A Word to Women Part 5

Thank G.o.d, it can, and many a life that looks like failure here on earth may be one of G.o.d's successes.

Remember the good old Swiss proverb:--

"G.o.d has His plan For every man."

_CANDOUR AS A HOME COMMODITY._

[Sidenote: The brutality of some qualities of candour.]

Why is it that members of some households consider themselves at liberty to make the rudest remarks to each other on subjects that ought to be sacred ground? We all know the old saying which tells us that fools rush in where angels fear to tread, and when we find strangers from without the home circle inter-meddling with the bitter griefs of its members, we are full of condemnation. For instance, when a callous question was asked of a girl in mourning as to whom she was wearing it for, the indignation of those in hearing of it knew no bounds. But there are other griefs than bereavement, and sometimes they are even harder to bear. If perfect freedom of remark is habitually indulged in, the habit grows, and grows, and the operator at last becomes so hardened to the sight of the pain she inflicts that it makes no impression on her--no more than a hedgehog's p.r.i.c.kles make on their proprietor.

[Sidenote: The painfully frank person not always a model of justice.]

There is far too much candour in family life! Like all perversions of good qualities, it is more aggravating than many wholly bad ones. The possessor can always make out such a good case for herself. "I always say what I think," is one of the favourite expressions of these candid folk.

"I never flatter any one," is another of their pet sayings, but I have always observed that a painfully frank person is by no means rigidly "true and just in all her dealings," as the Catechism puts it. Quite the contrary, in fact. Such persons seem to use up all their stock of candour in dealing round heart-aches and planting roots of bitterness wherever they find an opportunity. They have none left for occasions when it is obviously against their own interests to be very honest and open.

Double-dealing often lurks behind an exaggerated appearance of frankness.

[Sidenote: Politeness need not mean stiffness.]

The cultivation of politeness in the home averts much of this element of _brusquerie_ and unnecessary candour with their consequences of ill-will and wounded spirits. Politeness need not mean stiffness, as some folk seem to fancy that it does. It is only when it is but occasionally donned and not habitually worn that it becomes inseparable from a feeling of _gene_.

"Company manners" should not be very different from those of everyday life, but those of every day are often lamentably insufficient.

[Sidenote: "A prophet is not honoured."]

[Sidenote: The alchemy of n.o.ble natures.]

The reason that so many wounds can be dealt to those at home by the wielders of the weapon of candour is that we are known with all our faults to the members of the home circle. Our weaknesses cannot expect to escape the notice of those who see us every day, and it is only after long practice that we learn to receive the thrusts of the over-candid with a patient forbearance. Sometimes we are fain to acknowledge that we have profited by the sound and wholesome home-truths conveyed to us by their means, but it needs a n.o.ble nature to accept in this way what was meant as a dagger-thrust. There are cases where some natural defect is made the b.u.t.t of sneers and rude remarks, as when a sister remarks to a brother, "Pity you're so short, Jack!" when she knows very well that poor Jack would willingly give a finger to be the length of it taller. These nasty little jests are not forgotten, and when the day comes that the sister might exert a beneficent influence over Jack, she finds that he is armed against her by the memory of her own words.

[Sidenote: Revealing family secrets.]

A very hateful form of candour is that which impels people to reveal family secrets, which have for some very good reason been kept from some of the members. "They think it only right that he should know," and straightway proceed to inform him, whoever he may be, without even giving the unfortunate relatives the chance of telling him themselves. Such a case occurred once in a family with which I had some acquaintance. A woman, who was not even a relative, revealed a carefully-guarded secret to a boy who was still too young to realise the importance of keeping it to himself. Consequently it soon became public property, and when, after an interval, the truth was discovered as to how the boy came to know the facts, the person who had told him was heard to express surprise that she was never invited to the So-and-so's now! It would have been more surprising if she had been! There are officious people of this sort to be found in every circle, and it is always safer to keep them at a distance.

Two such are enough to set a whole city by the ears.

[Sidenote: Candour and cold water.]

[Sidenote: That delightful word "Tact"!]

Candour is a delightful and a refres.h.i.+ng quality; of that there can be not the smallest doubt. And cold water is refres.h.i.+ng! It is nice to have a little drink or a pleasant bath, but no one likes his head held under the pump, for all that! Nor do we enjoy being forced to drink cold water when we are not thirsty, do we? But that is a.n.a.logous to what the over-candid people make us do. Hypocrisy is hateful enough, but we all know it for what it is, and sometimes a small dose of it is really preferable to a draught of candour, administered without compunction, the operator holding the nose of the victim, as it were.

[Sidenote: "To be administered in small doses."]

[Sidenote: La peau de chagrin.]

It is, at least, not a commodity to be laid in in large quant.i.ties, is it?

And even when we feel very well supplied, we need not be lavish with it.

No one will be much poorer if we keep our stores untouched, and we ourselves shall certainly be richer. For does not unnecessary outspokenness rob us of the affection and sympathy of those without whom the world would be an empty and a dreary place? We want all the love we can get to help us through the world, and when we favour others with a burst of candour we sadly diminish our share of goodwill. It is like the _peau de chagrin_ in Balzac's famous story, which contracted whenever the owner used up any of the joys of life, and when it shrank into nothingness he had to die. So it is with our unkind speeches. They lose us the only life worth living, that which is in the thoughts and affections of our friends. And it is extraordinary how long they are remembered. They stick like burrs long after the pleasant, kindly words of praise and appreciation are forgotten.

_GOLDEN SILENCE._

"What did the Colonel's lady think?

n.o.body never knew.

Somebody asked the Sergeant's wife, An' she told 'em true!

When you get to a man in the case, They're like as a row of pins, For the Colonel's lady an' Judy O'Grady Are sisters under their skins!"

RUDYARD KIPLING.

[Sidenote: The reticence of the Colonel's lady.]

[Sidenote: A delightful social quality.]

[Sidenote: Unintentional slights.]

"Under their skins." Perhaps. But note the reticence of the Colonel's lady. "n.o.body never knew" what she thought about it all, and what would the world be if the typical gentlewoman did not exercise self-control? If every woman were to be as outspoken as Judy O'Grady, society would rapidly fall to pieces. The lesson of quiet composure has to be learned soon or late, and it is generally soon in the higher cla.s.ses of society. In fact the quality of reticence, and even stoicism, is so early implanted in the daughters of the cultivated cla.s.ses that a rather trying monotony is sometimes the result. After a while the girls outgrow it, learning how to exercise the acquired habit of self-control without losing the charm of individuality. When maturity is reached, one of the most useful and delightful of social qualities is sometimes attained--not always--that of silently pa.s.sing over much that, if noticed, would make for discord. Truth to tell, there is often far too much talking going on. A little incident occurs over which some one feels slighted or offended. Perhaps the slight or offence was most unintentional, but as we all know, there are many "sensitive" women who are ever ready to make a molehill into a mountain.

This is the moment for a judicious and golden silence. The wise woman will not imitate Judy O'Grady and make her moan to every one she meets about the rudeness of that ill-bred Mrs. So-and-so. This is the very best means of magnifying the affair. Let it rest. An explanation is sure, or almost sure, to be given, but if, in the meanwhile, any quant.i.ty of talk has been going on, the explanation which was perfectly adequate to the original occasion, seems remarkably incomplete and lacking in spontaneity.

[Sidenote: How the "Colonel's lady" would treat the matter.]

Suppose that an omission has been made of some particular acquaintance in sending out invitations to a ball. The lady who is left out in the cold, unless she happens to be one of the "sensitive" contingent, immediately comes to the conclusion that there is a mistake somewhere, that a note has been lost in the post, or delivered at the wrong address, or something of that kind. She keeps quiet about it, saying no unnecessary word on the subject, except, perhaps, to a very intimate friend of her own, who also knows the giver of the ball well, and who may be able to throw some light on the matter. The chances are that the mistake will be cleared up. But the "sensitive" beings whose feelings are always "trailing their coats,"

like the stage Irishman, make such a hubbub and to-do that they render it difficult for the hostess of the occasion to remedy any oversight that may have been made, without the appearance of having been forced into it.

[Sidenote: "The Sergeant's wife."]

Sometimes a whole "s...o...b..ll" of scandal is collected by some one starting the merest flake, so to speak. "I wonder if Mrs. Such-an-one is all right," is quite enough to set the matter going. The person to whom this remark has been made says to some one else, "Lady Blank thinks Mrs.

Such-an-one is a bad lot," and still more colour is given to the next remark, so that the simile of the s...o...b..ll justifies itself. Is not this a case when silence proves itself to be golden indeed? And not only in the interests of charity is this so, but sometimes for reasons of pure policy as well. A lady who had permitted her expressions about a certain person of her acquaintance to pa.s.s the bounds of discretion was, a few seasons since, called to account by the husband of the libelled individual, and a most unpleasant scene ensued. It was quite right that she should have had to undergo some unpleasantness, for she had made at least one woman most undeservedly miserable, and had almost caused a separation between her and her husband. Had this really resulted no one would have believed in the innocence of the unfortunate wife. A complete recantation and full apology followed, and the perpetrator of the scandal disappeared for many months from amid her circle of acquaintances.

[Sidenote: The little leaven in the home.]

[Sidenote: Blessed are the peacemakers.]

And is not silence golden in the home? If there is even one member who is kindly and charitable, and who makes allowances for small failings, looking for the good in everybody and taking a lenient view of other people's shortcomings, the effect is surprising. The little leaven leaveneth the whole lump in time, and the "soft answer" becomes the fas.h.i.+on of the household. "How very rude Edith was this morning at the breakfast table!" says some one, feeling aggrieved by the harshness of some rebuke administered by one who had neither right nor reason to find fault. If the interlocutor replies, "Yes, shameful; I wouldn't stand it; I should tell her of it, if I were you," then the flame is fanned, and may result in a general conflagration, in which friendliness, goodwill, and serenity are consumed to ashes. But if a discreet silence on all aggravating circ.u.mstances is observed the affair may blow over very quietly. Suppose that some such reply as the following is made: "Oh, well, you know what Edith is. She is easily put out, and she had just had a very annoying letter. You may be sure she is very sorry by this time for the way she spoke to you." At once the calming effect of gentleness and reticence is felt, and when the belligerents next meet it is only to find that peace is concluded, war at an end.

Blessed are the peacemakers!

[Sidenote: Family amenities.]

A perfectly frightful amount of talking goes on in some families. Each member is picked to pieces, as it were, motives found for her conduct that would astonish her indeed if she heard them attributed to her, and her kindest and most disinterested actions are distorted to suit the narrow minds and selfish ideas of those who are discussing her. Incapable of magnanimity themselves, such people translate kindheartedness and single-mindedness by the dim little light that is within their own petty minds, and the result is just what might be expected from the process.

Light becomes darkness, purity foulness, goodness evil. There are women--not at all the worst in the world, but a silly, selfish, empty-headed cla.s.s of unconscious mischief-makers--who, when they talk together, produce a kind of brew like that of the Witches in "Macbeth."

"Fillet of a fenny snake In the cauldron boil and bake; Eye of newt, and toe of frog, Wool of bat, and tongue of dog, Lizard's leg, and owlet's wing, Adder's fork, and blindworm's sting, For a charm of powerful trouble Let the h.e.l.l-broth boil and bubble."

[Sidenote: The confidential whisperers.]