Worldly Ways and Byways
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Eliot Gregory >> Worldly Ways and Byways
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Do these two stories need any comment? Let our sisters and their
friends think twice before they make themselves irrevocably wheels
in a machine whose working is unknown to them, lest they be torn to
pieces as it moves. Having the good luck to be born in the
"paradise of women," let them beware how they leave it, charm the
serpent never so wisely, for they may find themselves, like the
Peri, outside the gate.
CHAPTER 6 - The Complacency of Mediocrity
FULL as small intellects are of queer kinks, unexplained turnings
and groundless likes and dislikes, the bland contentment that buoys
up the incompetent is the most difficult of all vagaries to account
for. Rarely do twenty-four hours pass without examples of this
exasperating weakness appearing on the surface of those shallows
that commonplace people so naively call "their minds."
What one would expect is extreme modesty, in the half-educated or
the ignorant, and self-approbation higher up in the scale, where it
might more reasonably dwell. Experience, however, teaches that
exactly the opposite is the case among those who have achieved
success.
The accidents of a life turned by chance out of the beaten tracks,
have thrown me at times into acquaintanceship with some of the
greater lights of the last thirty years. And not only have they
been, as a rule, most unassuming men and women; but in the majority
of cases positively self-depreciatory; doubting of themselves and
their talents, constantly aiming at greater perfection in their art
or a higher development of their powers, never contented with what
they have achieved, beyond the idea that it has been another step
toward their goal. Knowing this, it is always a shock on meeting
the mediocre people who form such a discouraging majority in any
society, to discover that they are all so pleased with themselves,
their achievements, their place in the world, and their own ability
and discernment!
Who has not sat chafing in silence while Mediocrity, in a white
waistcoat and jangling fobs, occupied the after-dinner hour in
imparting second-hand information as his personal views on
literature and art? Can you not hear him saying once again: "I
don't pretend to know anything about art and all that sort of
thing, you know, but when I go to an exhibition I can always pick
out the best pictures at a glance. Sort of a way I have, and I
never make mistakes, you know."
Then go and watch, as I have, Henri Rochefort as he laboriously
forms the opinions that are to appear later in one of his "SALONS,"
realizing the while that he is FACILE PRINCEPS among the art
critics of his day, that with a line he can make or mar a
reputation and by a word draw the admiring crowd around an unknown
canvas. While Rochefort toils and ponders and hesitates, do you
suppose a doubt as to his own astuteness ever dims the self-
complacency of White Waistcoat? Never!
There lies the strength of the feeble-minded. By a special
dispensation of Providence, they can never see but one side of a
subject, so are always convinced that they are right, and from the
height of their contentment, look down on those who chance to
differ with them.
A lady who has gathered into her dainty salons the fruit of many
years' careful study and tireless "weeding" will ask anxiously if
you are quite sure you like the effect of her latest acquisition -
some eighteenth-century statuette or screen (flotsam, probably,
from the great shipwreck of Versailles), and listen earnestly to
your verdict. The good soul who has just furnished her house by
contract, with the latest "Louis Fourteenth Street" productions,
conducts you complacently through her chambers of horrors, wreathed
in tranquil smiles, born of ignorance and that smug assurance
granted only to the - small.
When a small intellect goes in for cultivating itself and improving
its mind, you realize what the poet meant in asserting that a
little learning was a dangerous thing. For Mediocrity is apt, when
it dines out, to get up a subject beforehand, and announce to an
astonished circle, as quite new and personal discoveries, that the
Renaissance was introduced into France from Italy, or that Columbus
in his day made important "finds."
When the incompetent advance another step and write or paint -
which, alas! is only too frequent - the world of art and literature
is flooded with their productions. When White Waistcoat, for
example, takes to painting, late in life, and comes to you, canvas
in hand, for criticism (read praise), he is apt to remark modestly:
"Corot never painted until he was fifty, and I am only forty-eight.
So I feel I should not let myself be discouraged."
The problem of life is said to be the finding of a happiness that
is not enjoyed at the expense of others, and surely this class have
solved that Sphinx's riddle, for they float through their days in a
dream of complacency disturbed neither by corroding doubt nor
harassed by jealousies.
Whole families of feeble-minded people, on the strength of an
ancestor who achieved distinction a hundred years ago, live in
constant thanksgiving that they "are not as other men." None of
the great man's descendants have done anything to be particularly
proud of since their remote progenitor signed the Declaration of
Independence or governed a colony. They have vegetated in small
provincial cities and inter-married into other equally fortunate
families, but the sense of superiority is ever present to sustain
them, under straitened circumstances and diminishing prestige. The
world may move on around them, but they never advance. Why should
they? They have reached perfection. The brains and enterprise
that have revolutionized our age knock in vain at their doors.
They belong to that vast "majority that is always in the wrong,"
being so pleased with themselves, their ways, and their feeble
little lines of thought, that any change or advancement gives their
system a shock.
A painter I know was once importuned for a sketch by a lady of this
class. After many delays and renewed demands he presented her one
day, when she and some friends were visiting his studio, with a
delightful open-air study simply framed. She seemed confused at
the offering, to his astonishment, as she had not lacked APLOMB in
asking for the sketch. After much blushing and fumbling she
succeeded in getting the painting loose, and handing back the
frame, remarked:
"I will take the painting, but you must keep the frame. My husband
would never allow me to accept anything of value from you!" - and
smiled on the speechless painter, doubtless charmed with her own
tact.
Complacent people are the same drag on a society that a brake would
be to a coach going up hill. They are the "eternal negative" and
would extinguish, if they could, any light stronger than that to
which their weak eyes have been accustomed. They look with
astonishment and distrust at any one trying to break away from
their tiresome old ways and habits, and wonder why all the world is
not as pleased with their personalities as they are themselves,
suggesting, if you are willing to waste your time listening to
their twaddle, that there is something radically wrong in any
innovation, that both "Church and State" will be imperilled if
things are altered. No blight, no mildew is more fatal to a plant
than the "complacent" are to the world. They resent any progress
and are offended if you mention before them any new standards or
points of view. "What has been good enough for us and our parents
should certainly be satisfactory to the younger generations." It
seems to the contented like pure presumption on the part of their
acquaintances to wander after strange gods, in the shape of new
ideals, higher standards of culture, or a perfected refinement of
surroundings.
We are perhaps wrong to pity complacent people. It is for another
class our sympathy should be kept; for those who cannot refrain
from doubting of themselves and the value of their work - those
unfortunate gifted and artistic spirits who descend too often the
VIA DOLOROSA of discontent and despair, who have a higher ideal
than their neighbors, and, in struggling after an unattainable
perfection, fall by the wayside.
CHAPTER 7 - The Discontent of Talent
THE complacency that buoys up self-sufficient souls, soothing them
with the illusion that they themselves, their towns, country,
language, and habits are above improvement, causing them to
shudder, as at a sacrilege, if any changes are suggested, is
fortunately limited to a class of stay-at-home nonentities. In
proportion as it is common among them, is it rare or delightfully
absent in any society of gifted or imaginative people.
Among our globe-trotting compatriots this defect is much less
general than in the older nations of the world, for the excellent
reason, that the moment a man travels or takes the trouble to know
people of different nationalities, his armor of complacency
receives so severe a blow, that it is shattered forever, the
wanderer returning home wiser and much more modest. There seems to
be something fatal to conceit in the air of great centres;
professionally or in general society a man so soon finds his level.
The "great world" may foster other faults; human nature is sure to
develop some in every walk of life. Smug contentment, however,
disappears in its rarefied atmosphere, giving place to a craving
for improvement, a nervous alertness that keeps the mind from
stagnating and urges it on to do its best.
It is never the beautiful woman who sits down in smiling serenity
before her mirror. She is tireless in her efforts to enhance her
beauty and set it off to the best advantage. Her figure is never
slender enough, nor her carriage sufficiently erect to satisfy.
But the "frump" will let herself and all her surroundings go to
seed, not from humbleness of mind or an overwhelming sense of her
own unworthiness, but in pure complacent conceit.
A criticism to which the highly gifted lay themselves open from
those who do not understand them, is their love of praise, the
critics failing to grasp the fact that this passion for measuring
one's self with others, like the gad-fly pursuing poor Io, never
allows a moment's repose in the green pastures of success, but
goads them constantly up the rocky sides of endeavor. It is not
that they love flattery, but that they need approbation as a
counterpoise to the dark moments of self-abasement and as a
sustaining aid for higher flights.
Many years ago I was present at a final sitting which my master,
Carolus Duran, gave to one of my fair compatriots. He knew that
the lady was leaving Paris on the morrow, and that in an hour, her
husband and his friends were coming to see and criticise the
portrait - always a terrible ordeal for an artist.
To any one familiar with this painter's moods, it was evident that
the result of the sitting was not entirely satisfactory. The quick
breathing, the impatient tapping movement of the foot, the swift
backward springs to obtain a better view, so characteristic of him
in moments of doubt, and which had twenty years before earned him
the name of LE DANSEUR from his fellow-copyists at the Louvre,
betrayed to even a casual observer that his discouragement and
discontent were at boiling point.
The sound of a bell and a murmur of voices announced the entrance
of the visitors into the vast studio. After the formalities of
introduction had been accomplished the new-comers glanced at the
portrait, but uttered never a word. From it they passed in a
perfectly casual manner to an inspection of the beautiful contents
of the room, investigating the tapestries, admiring the armor, and
finally, after another glance at the portrait, the husband
remarked: "You have given my wife a jolly long neck, haven't you?"
and, turning to his friends, began laughing and chatting in
English.
If vitriol had been thrown on my poor master's quivering frame, the
effect could not have been more instantaneous, his ignorance of the
language spoken doubtless exaggerating his impression of being
ridiculed. Suddenly he turned very white, and before any of us had
divined his intention he had seized a Japanese sword lying by and
cut a dozen gashes across the canvas. Then, dropping his weapon,
he flung out of the room, leaving his sitter and her friends in
speechless consternation, to wonder then and ever after in what way
they had offended him. In their opinions, if a man had talent and
understood his business, he should produce portraits with the same
ease that he would answer dinner invitations, and if they paid for,
they were in no way bound also to praise, his work. They were
entirely pleased with the result, but did not consider it necessary
to tell him so, no idea having crossed their minds that he might be
in one of those moods so frequent with artistic natures, when words
of approbation and praise are as necessary to them, as the air we
breathe is to us, mortals of a commoner clay.
Even in the theatrical and operatic professions, those hotbeds of
conceit, you will generally find among the "stars" abysmal depths
of discouragement and despair. One great tenor, who has delighted
New York audiences during several winters past, invariably
announces to his intimates on arising that his "voice has gone,"
and that, in consequence he will "never sing again," and has to be
caressed and cajoled back into some semblance of confidence before
attempting a performance. This same artist, with an almost
limitless repertoire and a reputation no new successes could
enhance, recently risked all to sing what he considered a higher
class of music, infinitely more fatiguing to his voice, because he
was impelled onward by the ideal that forces genius to constant
improvement and development of its powers.
What the people who meet these artists occasionally at a private
concert or behind the scenes during the intense strain of a
representation, take too readily for monumental egoism and conceit,
is, the greater part of the time, merely the desire for a
sustaining word, a longing for the stimulant of praise.
All actors and singers are but big children, and must be humored
and petted like children when you wish them to do their best. It
is necessary for them to feel in touch with their audiences; to be
assured that they are not falling below the high ideals formed for
their work.
Some winters ago a performance at the opera nearly came to a
standstill because an all-conquering soprano was found crying in
her dressing-room. After many weary moments of consolation and
questioning, it came out that she felt quite sure she no longer had
any talent. One of the other singers had laughed at her voice, and
in consequence there was nothing left to live for. A half-hour
later, owing to judicious "treatment," she was singing gloriously
and bowing her thanks to thunders of applause.
Rather than blame this divine discontent that has made man what he
is to-day, let us glorify and envy it, pitying the while the frail
mortal vessels it consumes with its flame. No adulation can turn
such natures from their goal, and in the hour of triumph the slave
is always at their side to whisper the word of warning. This
discontent is the leaven that has raised the whole loaf of dull
humanity to better things and higher efforts, those privileged to
feel it are the suns that illuminate our system. If on these
luminaries observers have discovered spots, it is well to remember
that these blemishes are but the defects of their qualities, and
better far than the total eclipse that shrouds so large a part of
humanity in colorless complacency.
It will never be known how many master-pieces have been lost to the
world because at the critical moment a friend has not been at hand
with the stimulant of sympathy and encouragement needed by an
overworked, straining artist who was beginning to lose confidence
in himself; to soothe his irritated nerves with the balm of praise,
and take his poor aching head on a friendly shoulder and let him
sob out there all his doubt and discouragement.
So let us not be niggardly or ungenerous in meting out to
struggling fellow-beings their share, and perchance a little more
than their share of approbation and applause, poor enough return,
after all, for the pleasure their labors have procured us. What
adequate compensation can we mete out to an author for the hours of
delight and self-forgetfulness his talent has brought to us in
moments of loneliness, illness, or grief? What can pay our debt to
a painter who has fixed on canvas the face we love?
The little return that it is in our power to make for all the joy
these gifted fellow-beings bring into our lives is (closing our
eyes to minor imperfections) to warmly applaud them as they move
upward, along their stony path.
CHAPTER 8 - Slouch
I SHOULD like to see, in every school-room of our growing country,
in every business office, at the railway stations, and on street
corners, large placards placed with "Do not slouch" printed thereon
in distinct and imposing characters. If ever there was a tendency
that needed nipping in the bud (I fear the bud is fast becoming a
full-blown flower), it is this discouraging national failing.
Each year when I return from my spring wanderings, among the
benighted and effete nations of the Old World, on whom the
untravelled American looks down from the height of his superiority,
I am struck anew by the contrast between the trim, well-groomed
officials left behind on one side of the ocean and the happy-go-
lucky, slouching individuals I find on the other.
As I ride up town this unpleasant impression deepens. In the
"little Mother Isle" I have just left, bus-drivers have quite a
coaching air, with hat and coat of knowing form. They sport
flowers in their button-holes and salute other bus-drivers, when
they meet, with a twist of whip and elbow refreshingly correct,
showing that they take pride in their calling, and have been at
some pains to turn themselves out as smart in appearance as
finances would allow.
Here, on the contrary, the stage and cab drivers I meet seem to be
under a blight, and to have lost all interest in life. They lounge
on the box, their legs straggling aimlessly, one hand holding the
reins, the other hanging dejectedly by the side. Yet there is
little doubt that these heartbroken citizens are earning double
what their London CONFRERES gain. The shadow of the national
peculiarity is over them.
When I get to my rooms, the elevator boy is reclining in the lift,
and hardly raises his eye-lids as he languidly manoeuvres the rope.
I have seen that boy now for months, but never when his boots and
clothes were brushed or when his cravat was not riding proudly
above his collar. On occasions I have offered him pins, which he
took wearily, doubtless because it was less trouble than to refuse.
The next day, however, his cravat again rode triumphant, mocking my
efforts to keep it in its place. His hair, too, has been a cause
of wonder to me. How does he manage to have it always so long and
so unkempt? More than once, when expecting callers, I have bribed
him to have it cut, but it seemed to grow in the night, back to its
poetic profusion.
In what does this noble disregard for appearances which
characterizes American men originate? Our climate, as some
suggest, or discouragement at not all being millionaires? It more
likely comes from an absence with us of the military training that
abroad goes so far toward licking young men into shape.
I shall never forget the surprise on the face of a French statesman
to whom I once expressed my sympathy for his country, laboring
under the burden of so vast a standing army. He answered:
"The financial burden is doubtless great; but you have others.
Witness your pension expenditures. With us the money drawn from
the people is used in such a way as to be of inestimable value to
them. We take the young hobbledehoy farm-hand or mechanic,
ignorant, mannerless, uncleanly as he may be, and turn him out at
the end of three years with his regiment, self-respecting and well-
mannered, with habits of cleanliness and obedience, having acquired
a bearing, and a love of order that will cling to and serve him all
his life. We do not go so far," he added, "as our English
neighbors in drilling men into superb manikins of 'form' and
carriage. Our authorities do not consider it necessary. But we
reclaim youths from the slovenliness of their native village or
workshop and make them tidy and mannerly citizens."
These remarks came to mind the other day as I watched a group of
New England youths lounging on the steps of the village store, or
sitting in rows on a neighboring fence, until I longed to try if
even a judicial arrangement of tacks, 'business-end up,' on these
favorite seats would infuse any energy into their movements. I
came to the conclusion that my French acquaintance was right, for
the only trim-looking men to be seen, were either veterans of our
war or youths belonging to the local militia. And nowhere does one
see finer specimens of humanity than West Point and Annapolis turn
out.
If any one doubts what kind of men slouching youths develop into,
let him look when he travels, at the dejected appearance of the
farmhouses throughout our land. Surely our rural populations are
not so much poorer than those of other countries. Yet when one
compares the dreary homes of even our well-to-do farmers with the
smiling, well-kept hamlets seen in England or on the Continent,
such would seem to be the case.
If ours were an old and bankrupt nation, this air of discouragement
and decay could not be greater. Outside of the big cities one
looks in vain for some sign of American dash and enterprise in the
appearance of our men and their homes.
During a journey of over four thousand miles, made last spring as
the guest of a gentleman who knows our country thoroughly, I was
impressed most painfully with this abject air. Never in all those
days did we see a fruit-tree trained on some sunny southern wall, a
smiling flower-garden or carefully clipped hedge. My host told me
that hardly the necessary vegetables are grown, the inhabitants of
the West and South preferring canned food. It is less trouble!
If you wish to form an idea of the extent to which slouch prevails
in our country, try to start a "village improvement society," and
experience, as others have done, the apathy and ill-will of the
inhabitants when you go about among them and strive to summon some
of their local pride to your aid.
In the town near which I pass my summers, a large stone, fallen
from a passing dray, lay for days in the middle of the principal
street, until I paid some boys to remove it. No one cared, and the
dull-eyed inhabitants would doubtless be looking at it still but
for my impatience.
One would imagine the villagers were all on the point of moving
away (and they generally are, if they can sell their land), so
little interest do they show in your plans. Like all people who
have fallen into bad habits, they have grown to love their
slatternly ways and cling to them, resenting furiously any attempt
to shake them up to energy and reform.
The farmer has not, however, a monopoly. Slouch seems ubiquitous.
Our railway and steam-boat systems have tried in vain to combat it,
and supplied their employees with a livery (I beg the free and
independent voter's pardon, a uniform!), with but little effect.
The inherent tendency is too strong for the corporations. The
conductors still shuffle along in their spotted garments, the cap
on the back of the head, and their legs anywhere, while they chew
gum in defiance of the whole Board of Directors.
Go down to Washington, after a visit to the Houses of Parliament or
the Chamber of Deputies, and observe the contrast between the
bearing of our Senators and Representatives and the air of their
CONFRERES abroad. Our law-makers seem trying to avoid every
appearance of "smartness." Indeed, I am told, so great is the
prejudice in the United States against a well-turned-out man that a
candidate would seriously compromise his chances of election who
appeared before his constituents in other than the accustomed
shabby frock-coat, unbuttoned and floating, a pot hat, no gloves,
as much doubtfully white shirt-front as possible, and a wisp of
black silk for a tie; and if he can exhibit also a chin-whisker,
his chances of election are materially increased.
Nothing offends an eye accustomed to our native LAISSER ALLER so
much as a well-brushed hat and shining boots. When abroad, it is
easy to spot a compatriot as soon and as far as you can see one, by
his graceless gait, a cross between a lounge and a shuffle. In
reading-, or dining-room, he is the only man whose spine does not
seem equal to its work, so he flops and straggles until, for the
honor of your land, you long to shake him and set him squarely on
his legs.
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