The Power Of Patience
I HAVE a very excellent friend, who married some ten years ago, and
now has her own cares and troubles in a domestic establishment
consisting of her husband and herself, five children, and two
servants. Like a large majority of those similarly situated, Mrs.
Martinet finds her natural stock of patience altogether inadequate
to the demand therefor; and that there is an extensive demand will
be at once inferred when I mention that four of her five children
are boys.
I do not think Mrs. Martinet's family government by any means
perfect, though she has certainly very much improved it, and gets on
with far more comfort to herself and all around her than she did.
For the improvement at which I have hinted, I take some credit to
myself, though I am by no means certain, that, were I situated as my
friend is, I should govern my family as well as she governs hers. I
am aware that a maiden lady, like myself, young or old, it matters
not to tell the reader which, can look down from the quiet regions
where she lives, and see how easy it would be for the wife and
mother to reduce all to order in her turbulent household. But I am
at the same time conscious of the difficulties that beset the wife
and mother in the incessant, exhausting, and health-destroying
nature of her duties, and how her mind, from these causes, must
naturally lose its clear-seeing qualities when most they are needed,
and its calm and even temper when its exercise is of most
consequence. Too little allowance, I am satisfied, is made for the
mother, who, with a shattered nervous system, and suffering too,
often, from physical prostration, is ever in the midst of her little
family of restless spirits, and compelled to administer to their
thousand wants, to guide, guard, protect, govern, and restrain their
evil passions, when of all things, repose and quiet of body and
mind, for even a brief season, would be the greatest blessing she
could ask.
I have seen a wife and mother, thus situated, betrayed into a hasty
expression, or lose her self-command so far as to speak with fretful
impatience to a child who rather needed to be soothed by a calmly
spoken word; and I have seen her even-minded husband, who knew not
what it was to feel a pain, or to suffer from nervous prostration,
reprove that wife with a look that called the tears to her eyes. She
was wrong, but he was wrong in a greater degree. The over-tried wife
needed her husband's sustaining patience, and gently spoken counsel,
not his cold reproof.
Husbands, as far as my observation gives me the ability to judge,
have far less consideration for, and patience with their wives, than
they are entitled to receive. If any should know best the wife's
trials, sufferings, and incessant exhausting duties, it is the
husband, and he, of all others, should be the last to censure, if,
from very prostration of body and mind, she be sometimes betrayed
into hasty words, that generally do more harm among children and
domestics than total silence in regard to what is wrong. But this is
a digression.
One day, I called to see Mrs. Martinet, and found her in a very
disturbed state of mind.
"I am almost worried to death, Kate!" she said, soon after I came
in.
"You look unhappy," I returned. "What has happened?"
"What is always happening," she replied. "Scarcely a day passes over
my head that my patience is not tried to the utmost. I must let
every body in the house do just as he or she likes, or else there is
a disturbance. I am not allowed to speak out my own mind, without
some one's being offended."
"It is a great trial, as well as responsibility to have the charge
of a family," I remarked.
"Indeed, and you may well say that. No one knows what it is but she
who has the trial. The greatest trouble is with your domestics. As a
class, they are, with few exceptions, dirty, careless, and impudent.
I sometimes think it gives them pleasure to interfere with your
household arrangements and throw all into disorder. This seems
especially to be the spirit of my present cook. My husband is
particular about having his meals at the hour, and is never pleased
when irregularities occur, although he does not often say any thing;
this I told Hannah, when she first came, and have scolded her about
being behindhand a dozen times since; and yet we do not have a meal
at the hour oftener than two or three times a week.
"This morning, Mr. Martinet asked me if I wouldn't be particular in
seeing that dinner was on the table exactly at two o'clock. As soon
as he was gone, I went down into the kitchen and said, 'Do, for
mercy's sake, Hannah, have dinner ready at the hour to-day. Mr.
Martinet particularly desires it.' Hannah made no answer. It is one
of her disagreeable habits, when you speak to her. 'Did you hear
me?' I asked, quite out of patience with her. The creature looked up
at me with an impudent face and said, pertly, 'I'm not deaf.' 'Then,
why didn't you answer me when I spoke? It's a very ugly habit that
you have of not replying when any one addresses you. How is it to be
known that you hear what is said?' The spirit in which Hannah met my
request to have dinner ready in time, satisfied me that she would so
manage as to throw it off beyond the regular hour. I left the
kitchen feeling, as you may well suppose, exceedingly worried."
Just then the door of the room in which we were sitting was thrown
open with a bang, and in bounded Harry, Mrs. Martinet's eldest
boy--a wild young scape-grace of a fellow--and whooping out some
complaint against his sister. His mother, startled and annoyed by
the rude interruption, ordered him to leave the room instantly. But
Harry stood his ground without moving an eyelash.
"Do you hear?" And Mrs. Martinet stamped with her foot, to give
stronger emphasis to her words.
"Lizzy snatched my top-cord out of my hands, and won't give it to
me!"
"Go out of this room!"
"Shan't Lizzy give me my top-cord?"
"Go out, I tell you!"
"I want my top-cord."
"Go out!"
My poor friend's face was red, and her voice trembling with passion.
With each renewed order for the child to leave the room, she stamped
with her foot upon the floor. Harry, instead of going out as he was
directed to do, kept advancing nearer and nearer, as he repeated his
complaint, until he came close up to where we were sitting.
"Didn't I tell you to go out!" exclaimed his mother, losing all
patience.
As she spoke, she arose hastily, and seizing him by the arm,
dragged, rather than led him from the room.
"I never saw such a child!" she said, returning after closing the
door upon Harry. "Nothing does but force. You might talk to him all
day without moving him an inch, when he gets in one of these moods."
Bang went the door open, and, "I (sic) wan't my top-cord!" followed
in louder and more passionate tones than before.
"Isn't it beyond all endurance!" cried my friend, springing up and
rushing across the room.
The passionate child, who had been spoiled by injudicious
management, got a sound whipping and was shut up in a room by
himself. After performing this rather unpleasant task, Mrs. Martinet
returned to the parlour, flushed, excited, and trembling in every
nerve.
"I expect that boy will kill me yet," she said, as she sank,
panting, into a chair. "It is surprising how stubborn and
self-willed he grows. I don't know how to account for it. He never
has his own way--I never yield an inch to him when he gets in these
terrible humours. Oh, dear! I feel sometimes like giving up in
despair."
I did not make a reply, for I could not say any thing that would not
have been a reproof of her impatient temper. After my friend had
grown calmer, she renewed her narrative about the dinner.
"As I was saying, when that boy interrupted us, I left the kitchen
very much worried, and felt worried all the morning. Several times I
went down to see how things were coming on, but it was plain that
Hannah did not mean to have dinner at the hour. When it was time to
put the meat on to roast, the fire was all down in the range. Half
an hour was lost in renewing it. As I expected, when my husband came
home for his dinner, at the regular time, the table was not even
set.
"'Bless me!' he said, 'isn't dinner ready? I told you that I wished
it at the hour, particularly. I have a business engagement at
half-past two, that must be met. It is too bad! I am out of all
patience with these irregularities. I can't wait, of course.'
"And saying this, Mr. Martinet turned upon his heel and left the
house. As you may suppose, I did not feel very comfortable, nor in a
very good humour with Hannah. When she made her appearance to set
the table, which was not for a quarter of an hour, I gave her about
as good a setting down, I reckon, as she ever had in her life. Of
course, I was paid back in impudence which I could not stand, and
therefore gave her notice to quit. If ever a woman was tried beyond
endurance, I am. My very life is becoming a burden to me. The worst
part of it is, there is no prospect of a change for the better.
Things, instead of growing better, grow worse."
"It is not so bad as that, I hope," I could not help remarking.
"Have you never thought of a remedy for the evils of which you
complain?"
"A remedy, Kate! What remedy is there?"
Mrs. Martinet looked at me curiously.
"If not a remedy, there is, I am sure, a palliative," I returned,
feeling doubtful of the effect of what I had it in my mind to
express.
"What is the remedy or palliative of which you speak. Name it, for
goodness' sake! Like a drowning man, I will clutch it, if it be but
a straw."
"The remedy is _patience_." My voice slightly faltered as I spoke.
Instantly the colour deepened on the face of Mrs. Martinet. But our
close intimacy, and her knowledge of the fact that I was really a
friend, prevented her from being offended.
"Patience!" she said, after she had a little recovered herself.
"Patience is no remedy. To endure is not to cure."
"In that, perhaps, you are mistaken," I returned. "The effect of
patience is to cure domestic evils. A calm exterior and a gentle,
yet firm voice, will in nine cases in ten, effect more than the most
passionate outbreak of indignant feelings. I have seen it tried over
and over again, and I am sure of the effect."
"I should like to have seen the effect of a gentle voice upon my
Harry, just now."
"Forgive me for saying," I answered to this, "that in my opinion, if
you had met his passionate outbreak at the wrong he had suffered in
losing his top-cord, in a different manner from what you did, that
the effect would have been of a like different character."
My friend's face coloured more deeply, and her lips trembled. But
she had good sense, and this kept her from being offended at what I
said. I went on--
"There is no virtue more necessary in the management of a household
than patience. It accomplishes almost every thing. Yet it is a hard
virtue to practise, and I am by no means sure that, if I were in
your place, I would practise it any better than you do. But it is of
such vital importance to the order, comfort, and well-being of a
family, to be able patiently and calmly to meet every disturbing and
disorderly circumstance, that it is worth a struggle to attain the
state of mind requisite to do so. To meet passion with passion does
no good, but harm. The mind, when disturbed from any cause, is
disturbed more deeply when it meets an opposing mind in a similar
state. This is as true of children as of grown persons, and perhaps
more so, for their reason is not matured, and therefore there is
nothing to balance their minds. It is also more true of those who
have not learned, from reason, to control themselves, as is the case
with too large a portion of our domestics; who need to be treated
with almost as much forbearance and consideration as children."
These remarks produced a visible effect upon Mrs. Martinet. She
became silent and reflective, and continued so, to a great extent,
during the half-hour that I remained.
Nearly two weeks elapsed before I called upon my friend again. I
found her, happily, in a calmer state of mind than upon my previous
visit. We were in the midst of a pleasant conversation, half an hour
after I had come in, when one of the children, a boy between seven
and eight years old, came into the room and made some complaint
against his brother. The little fellow was excited, and broke in
upon our quiet chitchat with a rude jar that I felt quite sensibly.
I expected, of course, to hear him ordered from the room instantly.
That had been my friend's usual proceeding when these interruptions
occurred; at least it had been so when I happened to be a visitor.
But instead of this, she said in a low, mild, soothing voice,
"Well, never mind, Willy. You stay in the parlour with us, where
Harry can't trouble you."
This was just the proposition, above all others, to please the
child. His face brightened, and he came and nestled up closely to
his mother, who was sitting on a corner of the sofa. Drawing an arm
around him, she went on with the remarks she happened to be making
when the interruption of his entrance occurred. No very long time
elapsed before the parlour door flew open, and Harry entered,
asking, as he did so, in a loud voice, for Willy.
"Willy is here. What do you want with him?" said the mother, in a
quiet, but firm tone.
"I want him to come and play."
"You were not kind to Willy, and he doesn't wish to play with you."
"Come, Willy, and play, and I will be kind," said Harry.
"Will you let me be the master sometimes?" asked the little fellow,
raising himself up from where he remained seated beside his mother.
"Yes, you shall be master, sometimes."
"Then I'll play," and Willy sprang from the sofa and bounded from
the room, as happy as he could be.
The mother smiled, and looking into my face, as soon as we were
alone, said--
"You see, Kate, that I am trying your remedy, patience."
"With most happy results, I am glad to see."
"With better results than I could have believed, certainly.
Gentleness, consideration, and firmness, I find do a great deal, and
their exercise leaves my own mind in a good state. There is a power
in patience that I did not believe it possessed. I can do more by a
mildly spoken word, than by the most emphatic command uttered in a
passion. This is the experience of a few weeks. But, alas! Kate, to
be able to exercise patience--how hard a thing that is! It requires
constant watchfulness and a constant effort. Every hour I find
myself betrayed into the utterance of some hasty word, and feel its
powerlessness compared to those that are most gently spoken."
"Do you get on with your domestics any better than you did?"
"Oh, yes! Far better."
"I suppose you sent Hannah away some time ago?"
"No. I have her yet."
"Indeed!"
"Yes, and she does very well."
"Does she get your meals ready in time?"
"She is punctual to the minute."
"Really she must have changed for the better! And is this, too, the
result of patience and forbearance on your part?"
"I suppose so. What you said in regard to having patience, at your
last visit, struck me forcibly, and caused me to feel humbled and
self-condemned. The more I thought of it, the more satisfied was I
that you were right. But it was one thing to see the use of
patience, and another thing to exercise it. To be patient amid the
turbulence, ill-tempers, and disobedience of children, and the
irregularities, carelessness and neglect of domestics, seemed a
thing impossible. I was in this state of doubt as to my ability to
exercise the virtue so much needed in my household, when Hannah came
to the door of the room where I was sitting in no very happy mood,
and notified me of some want in the kitchen in an exceedingly
provoking way. I was about replying sharply and angrily; but
suddenly checking myself, I said in a quiet, mild way, 'Very well,
Hannah. I will see that it is supplied.'
"The girl stood for some moments, looking at me with an expression
of surprise on her face, and then walked away. This was a victory
over myself, and I felt, also, a victory over her. Not half an hour
elapsed, before, on passing near the kitchen, she said to me, in a
very respectful manner:
"'I forgot to tell you, this morning, that the tea was all out. But
I can run round to the store and get some in a few minutes.'
"'Do so, if you please, Hannah,' I returned, without evincing the
slightest feeling of annoyance at her neglect; 'and try, if you can,
to have tea ready precisely at six o'clock.'
"'I will have it ready, ma'am,' she replied. And it was ready.
"Had I not exercised patience and self-control, the interview would
have been something after this fashion: about ten minutes before
tea-time, Hannah would have come to me and said, with provoking
coolness--
"'The tea's all out.'
"To which I would have replied sharply--
"'Why, in the name of goodness, did not you say so this morning? You
knew that you had used the last drawing! I declare you are the most
provoking creature I ever knew. You'll have to go to the store and
get some.'
"'I'm not fit to be seen in the street,' she would in all
probability have replied.
"And then I, losing all patience, would have soundly scolded her,
and gained nothing but a sick-headache, perhaps, for my pains. Tea,
in all probability, would have been served at about eight o'clock.
You see the difference."
"And a very material one it is."
"Isn't it? As you well said, there is a power in patience undreamed
of by those who seek not its exercise. Next morning, when I had any
occasion to speak to Hannah, I did so with much mildness, and if I
had occasion to find fault, requested a change rather than
enunciated a reproof. The girl changed as if by magic. She became
respectful in her manner toward me, and evinced a constant anxiety
to do every thing as I wished to have it done. Not once since have
we had a meal as much as ten minutes later than the appointed time."
I could not but express the happiness I felt at the change, and urge
my excellent friend to persevere. This she has done, and the whole
aspect of things in her family has changed.
There are times, however, when, from ill-health, or a return of old
states, she recedes again into fretfulness; but the reaction upon
her is so immediate and perceptible, that she is driven in
self-defence to patience and forbearance, the result of which is
order and quiet in her family just in the degree that patience and
forbearance are exercised.
-THE END-
T S Arthur's short story: The Power Of Patience
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