I have no doubt that shyness is one of the old, primitive, aboriginal
qualities that lurk in human nature--one of the crude elements that
ought to have been uprooted by civilisation, and security, and progress,
and enlightened ideals, but which have not been uprooted, and are only
being slowly eliminated. It is seen, as all aboriginal qualities are
seen, at its barest among children, who often reflect the youth of the
world, and are like little wild animals or infant savages, in spite of
all the frenzied idealisation that childhood receives from well-dressed
and amiable people.
Shyness is thus like those little bits of woods and copses which one
finds in a country-side that has long been subdued and replenished,
turned into arable land and pasture, with all the wildness and the
irregularity ploughed and combed out of it; but still one comes upon
some piece of dingle, where there is perhaps an awkward tilt in the
ground, or some ancient excavation, or where a stream-head has cut out a
steep channel, and there one finds a scrap of the old forest, a rood or
two that has never been anything but woodland. So with shyness; many
of our old, savage qualities have been smoothed out, or glazed over,
by education and inheritance, and only emerge in moments of passion and
emotion. But shyness is no doubt the old suspicion of the stranger, the
belief that his motives are likely to be predatory and sinister; it is
the tendency to bob the head down into the brushwood, or to sneak behind
the tree-bole on his approach. One sees a little child, washed
and brushed and delicately apparelled, with silken locks and clear
complexion, brought into a drawing-room to be admired; one sees the
terror come upon her; she knows by experience that she has nothing to
expect but attention, and admiration, and petting; but you will see her
suddenly cover her face with a tiny hand, relapse into dismal silence,
even burst into tears and refuse to be comforted, till she is safely
entrenched upon some familiar knee.
I have a breezy, boisterous, cheerful friend, of transparent simplicity
and goodness, who has never known the least touch of shyness from his
cradle, who always says, if the subject is introduced, that shyness
is all mere self-consciousness, and that it comes from thinking about
oneself. That is true, in a limited degree; but the diagnosis is no
remedy for the disease, because shyness is as much a disease as a cold
in the head, and no amount of effort can prevent the attacks of the
complaint; the only remedy is either to avoid the occasions of the
attacks,--and that is impossible, unless one is to abjure the society
of other people for good and all;--or else to practise resolutely the
hardening process of frequenting society, until one gets a sort of
courage out of familiarity. Yet even so, who that has ever really
suffered from shyness does not feel his heart sink as he drives up in
a brougham to the door of some strange house, and sees a grave butler
advancing out of an unknown corridor, with figures flitting to and fro
in the background; what shy person is there who at such a moment would
not give a considerable sum to be able to go back to the station and
take the first train home? Or who again, as he gives his name to a
servant in some brightly-lighted hall, and advances, with a hurried
glance at his toilet, into a roomful of well-dressed people, buzzing
with what Rossetti calls a "din of doubtful talk," would not prefer to
sink into the earth like Korah, Dathan, and Abiram, and be reckoned no
more among the living?
It is recorded in Tennyson's Life that he used to recommend to a younger
brother the thought of the stellar spaces, swarming with constellations
and traversed by planets at ineffable distances, as a cure for shyness;
and a lady of my acquaintance used to endeavour as a girl to stay her
failing heart on the thought of Eternity at such moments. It is all
in vain; at the urgent moment one cares very little about the stellar
motions, or the dim vistas of futurity, and very much indeed about the
cut of one's coat, and the appearance of one's collar, and the glances
of one's enemies; the doctrines of the Church, and the prospects of
ultimate salvation, are things very light in the scales in comparison
with the pressing necessities of the crisis, and the desperate need to
appear wholly unconcerned!
The wild and fierce shyness of childhood is superseded in most sensitive
people, as life goes on, by a very different feeling--the shyness
of adolescence, of which the essence, as has been well said, is "a
shamefaced pride." The shyness of early youth is a thing which springs
from an intense desire to delight, and impress, and interest other
people, from wanting to play a far larger and brighter part in the lives
of every one else than any one in the world plays in any one else's
life. Who does not recognise, with a feeling that is half contempt and
half compassion, the sight of the eager pretentiousness of youth, the
intense shame of confessing ignorance on any point, the deep desire
to appear to have a stake in the world, and a well-defined, respected
position? I met the other day a young man, of no particular force or
distinction, who was standing in a corner at a big social gathering,
bursting with terror and importance combined. He was inspired, I would
fain believe, by discerning a vague benevolence in my air and demeanour,
to fix his attention on me. He had been staying at a house where there
had been some important guests, and by some incredibly rapid
transition of eloquence he was saying to me in a minute or two, "The
Commander-in-Chief said to me the other day," and "The Archbishop
pointed out to me a few days ago," giving, as personal confidences,
scraps of conversation which he had no doubt overheard as an unwelcome
adjunct to a crowded smoking-room, with the busy and genial elders
wondering when the boys would have the grace to go to bed. My heart bled
for him as I saw the reflection of my own pushing and pretentious youth,
and I only desired that the curse should not fall upon him which has
so often fallen upon myself, to recall ineffaceably, with a blush that
still mantles my cheek in the silence and seclusion of my bedroom, in
a wakeful hour, the thought of some such piece of transparent and
ridiculous self-importance, shamefully uttered by myself, in a transport
of ambitious vanity, long years ago. How out of proportion to the
offence is the avenging phantom of memory which dogs one through the
years for such stupidities! I remember that as a youthful undergraduate
I went to stay in the house of an old family friend in the neighbourhood
of Cambridge. The only other male guest was a grim and crusty don, sharp
and trenchant in speech, and with a determination to keep young men in
their place. At Cambridge he would have taken no notice whatever of
me; but there, on alien ground, with some lurking impulse of far-off
civility, he said to me when the ladies retired, "I am going to have a
cigar; you know your way to the smoking-room?" I did not myself smoke
in those days, so foolish was I and innocent; but recalling, I suppose,
some similar remark made by an elderly and genial non-smoker under the
same circumstances, I said pompously--I can hardly bring myself even now
to write the words--"I don't smoke, but I will come and sit with you
for the pleasure of a talk." He gave a derisive snort, looked at me and
said, "What! not allowed to smoke yet? Pray don't trouble to come on
my account." It was not a genial speech, and it made me feel, as it was
intended to do, insupportably silly. I did not make matters better,
I recollect, on the following day, when on returning to Cambridge
I offered to carry his bag up from the station, for he insisted on
walking. He refused testily, and no doubt thought me, as in fact I was,
a very spiritless young man.
I remember, too, another incident of the same kind, happening about the
same time. I was invited by a fellow-undergraduate to come to tea in his
rooms, and to meet his people. After tea, in the lightness of his heart,
my friend performed some singular antics, such as standing on his head
like a clown, and falling over the back of his sofa, alighting on his
feet. I, who would not have executed such gambols for the world in the
presence of the fairer sex, but anxious in an elderly way to express my
sympathy with the performer, said, with what was meant to be a polite
admiration: "I can't think how you do that!" Upon which a shrewd
and trenchant maiden-aunt who was present, and was delighting in the
exuberance of her nephew, said to me briskly, "Mr. Benson, have you
never been young?" I should be ashamed to say how often since I have
arranged a neat repartee to that annoying question. At the same time
I think that the behaviour both of the don and the aunt was distinctly
unjust and unadvisable. I am sure that the one way to train young people
out of the miseries of shyness is for older people never to snub them
in public, or make them appear in the light of a fool. Such snubs fall
plentifully and naturally from contemporaries. An elder person is quite
within his rights in inflicting a grave and serious remonstrance in
private. I do not believe that young people ever resent that, if at the
same time they are allowed to defend themselves and state their case.
But a merciless elder who inflicts a public mortification is terribly
unassailable and impregnable. For the shy person, who is desperately
anxious to bear a sympathetic part, is quite incapable of retort; and
that is why such assaults are unpardonable, because they are the merest
bullying.
The nicest people that I have known in life have been the people
of kindly and sensible natures, who have been thoroughly spoilt as
children, encouraged to talk, led to expect not only toleration, but
active kindness and sympathy from all. The worst of it is that such
kindness is generally reserved for pretty and engaging children, and it
is the awkward, unpleasing, ungainly child who gets the slaps in public.
But, as in Tennyson-Turner's pretty poem of "Letty's Globe," a child's
hand should be "welcome at all frontiers." Only deliberate rudeness and
insolence on the part of children should be publicly rebuked; and as a
matter of fact both rudeness and insolence are far oftener the result of
shyness than is easily supposed.
After the shyness of adolescence there often follows a further stage.
The shy person has learnt a certain wisdom; he becomes aware how easily
he detects pretentiousness in other people, and realises that there is
nothing to be gained by claiming a width of experience which he does not
possess, and that the being unmasked is even more painful than feeling
deficient and ill-equipped. Then too he learns to suspect that when
he has tried to be impressive, he has often only succeeded in being
priggish; and the result is that he falls into a kind of speechlessness,
comforting himself, as he sits mute and awkward, unduly elongated, and
with unaccountable projections of limb and feature, that if only other
people were a little less self-absorbed, had the gift of perceiving
hidden worth and real character, and could pierce a little below the
surface, they would realise what reserves of force and tenderness lay
beneath the heavy shapelessness of which he is still conscious. Then is
the time for the shy person to apply himself to social gymnastics. He
is not required to be voluble; but if he will practise bearing a hand,
seeing what other people need and like, carrying on their line of
thought, constructing small conversational bridges, asking the right
questions, perhaps simulating an interest in the pursuits of others
which he does not naturally feel, he may unloose the burden from his
back. Then is the time to practise a sympathetic smile, or better still
to allow oneself to indicate and even express the sympathy one feels;
and the experimentalist will soon become aware how welcome such
unobtrusive sympathy is. He will be amazed at first to find that,
instead of being tolerated, he will be confided in; he will be regarded
as a pleasant adjunct to a party, and he will soon have the even
pleasanter experience of finding that his own opinions and adventures,
if they are not used to cap and surpass the opinions and adventures of
others, but to elicit them, will be duly valued. Yet, alas, a good many
shy people never reach that stage, but take refuge in a critical and
fastidious attitude. I had an elderly relative of this kind--who
does not know the type?--who was a man of wide interests and accurate
information, but a perfect terror in the domestic circle. He was too
shy to mingle in general talk, but sat with an air of acute observation,
with a dry smile playing over his face; later on, when the circle
diminished, it pleased him to retail the incautious statements made by
various members of the party, and correct them with much acerbity.
There are few things more terrific than a man who is both speechless and
distinguished. I have known several such, and their presence lies like a
blight over the most cheerful party. It is unhappily often the case that
shyness is apt to exist side by side with considerable ability, and a
shy man of this type regards distinction as a kind of defensive armour,
which may justify him in applying to others the contempt which he has
himself been conscious of incurring. One of the most disagreeable men I
know is a man of great ability, who was bullied in his youth. The result
upon him has been that he tends to believe that most people are inspired
by a vague malevolence, and he uses his ability and his memory, not to
add to the pleasure of a party, but to make his own power felt. I have
seen this particular man pass from an ungainly speechlessness into
brutal onslaughts on inoffensive persons; and it is one of the most
unpleasant transformations in the world. On the other hand, the modest
and amiable man of distinction is one of the most agreeable figures it
is possible to encounter. He is kind and deferential, and the indulgent
deference of a distinguished man is worth its weight in gold.
I was lately told a delightful story of a great statesman staying with
a humble and anxious host, who had invited a party of simple and
unimportant people to meet the great man. The statesman came in late
for dinner, and was introduced to the party; he made a series of
old-fashioned bows in all directions, but no one felt in a position
to offer any observations. The great man, at the conclusion of the
ceremony, turned to his host, and said, in tones that had often
thrilled a listening senate: "What very convenient jugs you have in your
bedrooms! They pour well!" The social frost broke up; the company were
delighted to find that the great man was interested in mundane matters
of a kind on which every one might be permitted to have an opinion, and
the conversation, starting from the humblest conveniences of daily
life, melted insensibly into more liberal subjects. The fact is that,
in ordinary life, kindness and simplicity are valued far more than
brilliance; and the best brilliance is that which throws a novel and
lambent light upon ordinary topics, rather than the brilliance which
disports itself in unfamiliar and exalted regions. The hero only ceases
to be a hero to his valet if he is too lofty-minded to enter into the
workings of his valet's mind, and cannot duly appraise the quality of
his services.
And then, too, to go back a little, there are certain defects, after
all, which are appropriate at different times of life. A certain
degree of shyness and even awkwardness is not at all a disagreeable
thing--indeed it is rather a desirable quality--in the young. A
perfectly self-possessed and voluble young man arouses in one a vague
sense of hostility, unless it is accompanied by great modesty and
ingenuousness. The artless prattler, who, in his teens, has an opinion
on all subjects, and considers that opinion worth expressing, is
pleasant enough, and saves one some embarrassment; but such people,
alas, too often degenerate into the bores of later life. If a man's
opinion is eventually going to be worth anything, he ought, I think, to
pass through a tumultuous and even prickly stage, when he believes that
he has an opinion, but cannot find the aplomb to formulate it. He ought
to be feeling his way, to be in a vague condition of revolt against what
is conventional. This is likely to be true not only in his dealings
with his elders, but also in his dealings with his contemporaries. Young
people are apt to regard a youthful doctrinaire, who has an opinion on
everything, with sincere abhorrence. He bores them, and to the young
boredom is not a condition of passive suffering, it is an acute form of
torture. Moreover, the stock of opinions which a young man holds are apt
to be parrot-cries repeated without any coherence from talks overheard
and books skimmed. But in a modest and ingenuous youth, filled to the
brim with eager interest and alert curiosity, a certain deference is
an adorable thing, one of the most delicate of graces; and it is a
delightful task for an older person, who feels the sense of youthful
charm, to melt stiffness away by kindly irony and gentle provocation,
as Socrates did with his sweet-natured and modest boy-friends, so many
centuries ago.
The aplomb of the young generally means complacency; but one who is
young and shy, and yet has the grace to think about the convenience and
pleasure of others, can be the most perfect companion in the world. One
has then a sense of the brave and unsophisticated freshness of youth,
that believes all things and hopes all things, the bloom of which has
not been rubbed away by the rough touch of the world. It is only when
that shyness is prolonged beyond the appropriate years, when it leaves
a well-grown and hard-featured man gasping and incoherent, jerky and
ungracious, that it is a painful and disconcerting deformity. The only
real shadow of early shyness is the quite disproportionate amount of
unhappiness that conscious gaucherie brings with it. Two incidents
connected with a ceremony most fruitful in nervousness come back to my
mind.
When I was an Eton boy, I was staying with a country squire, a most
courteous old gentleman with a high temper. The first morning, I
contrived to come down a minute or two late for prayers. There was
no chair for me. The Squire suspended his reading of the Bible with a
deadly sort of resignation, and made a gesture to the portly butler.
That functionary rose from his own chair, and with loudly creaking boots
carried it across the room for my acceptance. I sat down, covered with
confusion. The butler returned; and two footmen, who were sitting on a
little form, made reluctant room for him. The butler sat down on one end
of the form, unfortunately before his equipoise, the second footman, had
taken his place at the other end. The result was that the form tipped
up, and a cataract of flunkies poured down upon the floor. There was
a ghastly silence; then the Gadarene herd slowly recovered itself,
and resumed its place. The Squire read the chapter in an accent of
suppressed fury, while the remainder of the party, with handkerchiefs
pressed to their faces, made the most unaccountable sounds and motions
for the rest of the proceeding. I was really comparatively guiltless,
but the shadow of that horrid event sensibly clouded the whole of my
visit.
I was only a spectator of the other event. We had assembled for prayers
in the dimly-lighted hall of the house of a church dignitary, and the
chapter had begun, when a man of almost murderous shyness, who was
a guest, opened his bedroom door and came down the stairs. Our host
suspended his reading. The unhappy man came down, but, instead of
slinking to his place, went and stood in front of the fire, under the
impression that the proceedings had not taken shape, and addressed some
remarks upon the weather to his hostess. In the middle of one of his
sentences, he suddenly divined the situation, on seeing the row of
servants sitting in a thievish corner of the hall. He took his seat with
the air of a man driving to the guillotine, and I do not think I ever
saw any one so much upset as he was for the remainder of his stay. Of
course it may be said that a sense of humour should have saved a man
from such a collapse of moral force, but a sense of humour requires to
be very strong to save a man from the sense of having made a conspicuous
fool of himself.
I would add one more small reminiscence, of an event from which I can
hardly say with honesty that I have yet quite recovered, although it
took place nearly thirty years ago. I went, as a schoolboy, with my
parents, to stay at a very big country house, the kind of place to which
I was little used, where the advent of a stately footman to take away
my clothes in the morning used to fill me with misery. The first evening
there was a big dinner-party. I found myself sitting next my delightful
and kindly hostess, my father being on the other side of her. All went
well till dessert, when an amiable, long-haired spaniel came to my side
to beg of me. I had nothing but grapes on my plate, and purely out
of compliment I offered him one. He at once took it in his mouth,
and hurried to a fine white fur rug in front of the hearth, where he
indulged in some unaccountable convulsions, rolling himself about and
growling in an ecstasy of delight. My host, an irascible man, looked
round, and then said: "Who the devil has given that dog a grape?" He
added to my father, by way of explanation, "The fact is that if he can
get hold of a grape, he rolls it on that rug, and it is no end of a
nuisance to get the stain out." I sat crimson with guilt, and was just
about to falter out a confession, when my hostess looked up, and, seeing
what had happened, said, "It was me, Frank--I forgot for the moment what
I was doing." My gratitude for this angelic intervention was so great
that I had not even the gallantry to own up, and could only repay my
protectress with an intense and lasting devotion. I have no doubt that
she explained matters afterwards to our host; and I contrived to murmur
my thanks later in the evening. But the shock had been a terrible one,
and taught me not only wisdom, but the Christian duty of intervening, if
I could, to save the shy from their sins and sufferings.
"Taught by the Power that pities me,
I learn to pity them."
But the consideration that emerges from these reminiscences is the
somewhat bewildering one, that shyness is a thing which seems to be
punished, both by immediate discomfort and by subsequent fantastic
remorse, far more heavily than infinitely more serious moral lapses.
The repentance that follows sin can hardly be more poignant than the
agonising sense of guilt which steals over the waking consciousness
on the morning that follows some such social lapse. In fact it must
be confessed that most of us dislike appearing fools far more than we
dislike feeling knaves; so that one wonders whether one does not dread
the ridicule and disapproval of society more than one dreads the sense
of a lapse from morality; the philosophical outcome of which would seem
to be that the verdict of society upon our actions is at the base of
morality. We may feel assured that the result of moral lapses will
ultimately be that we shall have to face the wrath of our Creator;
but one hopes that side by side with justice will be found a merciful
allowance for the force of temptation. But the final judgment is in any
case not imminent, while the result of a social lapse is that we have to
continue to face a disapproving and even a contemptuous circle, who will
remember our failure with malicious pleasure, and whose sense of justice
will not be tempered by any appreciable degree of mercy. Here again is
a discouraging circumstance, that when we call to mind some similarly
compromising and grotesque adventure in the life of one of our friends,
in spite of the fact that we well know the distress that the incident
must have caused him, we still continue to hug, and even to repeat, our
recollection of the occasion with a rich sense of joy. Is it that we
do not really desire the peace and joy of others? It would seem so. How
many of us are not conscious of feeling extremely friendly and helpful
when our friend is in sorrow, or difficulty, or discredit, and yet of
having no taste for standing by and applauding when our friend is joyful
and successful! There is nothing, it seems, that we can render to our
friend in the latter case, except the praise of which he has already had
enough!
It seems then that the process of anatomising the nature and philosophy
of shyness only ends in stripping off, one by one, as from an onion, the
decent integuments of the human spirit, and revealing it every moment
more and more in its native rankness. Let me forbear, consoling myself
with the thought that the qualities of human beings are not meant to be
taken up one by one, like coins from a tray, and scrutinised; but that
what matters is the general effect, the blending, the grouping, the
mellowed surface, the warped line. I was only yesterday in an
old church, where I saw an ancient font-cover--a sort of carved
extinguisher--and some dark panels of a rood-screen. They had been, both
cover and panels, coarsely and brightly painted and gilt; and, horrible
to reflect, it flashed upon me that they must have once been both
glaring and vulgar. Yet to-day the dim richness of the effect, the
dints, the scaling-off of the flakes, the fading of the pigment, the
dulling of the gold, were incomparable; and I began to wonder if perhaps
that was not what happened to us in life; and that though we foolishly
regretted the tarnishing of the bright surfaces of soul and body with
our passions and tempers and awkwardnesses and feeblenesses, yet perhaps
it was, after all, that we were taking on an unsuspected beauty, and
making ourselves fit, some far-off day, for the Communion of Saints!