“But I am hungry and thirsty, and in desperate pain.”
“She said you would have these delusions, but must pay no attention to
them. She wants you to particularly remember that there are no such
things as hunger and thirst and pain.”
“She does does she?”
“It is what she said.”
Does she seem to be in full and functionable possession of her
intellectual plant, such as it is?”
“Bitte?”
“Do they let her run at large, or do they tie her up?”
“Tie her up?”
“There, good-night, run along, you are a good girl, but your mental
Geschirr is not arranged for light and airy conversation. Leave me to my
delusions.”
CHAPTER II
It was a night of anguish, of course-at least, I supposed it was, for it
had all the symptoms of it–but it passed at last, and the Christian
Scientist came, and I was glad She was middle-aged, and large and bony,
and erect, and had an austere face and a resolute jaw and a Roman beak
and was a widow in the third degree, and her name was Fuller. I was
eager to get to business and find relief, but she was distressingly
deliberate. She unpinned and unhooked and uncoupled her upholsteries one
by one, abolished the wrinkles with a flirt of her hand, and hung the
articles up; peeled off her gloves and disposed of them, got a book out
of her hand-bag, then drew a chair to the bedside, descended into it
without hurry, and I hung out my tongue. She said, with pity but without
passion:
“Return it to its receptacle. We deal with the mind only, not with its
dumb servants.”
I could not offer my pulse, because the connection was broken; but she
detected the apology before I could word it, and indicated by a negative
tilt of her head that the pulse was another dumb servant that she had no
use for. Then I thought I would tell her my symptoms and how I felt, so
that she would understand the case; but that was another inconsequence,
she did not need to know those things; moreover, my remark about how I
felt was an abuse of language, a misapplication of terms.
“One does not feel,” she explained; “there is no such thing as feeling:
therefore, to speak of a non-existent thing as existent is a
contradiction. Matter has no existence; nothing exists but mind; the
mind cannot feel pain, it can only imagine it.”
“But if it hurts, just the same–”
“It doesn’t. A thing which is unreal cannot exercise the functions of
reality. Pain is unreal; hence, pain cannot hurt.”
In making a sweeping gesture to indicate the act of shooing the illusion
of pain out of the mind, she raked her hand on a pin in her dress, said
“Ouch!” and went tranquilly on with her talk. “You should never allow
yourself to speak of how you feel, nor permit others to ask you how you
are feeling; you should never concede that you are ill, nor permit others
to talk about disease or pain or death or similar nonexistences in your
presence. Such talk only encourages the mind to continue its empty
imaginings.” Just at that point the Stuben-madchen trod on the cat’s
tail, and the cat let fly a frenzy of cat-profanity. I asked, with
caution:
“Is a cat’s opinion about pain valuable?”
“A cat has no opinion; opinions proceed from mind only; the lower
animals, being eternally perishable, have not been granted mind; without
mind, opinion is impossible.”
“She merely imagined she felt a pain–the cat?”
“She cannot imagine a pain, for imagining is an effect of mind; without
mind, there is no imagination. A cat has no imagination.”
“Then she had a real pain?”
“I have already told you there is no such thing as real pain.”
“It is strange and interesting. I do wonder what was the matter with the
cat. Because, there being no such thing as a real pain, and she not
being able to imagine an imaginary one, it would seem that God in His
pity has compensated the cat with some kind of a mysterious emotion
usable when her tail is trodden on which, for the moment, joins cat and