IN THE CITY OF FADS.

Otago Witness, Issue 2358, 4 May 1899, Page 58

IN THE CITY OF FADS.

By Edith Seaelb Gkossmaxn, M.A. OUR OLD PEOPLE'S JUBILEE HOME. Aud old age is a time of peace, so it be but free from pain. — Tennyson. It is astonishing how ignorant people are of their own institutions. A correspondent writing' to one of our dailies here worked herself up into a fever of wrath at the . thought of what old people must endure at the Jubilee Home, shut up in a prison, husband separated from wife, and so on. The worst of it is that old people themselves regard the place with traditional horror as a kind of workhouse, and wpuld rather stay on in their own wretched little rooms, shivering and half-fed on the Charitable Aid Board's miserable pittance of coal and food. We have just paid a visit to the Jubilee Home, my -friend and I, and if we could only have our friends round us, we should not be much shocked at the prospect of closing our own days here. .

The Home is in the Heathcote Valley amongst orchards and dairy farms and broad grass-bordered roads and country lanes with over-shadowing trees. It was an autumn afternoon with a chill wind blowing but a bright sun. The big red brick building — one of Mr Hurst Seager's, and .artistic as Jiis" usually _are — has for near background the blue-grey Port hills, with the soft lights and shadows of the western atmosphere about them. The garden l against the walls is rich just now with a wealth of brown and gold and white and dull crimson chrysanthemums, just dashed with scarlet geraniums and naked with white cosmias Weaving on thrtr slender stalks.

The Home was first begun in the '87 Jubilee, and the part then builb includes the front — that is, the matron's cosy sitting room, the women's sitting room, the men's sitting room, a spacious dining room, and a long western corridor, which we found warm with the afternoon sun, and behind these the old people's ' beui'ooms, opening on. to an octagon, with flower beds and paths. At the time of the Diamond Jubilea another wing was added, long rows of bedrooms, some east, some west, with doors opening on long corridors, each wing divided from the other by open spaces for flowers or vegetables. The matron received us very kindly though we had given no notice of our visit, took us all over the institution and gave us all the information we asked for, _ as if she really liked being interviewed. On seeing her, one feels at once she is an ideal head for such a place. There was, strength and rest on her face and in her presence wherever :he went. With her we went through every ward, stopping here arid there to speak to some old man or woman on the way. All the '87 part has. its walls tinted a cheerful light blue, the new part is simply whitewashed which has a cold dull effect. The dining room, lit by the sun, was bright and pleasant, with a few cheap pictures on the wall and a piano in one corner. In the western corridor we met our first old lady, sitting on a bench in the sunshine. Asked whether she sat there to enjoy the sunshine she said, " No," it was to see from the windows if anyone was coming for her. She was watching for her son, the only human being that she still loves and clings to. Her husband is in tho Home, but they rarely see each other, rarely care to. The men and women dine together, aro perfectly free to go where they like and meet when they like ; and there are rooms for the married couples. There is no separation, and it is difficult to imagine why so barbarous a plan was ever insisted on in England between the aged poor who have only each otiier to love. They wear no uniform here. The women sitting in a circle round the fire have their own clothes and are plainly and respectably dressed, their very garments reminiscent of times gone by — an old shawl over the shoulders, the hair bagged in a " cabbage net." In the corridor we found a few books ; but here I must insinuate a fault. They are antiquated and very dreary, and I was not surprised to hear that they are seldom read. It is true the inmates do not care for much reading, still they mi^ht divert themselves occasionally if they had something more interesting. I wish some of our philanthropists would tiike it into their heads to send a bookcase full of good books some day. These were mostly ragged remnants, and they were thrown in a heap into an empty room where one of the old men found them. There for some days he would .stay hours together, patiently sorting them and binding them, and pasting labels with their titles on the back till they were ready for the bookcase. We found the book-lover farther on in his bedroom with two of his cronies, sitting over a coal fire — a fine old man with white beard and intelligent face. Bless you, he says, he is not old ; he is (I think) about 70, but, his neighbour here is close on 90. In the smoking room we found one man alone. My friend opened her lips to address him but the stifling fumes cut the speech short and we beat a hasty retreat.

We were soon in the women's quarters. Out of 65 inmates, 54 are women. Each ha? a room to herself. There she spends most of her days alone ; sometimes just sitting still in an armchair, dreaming, perhaps, of old days and things gone by — dead faces and distant homes. Sometimes she takes up a piece of sewing, or she potters about the. room and arranges to suit her fancy her bits of furniture and her nicknacks, or if she has enough energy she goes to the common sitting room for a gossip with sociable friends, or takes a slow stroll about the grounds. One old lady made a good suggestion to us. They must get some walnut trees, she says, and plant them on the lawn and put seats round for the summer. The old ladies sitting there in their sunbonaets will do for dahlias, th« adds brightly. Each of the little bedrooms that we enter has a pretty, artistic grate, and in n3arly all a fire is burning. A tin of coal stands by the side of the grate, and sach woman has a, little tin kettle so that

sKe can. make herself a cup of ten when she feels inclined. A good iron bed, and all else that is necessary, is provided ; but she brings with her from her old home" all -the furniture endeared by memories of the time when husband and child were young. She arranges and ornaments her room as she likes. The dreary uniformity of the workhouse has vanished. No one room is like another. One cherishes a. photograph of the cottage that was hers- in her • youth ; another has a picture of Mr Gladstone ; another finds solace in two flaring Salvation Army almanacs. One who is a great contriver has fixed up a cabinet for herself on the wall and draped it with lace curtains. We find her sitting by a worktable, a piece of sewing in her hands. ■ Mrs Richards — I shall change their names, though I think they would hardly mind if I did not — receives us cordially, and when the matron is called away " glows with praises of her. "If we aren't happy, we ought to be," she concludes. But she is not really old herself, not 60 yet, only disabled, and the weariness and dissatisfaction, of long life have not reached her yet. A friend of mine visiting a querulous protegee of hers in the Home said, " You are well off here," and receiving for answer, " I don't know so much about that," cufc -short further complainings by concluding, ".Well, at any rate, you, are a great deal better off than you ever were before." Which Was, in truth, undeniable

Mrs Richards stakes us to the Gaunts, in the married people's wing. ' They are sitting in their room together, the l)arby anil Joan of the Home. A thin, nerv-oiiis woman, she hovers about for a time, and. even when sitting her hands work restlessly, while he sits patient and still, a fine large man, but feeble and shaken with a cough. She had thought of taking a walk in the garden, she says, but " Grandpa " is too old to go with her, and she will not go alone. Then she tells us what has so shaken her nerves — a sad tale of suffering and dread agitating frail worn nerves that so needed rest. She had gone to the hospital with cataract in her eye — a bandage is over it now — but a crony of hers was taken away, for an operation ,_and -when brought back, lay all night dying, with the dreadful rattle ia lic-r throat. She died at morning, and l,he shock so affected her friend that she had a spasm of the heart, and when night again came lay alone in a dead faint. After that she could get no peace until she had persuaded nurse and doctor to let her go back ''home," as she calls it, and be with her husband. While she talks to us, the Irishwoman next door is going in and out of the passage, afraid lest we should fail to visit her. But we have no time to stay longei here.

In the Octagon we were to have visited an old lady of title who has the prettiest room in the Home ; but she is out, and we are left to surmise from, the flower-stand at inn door with its flowering geraniums and pawa shells, some relics o( old artistic instincts, pei-haps some taste of jace.

Of the kitchen, I shall only, say as an auctioneer's advertisement would "that it has every modern convenience, with ample pantries and sculleries attached. Preparations art .going on for to-morrow's dinner, and there is a compound smell suggestive of a steamer. In a large tin dish the paste is being mixed for apple pies, while a bright young girl is busy over what looks like a plain raisin cake. Beside the matron, there . are only four on the staff, and one man to look after the garden; but all who are

not disabled do their -own rooms except scrubbing. Our friend Mr Gaunt is a great gnrdener, and laments over the neglect of the flower-beds during his illness.

The women help in easy household jobssuch as washing up and folding clothes. But they evidently have plenty of time for what they like best, the leisure and solitude of their own rooms. The orchard and the vegetable garden abundantly furnish forth the table. We hear of only one old ■woman preferring the pension to the Jubilee. Home, and no doubt she- has- alreadyfound her mistake, for no one knows how she will manage on a little over 6s a week, out of which 4s must go for rent. Here, with shelter free, and all the economy of a large establishment, they reckon the weeklycost at 7s 6d each.

As we are leaving the Home, we give one glance back at the red brick house with the glow of flowers against its walls. There is a touch of winter in the air, and the afternoon shadows are lengthening. An old couple with slow, feeble steps are walking together to the big white gate. Down the lane we meet others returning from their Saturday's outing into town. They are freeto come and go as they like ; they may stay with married* daughters or sons for days together. (Sometimes they have excursions to the farm or pleasure grounds of some friend, oi to the Sumner beach. Sometimes they have a " high tea " and <t little itiusic given them by a friendly society. But for the most part they live in quiet, waiting for the end. They are, it must be remembered, the respectable and deserving poor, those who have been left alone, with their battle ended and their storm past. Though friends are free to visit when they like, they rarely come. Perhaps some thab sit in their rooms, patient or querulous, arc waiting day by day for a son or daughter or some favourite grandchild who lias little time and thought to spare for grandmother. Are they happy? Well, we can hardly expect that. These are not tho loved and cherished parents of prosperous families, but the forsaken or the desolate and bereaved, who have outlived their children. The chill and loneliness of old age. creep like shadows about this place. That musfc be so. It is enough that here there is an isle of rest.

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