This man has possibly done me a favour， even though he didn’tmean to. The mere fact that he expressed himself in disagreeableterms doesn’t alter my debt to him. Therefore， I am going to writehim and thank him for what he has done.”
So George Rona tore up the scorching letter he had alreadywritten， and wrote another that said： “It was kind of you to go tothe trouble of writing to me， especially when you do not need acorrespondent. I am sorry I was mistaken about your firm. Thereason that I wrote you was that I made inquiry and your namewas given me as a leader in your field. I did not know I had madegrammatical errors in my letter. I am sorry and ashamed ofmyself. I will now apply myself more diligently to the study of theSwedish language and try to correct my mistakes. I want to thankyou for helping me get started on the road to self-improvement.”
Within a few days， George Rona got a letter from this man，asking Rona to come to see him. Rona went—and got a job.
George Rona discovered for himself that “a soft answer turnethaway wrath.”
We may not be saintly enough to love our enemies， but， forthe sake of our own health and happiness， let’s at least forgivethem and forget them. That is the smart thing to do. I once askedGeneral Eisenhower’s son， John， if his father ever nourishedresentments.“No，” he replied， “Dad never wastes a minutethinking about people he doesn’t like.”
There is an old saying that a man is a fool who can’t be angry，but a man is wise who won’t be angry.
That was the policy of William J. Gaynor， former Mayor ofNew York. Bitterly denounced by the yellow press， he was shot bya maniac and almost killed. As he lay in the hospital， fighting forhis life， he said： “Every night， I forgive everything and everybody.”
Is that too idealistic？ Too much sweetness and light？ If so， let’sturn for counsel to the great German philosopher， Schopenhauer，author of Studies in Pessimism. He regarded life as a futile andpainful adventure. Gloom dripped from him as he walked； yet outof the depths of his despair， Schopenhauer cried： “If possible， noanimosity should be felt for anyone.”
I once asked Bernard Baruch—the man who was the trustedadviser to six Presidents： Wilson， Harding， Coolidge， Hoover，Roosevelt， and Truman—whether he was ever disturbed by theattacks of his enemies. “No man can humiliate me or disturb me，”
he replied. “I won’t let him.”
No one can humiliate or disturb you and me， either—unlesswe let him.
Sticks and stones may break my bones，
But words can never hurt me.
“Throughout the ages mankind has burned its candles beforethose Christlike individuals who bore no malice against their enemies. I have often stood in the Jasper National Park， inCanada， and gazed upon one of the most beautiful mountainsin the Western world—a mountain named in honour of EdithCavell， the British nurse who went to her death like a saint beforea German firing squad on October 12， 1915. Her crime？ She hadhidden and fed and nursed wounded French and English soldiersin her Belgian home， and had helped them escape into Holland.
As the English chaplain entered her cell in the military prison inBrussels that October morning， to prepare her for death， EdithCavell uttered two sentences that have been preserved in bronzeand granite： “I realise that patriotism is not enough. I must haveno hatred or bitterness toward anyone.” Four years later， herbody was removed to England and memorial services were held inWestminster Abbey. Today， a granite statue stands opposite theNational Portrait Gallery in London—a statue of one of England’simmortals. “I realise that patriotism is not enough. I must haveno hatred or bitterness toward anyone.”
One sure way to forgive and forget our enemies is to becomeabsorbed in some cause infinitely bigger than ourselves. Then theinsults and the enmities we encounter won’t matter because wewill be oblivious of everything but our cause.
As an example， let’s take an intensely dramatic event that wasabout to take place in the pine woods of Mississippi back in 1918.
A lynching！ Laurence Jones， a coloured teacher and preacher，was about to be lynched. A few years ago， I visited the school thatLaurence Jones founded—the Piney Woods Country School—andI spoke before the student body. That school is nationally knowntoday， but the incident I am going to relate occurred long beforethat. It occurred back in the highly emotional days of the FirstWorld War. A rumour had spread through central Mississippithat the Germans were arousing the Negroes and inciting them to rebellion. Laurence Jones， the man who was about to be lynched，was， as I have already said， a Negro himself and was accused ofhelping to arouse his race to insurrection. A group of white men—pausing outside the church—had heard Laurence Jones shoutingto his congregation： “Life is a battle in which every Negro mustgird on his armour and fight to survive and succeed.”
