Part 7

For one minute there was perfect silence, the lady and her escort alike appalled by what had been said; but the kindliness of the guest overcame the embarrassing moment by calling the attention of the young man to the roses on the table, which, she said to him with a smile, were great favorites of his mother when she was in school. This broke the ice. The hostess was perfectly unconscious that she had been guilty of any rudeness. Her intention was to be particularly polite to the young man; first to assure him that he would be her guest again, and, secondly, that she would then have a rosebud to assign to his care. The amusing part was that the young man greatly admired his mother's friend, and had frequently been her guest on his visits to the city.

It is difficult to imagine how a woman could move in society to any extent and remain capable of such a blunder, and yet we have all passed through similar experiences at the hands of people whose social experience should render such tactlessness impossible. There comes to mind now an imposing woman, who prided herself on the fact that she always said just what she thought. At a reception, she filled the room by her manner; it was impossible to continue oblivious of her presence.

Bowing affably to her acquaintances, she sailed--for women of this type do not walk--up to a modest little lady whose health, she had heard, was declining, and in a loud voice exclaimed: "What have you been doing to yourself? You have aged fifteen years since last I saw you!" Not unkind by intention, she was but practising her system of saying just what she thought, and she was constantly urging upon her friends the propriety of this course; but what an unbearable place our world would be if we all followed this example of inane and inconsiderate bluntness.

So the woman who is always finding in you resemblances to some other person whom she has met, creates many of the uncomfortable experiences of social life, and when she thinks it interesting to exploit the character of your prototype, dwelling upon the mental and physical defects, she becomes unbearable. Yet society has, as yet, found no sure way to eliminate her.

Such infelicities are not the outcrop of unkindness so much as of a certain ineptitude or lack of savoir faire. Such people feel constrained to do their share of the talking, but have not acquired tactfulness in selecting the topic, nor alertness to avoid the pitfalls--both of which traits may by sedulous self-training be acquired by any one in whom, unhappily, they are not innate.

In one of these instances bad manners were the natural expression of the woman, because her impulse was selfish; for it is certainly true that a person of truly unselfish nature will not offend by making personal remarks. Manners are the expression of the heart, and the man or woman who lives mentally in kindly, thoughtful relations with fellow men and women will refrain from expressing the thought which might possibly give offence. There is no mystery in social grace. It is remembering other people in their several relations to us. The woman who is a social success is not the one who has for her purpose in life so much the desire merely to please, but the one whose desire, rather, is to make others happy. One is a polite purpose; the other is a fine type of unselfishness that makes impossible the utterance of unwelcome truths to the chagrin of anyone encountered in the casual personal contact that we term society.

Holmes gave us some good advice when he said: "Don't flatter yourselves that friendship authorizes you to say disagreeable things to your intimates. On the contrary, the nearer you come into relation with a person, the more necessary do tact and courtesy become."

THE COMPLIMENT OF ATTENTION.

"Were we as eloquent as angels we should please some people more by listening than by talking."

"A good listener is as needful to a witty talker as steel to flint. It is the sharp contact of the two which makes the sparks fly."

There are certain amenities attending social intercourse with which we are all familiar, yet we are constantly forgetting to put them into practice. In no respect is this forgetfulness more noticeable than in conversation, and especially in connection with what may be called "the compliment of attention."

If you despair of becoming a good talker you can, at least, make yourself a good listener, and that is something not to be despised. There are apt to be more good talkers than good listeners, and, although to say so may sound paradoxical, the better you listen, the greater will be your reputation as a conversationalist.

In the opinion of the cynical Rochefoucauld, the reason why so few persons make themselves agreeable in conversation, is because they are more concerned about what they are themselves going to say, than what others are saying to them.

If you have read "Nicholas Nickleby," you remember Mrs. Nickleby tells how remarkable Smike was as a converser. She entertained poor Smike for several hours with a genealogical account of her family, including biographical sketches, while he sat looking at her and wondering what it was all about, and whether she learned it from a book or said it from her own head.

Said a writer in the Chicago Herald: "What is there, indeed, more colloquial than an intelligent countenance, eagerly intent upon one while telling a story? What language can be compared to the speaking blush or flashing eye of an earnest listener? It was Desdemona, with greedy ear devouring his discourse, who won Othello's heart. He told his wondrous story, and she listened--that only was the witchcraft he had used."

It is said of Sir Walter Scott that, although one of the best talkers in the world, he was also the best listener. With the same bland look he would watch, throughout an entire evening, the lips of his garrulous tormentor ignorantly discoursing on Greek epigrams, or crassly dilating on the intricacies of a parliamentary debate.

It was said of Madame Récamier that she listened most winningly, and this was one secret of her wonderful power to charm.

We have all heard the story of Madame de Staël, who, by a clever stratagem, was introduced to a deaf mute at a party. She talked to him the whole evening, and afterward declared that never before had she met so intelligent a listener and so fine a conversationalist.

Do you remember the story told by Sterne in "The Sentimental Journey"?

He had been represented to a French lady as a great wit and an engaging converser, and the lady was impatient for an introduction that she might hear him talk.

They met, and, writes Sterne: "I had not taken my seat before I saw she did not care a sou whether I had any wit or no. I was to be convinced that she had. I call heaven to witness I never once opened the door of my lips."

The lady afterward said she never in her life had a more improving conversation with a man.

Many other instances might be mentioned derived from both fact and fiction, to show how attentive listening may enhance the delights of conversation, and that one may sometimes gain a reputation for conversational powers by exercising one's ear instead of one's tongue.

"A frequent caller at my home," said a lady, "is a capital story-teller, always instructive and pleasing; but she is a poor listener. When my part of the conversation comes in, her manner is depressing. I feel embarrassed, my words become tangled, my memory leaves me, and I hurry to close my remarks, conscious of having made a weak argument, although I had a point when I began. My friend loses her easy manner when I speak, becomes restless, and breaks in upon me before I have fairly begun. Her unresponsive eyes tell me as plainly of her superiority as though she had written it in black and white."

Clergymen, teachers, and public speakers understand and appreciate better than others "the compliment of attention." Embarrassing, indeed, is it to anyone who is talking to observe signs of weariness and inattention on the part of one's hearers. Those not accustomed to stand before an audience seldom realize that a speaker feels and understands, without conscious endeavor, the attitude toward him of every member of his audience. The good listener inspires and encourages him, while the restless, inattentive auditor is a thorn in the flesh, irritating and distracting.

At the close of a lecture given a few years ago in a town in Maine, the lecturer--who was a state superintendent of schools--turned to the writer and asked:

"Who are those two ladies dressed in black, standing there by the window?"

After telling him their names the writer said, "Why do you ask?"