Patricia O'Neill had grown up a victim to the excitement of big ideas. Thus she lived her life on something of an heroic scale. She could go through anything that was disagreeable to her, once she had fitted an "idea" to it; an idea that allowed of translation into tangible action, that is; she had no use for the abstract theory which dwelt aloof from its owner, and which could be kept comfortably enshrined in a crystal or high on an inaccessible shelf. But there was a tingling curiosity in seeing how existence worked out, adapted afresh to each big idea applied. Patricia discovered joyously that there were few thoughts or desires, brain-conceived, that could not immediately be put into execution—provided, of course, that one were willing to accept the consequent damage. And here, she stood by a certain immortal discovery she had made when, as a child, she had been afflicted with toothache: "I can always pretend it's out and on the mantelpiece and aching over there without me; and when Mr. Wright tugs, I never quite guess beforehand just how much it's going to hurt; so that it's all fun—even if it's hateful fun...."
So she raced through the years in a fashion calculated to cause much anxiety to an adoring family not aware of the true inner significance that would provide a clue to most of her inexplicable doings. "Pat's terribly inconsistent," said Ann, her one step-sister. "Pat's an egoist," pronounced Hetty, the other step-sister. And: "I wish Patricia were more conventional!" sighed Mrs. O'Neill. But if these accusations were just—if Pat did leap from idea to idea, she was always splendidly consistent to the one temporarily enthroned; only she was wise enough to lay herself open to Ann's accusation rather than cling to an idea that had lost its elasticity, that had gone slack to the pull. And if she were indeed unconventional, it was from no motive of cussedness or desire to shock, but merely that in the tearing progress of whatsoever wagon she drove, star-hitched, athwart space and along the rim of the skies, she would not stay for the impediments that little people had lain along their little pavements, to hinder the swift.
As for the charge of egoism—
"I look at it in this way, Shrimpet,"—her nick-name for Hetty; cross between a shrimp and a limpet!—"Persons like you and Ann, who can contrive to be more rampantly interested in other people than in yourselves, are a sorrowful sight. You have only your own mind, such as it is, Shrimpet, for thinking purposes; the mind of Mrs. Tomkyns round the corner is of no earthly consequence to you when you are alone to face the problem of seven times eight. Granted? You have likewise only your own soul, Shrimpet, for great sensations. Therefore it argues to me an ungrateful disposition, a lack of proper balance, and a want of respect to your own mind and soul, to depreciate them out of existence when it's a question of the mind and soul of Mrs. Tomkyns. Besides all that, if Mrs. Tomkyns happens to be a reasonable creature who puts herself first, and you are putting her first—and getting praised for an unselfish disposition—then there are two people putting Mrs. Tomkyns first, and nobody at all putting Shrimpet O'Neill first. Which makes the world lopsided. Oh, altruism is well beyond me, I admit it. So throw me over the caramels."
After an interval of silence, during which Patricia cheerfully removed the paper from each one of the sweets, to find the especial kind she coveted, and Hetty watched her in speculative apprehension, Ann, who had been thinking over her elder sister's speech, questioned slowly:
"Yes, but might not Mrs. Tomkyns be putting Hetty first? A sort of cross-over putting first?"
"It's rash to bet on it. But I've not the least objection to Shrimpet taking existence in the gambling spirit, if she chooses. Only let us understand that it is the gambling spirit, and not the sheer beauty of sacrifice, that's all. How much did you pay for these? They're rotten!"
"It's noble to sacrifice," pronounced Hetty, well on her way to becoming a prig.
"Dearest Shrimpet, unselfish people can know nothing about that. They sacrifice as a matter of course; it's a pleasure to them, I assure you. It's only an egoist like me who can speak feelingly of the rich agonies of sacrifice.... Do you like the ones with bits of nut in them, Shrimpet? Hm—that's a pity; so do I!... And that's why I'm pained and grieved beyond measure when anyone calls me selfish; because each time I do wrench myself, creaking and protesting, to an act of sacrifice, I make a mental register of that stupendous fact, its date and circumstance——Here's a nut one—catch!—no—it's quite all right—I've provided for myself!... Well, naturally, memory becomes crowded in time with these bulging obsessions of one's own acts of unselfishness—twice a year, or thereabouts, mounts up, let me tell you, in nineteen years. So that, contemplating these, I do view myself, truly and honestly, as more unselfish than you—you, with memory blankly unretentive of your effortless days of sunbeam-scatter. What causes me to mourn bitterly—I repeat it, bitterly—is the disproportionate appreciation I receive from you all after my twice-yearly. I mention it as we happen to be on the subject, that's all. Believe me, Shrimpet, bravery is to be found only in the coward, not in the brave man. And true unselfishness can come only from the true egoist. Usually it doesn't."
Hetty looked at Ann, who was quietly smiling; then back again at Patricia.