talker, because the qualities needed--humour, quickness, the power of
seeing unexpected connections, picturesque phrasing, natural charm,
sympathy, readiness, and so forth--are things hardly attainable by
effort. But much can be done by perseverance; and it is possible to
form a deliberate habit of conversation by determining that however
much one may be indisposed to talk, however unpromising one's
companions may seem, one will at all events keep up an end. I have
known really shy and unready persons who from a sheer sense of duty
have made themselves into very tolerable talkers. A friend of my
acquaintance confesses that a device she has occasionally employed is
to think of subjects in alphabetical order. I could not practise this
device myself, because when I had lighted upon, we will say, algebra,
archery, and astigmatism, as possible subjects for talk, I should find
it impossible to invent any gambit by which they could be successfully
introduced.
The only recipe which I would offer to a student of the art is not to
be afraid of apparent egotism, but to talk frankly of any subject in
which he may be interested, from a personal point of view. An
impersonal talker is apt to be a dull dog. There is nothing like a
frank expression of personal views to elicit an equally frank
expression of divergence or agreement. Neither is it well to despise
the day of small things; the weather, railway travelling, symptoms of
illness, visits to a dentist, sea-sickness, as representing the
universal experiences and interests of humanity, will often serve as
points d'appui.
Of course there come to all people horrible tongue-tied moments when
they can think of nothing to say, and, feel like a walrus on an
ice-floe, heavy, melancholy, ineffective. Such a catastrophe is almost
invariably precipitated in my own case by being told that some one is
particularly anxious to be introduced to me. A philosopher of my
acquaintance, who was an admirable talker, told me that on a certain
occasion, an evening party, his hostess led up a young girl to him,
like Iphigenia decked for the sacrifice, and said that Miss ---- was
desirous of meeting him. The world became instantly a blank to him. The
enthusiastic damsel stared at him with large admiring eyes. After a
period of agonized silence, a remark occurred to him which he felt
might have been appropriate if it had been made earlier in the
encounter. He rejected it as useless, and after another interval a
thought came to him which he saw might have served, if the suspense had
not been already so prolonged; this was also put aside; and after a
series of belated remarks had occurred to him, each of which seemed to
be hopelessly unworthy of the expectation he had excited, the hostess,
seeing that things had gone wrong, came, like Artemis, and led
Iphigenia away, without the philosopher having had the opportunity of
indulging in a single reflection. The experience, he said, was of so
appalling a character, that he set to, and invented a remark which he
said was applicable to persons of all ages and of either sex, under any
circumstances whatever; but, as he would never reveal this precious
possession to the most ardent inquirers, the secret, whatever it was,
has perished with him.
One of my friends has a perfectly unique gift of conversation. He is a
prominent man of affairs, a perfect mine of political secrets. He is a
ready talker, and has the art, both in a tete-a-tete as well as in a
mixed company, of mentioning things which are extremely interesting,
and appear to be hopelessly indiscreet. He generally accompanies his
relation of these incidents with a request that the subject may not be
mentioned outside. The result is that every one who is brought into
contact with him feels that he is selected by the great man because of
some happy gift of temperament, trustworthiness, or discretion, or even
on grounds of personal importance, to be the recipient of this signal
mark of confidence. On one occasion I endeavoured, after one of these
conversations, not for the sake of betraying him, but in the interests
of a diary which I keep, to formulate in precise and permanent terms
some of this interesting intelligence. To my intense surprise and
disappointment, I found myself entirely unable to recollect, much less
to express, any of his statements. They had melted in the mind, like
some delicate confection, and left behind them nothing but a faint
aroma of interest and pleasure.
This would be a dangerous example to imitate, because it requires a
very subtle species of art to select incidents and episodes which
should both gratify the hearers, and which at the same time it should
be impossible to hand on. Most people who attempted such a task would
sink into being miserable blabbers of tacenda, mere sieves through
which matters of secret importance would granulate into the hands of
ardent journalists. But at once to stimulate and gratify curiosity, and
to give a quiet circle the sense of being admitted to the inmost
penetralia of affairs, is a triumph of conversational art.
Dr. Johnson used to say that he loved to stretch his legs and have his
talk out; and the fact remains that the best conversation one gets is
the conversation that one does not scheme for, and even on occasions
from which one has expected but little. The talks that remain in my
mind as of pre-eminent interest are long leisurely tete-a-tete talks,
oftenest perhaps of all in the course of a walk, when exercise sends
the blood coursing through the brain, when a pleasant countryside tunes
the spirit to a serene harmony of mood, and when the mind, stimulated
into a joyful readiness by association with some quiet, just, and
perceptive companion, visits its dusty warehouse, and turns over its
fantastic stores. Then is the time to penetrate into the inmost
labyrinths of a subject, to indulge in pleasing discursiveness, as the
fancy leads one, and yet to return again and again with renewed relish
to the central theme. Such talks as these, with no overshadowing
anxiety upon the mind, held on breezy uplands or in pleasant country
lanes, make the moments, indeed, to which the mind, in the sad mood
which remembers the days that are gone, turns with that sorrowful
desolation of which Dante speaks, as to a treasure lightly spent and
ungratefully regarded. How such hours rise up before the mind! Even now
as I write I think of such a scene, when I walked with a friend, long
dead, on the broad yellow sands beside a western sea. I can recall the
sharp hiss of the shoreward wind, the wholesome savours of the brine,
the soft clap of small waves, the sand-dunes behind the shore, pricked
with green tufts of grass, the ships moving slowly on the sea's rim,
and the shadowy headland to which we hardly seemed to draw more near,
while we spoke of all that was in our hearts, and all that we meant to
do and be. That day was a great gift from God; and yet, as I received
it, I did not know how fair a jewel of memory it would be. I like to
think that there are many such jewels of recollection clasped close in
the heart's casket, even in the minds of men and women that I meet,
that seem so commonplace to me, so interesting to themselves!
It is strange, in reflecting about the memorable talks I have held with
different people, to find that I remember best the talks that I have
had with men, rather than with women. There is a kind of simple
openness, an equal comradeship in talks with men, which I find it
difficult to attain in the case of women. I suppose that some
unsuspected mystery of sex creeps in, and that with women there is a
whole range of experiences and emotions that one does not share, so
that there is an invisible and intangible barrier erected between the
two minds. I feel, too, in talking with women, that I am met with
almost too much sympathy and tact, so that one falls into an
egotistical mood. It is difficult, too, I find, to be as frank in
talking with women as with men; because I think that women tend more
than men to hold a preconceived idea of one's character and tastes; and
it is difficult to talk simply and naturally to any one who has formed
a mental picture of one, especially if one is aware that it is not
correct. But men are slower to form impressions, and thus talk is more
experimental; moreover, in talking with men, one encounters more
opposition, and opposition puts one more on one's mettle.
Thus a tete-a-tete with a man of similar tastes, who is just and yet
sympathetic, critical yet appreciative, whose point of view just
differs enough to make it possible for him to throw sidelights on a
subject, and to illumine aspects of it that were unperceived and
neglected--this is a high intellectual pleasure, a potion to be
delicately sipped at leisure.
But after all it is impossible to say what makes a conversationalist.
There are people who seem to possess every qualification for conversing
except the power to converse. The two absolutely essential things are,
in the first place, a certain charm of mind and even manner, which is a
purely instinctive gift; and, in the second place, real sympathy with,
real interest in the deuteragonist.
People can be useful talkers, even interesting talkers, without these
gifts. One may like to hear what a man of vigorous mind may have to say
on a subject that he knows well, even if he is unsympathetic. But then
one listens in a receptive frame of mind, as though one were prepared
to attend a lecture. There are plenty of useful talkers at a
University, men whom it is a pleasure to meet occasionally, men with
whom one tries, so to speak, a variety of conversational flies, and who
will give one fine sport when they are fairly hooked. But though a
University is a place where one ought to expect to find abundance of
the best talk, the want of leisure among the present generation of Dons
is a serious bar to interesting talk. By the evening the majority of
Dons are apt to be tired. They have been hard at work most of the day,
and they look upon the sociable evening hours as a time to be given up
to what the Scotch call "daffing"; that is to say, a sort of nimble
interchange of humorous or interesting gossip; a man who pursues a
subject intently is apt to be thought a bore. I think that the
middle-aged Don is apt to be less interesting than either the elderly
or the youthful Don. The middle-aged Don is, like all successful
professional men, full to the brim of affairs. He has little time for
general reading. He lectures, he attends meetings, his table is covered
with papers, and his leisure hours are full of interviews. But the
younger Don is generally less occupied and more enthusiastic; and best
of all is the elderly Don, who is beginning to take things more easily,
has a knowledge of men, a philosophy and a good-humoured tolerance
which makes him more accessible. He is not in a hurry, he is not
preoccupied. He studies the daily papers with deliberation, and he has
just enough duties to make him feel wholesomely busy. His ambitions are
things of the past, and he is gratified by attention and deference.
I suppose the same is the case, in a certain degree, all the world
over. But the truth about conversation is that, to make anything of it,
people must realize it as a definite mental occupation, and not merely
a dribbling into words of casual thoughts. To do it well implies a
certain deliberate intention, a certain unselfishness, a certain zest.
The difficulty is that it demands a catholicity of interests, a full
mind. Yet it does not do to have a subject on the brain, and to
introduce it into all companies. The pity is that conversation is not
more recognized as a definite accomplishment. People who care about the
success of social gatherings are apt to invite an instrumentalist or a
singer, or a man with what may be called parlour tricks; but few people
are equally careful to plant out two or three conversationalists among
their parties, or to take care that their conversationalists are
provided with a sympathetic background.
For the fact remains that conversation is a real art, and depends like
all other arts upon congenial circumstances and suitable surroundings.
People are too apt to believe that, because they have interests in
their minds and can put those interests into words, they are equipped
for the pretty and delicate game of talk. But a rare admixture of
qualities is needed, and a subtle conversational effect, a sudden
fancy, that throws a charming or a bizarre light on a subject, a power
of pleasing metaphorical expression, the communication of an
imaginative interest to a familiar topic--all these things are of the
nature of instinctive art. I have heard well-informed and sensible
people talk of a subject in a way that made me feel that I desired
never to hear it mentioned again; but I have heard, on the other hand,
people talk of matters which I had believed to be worn threadbare by
use, and yet communicate a rich colour, a fragrant sentiment to them,
which made me feel that I had never thought adequately on the topic
before. One should be careful, I think, to express to such persons
one's appreciation and admiration of their gifts, for the art is so
rare that we ought to welcome it when we find it; and, like all arts,
it depends to a great extent for its sustenance on the avowed gratitude
of those who enjoy it. It is on these subtle half-toned glimpses of
personality and difference that most of our happy impressions of life
depend; and no one can afford wilfully to neglect sources of innocent
joy, or to lose opportunities of pleasure through a stupid or brutal
contempt for the slender resources out of which these gentle effects
are produced.
VI
BEAUTY
I was visited, as I sate in my room to-day, by one of those sudden
impressions of rare beauty that come and go like flashes, and which
leave one desiring a similar experience. The materials of the
impression were simple and familiar enough. My room looks out into a
little court; there is a plot of grass, and to the right of it an old
stone-built wall, close against which stands a row of aged lime-trees.
Straight opposite, at right angles to the wall, is the east side of the
Hall, with its big plain traceried window enlivened with a few heraldic
shields of stained glass. While I was looking out to-day there came a
flying burst of sun, and the little corner became a sudden feast of
delicate colour; the fresh green of the grass, the foliage of the
lime-trees, their brown wrinkled stems, the pale moss on the walls, the
bright points of colour in the emblazonries of the window, made a
sudden delicate harmony of tints. I had seen the place a hundred times
before without ever guessing what a perfect picture it made.
What a strange power the perception of beauty is! It seems to ebb and
flow like some secret tide, independent alike of health or disease, of
joy or sorrow. There are times in our lives when we seem to go singing
on our way, and when the beauty of the world sits itself like a quiet
harmony to the song we uplift. Then again come seasons when all is well
with us, when we are prosperous and contented, interested in life and
all its concerns, when no perception of beauty comes near us; when we
are tranquil and content, and take no heed of the delicate visions of
the day; when music has no inner voice, and poetry seems a mere
cheerful jingling of ordered phrases. Then again we have a time of
gloom and dreariness; work has no interest, pleasure no savour; we go
about our business and our delight alike in a leaden mood of dulness;
and yet again, when we are surrounded with care and trouble, perhaps in
pain or weakness of body, there flashes into the darkened life an
exquisite perception of things beautiful and rare; the vision of a
spring copse with all its tapestry of flowers, bright points of radiant
colour, fills us with a strange yearning, a delightful pain; in such a
mood a few chords of music, the haunting melody of some familiar line
of verse, the song of a bird at dawn, the light of sunset on lonely
fields, thrill us with an inexpressible rapture. Perhaps some of those
who read these words will say that it is all an unreal, a fantastic
experience of which I speak. Of course there are many tranquil,
wholesome, equable natures to whom such an experience is unknown; but
it is to me one of the truest and commonest things of my life to be
visited by this strange perception and appreciation of beauty, which
gives the days in which I am conscious of it a memorable quality, that
seems to make them the momentous days of my life; and yet again the
mood is so utterly withdrawn at intervals, that the despondent spirit
feels that it can never return; and then a new day dawns, and the sense
comes back again to bless me.
If the emotion which I describe followed the variations of bodily
health; if it came when all was prosperous and joyful, and was
withdrawn when the light was low; if it deserted me in seasons of
robust vigour, and came when the bodily vitality was depressed, I could
refer it to some physical basis. But it contradicts all material laws,
and seems to come and go with a whimsical determination of its own.
When it is with me, nothing can banish it; it pulls insistently at my
elbow; it diverts my attention in the midst of the gravest business;
and, on the other hand, no extremity of sorrow or gloom can suspend it.
I have stood beside the grave of one I loved, with the shadow of urgent
business, of hard detailed arrangements of a practical kind, hanging
over me, with the light gone out of life, and the prospect unutterably
dreary; and yet the strange spirit has been with me, so that a strain
of music should have power to affect me to tears, and the delicate
petals of the very funeral wreaths should draw me into a rapturous
contemplation of their fresh curves, their lovely intricacy, their
penetrating fragrance. In such a moment one could find it in one's
heart to believe that some ethereal soulless creature, like Ariel of
the "Tempest," was floating at one's side, directing one's attention,
like a petulant child, to the things that touched its light-hearted
fancy, and constraining one into an unsought enjoyment.
Neither does it seem to be an intellectual process; because it comes in
the same self-willed way, alike when one's mind is deeply engrossed in
congenial work, as well as when one is busy and distracted; one raises
one's head for an instant, and the sunlight on a flowing water or on an
ancient wall, the sound of the wind among trees, the calling of birds,
take one captive with the mysterious spell; or on another day when I am
working, under apparently the same conditions, the sun may fall golden
on the old garden, the dove may murmur in the high elm, the daffodils
may hang their sweet heads among the meadow-grass, and yet the scene,
may be dark to me and silent, with no charm and no significance.
It all seems to enact itself in a separate region of the spirit,
neither in the physical nor in the mental region. It may come for a few
moments in a day, and then it may depart in an instant. I was taking a
week ago what, for the sake of the associations, I call my holiday. I
walked with a cheerful companion among spring woods, lying nestled in
the folds and dingles of the Sussex hills; the sky was full of flying
gleams; the distant ridges, clothed in wood, lay blue and remote in the
warm air; but I cared for none of these things. Then, when we stood for
a moment in a place where I have stood a hundred times before, where a
full stream spills itself over a pair of broken lock-gates into a
deserted lock, where the stonecrop grows among the masonry, and the
alders root themselves among the mouldering brickwork, the mood came
upon me, and I felt like a thirsty soul that has found a bubbling
spring coming out cool from its hidden caverns on the hot hillside. The
sight, the sound, fed and satisfied my spirit; and yet I had not known
that I had needed anything.
That it is, I will not say, a wholly capricious thing, but a thing that
depends upon a certain harmony of mood, is best proved by the fact that
the same poem or piece of music which can at one time evoke the
sensation most intensely, will at another time fail to convey the
slightest hint of charm, so that one can even wonder in a dreary way
what it could be that one had ever admired and loved. But it is this
very evanescent quality which gives me a certain sense of security. If
one reads the lives of people with strong aesthetic perceptions, such
as Rossetti, Pater, J. A. Symonds, one feels that these natures ran a
certain risk of being absorbed in delicate perception. One feels that a
sensation of beauty was to them so rapturous a thing that they ran the
risk of making the pursuit of such sensations the one object and
business of their existence; of sweeping the waters of life with busy
nets, in the hope of entangling some creature "of bright hue and sharp
fin"; of considering the days and hours that were unvisited by such
perceptions barren and dreary. This is, I cannot help feeling, a
dangerous business; it is to make of the soul nothing but a delicate
instrument for registering aesthetic perceptions; and the result is a
loss of balance and proportion, an excess of sentiment. The peril is
that, as life goes on, and as the perceptive faculty gets blunted and
jaded, a mood of pessimism creeps over the mind.
From this I am personally saved by the fact that the sense of beauty
is, as I have said, so whimsical in its movements. I should never think
of setting out deliberately to capture these sensations, because it
would be so futile a task. No kind of occupation, however prosaic,
however absorbing, seems to be either favourable to this perception, or
the reverse. It is not even like bodily health, which has its
variations, but is on the whole likely to result from a certain defined
regime of diet, exercise, and habits; and what would still more
preserve me from making a deliberate attempt to capture it would be
that it comes perhaps most poignantly and insistently of all when I am
uneasy, overstrained, and melancholy. No! the only thing to do is to
live one's life without reference to it, to be thankful when it comes,
and to be contented when it is withdrawn.
I sometimes think that a great deal of stuff is both written and talked
about the beauties of nature. By this I do not mean for a moment that
nature is less beautiful than is supposed, but that many of the
rapturous expressions one hears and sees used about the enjoyment of
nature are very insincere; though it is equally true on the other hand
that a great deal of genuine admiration of natural beauty is not
expressed, perhaps hardly consciously felt. To have a true and deep
appreciation of nature demands a certain poetical force, which is rare;
and a great many people who have a considerable power of expression,
but little originality, feel bound to expend a portion of this upon
expressing an admiration for nature which they do not so much actually
feel as think themselves bound to feel, because they believe that
people in general expect it of them.
But on the other hand there is, I am sure, in the hearts of many quiet
people a real love for and delight in the beauty of the kindly earth,
the silent and exquisite changes, the influx and efflux of life, which
we call the seasons, the rich transfiguring influences of sunrise and
sunset, the slow or swift lapse of clear streams, the march and plunge
of sea-billows, the bewildering beauty and aromatic scents of those
delicate toys of God which we call flowers, the large air and the sun,
the star-strewn spaces of the night.
Those who are fortunate enough to spend their lives in the quiet
country-side have much of this tranquil and unuttered love of nature;
and others again, who are condemned by circumstances to spend their
days in toilsome towns, and yet have the instinct, derived perhaps from
long generations of country forefathers, feel this beauty, in the short
weeks when they are enabled to approach it, more poignantly still.
FitzGerald tells a story of how he went to see Thomas Carlyle in
London, and sate with him in a room at the top of his house, with a
wide prospect of house-backs and chimney-pots; and how the sage reviled
and vituperated the horrors of city life, and yet left on FitzGerald's
mind the impression that perhaps after all he did not really wish to
leave it.