§ 56. Here we have before us one of the most difficult of problems, and
which I shall rather state than attempt to solve. Should we aim at
making our conversation universal in subject, or should we prefer it to
be on personal topics, such as gossip or scandal—the character of some
mutual friend, an enemy, and so forth? There is not the smallest doubt
that if we wish it to be profitable and improving, personal topics
should be avoided, and that we should talk not about people but about
things. And when an assembly of really cultivated people discusses
literary questions, such as the comparative merits of poets or
novelists, there is not only great pleasure to be gained from such a
society, but the after-taste is good, and you feel that your leisure has
not been in vain.
On the other hand it is idle to deny that in most companies people have
not read or thought enough to join in such a conversation or to enjoy
it, whereas details of personal life, the latest anecdote, the facts or
surmises about some scandal, the adverse criticism of some
acquaintance—all this kind of thing, ranging from harmless gossip into
libellous scandal, is deeply interesting to almost everybody, and though
by no means improving is always entertaining.
But even so let the scandalmonger beware. If his ordinary topics are the
characters of his acquaintances, he will soon find himself shunned or
treated with suspicion by society; and nothing so completely kills all
the pleasure of a company as a protest from any one present that he will
not have his absent friend maligned, and that he denies the truth of
what has just been said. To apologise to him for the statement or to
resist him with argument is equally fatal, for the whole ease and good
temper required for pleasant talk has vanished for that occasion.
§ 57. For this reason, unless the talk consists of confidences between
two people who thoroughly understand one another, in which case I hold
personal topics to be far the easiest and the most agreeable, it should
be our duty to raise if possible the gossip about individuals into
reflections upon classes or even principles. Thus if a young lady tells
you that such a man is conceited, you may raise the question how far
conceit is excusable, or whether it may not be commendable, whether it
means a false estimate of poor endowments or a just estimate of
considerable attainments, and so forth. Or else you may inquire whether
men or women are the more conceited as a rule, and whether Aristotle was
not right in setting down over-bashfulness as a vice. Beginning then
with the characters of individuals, which is the easiest prologue, and
in which somebody will always be ready to start, disengage the general
or common feature, and you will not only avoid personalities, but enable
those who have no knowledge and interest about the person described to
join in the broader discussion of social ethics. And let it not be
imagined that because these things have been discussed millions of times
they are therefore trite and dull. Just as each succeeding philosopher
insists on thinking out again for himself what seems to have been
thoroughly exhausted by his predecessors, so every member of society
thinks himself capable of deciding over again upon questions which have
been settled by thousands of other people to their own satisfaction.
I said just now that when two people only are conversing, personal
topics are most suitable, and of all these the confessions of either to
the other are the best. In the first place nothing is so agreeable to
most men as to have their own history the object of sympathy, and that
is the meaning of the trite adage: Talk to people about themselves, and
not about yourself. And again, nothing can be more fascinating than
genuine autobiography—I mean confessions of human experience not set
down for the public, not trussed and cooked for their use, but the real
out-speaking of a human heart. This it is which makes autobiographies so
popular as books, though as soon as any one begins to confess to the
public, all the real depth and intimacy of his experience vanishes,
generally to make way for exhibitions of morbid vanity. It is only one
man in a million who has the modesty and the shamelessness, the
innocence and the impudence to unveil all his real life to the world of
strangers.[12]
Footnote 12:
I may cite the autobiographies of Benvenuto Cellini and of Alfieri in
their complete Italian form as the most real, if not the only real,
specimens I know.
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