MONK'S ORCHARD,
UPTON,
Sept. 13, 1904.
DEAR HERBERT,--I have just come back after a long, vague holiday,
feeling well and keen about my work. The boys are not back yet, and I
have returned to put things ready for next half. But my serene mood has
received a shock this morning.
I wonder if you ever get disagreeable letters? I suppose that a
schoolmaster is peculiarly liable to receive them. The sort of letter I
mean is this. I come down to breakfast in good spirits; I pick up a
letter and open it, and, all of a sudden, it is as if a snake slipped
out and bit me. I close it and put it away, thinking I will read it
later; there it lies close by my plate, and takes away the taste of
food, and blots the sunshine. I take it upstairs, saying that it will
want consideration. I finish my other letters, and then I take it out
again. Out comes the snake again with a warning hiss; but I resist
temptation this time, read it through, and sit staring out of the
window. A disagreeable letter from a disagreeable man, containing
anxious information, of a kind that I cannot really test. What is the
best way to deal with it? I know by experience; answer it at once, as
dispassionately as one can; extract from it the few grains of probable
truth it holds, and keep them in mind for possible future use; then
deliberately try and forget all about it. I know now by experience that
the painful impression will gradually fade, and, meanwhile, one must
try to interpret the whole matter rightly. What is there in one's
conduct which needs the check? Is it that one grows confident and
careless? Probably! But the wholesome thing to do is to deal with it at
once; otherwise it means anxious and feverish hours, when one composes
a long and epigrammatic answer, point by point. The letter is
over-stated, gossipy, malicious; if one lets it soak into the mind, it
makes one suspicious of every one, miserable, cowardly. It is useless
in the first hours, when the sting is yet tingling, to remind oneself
philosophically that the suggestion is exaggerated and malignant; one
does not get any comfort that way. No, the only thing is to plunge into
detail, to work, to read--anything to recover the tone of the mind.
It is a comfort to write to you about it, for to-day I am in the sore
and disquieted condition which is just as unreal and useless as though
I were treating the matter with indifference. Indifference indeed would
be criminal, but morbidity is nearly as bad.
I once saw a very dramatic thing take place in church. It was in a town
parish near my old home. The clergyman was a friend of mine, a
wonderfully calm and tranquil person. He went up to the pulpit while a
hymn was being sung. When the hymn concluded, he did not give out his
text, but remained for a long time silent, so long that I thought he
was feeling ill; the silence became breathless, and the attention of
every one in the church became rivetted on the pulpit. Then he slowly
took up a letter from the cushion, and said in a low, clear voice: "A
fortnight ago I found, on entering the pulpit, a letter addressed to me
in an unknown hand; I took it out and read it afterwards; it was
anonymous, and its contents were scandalous. Last Sunday I found
another, which I burnt unread. To-day there is another, which I do not
intend to read"--he tore the letter across as he said the words, in the
sight of the congregation--"and I give notice that, if any further
communications of the kind reach me, I shall put the matter into the
hands of the police. I am willing to receive, if necessary, verbal
communications on such subjects, though I do not think that any good
purpose can be served by them. But to make vague and libellous
accusations against members of the congregation in this way is
cowardly, dishonourable, and un-Christian. I have a strong
suspicion"--he looked steadily down the church--"of the quarter from
which these letters emanate; and I solemnly warn the writer that, if I
have to take action in the matter, I shall take measures to make that
action effective."
I never saw a thing better done; it was said without apparent
excitement or agitation; he presently gave out his text and preached as
usual. It seemed to me a supremely admirable way of dealing with the
situation. Need I add that he was practical enough to take the pieces
of the letter away with him?
I once received an anonymous letter, not about myself, but about a
friend. I took it to a celebrated lawyer, and we discovered the right
way to deal with it. I remember that, when we had finished, he took up
the letter--a really vile document--and said musingly: "I have often
wondered what the pleasure of sending such things consists in! I always
fancy the sender taking out his watch, and saying, with malicious glee,
'I suppose so-and-so will be receiving my letter about now!' It must be
a perverted sense of power, I think."
I said, "Yes, and don't you think that there is also something of the
pleasure of saying 'Bo' to a goose?" The great man smiled, and said,
"Perhaps."
Well, I must try to forget, but I don't know anything that so takes the
courage and the cheerfulness out of one's mind as one of these secret,
dastardly things. My letter this morning was not anonymous; but it was
nearly as bad, because it was impossible to use or to rely upon the
information; and it was, moreover, profoundly disquieting.
Tell me what you think! I suppose it is good for one to know how weak
one's armour is and how vulnerable is one's feeble self.--Ever yours,