Book: Our Nervous Friends

R >> Robert S. Carroll >> Our Nervous Friends




At forty-five she was thin, her face already deeply seamed with worry
lines, a veritable slave to her home, but an autocrat to servants,
agents and merchants. They said her will was strong; at least,
excepting Fred, she had never been known to give in to any one. We
have not spoken of Mary. Poor woman! She, too, was a slave--she was
the hired girl. Meek almost to automatism, a machine which never
varied from one year's end to another, faithful as the proverbial dog,
she noiselessly slipped through her unceasing round of duties for
twenty-three years--then catastrophe. "That fool hired man has
hoodwinked Mary." No wedding gift, no note of well-wishing, but a
rabid bundling out of her effects. Howbeit, Central Ohio could not
produce another Mary, and from then on a new interest was added to the
Claytons' table-talk as one servant followed another into the Mother's
bad graces. She was already worn to a feather-edge before Mary's
ingratitude. But the shock of Fred's death completed the
demoralization of wrongly lived years. For weeks she railed at a
society which did not protect its citizens, at a church which failed
to make men good, while she now recognized a God against whom she
could express resentment.

This woman endowed with an excellent physical and mental organization
had allowed her ability and capacity to become perverted. Orderliness,
at first a well planned daily routine, gradually degenerated into an
obsession for cleanliness. Each piece of furniture went through its
weekly polishing, rugs were swept and dusted, sponged and sunned--even
Mary could not do the table-linen to her taste--and Tuesday afternoon
through the years went to immaculate ironing. The obsession for
cleanliness bred a fear of uncleanliness, and for years each dish was
examined by reflected light, to be condemned by one least streak. The
milk and butter especially must receive care equaled only by surgical
asepsis. Then there were the doors. The front door was for company,
and then only for the elect--and Fred; the side door was for the
family, and woe to the neighbor's child or the green delivery boy who
tracked mud through this portal. No amount of foot-wiping could render
the hired man fit for the kitchen steps after milking time--he used a
step-ladder to bring up the milk to the back porch. Such intensity of
attention to detail could not long fail to make this degenerating
neurotic take note of her own body, which gradually became more and
more sensitive, till she was fairly distraught between her fear of
draughts and her mania for ventilation. It was windows up and windows
down, opening the dampers and closing the dampers, something for her
shoulders and more fresh air. Church, lecture-halls and theaters
gradually became impossible. Finally she was practically a prisoner in
the semiobscurity of her home--a prisoner to bodily sensation. Then
came the autos to curse. The Clayton home was within a hundred yards
of the county road, and when the wind was from the west really visible
dust from passing motors presumed to invade the sanctity of parlor and
spare rooms, and with kindling resentment windows were closed and
windows were opened, rooms were dusted and redusted until she hated
the sound of an auto-horn, until the smell of burning gasoline caused
her nausea--but each year the autos multiplied.

At last the family realized that her loss of control was becoming
serious, that she was really a sufferer; but her antagonism to
physicians was deep-set, so the osteopath was called. Had he been
given a fair chance, he might have helped, but her obsessions were
such that she resented the touch of his manipulations, fearing that
some unknown infection might exude from his palms to her undoing.
Reason finally became helpless in the grip of her phobias. Her stomach
lining was "destroyed," and into this "raw stomach" only the rarest of
foods and those of her own preparation could be taken. She had fainted
at Fred's funeral, and repeatedly became dazed, practically
unconscious, at the mention of his name. Self-interests had held her
attention from girlhood to her wreckage, and from this grew self-
study, which later degenerated into self-pity. Her converse was of
food and feelings and self. She bored all she met, for self alone was
expressed in actions and words.

Father and daughter finally, under the pretext of a trip for her
health, placed her in a Southern sanitarium. Much was done here for
her, in the face of her protest. Illustrative of the unreasoning
intensity with which fear had laid hold upon her was her mortal dread
of grape-seeds. As she was again being taught to eat rationally,
grapes were ordered for her morning meal. The nurse noticed that with
painful care she separated each seed from the pulp, and explained to
her the value of grape-seeds in her case. She wisely did not argue
with the nurse, but two mornings later she was discovered ejecting and
secreting the seeds. The physician then kindly and earnestly appealed
for her intelligent cooperation. She thereupon admitted that many
years ago a neighbor's boy had died of appendicitis, which the doctor
said was caused by a grape-seed. The fallacy of these early-day
opinions was shown her. Then was illustrated the weakness of her faith
and the strength of her fear. She produced a draft for one thousand
dollars, which she said she always carried for unforeseen emergencies,
and offered it to the doctor to use for charity or as he wished, if he
would change the order about the grapes. Suffice it to say she learned
to eat Concords, Catawbas, Tokays and Malagas. She returned home
better, but was never wholesomely well, and to-day dreads the death
for which her family wait with unconscious patience.

What is the secret of this miserable old woman's failure to adjust
herself to the richness which life offered her? A selfish self peers
out from every act. Even her generosity to Fred was the pleasing of
self. Given all that she had, what could she not have been!
Physically, with the advantages of plenty and her country life and the
promise of her fair girlhood, what attraction could not have been hers
had kindness and generosity softened her eyes, tinted her cheeks, and
love-wrinkles come instead of worry-wrinkles.

Her mind was naturally an unusual one. She lived within driving
distance of one of Ohio's largest colleges--only an hour by train to
the state capital. Fortune had truly smiled and selected her for
happiness, but from the first it was self or her family and no further
thought or plan or consideration.

Elizabeth Clayton was given a nervous system of superb quality, which
used for the good of those she touched would have hallowed her life;
misused, she drifts into unlovable old age, a selfish neurotic. She
could have been a leader in her community, a blessing in her
generation, a builder of faiths which do not die, but she failed to
choose the good part which neither loss of servant, death of child nor
advancing age can take away.




CHAPTER III

THE PRICE OF NERVOUSNESS


The price we pay for defective nerves is one of mankind's big burdens.
Humanity reaches its vaunted supremacy, it realizes the heights of
manhood and womanhood through its power to meet what the day brings,
to collect the best therefrom and to fit itself profitably to use that
best for the good of its kind. And these possibilities are all
dependent on the superb, complicated nervous system. The miracles of
right and wise living are rooted deep in the nerve-centers. Man's
nervous system is his adjusting mechanism--his indicator revealing the
proper methods of reaction. Nothing man will ever make can rival its
sensitiveness and capacity. But when it is out of order, trouble is
certain. Excessive, imperfect, inadequate reactions will occur and
disintegrating forms of response to ourselves and our surroundings
will certainly become habitual, unless wise and resolute readjustments
are made. The common failure of the many to find the best, even the
good in life, is apparent to all--so common indeed, that the search
for the perfectly adjusted man, physically, mentally, morally
adjusted, is about as fruitful as Diogenes' daylight excursions with
his lantern. The physical, mental and moral are intricately related
even as the primary colors in the rainbow. Our nerves enter intimately
into every feeling, thought, act of life, into every function of our
bodies, into every aspiration of our souls. They determine our
digestion and our destinies; they may even influence the destinies of
others. Let us turn a few pages of a life and see the cost of
defective nervous-living.

The Pullman was crowded; every berth had been sold; the train was
loaded with holiday travelers, and the ever interesting bridal couple
had the drawing-room. The aisle was cluttered with valises and
suitcases; the porter was feverishly making down a berth; while
bolstered on a pile of pillows, surrounded by a number of anxious
faces, lay the sick woman, the source of the commotion and the
anxiety. Sobs followed groans, and exclamations followed sobs--
apparently only an intense effort of self-control kept her from
screaming. She held her head. Periodically, it seemed to relieve her
to tear at her hair. She held her breath, she clutched her throat, she
covered her eyes as though she would shut out every glimpse of life.
She convulsively pressed her heart to keep it from bursting through;
she clasped and wrung her hands, and now and then would crowd her
forearm between her teeth to shut in her pent-up anguish. She would
have thrown herself from the seat but for the unobtrusive little man
who knelt in front to keep her from falling, and gently held her on as
she spasmodically writhed. His plain, unromantic face showed deep
anxiety, not unmixed with fear. He was eagerly assisted by the dear
old lady who sat in front. Hers was mother-heart clear through; her
satchel had been disturbed to the depths in her search for remedies
long faithful in alleviating ministration; her camphor bottle lay on
the floor, impulsively struck from her kind hand by the convulsed
woman. The sweet-faced college girl who sat opposite had just finished
a year in physiology and this was her first opportunity to use her new
knowledge. "Loosen her collar and lower her head and let her have more
air," she advised. "Yes," said the little man, "I'm her husband you
see, and am a doctor. I've seen her this way before and those things
don't help."

The drummer, who had the upper berth, had retreated at the first sign
of trouble to the safety of the smoking-room, and was apparently
trying more completely to hide himself in clouds of obscuring cigar
smoke. The passengers were all cowed into attentive quietude; the
sympathetic had offered their help, while the others found
satisfaction for their aloofness in agreement with the sophisticated
porter, who, after he had assisted in safely depositing the writhing
woman behind the green curtains and had been rather roughly treated by
her protesting heels, shrewdly opined to the smoking-room refugees
that "That woman sho has one case o' high-strikes." The berth,
however, proved no panacea--she was "suffocating," she must get out of
the smoke and dust, she must get away from "those people" or she would
stifle, and to the other symptoms were added paroxysms of coughing and
gasping which sent shivers through the whole car of her sympathizers.
Her husband explained that she was just out of a hospital, which they
had left unexpectedly for home, that she never could sleep in a berth,
and if they could only get the drawing-room so he could be alone with
her he thought he could get her to sleep, but he did not know what the
consequences would be if she did not get quiet. The Pullman conductor
was strong for quiet, and he and the sweet-faced college girl and the
dear old lady formed a committee who waited on the young bride and
groom. It was hard, mighty hard, even in the bliss of their happiness,
to give up the drawing-room for a lower. Had not that drawing-room
stood out as one of their precious dreams during the last year, as,
step by step, they had planned in anticipation of that short bridal
week! But the sacrifice was made, the transfers effected, and out of
the quiet which followed, emerged order and the cheer normal to
holiday travelers. A number were gratified by the sense of their well-
doing, they had gone their limit to help; others were equally
comfortable in their satisfied sense of shrewdness, they agreed with
the porter--they had sized her up and not been "taken in."

Mrs. Platt had been Lena Dalton. She was born in Galveston forty-five
years before. Her father was a cattle-buyer, rough, dissipated, always
indulgent to himself and, when mellow with drink, lavishly indulgent
to the family. He never crossed Lena; even when sober and irritable to
the rest, she had her way with him. The high point in his moral life
was reached when she was seven. For three weeks she was desperately
ill. A noted revivalist was filling a large tent twice a day; the
father attended. He promised himself to join the church if Lena did
not die--she got well, so there was no need. She remained his
favorite. "Drunk man's luck" forgot him several years later when his
pony fell and rolled on him, breaking more ribs than could be mended.
He left some insurance, two daughters, and a very efficient widow.
Mrs. Dalton had held her own with her husband, even when he was at his
worst. She was strong of body and mind, practical, probably somewhat
hard, certainly with no sympathy for folderols. Her common-school
education, in the country, had not opened many vistas in theories and
ideals, but she lived her narrow life well, doing as she would be done
by--which was not asking much, nor giving much--caring for herself
without fear or favor till she died, as she wished, at night alone,
when she was eighty. She possessed qualities which with the help of a
normal husband would have been a wholesome heritage to the children;
but it was a home of double standards, certainly so in the training of
Lena, who had never failed, when her father was home, to get the
things her mother had denied her in his absence. She was thirteen when
he died; at fifteen then followed her two most normal years. The
accident occurred which, was to prove fateful for her life, and
through hers, for others.

Lena was a good roller-skater, but was upset one night, at the rink,
by an awkward novice and fell sharply on the back of her head. She was
taken home unconscious and was afterward delirious, not being herself
until noon the next day, when she found beside her an anxious mother
who for several days continued ministering to her daughter's every
wish. Three months later she set her heart on a certain dress in a
near-by shop window; her mother said it was too old for her, and cost
too much. Day after day passed and the dress remained there, more to
be desired each time she saw it. The Sunday-school picnic was only a
week off. She made another appeal at the supper table; her sister
unwisely interjected a sympathetic "too bad." The emphasis of the
mother's "No" sounded like a "settler," but just then things went dark
for Lena. She grasped her head and apparently was about to fall--her
face twitched and her body jerked convulsively. The mother lost her
nerve, and feeling that her harshness had brought back the "brain
symptoms" which followed the skating accident, spent the night in
ministrations--and hanging at the foot of Lena's bed, when she was
herself next morning, was the coveted dress. To those who know, the
mental processes were simple; strong desire, an implacable mother,
save when touched by maternal fear, the association in the girl's mind
of a relationship between her accident and her mother's compliance, a
remoter association of her illness at seven with her father's years of
free giving. What was to restrain her jerkings and twitchings and
meanings? Many of these reactions were taking place in the semi-
mysterious laboratory of her subconscious self; but it was the
beginning of a life of periodic outbreaks through which she had
practically never failed to secure what she desired. To the end of her
good mother's life, Lena remained the only one who could change her
"no" to "yes."

The elder sister was a more normal girl. She studied stenography and
soon married a promising young man. They had two children. He made a
trip down the coast and died of yellow fever. The wife was much
depressed and spent a bad year and most of the insurance money,
getting adjusted. Then the Galveston storm with its harvest of death
and miraculous escapes--the mother was taken, the two children left.
Meanwhile Lena had finished high school, had taken a year in the
Normal and secured a community school to teach, near Houston. She was
now eighteen, her face was interesting, some of the features were
fine. Her bluish-gray eyes could be particularly appealing; there was
much mobility of expression; a wealth of slightly curling, light-
chestnut hair was always stylishly arranged; in fact, her whole make-
up caused the young fellows to speak of her as the "cityfied school-
marm." Then came the merchant's son and all was going well, so well
that they both pledged their love and plighted their troth. The
temporary distraction of her lover's attention, deflected by the
visiting brunette in silks, an inadvertently broken appointment (the
train was late and he could not help it), and the first attack of the
"jerks" among strangers is recorded. They hastily summoned old Jake
Platt's son, just fresh from medical college, who, helpless with this
suffering bit of femininity, supplied in attention and practical
nursing what he lacked in medical discernment and skill, to the end
that one engagement was broken and another formed in a fortnight. Old
Jake had some money; the young doctor was starting in well, and needed
a wife; she was still jealous, and young Dr. Platt got a wife, who
molded his future as the modeler does his clay.

Within the first month the bride had another attack. They had planned
a trip to Houston to do some shopping and to attend the theater. The
doctor-husband was delayed on a case and found his young bride in the
throes of another nervous storm when he reached home, nor did the
symptoms entirely abate until he had promised her that he would always
come at once, no matter what other duties he might have, when she
needed him. By this promise he handicapped his future success as a
physician and did all that devoted ignorance could do to make certain
a periodic repetition of the convulsive seizures. This was but the
first of a series of concessions which involved his professional,
social and financial future, which her "infirmity" exacted of him as
the years passed. Later old Jake died and the doctor's share of his
big farms was an opportune help. But Mrs. Platt had a certain far-
reaching ambition; therefore, they soon moved to Houston. He would
have done well where he started; his education, his medical equipment,
his personality were certain to limit his progress in a city. The
doctor's wife was superficially bright, capable of adapting herself
with distinct charm to those she admired. She formed intense likes and
dislikes--while often impulsively kind-hearted, she could cling to
vindictive abuse for months. Here was a woman who proved very useful
on church committees, in societies, in Sunday-school, who worked
effectively in the Civic Club. She sang fairly well naturally, of
course "adored music" and was an efficient enthusiastic worker when
interested. But Lena Platt was never able to work when not interested.
Periodically her "fearful nervous spells" would interfere with all
duties. The doctor was absolutely subsidized. Had any other
attractions appealed to him, his wife's early evidences of implacable
jealousy would have proven a sure antidote. He was an unconscious
slave. Her nervousness expressed itself toward him in other terms than
convulsively. She had a tongue which from time to time blistered the
poor man. He would never talk back, fearful as he ever was of bringing
on one of those storms which, in his inadequate medical knowledge,
were as mysterious and ominous as epileptic attacks.

For years the absence of children in the home was a sorrow from which
much affecting sentimentality evolved, being as well the pathetic
cause for days of sickness, when outside interests were less
attractive to this artful sufferer than the attentions elicited by her
illness. Then out of the great gulf surged the heroic Galveston
tragedy, and the two orphan children came to fill the idealized want.
At first they received an abundance of impulsive loving, but unhappily
one day, a few months after they came, the foster-mother overheard the
elder girl make an unfavorable comparison between her and the real
mother; and for years distinctions were made--the younger being always
favored, the unfortunate, older child living half-terrorized, never
knowing when angry, unfair words would assail her.

Lena Platt had confided to several of her bosom friends the tragedy of
her unequal marriage and that she knew she would yet find a "soul
mate." There was a Choral Society in Houston one winter, and following
a few gratuitous compliments from the dapper young director, she
decided she had found it. He left in the spring and this dream faded.
A few months later the new minister's incautious exaggeration that "he
didn't know how he could run the church without her" came near
resulting in trouble, for some of the good sisters unkindly questioned
the quality of her sudden excessive devotion and religious zeal. Mrs.
Platt was not vicious, but she craved excitement; hers was a life of
constantly forming new plans. Attention from any source was sweet and
from those of prominence it was nectar. Things were pretty bad in the
doctor's home after the preacher episode, and she was finally
persuaded to let her husband call in another physician. He was very
nice to her, and while he never pretended to understand her case, his
medicine and advice benefited her tremendously and she went nearly a
year without a bad attack. Her visits to his office and her
conscienceless use of his time were finally brought to a sudden close
when one day he deliberately called other patients in, leaving her
unnoticed in the waiting-room. Bad times again, then other new
doctors, other periods of immunity from attacks, with exaggerated
devotion to each new helper until she had made the rounds of the
desirable, professional talent of Houston.

Meanwhile, impulsive extravagance had sadly reduced the Platt
inheritance, so when an acquaintance returned from St. Louis nervously
recreated by a specialist there, the poor doctor had to borrow on his
insurance to make it possible for her to have the benefit of this
noted physician's skill. The trip North meant sacrifice for the entire
family. Apparently she wished to be cured, and the treatment began
most auspiciously. After careful, expert investigation, assurance had
been given that if she would do her part, she could be made well in
six months. Her husband told the physician that he hoped he would
"look in on her often, for she will do anything on earth for one she
likes." The treatment was thorough-going; it began at the beginning,
and during the early weeks she was enthusiastically satisfied with the
skill of her treatment and the care of her special nurse, in whom she
found another "bosom friend," to whom she confided all. Her devotion
for the new doctor grew by leaps. Mistaking his kindness and thinking
perchance she might extract more beneficent sympathy by physical
methods, she impulsively threw herself into where-his-arms-would-have-
been had he not side-stepped. Her position physically and
sentimentally was awkward; the doctor called the nurse and left her.
Later he returned and did his best to appeal to her womanhood; he
analyzed her illness and showed her some of the damage it had wrought
both in her character and to others. He showed her the demoralization
which had grown out of her wretched surrender to impulsive desire. He
revealed to her the necessity for the effacement of much of her false
self and the true spiritualizing of her mind as the only road to
wholesome living. That same day Dr. Platt received a telegram
peremptorily demanding that he come for her. Upon his arrival he had a
short talk with the specialist who succinctly told him the problem as
he saw it. For a few minutes, and for a few minutes only, was his
faith in the helpless reality of his wife's sickness shaken; but faith
and pity and indignation were united as she told of her mistreatment
and how she had been outraged and her whole character questioned by
that "brutal doctor," who talked to her as no one had ever dared
before. She was going home on the first train and going home we found
her, having another attack in the Pullman. A collapse, her husband
told himself, from over-exertion and the result of her wounded
womanhood. "A plain case o' high-strikes" was the porter's diagnosis;
a sickness sufficiently adequate to have the sweet incense of much
public attention poured upon her wounded spirit--and to secure the
coveted drawing-room!

Copyright (c) 2007. knowncrafts.net. All rights reserved.