as they returned from work,—I knew it only too well. The girl herself, refined in speech and pretty, slept in a bed with three others. She had gone to work when she was eleven, and later became a demonstrator in a department store, where the display of expensive finery on the counters and its easy purchase by luxurious women had evidently played a part in her moral deterioration. Her most conscious desire was for silk underwear; at least it was the only one she seemed able to formulate! And this trivial desire, infinitely pathetic in its disclosure, told her story. As I stood at the front door after bidding her good-night, and watched her down the street, it did not seem possible that so frail a creature could summon up the heroism necessary to rise above the demoralization of the home to which she was returning and the kind of work open to her.

During that summer she came each day to the settlement for instruction in English, preliminary to a training in telegraphy, for which she had expressed a preference. Nothing in her conduct during that time could have been criticised, but subsequent chapters in her career have shown that she was unable to overcome the inclinations that were the evil legacy of her mode of life.