I took a bundle of old letters out of a jacket pocket this morning to
look for a document which I wanted, and which I thought might be
there. It was not there. I was not in the least surprised. I am
never surprised when I do not find things in my pockets. Long
experience has taught me not to expect to find what I want in my
pockets and what ought to be there. But, on the other hand, I rarely
fail to find things I do not want, things that simply refuse to be
lost, negligible things, tiresome things, old bills, old envelopes of
vanished letters, notes I have made about matters long since dead,
sometimes startling things that make me leap up with ejaculations
only wrung from me in moments of sudden dismay.
It was so this morning. For though I did not find the document I
wanted, I found a couple of letters, written a fortnight ago, put in
envelopes, addressed and stamped--but not posted. One of them was of
little consequence: the other was of much consequence. It was to a
person who, I knew, expected to hear from me on an important matter,
and from whom I had expected to hear in reply. I had wondered why he
had not replied, and why when he saw me at a club a few days ago he
rather obviously avoided me. I felt puzzled, for there had been
nothing in my letter at which he could take offence--yet obviously he
had taken offence. Now I knew why he had taken offence. He was
annoyed at not receiving a letter from me which he had expected to
receive, and I was annoyed at not receiving a reply to a letter I had
not sent.
And in this little incident I saw an illustration of most of the
personal differences which afflict us in our journey through this
troublesome life. Take a common example. A is talking to B as they
walk along the street on a subject of absorbing interest to him when
C passes them. A knows C quite well, and in ordinary circumstances
would give him a cordial greeting, but he is so full of his argument
with B that he is only dimly conscious of C's propinquity and he
passes with a vague air of having seen him in another world. A has
no intention of being rude or even distant, and goes on without the
least idea that he has given C offence. Indeed, he is not aware that
he has seen C, so deep was he in thought about other things. But C
is a proud fellow, ready to feel an affront, and resolute in paying
it back. The next time they meet C is stiff and remote and A goes
away wondering why the fellow cut him and determined to be something
of an iceberg himself when the occasion arises. And so from this
trivial incident A and C drift into an attitude of hostility and
aloofness which a moment's candour on either side would show to have
no shadow of foundation.
Most of the actions of other people which give us annoyance spring
from causes that have nothing to do with the motives we assign to
them. Othello smothers Desdemona through a misunderstanding about a
handkerchief that five minutes' quiet talk would have cleared up,
with disastrous results to the villain, Iago. It is an excellent
rule to distrust our reading of facts, still more our reading of
other people's motives in relation to them. It is wrong in nine
cases out of ten. I can hardly recall a case in which my first
conclusion as to why So-and-So did this or that has not, on fuller
knowledge, turned out to be absurdly wide of the mark. How can it be
otherwise? How, for example, can that excellent person who avoided
me at the club know that I have not been guilty of an act of wilful
discourtesy towards him? He does not know that the nice letter I
wrote to him has been lying in one of my pockets for a fortnight. I
did not even know it myself. Yet the knowledge of that fact is
essential to a true understanding of my conduct towards him. He has
doubtless smothered me under the pillow, Othello-fashion, as a rude
fellow. It is a mistake. I am only a careless fellow who ought not
to be trusted with such treacherous things as pockets.
I think the moral of it all is summed up in the remark which an
intrepid lady, whose name has of late become a household word, once
made to me. "I never allow misunderstandings to go unexplained," she
said. "If a friend 'cuts' me I ask her why she cut me, and I usually
find it is for a reason that does not exist. If I don't understand
the action of a friend I ask for an explanation, and I generally find
it clears the air." It is a good rule. If we were not too proud to
explain ourselves or to ask explanations of others most of the
misunderstandings of life would disappear, and many of our worries
with them.
In the meantime, I have posted that letter, with a covering note of
explanation. That will remove one misunderstanding from my own
encumbered path.