The first issue of the magazine Die Frau (The Woman) announced its purpose in October 1893 with an ambitious subtitle: “A monthly journal for the complete life of women in our time.”¹ The lead article by editor Helene Lange described the term ‘woman’ as bringing forth “an abundance of pictures and thoughts…the poetry of the domestic hearth, the creative and protective mother, the faithful nurse and educator…pictures of completely carefree grace.”² Only women of privileged classes had ever been so carefree. But Lange declared that in the past few decades, such cozy images had been disrupted when “a callous hand brushed across the domestic hearth and directed millions of women out into the world.”³ The “callous hand” extended from the arm of industrialization. Lange contended that industry had displaced millions of middle-class females from their roles as domestic helpmates in the homes of parents, married brothers, and wealthier families seeking governesses or household managers. These forced outcasts comprised the Frauenüberschuß, or surplus of women. In her overture to the women of the modern age, Lange decried the “bitter peril” and “spiritual distress” that confronted the unwed bourgeois women of the German empire.

      But Die Frau, along with the broader German women's movement, did not intend to leave these women in such a dire predicament. Together, the publications, organizations, and leadership of the women's movement would bring about “a new time…in which the woman…would stand before great challenges, her horizons would expand, her view would deepen; when powers which had so far slumbered would uniquely have to unfold.”⁴ Out of the ‘bitter peril’ of the unmarried, strong and dynamic females would emerge. Compelled by the Frauenüberschuß, the German women's movement crafted its mission.

      Eleven years after Die Frau began publication, women's rights advocate Elisabeth Gnauck-Kühne published a volume of fairy tales “for the young and old.”⁵ Gnauck-Kühne's foray into fantasy was unusual for an author who spent most of her career engaged in demographic and social analyses. She intended to evoke in these stories the traumas of the modern age, especially those affecting women. One stirring tale, “Die Nachtigall” depicted the life of a nightingale who lived in a lush green valley. The splendor of the land inspired the nightingale:

      “When I see such beauty my heart swells with air in my breast and I have to sing”…Joyously and devoutly, the song sounded through the quiet evening air, so that the frogs in the pond stopped croaking, the gnats stopped dancing, and over in the farmyard the young farmer in shirtsleeves…took the pipe out of his mouth and called through the open window into the gloomy room: “Listen, listen, the nightingale is singing.” And those returning through the valley…stood as if transfixed and put their finger to their mouths, held their breath, and waved to stragglers to be quiet: “The nightingale is singing! Listen, listen, the nightingale is singing!”⁶

      The nightingale lived quite happily—until one day a frog disparaged her song. The frog accused the nightingale of fraudulence, arguing that the bird's joyful noise misrepresented reality: “You are alone. Even the gnats are swarmed together, and my kind also answers me—just listen.” And sure enough, a chorus of croaks responded to the call of the nightingale's antagonist. The frog offered advice: “Think of the future, seek a companion, build a stable nest and make yourself useful. Then you will have reason to sing.”⁷

      The bird brooded and soon became overcome with sadness at her isolation:

      The nightingale began to sing again, but softer and with a deeper tone and the song sounded like a question: Why, why am I alone? And she thought about who might answer her if she called out. The thought never left her…Then a hot pain seized the nightingale. “Wherever I look, I see couples,” she sobbed softly. “Only I am forsaken.” And she felt a longing as if her pounding heart would break, and it would have broken in pain if she did not sing. But she sang; she sang as never before. The song welled up mightily…it sounded tender and sweet as a harp…In this way the nightingale lightened her heart and consoled herself, until she thought, “Even if I am alone, I am rich in my pain, for I have my song, my song!”⁸

      Companionship soon alleviated her despair: “One evening…a hesitating, twittering sound answered her. The nightingale trembled, she did not know why and did not want to believe her ears. But the tone resounded louder and louder and the guest flew nearer and nearer until he was sitting right next to her: yes, her companion was there!” The nightingale and her partner built a nest together and “her longing was filled, her pain quieted. She was no longer alone.”⁹

      After some time had passed, the frog was awakened in the midst of a sunny day's nap by a sudden movement in the trees:

      Was he seeing right? Yes, really and truly, a bird flew over the water directly toward the old willow: it was the nightingale! “Hello! Hello, dear nightingale!” the frog called out happily…But after he had observed her for a little while, he added uncertainly: “You are looking around so restlessly, is something wrong? Can I get you a fly or something?”

      “No, oh no,” whispered the nightingale, “I thank you, but I have everything I would wish: I am full, I am full.”

      “But you look around so strangely, as if lost…are you looking for something?”

      Then the nightingale gave a loud sob. “I have lost my song. I seek my pain and my song—my song.”¹⁰

      Elisabeth Gnauck-Kühne's nightingale grapples with the contradictory chords of her natural calling amidst the censure of bystanders. The bird at first thrived