I continued my sojourn with the Nosnibors. In a few days Mr. Nosnibor
had recovered from his flogging, and was looking forward with glee to
the fact that the next would be the last. I did not think that there
seemed any occasion even for this; but he said it was better to be on
the safe side, and he would make up the dozen. He now went to his
business as usual; and I understood that he was never more prosperous,
in spite of his heavy fine. He was unable to give me much of his time
during the day; for he was one of those valuable men who are paid, not
by the year, month, week, or day, but by the minute. His wife and
daughters, however, made much of me, and introduced me to their
friends, who came in shoals to call upon me.
One of these persons was a lady called Mahaina. Zulora (the elder of my
host’s daughters) ran up to her and embraced her as soon as she entered
the room, at the same time inquiring tenderly after her “poor
dipsomania.” Mahaina answered that it was just as bad as ever; she was
a perfect martyr to it, and her excellent health was the only thing
which consoled her under her affliction.
Then the other ladies joined in with condolences and the never-failing
suggestions which they had ready for every mental malady. They
recommended their own straightener and disparaged Mahaina’s. Mrs.
Nosnibor had a favourite nostrum, but I could catch little of its
nature. I heard the words “full confidence that the desire to drink
will cease when the formula has been repeated * * * this confidence is
_everything_ * * * far from undervaluing a thorough determination never
to touch spirits again * * * fail too often * * * formula a _certain
cure_ (with great emphasis) * * * prescribed form * * * full
conviction.” The conversation then became more audible, and was carried
on at considerable length. I should perplex myself and the reader by
endeavouring to follow the ingenious perversity of all they said;
enough, that in the course of time the visit came to an end, and
Mahaina took her leave receiving affectionate embraces from all the
ladies. I had remained in the background after the first ceremony of
introduction, for I did not like the looks of Mahaina, and the
conversation displeased me. When she left the room I had some
consolation in the remarks called forth by her departure.
At first they fell to praising her very demurely. She was all this that
and the other, till I disliked her more and more at every word, and
inquired how it was that the straighteners had not been able to cure
her as they had cured Mr. Nosnibor.
There was a shade of significance on Mrs. Nosnibor’s face as I said
this, which seemed to imply that she did not consider Mahaina’s case to
be quite one for a straightener. It flashed across me that perhaps the
poor woman did not drink at all. I knew that I ought not to have
inquired, but I could not help it, and asked point blank whether she
did or not.
“We can none of us judge of the condition of other people,” said Mrs.
Nosnibor in a gravely charitable tone and with a look towards Zulora.
“Oh, mamma,” answered Zulora, pretending to be half angry but rejoiced
at being able to say out what she was already longing to insinuate; “I
don’t believe a word of it. It’s all indigestion. I remember staying in
the house with her for a whole month last summer, and I am sure she
never once touched a drop of wine or spirits. The fact is, Mahaina is a
very weakly girl, and she pretends to get tipsy in order to win a
forbearance from her friends to which she is not entitled. She is not
strong enough for her calisthenic exercises, and she knows she would be
made to do them unless her inability was referred to moral causes.”
Here the younger sister, who was ever sweet and kind, remarked that she
thought Mahaina did tipple occasionally. “I also think,” she added,
“that she sometimes takes poppy juice.”
“Well, then, perhaps she does drink sometimes,” said Zulora; “but she
would make us all think that she does it much oftener in order to hide
her weakness.”
And so they went on for half an hour and more, bandying about the
question as to how far their late visitor’s intemperance was real or
no. Every now and then they would join in some charitable commonplace,
and would pretend to be all of one mind that Mahaina was a person whose
bodily health would be excellent if it were not for her unfortunate
inability to refrain from excessive drinking; but as soon as this
appeared to be fairly settled they began to be uncomfortable until they
had undone their work and left some serious imputation upon her
constitution. At last, seeing that the debate had assumed the character
of a cyclone or circular storm, going round and round and round and
round till one could never say where it began nor where it ended, I
made some apology for an abrupt departure and retired to my own room.
Here at least I was alone, but I was very unhappy. I had fallen upon a
set of people who, in spite of their high civilisation and many
excellences, had been so warped by the mistaken views presented to them
during childhood from generation to generation, that it was impossible
to see how they could ever clear themselves. Was there nothing which I
could say to make them feel that the constitution of a person’s body
was a thing over which he or she had had at any rate no initial control
whatever, while the mind was a perfectly different thing, and capable
of being created anew and directed according to the pleasure of its
possessor? Could I never bring them to see that while habits of mind
and character were entirely independent of initial mental force and
early education, the body was so much a creature of parentage and
circumstances, that no punishment for ill-health should be ever
tolerated save as a protection from contagion, and that even where
punishment was inevitable it should be attended with compassion?
Surely, if the unfortunate Mahaina were to feel that she could avow her
bodily weakness without fear of being despised for her infirmities, and
if there were medical men to whom she could fairly state her case, she
would not hesitate about doing so through the fear of taking nasty
medicine. It was possible that her malady was incurable (for I had
heard enough to convince me that her dipsomania was only a pretence and
that she was temperate in all her habits); in that case she might
perhaps be justly subject to annoyances or even to restraint; but who
could say whether she was curable or not, until she was able to make a
clean breast of her symptoms instead of concealing them? In their
eagerness to stamp out disease, these people overshot their mark; for
people had become so clever at dissembling—they painted their faces
with such consummate skill—they repaired the decay of time and the
effects of mischance with such profound dissimulation—that it was
really impossible to say whether any one was well or ill till after an
intimate acquaintance of months or years. Even then the shrewdest were
constantly mistaken in their judgements, and marriages were often
contracted with most deplorable results, owing to the art with which
infirmity had been concealed.
It appeared to me that the first step towards the cure of disease
should be the announcement of the fact to a person’s near relations and
friends. If any one had a headache, he ought to be permitted within
reasonable limits to say so at once, and to retire to his own bedroom
and take a pill, without every one’s looking grave and tears being shed
and all the rest of it. As it was, even upon hearing it whispered that
somebody else was subject to headaches, a whole company must look as
though they had never had a headache in their lives. It is true they
were not very prevalent, for the people were the healthiest and most
comely imaginable, owing to the severity with which ill health was
treated; still, even the best were liable to be out of sorts sometimes,
and there were few families that had not a medicine-chest in a cupboard
somewhere.