Long ago, in the quiet lanes of Yorkshire, there lived women who prided themselves on thrift—not the wise kind, but the sort that whittled away at their own worth. Erich Maria Remarque once remarked, “A woman who scrimps on herself invites men to do the same.” And so it often was: first, they denied themselves; then, the world denied them in turn.
Modesty, gentleness, and good humour—qualities praised in novels—find their rewards between pages, not in life. For the unprincipled, such virtues are but tools to be wielded. Not all noble traits serve well; when matched with wickedness, they fuel its designs. A kind soul must learn to read others, lest they be led astray. Yet to understand others, one must first ask: why do women stint on themselves, and what do they gain?
No thanks come from self-denial. It is never just coin spared—it is hours of rest forgone, desires shelved for others’ sake, a life pared down to scraps. People grow accustomed: ask for little, receive little. First, you pinch pennies on yourself; then, others pinch them on you. Weariness follows, and disillusion. When a woman cries to fate, “Why must I give all and receive nothing?” silence answers.
None will rejoice in your exhaustion, your joyless days, your quiet despair. No gratitude waits for those who stint themselves—not from others, not from their own hearts. Ill habits beget ill lives:
Good habits may not always lead to good, but ill habits never fail to bring ruin. The habit of self-denial begins with love—a sweetheart, a child. The world rearranges itself: where once your own being stood central, now it does not. A mother loves her child so dearly she surrenders herself. A sweetheart yields time, comfort, ambition, all for love. Children grow used to sacrifice; lovers learn to expect it. You taught them this.
And what if a woman reclaims herself, ceases to stint and forget? Those she lived for will rage. No one shall say, “Those were golden days—now our turn to give!” No. They will resent you for taking what once was freely given.
Fear that resentment, and years slip by, decades lost. One day, she wakes: “Where has my life gone?” If you would not spend your days as a shadow in others’ tales, do not stint yourself. Every soul has a right to joy.
Doubt has dashed a million hopes:
To stint yourself is to think you unfit for the post you crave, that others are cleverer, worthier. That you ought not learn to dance or paint, being untried among so many gifted. That other women are finer for straighter noses or fuller locks.
To stint is to settle for meagre things and seek the paltriest. It breeds fear of refusal—one failure, one “no,” and you lower the bar. It stifles dreams, bars the way to what seems distant, impossible: happiness.
Do not grudge the hours spent with a splendid book, the trinkets cherished, the dreams nursed close. Time spent in delight is never wasted—it mends the spirit.
Sometimes I fancy folk believe they’ll live forever: waiting for chances to fall like rain, measuring themselves against others, delaying, stinting. Do not pare down your soul’s chances. Never compare: had I matched myself to greater writers, I’d have thought myself unworthy of ink and paper.
© Erich Maria Remarque.
