Long ago, in the quiet countryside of England, there lived a woman named Eleanor Whitmore—gentle, unassuming, and ever-giving. Erich Maria Remark once wrote of such women: “When you ask for little, little is what you receive. First, you save on yourself; then, the world saves on you.”
It was said that a woman who spared expense upon herself stirred in men but one desire—to spare expense on her in turn. Modesty, kindness, and refinement—qualities so cherished in the pages of novels—were rarely rewarded beyond them. In truth, they were too often exploited by those less scrupulous.
Not every virtue serves equally. In the presence of dishonour, the kindness of good souls may unwittingly aid ill. Remember this. A gentle heart must learn the measure of others, lest they be led by it. Yet to know another, one must first know oneself—and ask: why do women so often deny themselves, and what reward awaits them for it?
None shall thank you for your thrift—not in coin, nor in hours stolen from rest, nor in dreams set aside for the sake of others. This is economy of one’s very life. People grow accustomed: when you require little, little will be given. First, you stint upon yourself; then, all the world stints upon you. Weary, such women question fate—why must their days be spent in service, with nothing left for themselves? The answer comes in silence.
None rejoice in your exhaustion. None praise your sacrifice. Neither you, nor those around you. Ill habits beget ill fortune:
Good ones do not always bring joy, but ill ones assuredly bring sorrow. The habit of self-denial begins with love—be it for a husband or a child. The world shifts: once, your own heart held dominion; now, it kneels. A mother loves so fiercely she forgets herself. A devoted wife surrenders time, ease, ambition. Children learn to expect it; a husband takes it as his due. You have taught them this life.
What then, if a woman reclaims herself? If she ceases to begrudge her own desires? Those for whom she sacrificed will bristle. Do not expect gratitude. None shall say, *”What a splendid season that was—thank you! Now it is our turn to give.”* No—they will resent you. How dare you take back what was freely given?
If fear of that resentment holds sway, years will pass. Decades. Then comes the waking: *”Where has my life gone?”* Should you wish your days not to vanish behind the lives of others, spare nothing for yourself—nor permit them to. Every soul has a right to joy.
Doubt has ruined countless fortunes:
To stint upon oneself is to think one undeserving—of rank, of skill, of beauty. That others are cleverer, worthier; that there is no use in learning the pianoforte or taking brush to canvas when so many do it better. That another woman’s hair is fairer, her features finer—so why dare at all?
Such thrift trains the heart to settle. To lower its sights. To fear refusal—as though rejection were reason enough to abandon hope entirely. It is the habit that kills dreaming, that whispers happiness is too distant to reach.
Never save the hours given to yourself—the evenings lost in a beloved book, the small delights that stir your heart. Time spent in joy is never wasted; it restores what was spent.
Sometimes I think men believe themselves immortal. They wait as though chances will rain from the sky, measure themselves against others, tarry for the perfect moment—all the while pinching pennies of their own worth. Do not limit your spirit. Never compare yourself. Had I weighed my words against greater writers, I might have deemed myself unworthy of ink and paper altogether.
© Erich Maria Remark.
