The San Francisco Call. Newspaper, October 23, 1904, Page 7

BY EBR ool LIGHT FROM A DARK DLACE AND PROPOSES MARRIAGE™ * . HEN will the artist arise to paint an adequate picture of New York? And what will he be—a Taine, to touch its social life with gentle satire; a Zola, to paint poor, simple truth in garments’ of needless black and red; a Crawford, first to swiftly sketch beginnings, so that we may under- stand what is now; a Dickens, to point only to the light and shadow cast by the sun of one day; a Tolstoy, to reveal the hidden? The lightness and strength, the profundity, the exaggeration, the truth of them all must be in the service or the task will be but begun. There is work for each, and then another must come to help; one must come who will treat history not as romance, nor yet as science, but as philosophy, or else the work will lack depth, will be but a Pre-Raphaclite drawing—a testi~ mony to art, not truth. Why am I in 2 mood to ask this, you inquire? ‘However much you wonder, mine exceeds yours. I maftvel that only now is this great city impressing me in the way the first question in this letter indicates. Yet 1 think it must be so with many visitors; many must see only the surer- ficial bright surface of' New York, and deem that they have seen all and re entertained than enlightened. Ah, Uncle Silas, what a light I have ceived in both heart and mind! An event of one recent week will give me a theme to illustrate my meaning. Within that -eck two hotels were opened in this city, either of h would have made a nation-wide topic of wondering comment not y years ago, yvet here the eyent passed with but some casual press ices, as a matter of but slight general interest. In one portion of New ’s manv sided social structure the event was of almost paramount 1ce; on the other hand, a vastly greater bulk of the population not know that such an event had occurred, and if they had been in- 1ld have had but slight, if any, interest in the matter. I, T am told, stands for the outlay of some eight millions. patrons with the luxuries the palaces of few princes offer and inces can afford to purchase. There no elegance and refinement: of surroundings the roduced, is not at command. The other y palace of pleasure, whose throngs of patrons would seem to be creatures of a life aside from this workaday world, more like the presentments of the footlights than the realities of the world of and day. Other millions—many of them—have been poured into this pile, all to the purpose, it would seem, to perfect a house of de- a magic spot whereon no seamy thing may rest. Light, color, music, ing fabrics—these are the things of which its unsubstantial structure cousists. can.money luxury, no sciences have Not z2lone to the class of New Yorkers to whom hotel life is a matter of real concern as to their comfort, but to the more exclusive, who look n that life as they do the theater, as a source of occasional entertain- ent, did these openings offer subject of comment. Mrs. Lacquerre said we must see the new elephants, and I made plans to do so. I will occupy your attention with observations on the contrasting social at- mospheres we experienced at the two hotels—at one, an air almost as if private home of pronounced richness and elegance; at the other as if at some festival of the Tuileries—with no hint of a red-capped figure to affright. These might be profitable speculations for a brighter pen than mine, would be worthy a chapter by the philosopher-historian I long to welcome. But it were futile for me more than thus to indicate the surging tide of materialistic splendor which has risen over New York. Ah, not all New York! That is the point. Another New York does not so much as know of the existence of these palaces whose openings were the notable events in the programmes of pleasure of those at our elbows when we dined there. Miss Frances Lacquerre brought this to my mind and at the same time revealed a phase of her life of which until then I had no intimation. As we sat at a table illumined with the soft rays of delicately shaded elec- tric lights, silently served with dainty viands and exquisite wines, in a hall rich with carvings, with marble and bronze, with satin and silk, listen- ing to soft music, followed by brilliantly dressed women, by men in whose faces one looked in vain for trace of worldly care, I said, “The senses have triumphed; Materialism is crowned king! ,Remains no lofty senti- ment, no spirituality in the world. Without another Renaissance sweetness and light will never again soften and brighterfhe human soul. 'No won- der that poetry is dead, music languishes, literature halts, high purpose stands still, religion, neglected by the wayside, calls feebly and in vain for devotees. When last there was a poet he truly said: ‘ The world is too much with us; late and soon, Getting and spending, we lay waste our powers; Little we see in nature that is ours. We have given our hearts away, a sordid boon! we were at a Miss Lacquerre listened to me with what seemed impatient indulgence, and then said: “To generalize from a single instance is said to be a woman’s fault. However, come with mamma and me to-night and see—what you see.” Mrs. Lacquerre regarded her daughter with evidence of mild distress and asked, “Must we go, dear?” “I- have promised, mamma,” Florence replied. them it would be indecent to fail after my promise.” “Then we must cut out the ice, coffee, cheese and cognac from this din- ner,” Mrs. Lacquerre replied with a sigh. “Come, Reuben; Frances and I must change our gowns and then you may drive with us and see this aston- ishing gal of mine in a role new to you.” We left the dining-room, with its hundreds of guests bubbling on a rising tide of conversation, with the animated scene at the height of the evening’s gayety and glamour, and were driven to Mrs. Lacquerre’s r - dence, where the ladies soon changed their dinner toilets into simple gowns. Then we drove to a part of the city I had not before visited; into streets densely crowded, yet strangely lacking in animation, as if the multi- tude were listlegs from fatigue or lack of interest in the further struggle for life. We were in the section where population is more dense than any- where else on earth—the great tenement district of the very poor. At a ground floor hall, a large room which might have been made by throwing two or more stores into one, we stopped, and the carriage door was stantly surrounded by a pack of faces, children’s faces, and presently there arose a cry, spoken in many strange dialects, “It is Miss Frances! She is come! She will sing! She will not disappoint!” and, led and fol- lowed by the children, we made our way into the already overcrowded hall. There we were met by some gentlemen and ladies, who warmly wel- comed Frances and to whom I was introduced. They were members of a tenmement mission society, whose work, in part, is to entertain children who otherwise would be subjected to the night temptations of the streets. Not all of the audience were young; there were men and women, some old, some rough and villainous looking, I must say, but all equally in- terested in the arrival of Frances. I must explain tliat on certain nights in the month she sings at these “I do so little for RECEIVES A GREAT ‘T e THE SAN FRANCISCO SUNDAY CALL gatherings and has made herself a great favorite there. It had been an. nounced that she would sing thére that night, and because of our delayed arrival there were lamentations for the fear that she would™n8f®ome. But the children, sometimes so wise in reading character, had said, “She will come!” and the elders had waited, lioping. To say‘that all this was a sur- prise to me but faintly expresses my feelings. I had not even known that Frances sang at all; I certainly never suspected that under her worldly cynicism dwelt a character which would prompt her to do such work as this. 3 Places were found for us on a platform where the piano stood and a young lady stepped to the piano ahead of Frances and struck a few chords of music, which were greeted with frantic cheers—they were the signal that Frances would sing the song best liked by most of her hearers. I watched the faces of the people as Frances, sweetly smiling, stepped to the front of the platform. Pale from under-nourishment and bad air, lined with early toil, they brightened and were transfigured as they eagerly, breathlessly waited for the sound of her voice. There were women there of her own age, with faces and features as faultless, possibly, but in whose eyes animation had been smothered by hard, dull lives. These, especially. looked at her with wondering rapture in their awakened eyes. She first sang a simple folk song of Italv, and at the first note the eyes of the elders filled and those of the younger glowed until every shade of care was ban- ished by the new light of happiness. The Italians cheered wildly when she finished, and then there were loud demands for a certain German song. This she sang graciously, and her first triumph was repeated. I looked at Mer and saw a transformation as great as that in the faces of her listeners. Surely, here wassnot the pol- ished society girl whose hardness to me had been so cruell Now her eyes were soft and filled with a great, understanding pity which gave her an exalted loveliness. She smiled at the applause which greeted her, and then there arose a general demand for another song—“The Star-Spangled Ban- ner.” This, I was told, was always asked of her because the children, the youngest, those still in school, were taught it and in turn taught the tune, at least, to their elders at home. I have never been moved in such manner and degree as when the crowd, from the old and bent to those who stood on benches that they might see her, rose and with a very babel of accents sang the chorus with Frances. . Above all the others-her voice sprang clear in the high notes—exultant, ringing, passionate! I turned from the faces of those who watched her, adoring, and I, too, adored! Yes, Uncle Silas, there is a truth of which 1 am proud; I loved her then, and knew that I loved her for the first time. But, oh, how repulsed I felt! I, who but an hour before, with cock-sure conceit, had talked of the absence of spirituality, of sweetness and light, maundering my feeble words to a woman whose life, secret from her own world, was spiritual; who was giving sweetness and light from her own rich store into the starved lives of a people whose existence was unknown to me—to con- ceited me! My power of speech left me, and on our way home I did not speak. Mrs. Lacquerre was silent as I, and I suspect that in spite of her assumption of martyrdom at this phase of her daughter’s life, she is, in truth, mighty proud of it. As we reached their home Mrs. Lacquerre asked me in, saying: “As we cut short our dinner we must see if we can’t find something to eat here.” " As her mother went to order for us Frances turned to me and said: “I am only an occasional volunteer in that work. There are men and women—Iladies and gentlemen, if you like—who devote their lives to it. Do you think they find there a man, woman or child who will ever dine where we dined to-night? Do you think that with such workers for the spiritual uplifting of the poor all is materialism in this city of ours?” “It is a strange city,” I said. “Life is strar;ge; you are a strange woman—I love you!” When I began the speech I did not intend to finish as I did, nor did I mean to say what I did that night. It was an impulsive utterance, but hav- ing said it I could not refrain from saying again and again, many times, “I love you! Will you be my wife?” “Certainly not!” she replied, with much conviction. nothing.” “Oh!” I exclaimed, with sudden light, “is it that you want me to do?” “That, or anything else which will teach you what the world really is.” T was about to protest that I would do anything for a word of hope from her, but her mother entered the room, and, although I am proud to have the whole world know that I love Frances. a sudden overwhelming recollection that the first woman I ever proposed marriage to was Fran- Ggs’ mother kept me silent in humiliation. Uncle Silas, hurry your trip here. I need your help. I am a fool, cer- tainly, but I do not believe that I am hopelessly one. I think I can be cured, and I want your help, for I believe that when I am cured T can hope for Frances. Affectionately, REUBEN. “You have done