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Making Conversation, Etc.
“The Gentler View,” Harper’s Weekly (April 2, 1910) : 27
U Michigan copy/scan (via hathitrust) : link
archive.org : link
 

      Isn’t it possible that one of the reasons why reserve is so astonishingly non-existent — and it has been definitely settled over and over again, has it not, that reserve is an unrecognized quantity to the present generation? — is the over-emphasis put upon conversation, the knowledge that if one talks dully one is lost? The demand that one should be genteel, no matter how disturbing the circumstances, has changed to — one must be entertaining, no matter how low one’s supply of entertaining topics run. If impersonal subjects and minor details give out, become personal, be amusing about serious things. It is a continual throwing out of ballast in order to assure sufficient conversational lightness to keep us afloat, and when we have pitched everything out of the car we stand shivering figures, being cavorted through space by the gas to which we have sacrificed all. This reliance on wind, this counting on its making our journey for us, may result in dizzy ascents for us, but it also causes to be spilled out on the people below such an astounding collection of personal apparel. This reliance on wind, this counting on its making our journey for us, may result in dizzy ascents for us, but it also causes to be spilled out on the people below such an astounding collection of personal apparel. They dodge revelation after revelation, and, though their surprise makes them exhibit a lively interest, they in the end feel that their jaded attention was not so jaded as to warrant this reckless throwing over of last rags. To have a husband in his most amusing aspect pitched down on one’s head is very difficult to become accustomed to. When one manages it and no longer feels any great astonishment all the children follow, their absurdities well exposed. If the speaker seems to be in danger of flatly sinking to earth, her religion, relatives, and family scandal patter about one’s ears, only to be followed eventually by every last detail concerning herself. In the end one admits without a quibble that she floats very high, one grants fully that in the sacred cause of amusing conversation she could not have done more; but a little ruefully one realizes that one is loaded down with a lot of things one would rather have not known, and one is a shade sceptical of the conversational balloonist’s ever again being able to touch earth owing to having so prodigally pitched the realities overboard.

      Humor is a late development. No young writer starts out with that volatile bubble and gush which the mature mind exudes. Humor is a late development. No young writer starts out with that volatile bubble and gush which the mature mind exudes. It takes years to acquire that light-hearted joyousness, that child-like, heedless, almost inconsequent delight in things. Barrie in his early works was lumbering, if amusing at all, heavily so. The seriousness of life weighted him down, and his attempts at sprightliness were made under great difficulties, as he shook off with only partial success youth’s desire to weep at the world. It is not, as it perhaps for a moment seems, that the technique is clumsy while the heart is young, and that only in later years does one gain the mechanism to express what one used to feel; it is that our natures only limber up after twenty-five; we only then acquire the flexibility which permits sudden convulsed appreciation and continued skylarking in the heart. It takes agility to steer one’s blithesomeness through the rapids. Young people with their leaden gauchery of nature are continually bumping with jarring concussions on rocks, and, instead of bowing to the rock and passing on with leniency for both parties to the collision, they stand bemoaning the fact that the rock is there, and reasoning with it in hopes of making it vanish away. Young children are seldom light on their feet. It takes twelve years to learn to skip with suppleness. In another twelve years one begins to learn that skipping feet are dull things beside a skipping spirit and the skip is transplanted. Even then one has not reached the susceptible age, the period when one is in love with life for no reason at all except that one cannot control one’s capering heart. That comes at thirty; it may last and increase as the years accumulate, but the writer has no grounds for saying that it does, though observation among the better-regulated people seems to prove it. Most marriages take place in early youth, because love so oppresses young people that they feel they must do something about it, and with heavy sighs they marry. After thirty one is in love with every one and marriage is almost impossible. Not that one does not want it. One does. But so general is one’s enthusiasm that it must be dozens or no one, and even if dozens could be contrived there would be a sad qualm that some one whom one had never met was being left out, and, seeing how completely engaging every one is, the pity of this would prevent one’s settling down definitely to the dozens.

      There is so little to be said when people of whom one expected nothing turn out uncommonly well. One cannot say, “I always said so,” for the simple reason that one said nothing of the kind. One cannot say what one feels, which is, “Well, well, who’d ha’ thought it?” because you ought to have had the perception to have thought of it even though you did not... One cannot say, “I always said so,” for the simple reason that one said nothing of the kind. One cannot say what one feels, which is, “Well, well, who’d ha’ thought it?” because you ought to have had the perception to have thought of it even though you did not, besides which surprise is not at all the sentiment with which to greet successful people. They do not like it, and it is very apt to make them dislike you, and altogether one is a little put to it to know just what to do. One can, of course , pretend one never met them before and clamor to be introduced. This is a little risky if one has been snubbing them for years. On the other hand, one can pretend that their success has not arrived and continue to snub them. This takes great singleness of purpose and an unchangeable will. If one has a touch of genius one can say: “Ah, I always knew there was something about you that made me uncomfortable. Now I know it was your superiority which I instinctively recognized.” But take what course one will, it is impossible to avoid a distinct feeling of flatness when a neighbor, a relative, or a dowdy acquaintance appears without any warning on a peak of fame. Summon what grace we will, we have to go through a period of feeling undeniably foolish.

      No one can call in any but an angry way. The voice may be melodious, but that only serves to give the impression that the anger is under control. One’s name sent out on the air is a signal that one is in for something unpleasant. The voice on coming up with you may disclose an entertaining scheme in which it wishes you to join, but that is because it has repented since calling. At the time it had something horrid up its sleeve. If it had not had, it would have looked for you and, when you were near at hand, told you of its plan in a gentle tone. The mere fact of raising the voice is sufficient to prove that the voice had unfriendly intentions toward you. No well-meaning person raises his voice, particularly to a height where it will carry and, above all, reach you... One never knows what to do with a call when it comes. No well-meaning person raises his voice, particularly to a height where it will carry and, above all, reach you. There is something about a call that is unforgivable, no matter what the outcome. If it is a frantic hail sent ringing forth to warn you of approaching danger your gratitude is grudging. You do not want to die, but on the other hand you will not be yelled at. Of the two the former is almost preferable. One never knows what to do with a call when it comes. If any one so far forgets himself as to offend one’s ears with a hearty hullo, he is the last person in the world one wishes to go to for any purpose but to berate him for doing the one thing one cannot endure. Gabriel will not blow a trumpet — no angel would. He will tap each person on the shoulder quietly without making him start, for if he does peal forth in the noisy manner prophesied there are a number of us who will not answer.
 

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