The Last Straw

Evening Star, Issue 23753, 7 December 1940, Page 3

The Last Straw

Margaret had always been the most tolerant of people. It is not a common virtue in a school girl and i have never forgotten it. Always in my mind I saw her “ sticking up ” for people, seeing the other side, wanting to hoar both stories. While wo admired it, we still resented it. It is a melancholy truth that tolerance can irritate profoundly. There are many moments when wo prefer partisanship and welcome prejudice. When you are burning with wrath over some Ilagrant wrong it is disheartening to be mot with judicial calm, to hear a measured voice saying, “It does seem bad, but of course we must try to see the other point of view.” Yes, there were times when we wore very angry with Margaret’s habit of seeing the tw r o sides in every quarrel. She was always for moderation, for suspended judgment, for toleration. She would even champion tho cause of a detested mistress with these unheardof words, “ Yes, she does seem rather nastyq but I expect she finds us trying, too.” Trying! What amazing nonsense ! (Looking back, I find Margaret’s words a distinct understatement; we were not trying; we were abominable.) But it was always the same with Margaret. As we grew older, we used to expect it, to tease her about it, declare that, if she were murdered, her last conscious words would bo an attempt to justify the act of the murderer, her last sensible thought a conscientious attempt to see his point of view. Wo could not imagine her heartily' denouncing anyone, or declaring that there could be no excuse for conduct, however vile. Margaret would always succeed in finding one; if driven into a, corner, she would oven invent one. In a dim way, wo admired her for her judicial quality; we also learnt not to carry our most burning grievances to her. We had a sneaking fear that she might cause us, too, to sec the other side. , , , We drifted apart after school days and 1 lost sight of her for many years. I icture my surprise, then, when I visited tlm north last month and there beard of Margaret. “ There is an old schoolfellow of yours living near; you are to go and see her to-morrow.” my hostess said. It was Margaret, married to a farmer, with a comfortable-sized and excellent family and sufficient moans. Moderate in all things. Of course I was delighted. J here is nothing more warming to the heart than meeting old friends ; no ties more binding than those forged at boarding schools. Personally. I find myself invariably greeting with enthusiasm practically anyone I went to school with. Even though I remember feeling less than lukewarm towards them in those dim days, .yet there is now a certain glamour about them. Wo were young together. True, we may have disliked each other then, but we were muted in an even more passionate dislike of discipline and the mathematics mistress. Moreover, meeting again in mellow middle life, conscious of our own shortcomings and hoping by amiability to atone for them, we find much to admire and like in those pooule of whom we were so vastly critical! many—how many!—years ago. It would say little for the .years and tho sorrows that lie

Written by MARY SCOTT , for the ‘ Evening Slar. :>

between if we had not learnt from them that lesson.

1 asked eagerly what Margaret was like nowadays. Was .sho still the most tolerant of women, always making excuses for other people’s wrong-doing P Beady to look at every question from every point of view, to make allowances for the devil himselfP ‘‘l’m not sure about tho devil.” retorted my hostess drily. “ .But I’vo heard her make excuses for Mussolini, and argue that ho urobah'ly has quite a good side to his nature.” I laughed delightedly as a vision of Margaret in the dormitory, laying down the law of toleration to an impatient group, rose to confront mo. She had not changed. 1 felt positively nervous for her future. “ Surely—not Hitler, too? ” I murmured. “ I’ve heard her say that only posterity can really judge,” answered my friend, with a dark look. It was a wonder Margaret was not interned. Wo met next day, and, when each had got over the shock of the other’s appearance—why is it that we expect our friends to remain unchanged while we alone may yield to the toll of tho years?—Margaret led me apologetically into the kitchen. “Bo forgive me, but 1 couldn’t boar to put you off, and I Had. no idea when I asked you to come that I would have to cook for this Red Cross party to-night. But we can talk while t work. As a matter of fact,” confessed Margaret, “ I cook very badly. Just look at that sponge cake.” I looked at what I had imagined to be a mammoth biscuit; closely examined, I realised that it was a peculiarly brittle and attenuated sponge. “ Ami the pastry’s gone all soggy instead of crisp,” mourned Margaret; “ but I’ve got some beautiful little cakes in the oven now.” While we waited for them, we talked —naturally cnoughj of the war, of our sons and nephews in the forces, of all those troublous days that had befallen us. But Margaret would sec tho bright side of things; it was true that she had not changed. We must try to remember the German point of view; after all, Mussolini felt that Italy had been badly treated after the last war. Wo must remember to be tolerant. We must not hate our enemies. It was the old Margaret. Of course, we argued hotly—so hotly that we lost all sense of time until—until an unmistakable smell brought us both to our feet, horror in onr eyes. Those beautiful little cakes that were going to redeem Margaret’s reputation. It was too late. A trayful of blackened and extinct volcanoes was all that was left. They smoked faintly and suggestively and I gazed at them wildly seeking for sonic word of comfort. But Margaret was suddenly transformed. She banged the tray down on the table and began to talk: “ That Hitler! ” she exclaimed. “ That abomination! But for him, we could be sitting talking comfortably. Now I’ve tried to see bis point of view! The wretch! It is his fault that thousands of women have to cook for Hod Cross, and thousands of men. . . .” It was the best attack on the dictators that I had been privileged to hear. I looked at the little batch of volcanoes with admiration. They had performed a miracle.