Mahaina

I continued my sojourn with the Nosnibors. In a few days Mr. Nosnibor had recovered from his flogging, and was looking forward with glee to the fact that the next would be the last. I did not think that there seemed any occasion even for this; but he said it was better to be on the safe side, and he would make up the dozen. He now went to his business as usual; and I understood that he was never more prosperous, in spite of his heavy fine. He was unable to give me much of his time during the day; for he was one of those valuable men who are paid, not by the year, month, week, or day, but by the minute. His wife and daughters, however, made much of me, and introduced me to their friends, who came in shoals to call upon me.

I continued staying with the Nosnibors. Within a few days, Mr. Nosnibor had recovered from his flogging. He was delighted that the next flogging would be his last. I did not think there was any need even for that one. But he said it was better to be on the safe side, and he would complete the dozen. He went back to work as usual. I understood that he was more prosperous than ever, despite his heavy fine. He could not give me much time during the day. He was one of those valuable men who are paid by the minute, not by the year, month, week, or day. His wife and daughters, however, paid me a great deal of attention. They introduced me to their friends, who came in crowds to visit me.

One of these persons was a lady called Mahaina. Zulora (the elder of my host’s daughters) ran up to her and embraced her as soon as she entered the room, at the same time inquiring tenderly after her “poor dipsomania.” Mahaina answered that it was just as bad as ever; she was a perfect martyr to it, and her excellent health was the only thing which consoled her under her affliction.

One of these people was a woman named Mahaina. As soon as she entered the room, Zulora (my host’s older daughter) ran up and embraced her. At the same time, she tenderly asked about her “poor dipsomania.” Mahaina said her dipsomania was as bad as ever. She was a complete martyr to it. Only her excellent health consoled her in her suffering.

Then the other ladies joined in with condolences and the never-failing suggestions which they had ready for every mental malady. They recommended their own straightener and disparaged Mahaina’s. Mrs. Nosnibor had a favourite nostrum, but I could catch little of its nature. I heard the words “full confidence that the desire to drink will cease when the formula has been repeated * * * this confidence is everything * * * far from undervaluing a thorough determination never to touch spirits again * * * fail too often * * * formula a certain cure (with great emphasis) * * * prescribed form * * * full conviction.” The conversation then became more audible, and was carried on at considerable length. I should perplex myself and the reader by endeavouring to follow the ingenious perversity of all they said; enough, that in the course of time the visit came to an end, and Mahaina took her leave receiving affectionate embraces from all the ladies. I had remained in the background after the first ceremony of introduction, for I did not like the looks of Mahaina, and the conversation displeased me. When she left the room I had some consolation in the remarks called forth by her departure.

Then the other ladies joined in with sympathy and the suggestions they always had ready for every mental illness. They recommended their own straightener and spoke poorly of Mahaina’s. Mrs. Nosnibor had a favorite remedy, but I could catch little about it. I heard the words “full confidence that the desire to drink will cease when the formula has been repeated * * * this confidence is everything * * * far from undervaluing a firm determination never to touch spirits again * * * fail too often * * * formula a certain cure (with great emphasis) * * * prescribed form * * * full conviction.” I could then hear the conversation more clearly, and it went on for quite some time. I would only confuse myself and the reader if I tried to follow all their ingenious twists of reasoning. It is enough to say that the visit eventually ended. Mahaina took her leave, receiving affectionate embraces from all the ladies. After the initial introductions, I had stayed in the background. I did not like the look of Mahaina, and the conversation displeased me. When she left the room, I found some consolation in the remarks her departure prompted.

At first they fell to praising her very demurely. She was all this that and the other, till I disliked her more and more at every word, and inquired how it was that the straighteners had not been able to cure her as they had cured Mr. Nosnibor.

At first, they began praising her very modestly. They said she was this, that, and the other, and every word made me dislike her more. I asked why the straighteners had not been able to cure her as they had cured Mr. Nosnibor.

There was a shade of significance on Mrs. Nosnibor’s face as I said this, which seemed to imply that she did not consider Mahaina’s case to be quite one for a straightener. It flashed across me that perhaps the poor woman did not drink at all. I knew that I ought not to have inquired, but I could not help it, and asked point blank whether she did or not.

As I said this, Mrs. Nosnibor’s expression grew slightly meaningful. She seemed to suggest that Mahaina’s case was not quite one for a straightener. It suddenly occurred to me that perhaps the poor woman did not drink at all. I knew I should not have asked, but I could not help myself. I asked her point blank whether Mahaina drank or not.

“We can none of us judge of the condition of other people,” said Mrs. Nosnibor in a gravely charitable tone and with a look towards Zulora.

“None of us can judge other people’s circumstances,” said Mrs. Nosnibor in a serious, sympathetic tone, looking toward Zulora.

“Oh, mamma,” answered Zulora, pretending to be half angry but rejoiced at being able to say out what she was already longing to insinuate; “I don’t believe a word of it. It’s all indigestion. I remember staying in the house with her for a whole month last summer, and I am sure she never once touched a drop of wine or spirits. The fact is, Mahaina is a very weakly girl, and she pretends to get tipsy in order to win a forbearance from her friends to which she is not entitled. She is not strong enough for her calisthenic exercises, and she knows she would be made to do them unless her inability was referred to moral causes.”

“Oh, mamma,” Zulora replied, pretending to be a little angry. But she was delighted to say outright what she had already been longing to hint at. “I don’t believe a word of it. It’s all indigestion. I remember staying in the house with her for a whole month last summer. I’m sure she never once touched a drop of wine or spirits. The fact is, Mahaina is a very frail girl. She pretends to get drunk so her friends will be more lenient with her than she deserves. She isn’t strong enough to do her calisthenics. She knows she would be made to do them unless her inability was blamed on her moral failings.”

Here the younger sister, who was ever sweet and kind, remarked that she thought Mahaina did tipple occasionally. “I also think,” she added, “that she sometimes takes poppy juice.”

At this point, the younger sister, who was always sweet and kind, said she thought Mahaina drank alcohol occasionally. “I also think,” she added, “that she sometimes takes poppy juice.”

“Well, then, perhaps she does drink sometimes,” said Zulora; “but she would make us all think that she does it much oftener in order to hide her weakness.”

“Well, perhaps she does drink sometimes,” said Zulora. “But she wants us all to think she drinks much more often to hide her weakness.”

And so they went on for half an hour and more, bandying about the question as to how far their late visitor’s intemperance was real or no. Every now and then they would join in some charitable commonplace, and would pretend to be all of one mind that Mahaina was a person whose bodily health would be excellent if it were not for her unfortunate inability to refrain from excessive drinking; but as soon as this appeared to be fairly settled they began to be uncomfortable until they had undone their work and left some serious imputation upon her constitution. At last, seeing that the debate had assumed the character of a cyclone or circular storm, going round and round and round and round till one could never say where it began nor where it ended, I made some apology for an abrupt departure and retired to my own room.

And so they went on for more than half an hour, debating whether their recent visitor’s excessive drinking was real. Now and then, they would all voice some charitable platitude. They would pretend to agree that Mahaina would be in excellent physical health if only she could keep herself from drinking too much. But as soon as that seemed settled, they grew uncomfortable. They had to undo their agreement and leave some serious doubt about her health. At last, I saw that the debate had become like a cyclone, a circular storm. It went round and round and round and round, until no one could say where it began or ended. So I apologized for leaving so abruptly and went to my room.

Here at least I was alone, but I was very unhappy. I had fallen upon a set of people who, in spite of their high civilisation and many excellences, had been so warped by the mistaken views presented to them during childhood from generation to generation, that it was impossible to see how they could ever clear themselves. Was there nothing which I could say to make them feel that the constitution of a person’s body was a thing over which he or she had had at any rate no initial control whatever, while the mind was a perfectly different thing, and capable of being created anew and directed according to the pleasure of its possessor? Could I never bring them to see that while habits of mind and character were entirely independent of initial mental force and early education, the body was so much a creature of parentage and circumstances, that no punishment for ill-health should be ever tolerated save as a protection from contagion, and that even where punishment was inevitable it should be attended with compassion? Surely, if the unfortunate Mahaina were to feel that she could avow her bodily weakness without fear of being despised for her infirmities, and if there were medical men to whom she could fairly state her case, she would not hesitate about doing so through the fear of taking nasty medicine. It was possible that her malady was incurable (for I had heard enough to convince me that her dipsomania was only a pretence and that she was temperate in all her habits); in that case she might perhaps be justly subject to annoyances or even to restraint; but who could say whether she was curable or not, until she was able to make a clean breast of her symptoms instead of concealing them? In their eagerness to stamp out disease, these people overshot their mark; for people had become so clever at dissembling—they painted their faces with such consummate skill—they repaired the decay of time and the effects of mischance with such profound dissimulation—that it was really impossible to say whether any one was well or ill till after an intimate acquaintance of months or years. Even then the shrewdest were constantly mistaken in their judgements, and marriages were often contracted with most deplorable results, owing to the art with which infirmity had been concealed.

Here, at least, I was alone, but I was very unhappy. I had come among a people of high civilization and many virtues. Yet they had been so warped by the mistaken ideas taught to them in childhood, generation after generation, that I could not see how they could ever free themselves. Was there nothing I could say to make them understand? A person had no control whatsoever over the original constitution of their body. The mind was entirely different. Its owner could create it anew and direct it as they pleased. Could I never make them see that habits of mind and character were entirely independent of natural mental ability and early education? The body, on the other hand, was so much a product of parentage and circumstances that punishment for ill health should never be tolerated, except to protect against contagion. Even when punishment was unavoidable, it should be accompanied by compassion. Surely the unfortunate Mahaina would not hesitate to admit her bodily weakness if she could do so without fear of being despised for it. If there were doctors to whom she could tell her story honestly, she would not hesitate for fear of taking nasty medicine. Her illness might have been incurable. I had heard enough to convince me that her dipsomania was only a pretense and that she was temperate in all her habits. If her illness was incurable, she might perhaps justly be subjected to inconvenience or even restraint. But who could say whether she was curable until she could admit her symptoms openly instead of hiding them? In their eagerness to stamp out disease, these people went too far. People had become so clever at hiding illness that it was impossible to tell whether anyone was well or ill without knowing them intimately for months or years. They painted their faces with consummate skill. They concealed the decay of age and the effects of misfortune with profound deceit. Even after knowing someone for months or years, the shrewdest people were constantly mistaken in their judgments. People often married with the most deplorable results because infirmity had been concealed so skillfully.

It appeared to me that the first step towards the cure of disease should be the announcement of the fact to a person’s near relations and friends. If any one had a headache, he ought to be permitted within reasonable limits to say so at once, and to retire to his own bedroom and take a pill, without every one’s looking grave and tears being shed and all the rest of it. As it was, even upon hearing it whispered that somebody else was subject to headaches, a whole company must look as though they had never had a headache in their lives. It is true they were not very prevalent, for the people were the healthiest and most comely imaginable, owing to the severity with which ill health was treated; still, even the best were liable to be out of sorts sometimes, and there were few families that had not a medicine-chest in a cupboard somewhere.

It seemed to me that the first step toward curing a disease should be telling a person’s close relatives and friends about it. If someone had a headache, they should be allowed, within reasonable limits, to say so at once. They should be able to go to their bedroom and take a pill without everyone looking solemn, shedding tears, and carrying on. Instead, even when someone was rumored to be prone to headaches, everyone present had to look as if they had never had one in their lives. It is true that headaches were not very common. The people were as healthy and attractive as could be imagined, thanks to the harsh treatment of ill health. Still, even the best of them felt unwell sometimes, and few families lacked a medicine chest in a cupboard somewhere.