THE SUFFERING OF SELF-PITY
Alac MacReady was not much of an oarsman. Big and strong, and
heretofore so successful that his large self-confidence had never been
badly jolted, he was quite at a disadvantage, this June afternoon, as
he attempted to row pretty Annette Neil across the head of the lake to
where she said the fishing was good. Twice already he had splashed her
dainty, starched frock, ironed, he knew, in the highest perfection of
the art, by her own active, shapely, brown hands. And each awkward
splashing had been followed by flashing glances which shriveled self-
esteem even as they fascinated. They had planned to spend the sunset
hour fishing, then land in time to meet the crowd and be driven on to
Border City to a neighboring dance, and all come back to Geneva
together.
Alac's rural North-England training had developed in him many
qualifications of worth but, among these, boating was not one. Had he
told the truth when this little trip was planned, he would have
admitted that he had never rowed a boat a half-mile in his life.
Annette could do it tip-top; why not he? But things were
unquestionably perverse. The boat wouldn't go in a straight line-in
fact, it didn't go very fast anyway. The black eyes before him framed
by that impudently beautiful face, so pert, so naive, so
understandingly aware--so "damned handsome" he said to himself,
prodded him to redoubled effort. He was swinging his two hundred
pounds lustily, unevenly--an unusually vicious jerk, and snap went the
old oar! Off the seat he tumbled, and, with land-lubber's luck,
unshipped the other oar and away it floated, and a mile from land,
they drifted.
Alac MacReady was Scotch-English. The family had executed a number of
important contracts for the British government; one of these had
brought two of the boys to Canada. With their family backing, they had
undertaken some constructive work in northern New York, and, at this
time, were building a railroad which passed through Geneva. Alac had
been in the neighborhood for two months supervising operations. He was
striking in appearance--a florid-faced' blonde, brusque in business,
quite jovial socially, and cracking--full of the conceit of youth,
wealth and station. So far, life had, in practically nothing, refused
his bidding.
Annette Neil's father kept a small store, Annette did much of the
clerking. She was unquestionably the prettiest girl in Geneva; indeed
she was as pretty as girls are made. With all her small-town
limitations she was bright as a pin, and as sharp; fine of instinct
and, withal, coy as a coquette. The first time Alac addressed her it
was as a shop-keeper. Something she said kept turning over in his
brain and he realized next morning, as he was shaving, that her reply
had been impertinent. Piqued, he returned the day after to make
another purchase, and made the greater mistake of being patronizing.
Mr. Alac MacReady discovered, without any prolonged period of
rumination, that he had a bee in his bonnet, and left the little shop
semispeechless and irate. He was not satisfied to leave the honors
with this "snip of an American girl," and evolved a plan of verbal
assault which was to bring the provincial upstart to her senses, only
to discover that she had a dozen defenses for each attack, and to find
himself, for two consecutive, disconcerting minutes, wondering if
perchance he might be a "boob." With each visit--and they were almost
daily and many of them made in the face of strong, contrary
resolution--he felt the distinction in their stations disappearing. He
later found himself calling on Annette's mother, and, stiffly at
first, later humbly asking for the company of the bewitching girl,
who, coy witch that she was, steadfastly refused to be "company" even
when her mother said she might. This trip across the lake was the
first real concession the little minx had made-and how "bloomingly" he
"messed it up"! He was not used to the water, and, oarless, became
"panicky." A pair of ridiculing eyes caused him to break off his
second bellow for help, in its midst.
The little boat drifted slowly. The June breeze was not strong. The
sun slipped behind radiant clouds, clouds which shifted and softened,
and tinted and toned through the pastels into the neutrals. Gently
they were nearing the shore when the great, golden moon rose in the
east, and soon brightening, shimmered the lake with countless, dancing
splotches of silver. The water lapped with ceaseless, dainty caresses
the sides of the boat. Some mother-bird nestling near the water's edge
crooned her good-night message to her mate. A halo surrounded and
softened the white face so near and, as part of the evening symphony,
two dark eyes rested upon his face, deeply luminous. There are
different stories of what he said. He admitted he was never so
awkward. But they missed their companions, and the dance, and walked
all the way 'round the head of the lake, home, this proud son of near-
nobility doing obeisance to his untutored queen. So Alac and Annette
married. They traveled far, first to Canada, then to England.
Annette's sheer beauty and remarkable taste in the use of Alac's
prodigal gifts of clothing and jewels carried the badly disturbed and
certainly unfavorably prejudiced MacReady family by assault. Ten years
they lived in the big Northumberland home. A boy and a girl came, both
blondes like their father. The MacReady boys were not meeting the same
success in their contracting ventures for which two former generations
had been noted. And, after their father's death, one particularly
disastrous contract quite reduced the family's financial standing and
consequent importance. The three brothers could not agree as to which
was to blame, so Alac and his family returned to America and located
in Rochester. Their few thousands Alac invested in a small
manufacturing concern which never prospered sufficiently to maintain
him in his life-long habits of good living. Unhappily, too, strong as
Alac was in many ways, his one weakness grew. Three or four times a
year he would make trips to Toronto or New York, drink gloriously,
spend hundreds of dollars, and return home meek and dutiful, almost
praying Annette not to say what he knew was in her mind. Of the two
children, little Alac multiplied his father's weaknesses by an
unhappily large factor. He never amounted to much, developing little
but small bombast. Charlotte was the child, dutiful, studious, rather
serious perhaps, but very conscientious. Her features were those of
neither father nor mother, but peculiarly delicate, strikingly
refined. When she was fifteen her father was found dead, one morning,
in an obscure hotel in the Middle West. He had neglected his insurance
premiums. The resourceful little widow went to work at once. The
products of her needle were exquisite. She sold some of the handsome
old furniture and, during the next five years, most of her jewels went
to keep the children in school. She had given absolutely to her
husband and to her home, and through the years to come her cheer was
never bedimmed save when the husband was mentioned. Charlotte became
more attractive. She was slender, fair--the English type was apparent;
she was a distinct contrast to her highly colored, brunette mother,
who, however, might have been but an older sister, she had so
preserved her youth. Charlotte was periodically morbid, a transmuted
heritage. The financial need directed her training into practical
lines; she studied stenography and was fortunate in securing a
position in the office of John Evanson, the energetic senior member of
a growing leather-manufacturing firm. There was something poetically
appealing to this busy man in the quiet, sometimes sad-faced, fine-
faced, competent woman, which gradually created in him a hungering
sense of need-and he called one night. He afterwards said if he hadn't
married Charlotte, he would have married her mother, who, to tell the
truth, put what sparkle there was into the courtship.
Charlotte's cup of happiness should have been overflowing when she
moved into the handsome, big house. Her mother was to live with them,
and such a mother-in-law would be a welcome asset to any home. Mr.
Evanson gave Alac Junior the only good position he ever had--a
position which he never filled to any one's satisfaction but his own.
For two years Charlotte's virtues were expressed in quiet, almost
thoughtful home-devotion, entertainment of poor relatives, and church-
work. John Evanson was simple and rational in his tastes. In business
he was enterprising and a keen fighter of competition. He cleverly
managed his interests, which had grown through years of steadfast
attention. He was nearly forty when he married, and his new home was
to him a haven. The mother adapted herself superbly and was a real joy
in the household through her wit and daintiness and ingenious
thoughtfulness.
Charlotte was not well for several months before the birth of the
much-wished-for baby, which unhappily never breathed. A sharp illness
which lingered was followed by eight miserable months, then an
operation, and the surgeon pronounced her well-but she could not
believe she was. Two years of rather unassuming semi-invalidism
passed. She made few complaints; she was evidently repressing
expression of the recurring symptoms of her discomfort. But since her
baby's death she had recovered little ability for effort. She tired
quickly. She was living a life of quiet, sheltered, almost luxurious
inadequacy. Dr. Corning was puzzled. Mrs. Evanson had appealed to his
professional pride and sympathetic nature strongly. Was there
something obscure, a lurking condition which he had overlooked? He
would have his work reviewed by the celebrated New York internist.
Nothing was found which resulted helpfully. Mrs. MacReady was patient.
Her innate good judgment withheld discussion of details with her
unhappy daughter. She believed Charlotte to be secretly mourning for
the little one who had not lived. She spent hours with her son-in-law
in anxious conference. What could get her poor child out of this
almost apathy? She looked so well; she had never weighed so much; but
twice she had been found looking over the baby's things. Was her
sorrow eating away at her heart? Hadn't he noticed that for months she
left the room when her father or the baby was mentioned! And hadn't he
noticed the marks of tears when she came back? The husband had never
loved his wife more; he pitied her; he yearned to share the burden
which she did not mention. He watched the change in her moods and
brought something new each day to please, divert, to interest-books
and flowers, periodicals, clothing, jewelry. Pets proved tiresome. She
wearied soon on every attempted trip. Concerts and the theater, and
music in the home, all made her "nervous."
Mrs. MacReady firmly believed the trouble was a haunting spirit of
unsatisfied mother-love, and suggested bringing a child into the home.
This plan did arouse new interest. Months were spent in making the
selection. Scores of points must be satisfactorily fulfilled, or the
plan would prove but a bitter disappointment. At last, a nine-months-
old girl-baby was discovered who promised to resemble her foster-
mother, and who had a "respectable heritage 'way back on both sides."
It seemed most fortunate for both the little orphan and the hungering
woman-this adoption. Charlotte spent much time in getting the little
one outfitted and settled. The child brought new problems, such as
worthy nursemaids, sleep-hours and safe feeding-and Charlotte was
better.
Mrs. MacReady had not been looking well. For months she had been
slowly losing weight, although there had been not a syllable of
complaint. Mr. Evanson finally insisted-the examination revealed an
incurable condition--presto! Charlotte was prostrated. The trained
nurse, secured for the mother, spent most of her time attending the
multiplying needs of the daughter, whose apprehension grew until she
began sending for her husband during his office-hours, fearing that
her mother was worse; or because she looked as if she might have one
of the hemorrhages the doctor feared, or to discuss what they would do
when her mother died. The months dragged on. The splendid mother
radiated cheer to the last. Then began the reign of terror. Stimulants
and sedatives seemed necessary to protect Charlotte from "collapse."
For a month, Mr. Evanson did not go near the office; for years, he was
subject to calls by day, was disturbed mercilessly at night. No nurse
could fill his place. It seemed chiefly the sick woman's "heart." Dr.
Corning was too frank-Charlotte insisted he did not "understand." Dr.
Winton was "sympathetic." He was physician for many society women. He
was an adept in providing understanding and comfort. He never advised
"dangerous operations or nasty mixtures," and was no fanatic on diet
and exercise.
When Charlotte married, she was "lily-fair," and weighed one hundred
and sixteen. Five years after her mother's death she was florid,
vapid, and weighed one hundred and sixty-eight miserable pounds. She
ran the gamut of nervous ailments: disturbances of circulation,
digestion, breathing, eating, sleeping, antagonism to draughts and
noises, and a special antipathy to the odor from the exhaust of motor-
cars. This last made her faint, and of her fainting attacks pages
might be written. The home of John Evanson was now a dreary place. It
was a household subsidized to the whims of a self-pitying woman. Her
loss of father, baby and mother had "wrecked her life." Husband,
child, nurse, servants, were all under the blight of her enslaving
self-commiseration. For years all church and social activities were
unattempted. Relatives and friends could not be entertained, for every
one's attention was demanded to meet the varying possible emergencies
of symptoms and to keep her mind from dwelling on her losses and the
wretchedness of her fate.
Mr. Evanson's business interests were neglected. His devotion to his
morbid, now thoroughly selfish wife lost him big opportunities. His
nerves, too, suffered from the unceasing strain. Serious-minded,
nonimaginative, honest, it never occurred to him that the illness of
his "poor afflicted wife" was an illness of the soul only. The adopted
daughter was surrounded by an atmosphere of unnatural repression, an
atmosphere charged with false sympathy and unwholesome concessions to
the selfish weaknesses of her foster-mother. Dr. Winton advised many
comfortable and diverting variations in treatment, but life in the
Evanson home became increasingly distorted. At last John realized he
was losing out badly-he must have a change. Through some subconscious
inspiration he took Dr. Winton with him. They spent two weeks hunting
and fishing in the Maine woods. John sought to get in touch with the
man behind the doctor. The doctor soon realized the manliness of his
companion. They were resting after a taxing portage, both feeling the
fine exhilaration of perfect physical relaxation after productive
physical weariness. The two men were pretty close. Shop had not been
mentioned during the two weeks.
"Doctor, tell me about my wife, just as though she were a sister."
The doctor mused several minutes. "It is not pleasant... it is not
easy to tell... you won't want to hear it. You probably will not
accept what I have to say... you may resent it."
"Tell me straight; you know how vitally I and my household need to
understand the truth."
Gravely the physician spoke--as friend to friend: "Your wife has
leprosy!--not the physical form, but the kind that anesthetizes,
ulcerates, deforms the soul--the leprosy of self-pity. It began with
her father's death. It has eaten deeper and deeper, fed by the
unselfishness of her mother and of yourself, unchecked by the soothing
salves applied by doctors like me. I early recognized that she would
not pay the price of radical cure--the price of effortful living. Her
understanding soul has degenerated--something vital to Christ-like
living is, I believe, lost. She believes her undiseased body to be
ill. Her reason is distorted by her disease-obsessions; her will has
been pampered into a selfish caricature. She has accepted the false
counsel of her selfishness so long that she is attracted by error, and
repelled by truth. I see relief for her only through the culminating
self-deception that disease does not exist. If this error is accepted
by her, she will become as fanatically superior to her wretched
sensations as she is now subservient to them. In other words, she is a
worse than useless woman whom Christian Science may transform. She is
emotionally sick. Christian Science appeals to the emotional life; it
is not concerned with reason-no more is she. It negates physical
illness and thus might replace her morbid, hopeless, selfish
sufferings with years of applied, wholesome cheer and faith."
Some details were discussed. A fine personality, a woman who devoutly
accepted the teachings of Mrs. Eddy, who would have been an example of
selfless living, regardless of details of religious faith, was
interested in poor Charlotte. Progress was slow at first. Then the
leaven began to work. One day the expressman moved a big box from the
Evanson home to a local hospital. It contained the paraphernalia of a
one-time invalid. One plastic nurse lost a chronic case. To-day in the
Evanson household, all discussions of illness are under the ban. The
home is no longer a private infirmary, but breathes a bit of the
after-glow of cheer which should linger long after the passing of one
so worthy and radiant as Annette--the mother beautiful in body and
spirit.