# "Chet" (Yates)/Chapter 11

I DIDN'T see much of Uncle Rob for several weeks. He was busy at the store, and I had to study evenings. I had tried to read some in the Christian Science text-book; but I couldn't seem to get the hang of it; and besides I'd been having a cold, and felt bum.
One Sunday afternoon he came over and sat down on the upper step of the veranda and leaned back against the pillar, just as he had that first evening. "How's everything, Chet?" he said.
I kicked against the railing.
"Is that the way you feel?" he asked.
"It sure is," I said.
"Why don't you take something for it?"
"Take something for it! I've done nothing but fight off mustard plasters and flaxseed tea and hot lemonade, for three weeks;—they're shoved at me every time I put my nose in the door; and every time I bark on the street, somebody rushes up with a new dose or the makin's of one; or puts in twenty-seven minutes telling about the ​cold that his cousin's grandmother's second husband died of. When I saw you coming, I thought: 'Well, here's one that won't say "take something,"'—and you start right in with it, first thing, just like the rest."
Uncle Rob drummed his fingers on the floor beside him. "I wasn't going to suggest any of those things," he said.
"Oh, no! Every one knows something different. They're all simply trying to rub it in."
"Why don't you give them something in return?"
"I feel like giving them a punch!"
"How would it be if you were to give them a kind thought, in recognition that they are trying to help you, as well as they know how?"
"Well, they aren't succeeding, I can tell them that."
"You are sort of using them in lieu of the mustard plaster that you refused, aren't you?"
"What?"
"Well, you're using them for purposes of irritation. It's like a mustard plaster that has mustard on one side and dry, soft flannel on the other; one side stings you, and the other side ​just keeps you warm, and you can turn toward you whichever you choose, and you choose the mustard, not because you think it will do you any good, but because you 'feel that way.'"
I didn't say anything for a minute, and then,—"What were you going to suggest for me to 'take'?"
"A good dose of common sense."
I kicked the railing again.
"What have you been doing for that cold, Chet?"
"Using Christian Science," I said, doggedly.
"And how is it working?"
"I never had one hold on so in my life."
"Tell me about it."
"There's nothing to tell. I just made up my mind to try Christian Science; and I've stuck to it. I told myself that I wouldn't take a dose of medicine or do one solitary thing, and I haven't. The cold is better now, for it has just about worn itself out, but it pretty near wore me out in the process. I've got all I want of that sort of 'healing.'"
"So you used Christian Science," said Uncle Rob, looking at me steadily.
​"I did. I gave it a fair trial,—and it didn't work."
"Did you see your practitioner often?"
"Practitioner? Why, I didn't have a practitioner."
"But you have read the text-book?"
"Only a little,—I can't understand it. No, I just thought I'd see what I could do with Christian Science myself."
"Well, you say you 'used it'; how did you use it?"
"Why, I told you;—I didn't take any medicine or do anything."
"And was that all?"
"Yes, only I tried to think I didn't have a cold."
"And you call that using Christian Science?"
"Yes. What do you call it?"
"Well, if you want my honest opinion, I should call it a perfectly idiotic proceeding."
The front legs of my chair came down with a thud. "Isn't that what you do?" I said; and it sounded pointedly accusing, the way I said it.
"Not by a long chalk," said Uncle Rob. "Now, look here, Chet, suppose you had been living on an entire meat diet, nothing else but meat, ​mind you, and you should decide to become a vegetarian, and should begin by recognizing the very important point that you must stop eating meat. Therefore you stop. Now suppose that, in stopping the meat, you entirely lost sight of the fact that a very necessary feature in being a vegetarian, is that one must eat vegetables. You didn't take that into consideration,—you simply stopped eating meat; and as you had been eating nothing else, and now substituted nothing, you ate nothing whatever. You merely kept telling yourself that vegetarians declared that meat wasn't necessary, and that they appeared to be healthy; and you went on, from day to day, growing hungrier and hungrier, and thinner and thinner, and stating to all inquirers that you were testing vegetarianism to see what was in it. It wouldn't take you very long to come to the conclusion that vegetarianism wasn't practicable,—that you, at least, couldn't get along without meat; and you would tell your friends that you had tested the theory to your sorrow, that there was nothing in it; and then you would return to your meat diet, sadder and not much wiser, but perfectly sure that vegetarianism is a mistake, ​for you are convinced that you would have starved to death if you had kept it up.
"Now, would that be giving the vegetarian theory a fair show? Wouldn't you really be slandering it, and misleading those who didn't understand exactly your method of testing it?"
"You're right," I said.
"And isn't that exactly the sort of a test that you have just given Christian Science? The foundation of your treatment was negative,—not to take medicine. A continuous negative never yet brought a positive result, its ultimate is nothing. Your foundation must be positive, an accepted fact; and your method must contain more positives than negatives,—more knowledge of truth than denial of error,—if you would realize a positive result. Suppose you learned a multiplication table like this:—
What sort of good would you get out of that, even if you kept at it until doomsday, and rang in twenty-seven million variations? That you took no medicine no more argued that you were ​using Christian Science than that you were using osteopathy or voodoo practices. What sort of a trial do you think you gave it, anyhow?"
I tipped my chair back again. "It looks to me," I said, "as if you had eliminated Christian Science from my case."
"There wasn't any to eliminate," said Uncle Rob. "And I suppose you've been telling everybody that you've been using it all this time,—and then coughing for them!"
"Pretty near that,—I've been so mad about it for the last few days."
"Well, then, it's up to you to set them straight. You've no more business to let any one keep on thinking that,—any one that you've told,—than as if it were some person that you had told something untrue about; because you were mistaken."
"But what am I to say?"
"Say whatever common sense and your idea of fairness dictate. If you want to square an injury that you have done, you can always find a way to do it."
Of course I hadn't any argument; for he had me dead to rights. "All O. K.," I said. "I'll ​square it. And now I suppose I'll have to give the thing a real trial some time."
"That's for you to decide," said Uncle Rob.
"No, it isn't," I said. "You've spoiled the one that I was tying to, by showing that it wasn't one at all; and I've simply got to get my bearings on the subject; because it will sit on the edge of the shelf in my brown study, and make eyes at me, until I have got it ticketed or pitched it out. Here's one thing I can't understand, though,—if the healing comes from God, why isn't it free? I don't see how the practitioners can think it's right to charge for it."
"Well, I'll tell you one reason," said Uncle Rob. "It happens that the practitioners haven't yet outgrown the necessity of eating food and wearing clothes and having roofs over their heads! When a person gives up whatever work he is doing to earn a living, and takes up the study and practice of Christian Science, can you tell me how he is going to get food and clothing and pay his rent, if he doesn't charge anything for the time he gives to his patients?"
I surely couldn't.
"No one thinks that a minister or a doctor ​ought to give his time and his work for nothing. If you can make any suggestions as to how the practitioners can give all of their time, free of charge, and still be fed and clothed and housed, I'm mighty sure that they would be glad to hear from you on the subject."
I laughed. "You poke such big holes in my arguments that everything leaks out," I said.
"And there's another thing," went on Uncle Rob. "A gift,—as of time and work in this case,—given without charge, and accepted as a right, not as a favor (for that seems to be your argument), has little value. It has cost no effort—it calls forth no gratitude—it makes little impression—it is a small matter. Then, if it fail, there seems to be little lost, and therefore much of the effect of the treatment is forfeited through the indifference of the patient. His apathy is a bar to the good which an active, receptive attitude might make an opening for. But let him feel that he has something at stake, and that attitude changes at once, and he becomes eager and interested and ready to assimilate what is given to him. Isn't it so in everything? Don't you suppose that the fellow who is working his ​way through college, studies harder and more eagerly than the average student whose parents are paying his bills? It's natural. To get good, of any kind, we have to be alive to it;—a limp hand—or mental attitude—never grasps anything. Isn't it so?"
"Yes," I said.
"And there's still another point," said Uncle Rob; "if this time and work were given to all who came, without charge of any kind, then the mere curiosity-seeker, the searcher after new experiences, the chronic sponge, the something-for-nothing fellow, all of these would so fill up the time of the practitioners, that the real sufferer, the earnest seeker, and the honest investigator, would be crowded out; for there couldn't be enough practitioners found to do the work."
Uncle Rob waited for me to say something, but there wasn't anything more to say about that, and so I kept quiet. There's one good thing about me,—when I've slumped through in an argument, I don't keep on struggling and spitting up bubbles with nothing in 'em but air! I was through with the financial side of it.
I kicked the railing for a while longer, then I ​pulled the text-book out of my pocket and began running my thumb back and forth across the edges of the leaves.
"Well," said Uncle Rob.
"Too dense for me," I said.
"Can't you understand it?"
"No,—and no one else can, either."
"That's rather a broad statement, isn't it?" said Uncle Rob. "I know a very large number of people who say that they understand it."
"Well, they just say it to make people think they know a lot; or because they think that if they believe it, or just swallow it and try to think they understand it, they 'I'll get health, wealth, and happiness in some mysterious sort of a way, they don't know how. I don't believe there's anything to understand in it;—it's just a jumble of ideas that don't mean anything;—and it contradicts itself, and uses words in a way that you don't expect to have them used." I don't know exactly why it should irritate me because other people liked the book, when I didn't have to, if I didn't want to;—but it did, just the same.
Uncle Rob looked at me soberly. "Do you really believe all that, Chester?" he asked.
​"Yep. I've tried to read it,—and it simply can't be understood."
A funny little smile came around the corners of his mouth. "Chester," he said, "don't you think that you are just the least bit inclined to be egotistical in that statement of yours? You say that you can't understand it, and that, therefore, no one else can;—and when thousands and thousands of the most intellectual men and women in the world say that they understand it, and use it, and that it is as practical and clear and demonstrable as mathematics. You say that because it isn't clear to you, they must all be lying."
I felt my face flush.
"Suppose that you had read the book, looking for things you couldn't understand, for twenty years, and had found plenty of them, would that be any sign that other people who had looked for things that they could understand, and utilize, and who said they had found them, must be falsifying? Is your intellect so colossal that what you can't seem to grasp, must necessarily be a mere jumble of words containing no meaning whatever? You might be generous enough to give these other people credit for an ordinary amount of intelli​gence and honesty; or at least, you ought to give some time to examining into the things that they are doing every day to prove that they do understand, before you set them down as liars, frauds, or superstitious puppets."
Uncle Rob was very much in earnest, and I didn't have anything to say,—so I kicked the railing again.
Suddenly Uncle Rob smiled. "You make me think," he said, "of the man who was calling a certain theory ridiculous, absurd, and without foundation. 'But how do you refute it?' asked his friend. 'This way!' and he kicked against a great boulder by the roadside. He didn't joggle or mar the boulder,—but he hurt his toe!"
I didn't so much as grin. "Now see here, Chester," he went on, "suppose you take that book and look in it for some things that you can understand, instead of looking for trouble. Everything that you do understand, will prove a clue to something that you thought you didn't; and if you take it that way, you'll find that as each statement unravels before your eyes, it shows its connection with some other statement which had seemed confused; and by and by you ​will find that the whole book stretches, a smooth, perfect skein before you, instead of an unmeaning tangle of twists and snarls, as you seem to see it now. It isa flawless, continuous thread, when you have made sufficient effort to grasp the right end, and follow it through its length. That is what other people have done;—aren't you capable of doing it?"
I ran the leaves of the book through my fingers. I knew that, in a way, Uncle Rob was right about my looking for trouble; that is, I didn't exactly look for it, but when I found something that seemed unreasonable or contradictory, I pounced upon it and wished that Bess was there so that I could show her how absurd it was. I could see, too, that it was mighty conceited for me to say that nobody understood it, just because I didn't. Someway I didn't feel very proud of myself.
"What's the main difficulty?" asked Uncle Rob.
"Contradictory."
"How?"
"Says there is no such thing as sickness,—and then says how to cure it. It can't consistently tell how to cure it, when it says there isn't any."
​Uncle Rob positively grinned. "Chet," he said, "suppose some fellow you know, should come to you and say:—'Gee, but I had a bad night last night! There were purple dragons with pink wings chasing me until daylight!' and you should say:—'Well, you stop eating mince pie the last thing before you go to bed, and you won't see any more purple dragons. Just try it.'"
"Now suppose some one else should come to you in a few days and say:—'I understand that you believe that there are really such things as purple dragons with pink wings'; and when you denied it, he'd say:—'Well, didn't you tell that other fellow how to get rid of them?' and you'd have to admit that you did; and then he would say:—'Well, then you are contradicting yourself; for how could you, consistently, tell him how to get rid of them, if you didn't believe that there were any to get rid of?? Now, what would you say to him in a case like that?"
"There wouldn't be any use in saying anything to a fellow who used his mind in that sort of a way,—and," I added, "I'm that fellow."
Uncle Rob laughed. "It's different when you get hold of the right end, isn't it?" he said. ​"You were telling the other man how to cure a bad dream,—and that's what the book tells us. What's your next difficulty?"
"Well, the words don't always mean what you expect them to."
"But doesn't the dictionary support the use of them?"
"Yes," I admitted, for I had looked up words that didn't seem to 'belong,' and found there wasn't any mistake.
"Now see here," said Uncle Rob, "You've probably noticed that this book sets forth things that are 'different.' Our language has grown up to fit the uses of a very material life; it has grown out of a material sense of surroundings;—and so, when these very different ideas were to be expressed, it must have been almost impossible to find words to make them clear. What sort of a time would a native of the hottest part of Africa have, in trying to tell his tribe, in their own language, about a visit to the polar regions? Don't you think he'd have to do a lot of skirmishing to find means of description?—and don't you think it would make him'tired' if some of them said ​that he perverted words and said things that didn't mean anything?"
I saw the difficulties and felt a sudden sympathy for the fellow with the Greenland story. It wouldn't be any snap,—and then to have the people who didn't have to listen to him unless they wanted to, kick about his vocabulary,—that certainly would be piling it on pretty thick! I hadn't any remarks to make.
"Anything more?" asked Uncle Rob.
"Well," I said, bound to get as many of my mountains down to mole-hills as possible, "there's another thing that puzzles me. How can God be of 'too pure sight to behold evil'? If He knows everything, how can He help knowing evil?"
"But that's from the Bible," said Uncle Rob.
"I know it," I said; "but I never thought, before, that a person was expected to believe it."
"I think I'll tell you a story," said Uncle Rob. "It isn't new, and I don't know just where it came from originally; but it is to the point. In the first place, though, you will admit that evil is lack of good, won't you?"
"Certainly."
​"And you can understand God and Infinite Good as being synonymous, can't you?"
"Yes."
"And darkness is lack of light, isn't it?"
"Sure."
"Well, here's the story:—
"Once upon a time there was a deep, dark cave; and away down in this cave, away from the light, there lay a man. And he was very miserable. And all day—and all day—he lay there and moaned and cried because of the dreadful darkness that surrounded him upon all sides. It was absolute blackness, without a ray of light.
"And one day, while he cried, the sun, shining high up in the heavens, heard him and called down to him and asked what grieved him so, and why he cried and groaned.
"''T is this terrible darkness!' moaned the man. 'I am surrounded and engulfed in blackness. It is dreadful, horrible!'
"'But,' said the sun, 'what is darkness?'
"'Why, that I cannot explain to you,' said the man. 'I have no words to portray it to you; but it is the most fearful thing in all the world.'
"'But what is it like?" asked the sun.
​"The man tried to describe it; but to no purpose; for he had no words which could make the glorious, brilliant sun,—the very source of light—understand what such a thing as darkness could be,—and so at last he said,
"'Well, if you so much wish to know what this dreadful darkness is, come down into my cave and see it for yourself. It will not take you long to understand it then, I'll warrant. Come down, I say, and see it for yourself.'
"Now the sun very much wished to know what this fearsome thing called darkness, might be; so he came down and went and peeped into the cave where lay the man; but all that he saw was light—brilliant, shining light, covering everything.
"'Where is your darkness?' he cried to the man. 'I see none of it.'
"'No, it is gone,' said the man. 'Neither do I see it now.'
"'But where has it gone?" asked the sun.
"'Back, farther back into the cave,' said the man.
"So the sun went back—and back—into the depths of the cave, peering into all of the chinks ​and crannies, until he came to the hard, back wall and could go no farther;—but he had found no darkness.
"'Come, show me your darkness!' he called to the man. 'Where is it? It has had no chance to escape. Where can it be?'
"But the man could only shake his head. 'I cannot tell you,' he said.
"And so the sun went back up into the sky, his curiosity unsatisfied; for he had found no shade or shadow of darkness, not in all his search."
I sat still. I wasn't kicking the railing now. "I see," I said, slowly. "The sun could never see or know darkness, because it stops being, whenever he comes."
"Yes," said Uncle Rob, "and evil stops being, wherever God is."
"Yes," I said.
"And where is God, Infinite Mind, Infinite Good,—all the time?"
"Everywhere." Then I was quiet. I felt as if something big had suddenly come into my life, and I didn't want to talk.
We sat there for a long time, until Mother came out and asked if we had gone to sleep; and then ​Uncle Rob got up and said he must go. I walked across the lawn with him.
"Anything more, Chet?" he asked, as we came to the hedge between the houses.
"One," I said.
"What is it?"
I was holding the book tightly in my hands. "Do you really believe that this book is inspired?" I asked, in a very low voice.
Uncle Rob looked at me. "Just what do you mean by 'inspired'?" he asked. "Tell me exactly the sort of a picture that the word brings to you."
I thought for a moment. "Well," I said, "I supposed it meant that the book was dictated, word for word, to the writer, by God."
"And what sort of a God have you in mind?"
I hesitated. I began to see that my thinking had been a lot more inconsistent, even, than I had accused the book of being; but I answered honestly. "Well," I said, "the picture in my mind was of a great big person, looking a good deal like the Michael Angelo statue of Moses,—only immensely bigger; and I thought it meant that he sat there and said what to write."
​Uncle Rob was still looking at me. "Chester," he said, "how old are you?"
"Nearly fourteen."
"Well, you talk as if you were about six! Is that really the sort of a picture that the word 'inspired' brings to your mind;—a man-god, dictating sentences?"
"But I didn't believe it!"
"But the idea of your supposing that any one believed it! No wonder you were stumped when you thought you saw so many intelligent people apparently swallowing that sort of thing! Now listen. Isn't it stated, over and over and over again, that God is Infinite Mind and incorporeal? Haven't you read it and read it and read it?"
"Yes."
"Then where on earth do you get your mental picture of a God in man's image?—speaking to material ears—in a human voice—in the English language?"
I could only shake my head.
"Well now here, you have admitted that God is Infinite Mind; then Infinite Mind must be Truth. Can you see it any other way?"
"No."
​"And man expresses, or shows forth that Mind. Now if the word 'inspire' means 'to infuse into,' as the dictionary gives it, then, to be 'inspired by God' is to have Truth come into one's consciousness. Isn't that clear?"
"Yes."
"Well then, to say that book is inspired, is to say that Truth is expressed, or expresses Itself, in the book, and through the author. Is there anything weird, or mysterious, or unbelievable in that? Is there anything in it to prevent the author from consistently adding to the book, as she grasps more and more of the facts in this Mind? There is nothing supernatural; but there is shown a marvellous clearness of understanding which allowed the author to obtain this tremendous insight into the realities of Life, the Life which is God. It meant study and work greater than you and I can realize; and it meant revelation,—not in any supernatural sense, but in that because of the author's understanding, the truth was revealed through her, as light is revealed through a clear glass window,—while begrimed ones only shut it in; and the Light which is shining out through this clear glass, is lighting the path for us all. It isn't that ​the Light is kinder to the keeper of that window than to the keepers of the begrimed ones, but only that in this case the soil of material things has been washed away, and the glory beyond is streaming through."