by Lynn Austin
Several saloons competed for business along the street, and I saw a billboard advertising a burlesque show. Customers didn’t need to read English in order to understand exactly what sort of risquéentertainment the show promised. I knew better than to stare, but I couldn’t help myself. We had been as sheltered as nuns at Madame Beauchamps’ School, and here was the real world.
“This is a great place to stop,” Louis told the driver. Our carriage drew to a halt and the three men scrambled out of the wagon. Within moments, Curtis and Jack had drawn a small crowd while Louis unlatched the crate containing the keyboard. He beckoned to me to come and perform. It was last thing in the world I wanted to do.
I had performed recitals at school for my classmates, and I had occasionally entertained family friends in our parlor after dinner. But I had never dreamed of playing in front of a burlesque theater on a rainy, stench-filled street to an audience of immigrants, vagabonds, vagrants, and criminals. I turned to my grandmother for help. She handed me a hymnal.
“Go on, dear. You don’t need to be nervous. You’ll do just fine.” I climbed down from the protection of the covered carriage and into the rain. Louis helped me get seated on the open wagon.
“You have to pump the organ with your feet,” he informed me.
“What should I play?”
“It doesn’t matter—anything.”When I just stared dumbly at him, he took the songbook from me and propped it open on the music stand. “Here—how about this one.”
Thankfully, the audience made too much noise to hear my first fumbling attempts to play. But once I got the hang of pumping and playing simultaneously, the mob eventually quieted down to listen. They seemed very appreciative—applauding and whistling and shouting for more. I didn’t want to play more. Rain poured from the sky, and I was getting quite wet.
Louis, Jack, Curtis, and Richard worked their way through the crowd as I played, passing out tickets and, presumably, God’s love. Eventually, they grabbed hymnals and stood on the running boards to sing along on a few of the hymns in the style of a barbershop quartet.
One of their songs told the story of a shepherd who left his flock of ninety-nine sheep to search for his one lost lamb. The shepherd braved the dangers of a stormy night and towering cliffs, refusing to abandon his search until he had found his lamb. By the time they sang the last line, “Rejoice, for the Lord brings back His own,” I could barely read the notes through my tears. They blended with the rain that was now dripping from my drenched hat brim.
I knew they were singing about Jesus, the Good Shepherd, but they made Him sound like a hero from True Romances. My favorite stories had always been the ones where the hero risked his life to rescue the damsel in distress. He would overcome terrible dangers as he searched for her, and he always arrived in the nick of time when all hope seemed lost. I had come to Chicago to search for my mother, but I wondered if she or anyone else would ever love me enough to search for me the way that shepherd had.
“One last hymn, please, Violet,” Louis said. “How about page 186?” His glasses were slick with rain, and he took them off to dry them on his vest. As usual, his efforts did little good; his vest was as wet as his spectacles were. He still hadn’t seemed to notice that it was raining.
I was soaked and miserable, but this was the last song. Then I could go home. And that was what the song was about. “‘Come home … come home,’ ” the lyrics said. “ ‘Ye who are weary, come home.’ ” “Come home, my friends,” Louis told the crowd when the song ended. “Come home and let the love of Jesus Christ wash you clean.
That’s all for today. See you at the rally.” “That’s all”—the very words I longed to hear. I jumped down from the wagon without waiting for anyone’s help and hurried toward the covered carriage. But in my haste to get out of the rain I forgot to watch where I was going and stepped into a deep puddle, immersing my foot up to my ankle in muddy water. It was such a shock that I lost my footing altogether and went down on my derriere with a splash.
I yelped in outrage. The streets weren’t paved, of course, and the rain had turned the dirt into mud. It was mixed with horse manure, and the overflow from outhouses, and who knew what else—and I had landed in it!
I scrambled to my feet, fighting tears. At least my humiliating tumble had been hidden from Louis and the others by the carriage. They were still looking the other way. If I could reach the carriage and sit down before they turned around, they might not notice my muddy backside.
I stood, took one hurried step—and slipped on the slimy muck again! This time I fell forward. I reached out to stop my fall and landed on my hands and knees in the mire. I heard giggles. Glancing up, I saw four small children laughing at my predicament. I pulled my hands out of the mud, but there was nothing to wipe them on except the sides of my skirt. Now the others were certain to notice my disarray.
I stood once again, took a tentative step—and fell for a third time. The giggles turned to outright laughter.
“Violet?” Louis called. I heard him splashing to my rescue and felt the splatter from his shoes peppering my face. “Are you okay?” It would have been wrong to lie to a man of God, so I didn’t reply. I let him take my arm and help me into the carriage—at last.
“Violet—what happened?” my grandmother asked.
“I slipped,” I said with as much dignity as I could muster. “Can we go home now?” Quickly, before I burst into tears.
I thought I remembered a verse in the Bible about pride coming before a fall. If so, I was guilty. I had taken great pride in my faultless posture, my ability to walk gracefully with a book on my head as I’d paraded into fancy drawing rooms with Aunt Agnes. I had reveled in everyone’s admiring stares as I had promenaded on Nelson’s arm with my new silk gown swishing, my feet clad in dainty slippers. Yes, I had indeed fallen far.
At last the carriage began to move. I would never take sweetsmelling air or paved streets for granted again.
“I love that last song,” Grandmother said as we rolled toward home. “It’s about the Prodigal Son coming home, isn’t it?”
Louis nodded. “The Prodigal Son is Mr. Moody’s favorite sermon theme for this campaign. The city is filled with people who’ve moved here from their small towns and farms. And like the prodigal, they often take up lives of sin, falling for all the worldly temptations that the city offers—saloons, theaters, lusts of all sorts, including the lust for money. That’s why Jesus’ message of the prodigal son is so important. People can come home to the God of their youth, the God many of them left behind in their hometown churches.”
“I think many of the immigrants can relate to that story too,” my grandmother added. “They’re far from their families and homelands, struggling to make a living. They hoped for a better life in America and have found only disappointment. Jesus, who was born into poverty, understands their plight.”
“I’ve heard Mr. Moody preach on the prodigal many times, and I believe it is his most stirring sermon subject. Every time he preaches, dozens of people come forward to be saved.”
As I listened to their excited chatter, I couldn’t help thinking of Silas McClure. He had left his home on the farm and taken up with thieves. Maybe if he heard Mr. Moody preach he would give up his thieving ways.
“Could I have one of those tickets?” I asked Louis. “I know someone who might be interested in coming.”
“Sure!” He pulled a wad of them from his pocket and fanned them out in his hand. “How many do you want?”
“Could you spare three?” Maybe Silas would share them with “Josephine” and Robert. I would mail them to him, anonymously of course, to the post-office box listed on his card. I had no intention of speaking to Silas McClure ever again.
“You did a wonderful job today, Violet.”
“Thank you.” Louis didn’t say a word about my soaked, muddy clothes and dripping hat. He was either very polite or very oblivious to how disheveled I looked. My guess was oblivious.
“I ho
pe you’ll work with me again.”
I gave him my well-rehearsed enigmatic smile in reply. I was trying not to weep. I never wanted to visit one of these wretched neighborhoods again for as long as I lived. I knew squeamishness was a poor excuse for refusing to serve the Lord, but I couldn’t help it. Given a choice, I would sooner marry a wealthy, adulterous husband and contribute financially to Mr. Moody’s campaigns than do this again.
“We work well together, don’t you think?” Louis asked. I recalled Nelson Kent asking the same thing. Eager, sincere Louis Decker was dripping wet and awaiting my reply. I had to say something.
“It’s refreshing to find an area of work where men and women can labor side by side,” I replied. Aunt Matt would have been proud of me.
“You’re right,” Louis said. “The Scriptures tell us that in Christ there is neither male nor female, slave nor free man. The Lord’s work couldn’t proceed without women like you and your grandmother and all of the others—especially at the settlement house. And that reminds me … would you two ladies allow me to escort you to Folk Night down at the settlement house next week?”
“Oh, that’s very sweet of you, Louis,” Grandmother said. “We would love to go. You’ll have a wonderful time, Violet.”
“What is Folk Night?” I practically grunted the words. At the moment, I didn’t want to go anywhere except home.
“It’s the night when Miss Addams invites her neighbors and their families to share some of their ethnic customs and culture with everyone,” Louis explained. “There’s usually good music and folk dancing and sometimes food. I believe her Bohemian neighbors will have their turn next week, right?”
My grandmother nodded. “Folk Night lets people take pride in their heritage,” she said. “Sometimes the poor need a sense of dignity much more than they need charity. We’ve had German songfests, Irish dancing, and wonderful Italian cooking.”
“I’ll pick you up at your home,” Louis said, “so you ladies won’t have to venture out alone after dark.”
“That’s so kind of you, Louis. Violet and I would appreciate that.” Grandmother gazed at him in admiration. I couldn’t recall agreeing to go.
The rain stopped, of course, by the time we arrived back at the Evangelistic Society. Louis’ friends all climbed out, and he took the carriage reins again to drive Grandmother and me home. The sun shone through the thinning clouds, mocking me as we halted in front of the house.
“Thanks again, Violet,” he said as he helped me down from my seat. “I’ll see you next week.” He smiled at me as if he hadn’t even noticed that I looked like a drowned rat.
I hurried into the house, avoiding my reflection in the hall mirror. I was wet and muddy and miserable.
“You take off those wet clothes, dear, so we can soak the mud out of them. Birdie and I will fill the bathtub for you and make you some hot tea.”
I plodded upstairs and stripped off my muddy dress. The remains of my hat went straight into the trash. I pulled all the pins out of my dripping hair, then burst into tears when I finally saw my filth-smeared reflection in the mirror. I didn’t recognize myself. This certainly wasn’t the princess who had floated into the ballroom on Nelson Kent’s arm. And if Madame Beauchamps saw me now, she would revoke my diploma.
By the time I finished crying and went downstairs in my robe, Grandmother had filled the copper tub with warm water. She had set it up in the kitchen behind a folding screen. I stepped into the bath gratefully and took the hot cup of tea she offered me.
“You and Louis Decker work so beautifully together, don’t you think?”
“Mmm.” If I said anything else I might start crying again.
“He is such a fine young man, isn’t he?”
“Yes. Very nice.”
And that was the problem—he was nice and I wasn’t. Any prolonged niceness on my part was nothing but an act. I always grew weary of being nice after a few hours. I was certainly not nice unless I had to be, and I could never be nice for an entire lifetime. Being nice was exhausting. It implied conformity, and conformity had been a lifelong trial for me. It went against my nature—which is why I’d grown so weary of pretending at Aunt Agnes’ parties. I was beginning to understand Aunt Matt’s claim that all women were actresses. But could I ever act nice enough to marry a minister?
“You of all people should have the blinders off when it comes to marrying a minister,” Aunt Matt had told my grandmother. I wondered what she had meant. My grandmother had pulled out a kitchen chair to sip a cup of tea with me. I decided to probe.
“Did my grandfather go into the streets and preach like Louis and Mr. Moody are doing?”
She shook her head. “He preached to his own little flock in his church in Lockport. He often railed against the evils of city life and would never have ventured to Chicago to preach the way Dwight Moody does.”
“I don’t remember Grandfather very well. To tell you the truth, I was a little afraid of him. He always looked angry.”
“In some ways he was angry. He didn’t preach about the love and grace of God very often, choosing to emphasize our need for obedience to Christ’s commands instead.”
“Wasn’t one of those commands to love our neighbor?”
“That one often slipped his notice.” She smiled faintly. “All in all, I think he was very disappointed with his life.When he died, my life changed completely. I had to leave Lockport and move in with Matt and Birdie to make room in the parsonage for the new minister.”
“Why didn’t you take care of us?”
“Your father didn’t want me to.”
“Why not?”
“I can’t answer that. You’ll have to ask him.”
“You can’t answer it, or you won’t?” I asked angrily.
My grandmother smiled sadly. “I made a promise to your father that I would let him answer all of your questions. I’m so sorry, dear.”
I handed her my empty cup and grabbed a bar of soap to scrub the mud off my face. I waited for my temper to cool before asking, “Is my father like the Prodigal Son?”
“I’m not sure what you mean.”
“You told me he worked as a Yokefellow, and that he went into saloons and tried to convert people. He certainly doesn’t do things like that anymore. What happened?”
She seemed very reluctant to reply. I was surprised when she did.
“There was a time in your father’s life when he nearly became a preacher. But he found out, just in time, that he was doing it for the wrong reasons. It’s never right to serve God out of guilt or in order to please someone else. Your grandfather wanted a son who would follow in his footsteps. He didn’t understand that being a minister wasn’t your father’s calling.”
“What do you mean—it wasn’t his ‘calling’? Going calling is what I do with Aunt Agnes, with our calling cards.”
Grandmother smiled. “Your calling comes from God. It’s what He would like you to do with your life. He calls some people to be evangelists and ministers, but most of us are called to serve Him in other ways. I believe my calling is to serve the poor in His name. But regardless of what God’s plans for us are, He always gives us a choice. We can go our own way and do something else with our life if we choose to. God won’t force us.”
“How do I know what my calling is? Will I really hear Him calling? Like a voice in the dark?”
“No, although it would be a good deal simpler if He did call us that way. He’ll ask you to do something that uses your unique gifts and interests.”
“Like playing the piano? Is it my calling to play piano for Louis? Because if it is, God is going to have to do something about the stench, and the mud, and the dead horses, and—” My tears started to fall again, and I couldn’t finish. Grandmother handed me her handkerchief to wipe my eyes.
“I’m wet all over, Grandma,” I said, smiling at the irony. “It’s useless to dry a few tears.”
“Yes, I suppose so… . But listen, Violet, ministering to the poor may no
t be your calling. God has a reason for creating each of us as individuals, with no two people alike. He has a unique place for you in His kingdom. Look how different my three sisters and I are—and we all have different callings.We would be wrong to judge each other or to expect each other to do the same work.”
I swished my hands through the water as I pondered her words. “At school, we were all taught to be alike. Madame Beauchamps wanted us to act the same and talk the same—we were even supposed to smile the same and walk the same. She told us that society has standards of decorum and proper manners, and we were taught to conform to them. We weren’t supposed to stand out. We were punished if we did.”
“I think that’s very wrong, Violet. I agree that manners help keep our society civilized, but we’re still individuals. Even twins aren’t exactly alike.”
I thought of all the “pea-pod” partners I had danced with at Aunt Agnes’ parties, and how boringly alike they were. I’d been drawn to Nelson because he was different. He could conform as readily as the rest of them when he had to, but he behaved differently with me.
“Madame Beauchamps taught me how to be a proper young lady, but sometimes I don’t want to be so prim and … and boring. It isn’t the real me. I used to rebel—quietly—against some of the rules at school. I stayed in bed late and read books after lights-out with my friend Ruth, books that Madame B. would never approve of. A lot of the time I lived in my imagination. So how do I know if I’m still rebelling or if this is the way God made me? How can I tell the difference?”
“You be exactly who God created you to be,” she said fervently, “and don’t let anyone tell you otherwise. And whatever you do, don’t make choices in life just to please somebody else. The only One you ever need to please is God.”
“But how will I know what my calling is?”
“Do you ever pray, Violet?”
“Yes, on Sunday mornings … and before I go to sleep… .” I gave a guilty shrug.
