OXFORD,
Dec. 23, 1904.
MY DEAR HERBERT,--I came down, as soon as the term was over, to Oxford,
where I have come in the way of a good deal of talk. I find that I
become somewhat of a connoisseur in the matter of conversation as I
grow older; and I must also confess that such powers as I possess in
that direction are of the tete-a-tete order. A candid friend of mine, a
gracious lady, who wields some of the arts of a salon, lately took the
wind out of my sails, on an occasion when I formed one of a large and
rather tongue-tied party at her house. I had flung myself, rather
strenuously, into the breach, and had talked with more valour than
discretion. Later in the evening I had a little confabulation with
herself, at the end of which she said to me, with a vaguely reminiscent
air, "What a pity it is that you are only a tete-a-tete talker!"
To be a salon talker indeed requires a certain self-possession, a kind
of grasp of the different individuals which surround you, which is of
the nature of Napoleonic strategy.
At Oxford one does not find much general conversation. The party which
meets night by night in Hall is too large for any diffused talk; and,
moreover, the clink and clash of service, the merry chatter of the
undergraduates fill the scene with a background of noise. There is a
certain not unpleasant excitement, of the gambling type, as to who
one's neighbours will be. Sometimes by a dexterous stroke one can
secure one's chosen companion; but it also may happen that one may be
at the end of the row of the first detachment which sits down to dinner
(for the table slowly fills), and then it is like a game of dominoes;
it is uncertain who may occupy one's nether flank. But the party is so
large that there is a great variety. Of course we have our
drawbacks--what society has not? There is the argumentative,
hair-splitting Professor, who is never happy unless he is landing you
in a false position and ruthlessly demolishing it. There is the crusted
old Don, whose boots creak, whose clothes seem to be made of some hard,
unyielding material, and whose stiff collars scrape his shaven cheeks
with a rustling noise; he speaks rarely and gruffly; he opens his mouth
to insert food, and closes it with a snap; but he is a humorous old
fellow, with a twinkle in his eye; generous if whimsical; and more
good-natured than he wishes you to believe. Some of my friends are
silent and abrupt; there is the statuesque chaplain who, whatever you
may talk of, appears to be preoccupied with something else; there are
brisk, bird-like men, who pick up their food and interject disconnected
remarks. But the majority are lively, sensible fellows, with abundance
of interest in life and people, and a considerable sense of humour;
and, after all, I think it matters very little what a man talks about
as long as you feel that the talk is sincere and natural, and not a
pose; the only kind of talker whom I find really discomposing is the
shy man, who makes false starts, interrupts in order to show his
sympathy, and then apologises for his misapprehension; but this is an
unknown species in a College Hall. What one does weary of more and more
every year is the sort of surface cackle that has to be indulged in in
general society, simply to fill the time.
But of course, in conversation, much depends upon what may be called
LUCK. You may invite three or four of the best conversationalists you
know to a quiet dinner; and yet, though the same party may have on some
previous occasion played the game with agility and zest, yet for some
reason, on the present occasion, all may go heavily. You may light upon
a tiresome subject; your most infectious humorist may be tired or out
of temper, and the whole thing may languish and droop; people may
misunderstand each other, perversely or unintentionally; the dredge may
bring up nothing but mud; a contagion of yawning may set in, and you
are lost. Again, some party which has been assembled from motives of
duty, and from which no species of social pleasure was expected, may
turn out brisk, lively, and entertaining.
A good party should contain, if possible, a humorist, a sentimentalist,
and a good-tempered butt; the only kind of men who should be rigidly
excluded are the busy mocker, the despiser, the superior person. It
does not matter how much people disagree, if they will only admit in
their minds that every one has a right to a point of view, and that
their own does not necessarily rule out all others. I had two friends
once, a husband and wife, who had strong political views; the wife
believed it probable that all Radicals were either wicked or stupid,
but it was possible to argue the point with her; whereas the husband
KNEW that any person who, however slightly, entertained Liberal views
was a fool or a knave, and thus argument was impossible.
Of course, there are a very few people who have a genius for
conversation. Such persons are not as a rule great talkers themselves,
though they every now and then emit a flash of soft brilliance; but
they are rather the people who send every one else away contented; who
see the possibilities in every remark; who want to know what other
people think; and who can, by some deft sympathetic process which is to
me very mysterious, expand a blunt expression of opinion into an
interesting mental horizon, or fructify some faltering thought into a
suggestive and affecting image. Such people are worth their weight in
gold. Then there is a talker who is worth much silver, a man of
irresistible geniality, who has a fund of pleasant banter for all
present. This is a great art; banter, to be agreeable, must be of a
complimentary kind; it must magnify the object it deals with--a
perverse person may be bantered on his strength of character; a stingy
person may be bantered on his prudence. There is, indeed, a kind of
banter, not unknown in academical circles, which takes the heart out of
every one by displaying them in a ludicrous and depreciating light; a
professor of this art will make out a sensitive person to be a coward,
and a poetical man to be a sentimental fool; and then the conversation,
"like a fountain's sickening pulse, retires."
The talker who is worth much copper is the good, commonplace, courteous
person who keeps up an end and has something to say; and these must be
the basis of most parties--the lettuce, so to speak, of the salad.
The thing to beware of is to assemble a purely youthful party, unless
you know your men well; a shy, awkward young man, or a noisy,
complacent young man, are each in their way distressing. But a mixture
of youth and age will produce the happiest results, if only your luck
does not desert you.
After all, the essence of the thing is to have simple, unaffected
people; the poseur is the ruin of genial intercourse, unless he is a
good fellow whose pose is harmless. Some of the best talks I have ever
had have been in the company of sensible and good-natured men, of no
particular brilliance, but with a sense of justice in the matter of
talk and no taste for anecdote; just as some of the best meals I have
ever had have been of the plainest, when good digestion waited upon
appetite. And, on the other hand, some of the very saddest
entertainments I have ever taken a hand in have been those conducted by
a host bubbling with geniality, and with a stock of reminiscences, who
turned the hose in the face of guest after guest till they writhed with
boredom.
Bless me, it is midnight! The hour is pealed from innumerable towers;
then comes a holy silence, while I hear the drip of the fountain in the
court. This incomparable Oxford! I wish that fate or Providence would
turn my steps this way!--Ever yours,