“Do you consider that just?” I demanded. “I do not know any men who work harder than some of those residents at Barnet House. Whether their effort is mistaken is not for us to decide.”
“No, I was not fair,” said the Doctor, penitently, “but I have been meditating a long time on the relation of the man with a mission to the public at large. It seems to me that no one ought to throw the burden of his support on benevolent societies. You can’t take doing good as a profession: you have got to do good work. We have no right to palm off an interest in the lives of others as a substitute for living ourselves.”
“You have given much criticism, and very telling criticism of our methods of work,” I remarked in a tone that anger made only the more polite. “Now won’t you suggest some way in which things ought to be done?”
“I haven’t finished my criticism yet,” said the Doctor, undaunted. “I am finding fault with myself too. In a way we all fail, and to go back to what I said first, it is largely because of a lack of sympathy. We forget that this is all-important, and keep thrusting our ideals between us and human beings. Each one of us has an abstract standard to which mankind must conform. It is equally fatal when the idea is cleanliness and when it is godliness. I suppose that it will take a thousand years for us to learn that we are responsible to humanity and not to notions.”
My silence did not indicate that I had nothing to say.
“The trouble with the world is,” the Doctor went on, “that it has suffered from too much lofty thought. If there had been less of that, there might have been more lofty action, and closer sympathy between man and man. We shouldn’t be allowed to try to impress on our fellow-beings pure, cold abstract notions. The only legitimate way of presenting our theories to the world is by working them out in our own lives. We haven’t any right to ideals for other people. I am more and more convinced that we ought to keep our thoughts to ourselves, and give the world simply the benefit of our actions.”
“That is the first constructive suggestion that you have given,” I muttered. “It is good. I like it.”
“We are making our problem too hard.” The Doctor was very much in earnest as she said this. “It is perfectly simple, after all. We must take care of people ourselves. No organization should be allowed to relieve us of our share of responsibility. The distress of those who suffer must remain with every man a standing personal problem. So long as the poor are with us, and any one of them needs a cup of cold water, it is for us to give it, and with our own hands.”
“That idea is very beautiful,” I commented, with hypocritical sweetness. “Human sympathy is the one thing we all want. If one cultivate it long enough, it may become so far-reaching as to extend to one’s fellow-philanthropists, and even to one’s friends!”
This was unkind, but the Doctor deserved it.