Amiability: A Philosophical Tragedy

SCENE : The morning-room at Miss MAYBERRY’S. That young lady is seated in an armchair R. manipulating a large fan. Opposite to her, with his eyes fixed indolently upon the vista of the garden seen through the open windows, is sitting MR. NORMAN RUTGERS.A pause in the conversation has somehow occurred.

Miss M. (looking up smilingly). Well ?

MR. R. (starting and, returning the smile). I beg your pardon ! You see that is the worst of feeling one’s self so confirmedly at ease with an old friend, Emily. When a man is wooed by a meditative moment he succumbs to it without a struggle.

Miss M. NO, not the worst of— shall I call it our predicament ? A good many men, not invariably sensitive, have thought that the privilege of listening to wholesome truths about themselves from the old friend’s lips was a severe handicap on the relationship. But don’t look about for your hat, Norman. I don’t see you often enough nowadays not to forget your faults when I do. (I wonder if it is n’t a pity that I ever saw them so distinctly.) Come, tell me what Roman thought was wrinkling your forehead so speculatively just now. Your brow looked like a bar of music, — the minor chord of a weighty cogitation sprawled all over it.

MR. R. Thanks: your simile flatters. As it happens, however, I was only recollecting that Jack Flagler promised to ride with me after luncheon, but sent me word that his wife was in her room with such a preciously severe specimen of those periodical headaches of hers that he thought that he must stay at home — for once. And then I went on to remember, for the five hundredth time, what an unsymmetrical pair those two are, Emily, — how contrasted. I never see Jack but that I fume.

Miss M. (dryly). It’s very good of you to take the trouble. “Why, please ?

MR. R. Why? Think of Jack — handsome, clever, attractive fellow, a man liked by every woman or other man directly he is met — mated for life to a girl like Janet Rainsworth. (He rises and stands on the rug, leaning upon the chimney-piece.)

Miss M. (regarding him, not without admiration, as the attitude is one which becomes him capitally). You are very fond of your friends, Norman, are you not ? In fact, it’s an idiosyncrasy which ought to be numbered among the best But let me tell you that Janet, whom I have always known better and more fairly judged than you, may possibly be denied her share of compassion, on account of this marriage. In fact, I am sure she is. Oh, no ; don ‘t look at me in that bewildered fashion. You are prejudiced ; but reasonable in most arguments.

MR. R. Heavens, Emily ! Janet Flagler denied her share of compassion ! And wherefore due her ? She is one of the luckiest women who ever breathed ! Think of it! Once a beauty, but faded by the time she reached four and twenty ; wearied of society because she had ever lacked the charm to win her success in it, increasingly an invalid, so much so that her great wealth brought no enjoyment with it, she loved and (dare we suggest anything else, since he has married her ?) was loved by the most popular and charming fellow of our set. Himself vigorous and full of life; possessed of that perfect tact which enabled him to adapt himself admirably to any social surroundings; above all, endowed with the sunniest and most unfailing amiability — why, Emily, the fact that Jack Flagler is to-day what he was before he married that serious schoolmate of yours is enough to make his character “ stick fiery off ” forever. There ! I’m out of breath ! (Subsides into his seat, rather ashamed of his own warmth.)

MISS M. “ The sunniest and most unfailing amiability.” Ah, my good Norman, finish that sentence. Finish it with “ and therefore, one of the most completely and delightfully selfish of men with whom it is a wife’s lot to be brought into daily contact.” Poor Janet ! Small wonder that she has grown languid, and jaded, and faded !

MR. R. (indignantly). Upon my word, Emily, one would fancy that amiability were tantamount to selfishness ; that, arguing from Jack, the more a mortal is distinguished for the first quality, the more inevitably the second marks him for its own.

Miss M. Precisely. My dear Norman, selfishness is not necessarily aggressive. The worst phase of it, to my mind, is the passive, the nearly passive. Just this phase is it that stamps your “unfailingly amiable” men indelibly. It is quite as masterful in its way as that manifestation of it which prompts one child to snatch a toy from another, or to refuse to surrender it. Amiability refuses to surrender itself — to any unpleasant emotion. Your Jack Flaglers never stint their wives’ pockets, nor scant their wardrobes, that my lord may have more money for cigars or cordials. Not at all. They content themselves with slipping beyond the little range of all which daily wearies, perplexes, ruffles, the Janet Rainsworths. They smilingly decline to be troubled with these things. A good deal of the time they are unconscious of their effort to maintain such a course. Their amiability is become overwrapping, habitual, an armament cap-a-pié, which, finally, little can pierce! (Miss M., who has been speaking very fast, and as if from some internal grievance, here stops, with a meaning look into Mr. Rutger’s slightly annoyed countenance, bites her lips, and taps her wrist with her fan.)

MR. R. Really, Emily, you are still as casuistic as ever, — as you used to be on one or two other questions (looking intelligently at her) which I have had the honor to discuss with you. You know that I have always said that you missed your vocation. You should have been the great American female lawyer. You should have written A System of Social Philosophy, by Miss Emily Arnold Mayberry, instead of —

MISS M. Instead of— (Yes, I have piqued him. I may draw this other portrait for the Flagler gallery still more recognizably before our talk is over, — a portrait with every lineament of which my eyes have so long been familiar. How handsome he always looks when he is really interested over anything!)

MR. R. (laughing). — Instead of simply existing as altogether too wise, too charming a woman for your old friends’ peace of heart.

MISS M. (with slightly satirical accent). For the pieces of heart of one of my old friends, you mean ? Ah ! But no diverging. We enter upon a whole avenue of difference, I see. I feel an unmistakable belligerence. (He always provokes it in me, nowadays. It all rises from this tedious, this childish protest of heart against judgment, — the old battle. Pshaw !) I repeat it, Norman. Your Jack Flaglers are apt to reach a kind of dead-centre of goodnature, from which delightful equipoise it is hard to throw them off. The man or woman, standing beside them, who is pricked by the thousand pins and needles of life’s every four and twenty hours, is forced at last to admit with a sigh that to turn in their direction for sympathy is a waste. Their nearness aggravates this fact. If the process of perfecting the amiability be not complete, if there be merely more or less admirable capital in hand for it to increase from, why, then there is a gentle act of repulsion on the amiable person’s part toward the comer. If the process be complete, there is next to none. Ah, Norman, a curious life, a sad life, must the woman lead who is supposed to be happy in the possession of not a comparatively, but a perfectly amiable man for her liege lord !

MR. R. {uneasily). Ha, ha, Emily! Really, you amuse me. According to you, there ought to be no effort to acquire smoothness and sweetness and suavity of temper in this irritable and fussy world. It is a moral descent, a peril to be shunned. Surely, you will not urge that amiability is always associated in individuals with the most disagreeable characteristic of all. I really don’t know what you will be laying down next, though !

MISS M. Ah, my friend Norman, it is the exception which proves the rule. Exceptions there are, indeed, praise be thanked ! but we seem to find them white-haired, — our mothers and fathers, our grandmothers and grandfathers. Is not that deep-rooted peace, that tranquil spirit, of old age usually united with a great indifference to exactly those trifles which so stimulate, so exhaust, our younger mental energies ? Age is rarely stirred by preferences. It has a single great thought upon which to reflect. Life has become a diminuendo.

MR. R. (I shall probably receive a charge upon my right wing, direct ; but here goes !) Look here, Emily. I know a man, let us suppose. Let us also suppose him young, with zest for life, with few responsibilities of it to hamper him and plenty of advantages for enjoying it. He makes friends with ease, especially friends of his own sex. (Here Miss Mayberry’s face exhibits a faint smile, as if perceiving the speaker’s aim.) Furthermore, he likes a somewhat plentiful assortment of the latter about him as he journeys through this vale of perplexities. But — mark me! — while he chooses this man’s companionship for, in a minor degree, this virtue, and that man’s for that, one thing he exacts from each of them, primarily and positively, as the passport to his regard and his intimacy. The possession of wit, social rank, wealth, reputation, generosity, truth, matters not, unless this one thing be of their very essence. This one thing is an amiable, companionable disposition.

MISS M. Excuse me, Norman, but I really think you’d better talk about yourself, without bothering over a disguise. Continue.

MR. R. (reddening perceptibly, but going on hurriedly). All right; only wait till I have finished. Where was I ? Oh, well, I — this fellow, that is — we get this sort of set around us. The dozen or so included within it see one another daily. Wherever I look I see the reflection of one general and attractive type of mankind varied only by minor expressions of individuality. Now surely you see that being thus alongside each other so constantly, making test of our personalities by the hundred petty accidents of intimacy, it is simply impossible that we should be what your view of our distinguishing characteristic declares us, — the most completely selfish coterie of human beings imaginable. Our clique could not hold together a day. To oblige, to help in any emergency, small or great —

MISS M. Stop! I anticipate your argument. You are about to say that you know each other too thoroughly not to have continually encountered mutual selfishness, did it so pervade your clique. The answer is easy. You all instinctively — not by any deliberate or rapid process of reasoning, but instinctively— avoid, in your daily intercourse, friction upon just those sensitive points of your respective characters which would at once reveal to you each other’s actual personality — selfishness. Without realizing it, you intuitively slip past, you recoil, you glide, — often by a narrow escape, — from what would suddenly develop the exercise of your pleasant friends’ latent disagreeablenesses. I describe the act as intuitive, yet in some part it is the result of that insight and education which your friendship has given you. Nevertheless, you do not realize that you avoid ; and thus is perpetuated the amiability of this precious galaxy of good tempers, in sæcula seculorum. Amen.

MR. R. (laughing). Very nicely managed, Emily, very, upon my word ! — for a woman.

MISS M. (with a little burst of indignation which hints that her interest in the topic has now ceased to be purely pro argumento). For a woman ! Norman ! I’m ashamed of you ! (The fan begins to oscillate actively again. Pause.)

MR. R. (How she always drives me up into a corner, doesn’t she! To’t again.) Well, I won’t deny that I could n’t have done half so well myself. But look here, for another view of the question from a fresh stand-point. Do you remember — nonsense, of course you do ! — those pleasant five years which preceded the marriage of Chauncey your brother? Very well. During each of those five years, Emily, Chauncey Mayberry and I were together, day and night. I sometimes think that we two were as ideally intimate a pair of men as have ever drawn breath. We walked, we traveled, we ate, we drank, we lived and slept, together three fourths of our time. If Chauncey was called out of town, I shut my own rooms and went somewhere myself. You and he always came down to the Bay in June, and I spent the other half of the summer with your people. (Miss M. sighs rather profoundly.) It is impossible that any mortal except one who had entered into existence in the same hour with Chauncey, or shared his home with him, could know him more au fond, see him in more varied lights, than I do — or did. Now, Emily, I chose and strove to keep Chauncey for my friend, and liked him primarily because of the true answer which his nature rang to this watchword of mine,—amiability. I never saw Chauncey irritated at trifles. I never found it possible to wrangle with him. We never had a difference. If the subject for one cropped up, Chauncey was, I am sure, more prompt than I to give way, to compromise. Emily, do you mean to tell me that throughout all those years of association I never discovered Chauncey’s real nature ? Measured by his most ample endowment of disposition, that nature must have been a consummate selfishness toward others, at times When I was not at his side. Be careful, Emily; and (laughing) remember that Chauncey is married and lives in Brooklyn. De mortuis nil! (Another short silence ensues.)

MISS M. (who, while Mr. R. has been speaking, has been lost in retrospect). I will be cautious, Norman, and honest as well. I can only reply to you by again asserting what I have called the theory of “ intuitive avoidance,” betwixt amiable friends ; by reminding you that there can be between man and man, as well as between man and woman, a regard so great that, as if by a miraculous blindness, the most glaring fault is not perceived; and last, by calling your attention to your leaving a much larger loophole than you may think, when you admit in this proposition that you did not, during any stage of your remarkable intimacy with my brother, actually live a single year uninterruptedly with him to note how he experienced just those trivial or graver accidents which are inseparable from family life. These, more than a decade of dining and supping and boating and hours at the Club, make the sister know the brother, the parent the child. Let me tell you, Norman, — and I need not say it with a grain of unkindness — Chauncey was a man who at home was marvelously pleased in having his own way ; and he commonly succeeded in having it.

MB. R. (a trifle slyly). In spite of the — proportionate amiability of his — sister ?

MISS M. Certainly. She has a dim recollection of sundry struggles, none the less keen because mouth and eyes smiled quite uncloudedly all through. I cannot but remember that Chauncey it was, Norman, who on such occasions triumphed gloriously, albeit without a sharp word or an after-boast. There was a certain gentle insistence, a certain sportive compulsion — (She stops thoughtfully.)

MR. R. (not without a trace of annoyance). Well, I compliment you on your confidence in familiarizing yourself with character. To be sure, it is rather extraordinary that, after chumming as we did forever and a day, I should he coolly informed that I have had so imperfect a cognizance of my best friend’s heart; but that is neither here nor there, I suppose. I used to regret that I was not cast more in Chauncey’s mould. Perhaps I should have been only more grateful that I was so far behind him in finding life’s ways those of pleasantness, and the paths which Chauncey and I trod with our lighthearted company those of peace.

MISS M. To my mind, a friendship founded upon mutual amiability is the one great refutation of — (Some wicked spirit seems positively to goad me on this morning ! Tie will never forgive me, and I ought not to care if he does n’t! ) — of the doctrine that opposite natures attract.

MR. R. The presence of the one characteristic arguing a pro rata degree of the other ? Ah, I see. Thank you. (Looks Miss M. in the face with entire good humor, and as she bows her head a little maliciously he laughs. Miss M. does likewise. After which brief refreshment they return to the more abstract, discussion of the subject.)

MISS M. One question more. Granting that you, for example, are the proud gem, the lieutenant, of exactly so charming a congeries of unruflled, unwillingto-be-ruffled souls as you described a few moments ago. Some of them you must count as more nearly attached to you than the rest, I dare say ; but nevertheless the predominating degree of fellowship among so considerable a group must be merely pleasant and intimate acquaintanceship. You would not be likely to grapple so many to your soul with hooks of steel ! I should hope not. You follow me ?

MR. R. Yes, go on ; I am interested.

MISS M. Let us then imagine that you all at once find yourself in a position where you suddenly glance about for some one’s arm to lean upon. You need help. I don’t necessarily mean by that help mere money; in fact, I will say I don’t mean it at all. Let it be merely that some one should stand the brunt of strong, unjust social disapproval with you, for his sympathy’s sake. On your word as an intelligent man, Norman, and a remarkably candid one, would you turn to any of these adult and gilded cherubs, fully, unhesitatingly reckoning upon the support of one of them through your adversity ? Remember it is not of your larger, general social world of which I speak. That would make my proposition a very, very stale one ; for that “ all society is selfish ” has been admitted since the days of Greek and Roman philosophy. These are your chosen few, whom you at least call friends. Answer me. Would you, or would you not ?

MR. R. (after a considerable hesitation). Yes — no. The fact is I can hardly tell how to treat them and your interrogatory with perfect justice. Yet I do not believe I can do so unless I answer no. And furthermore, Emily (with increasing animation), I should turn myself, at once, picking him out from all the rest, absolutely depending upon him to go with me to any length, were the cause for which I stood right or wrong, toward the one man with whom not one of what you call our “coterie of cherubs” save myself has ever been able to keep up an intimacy, a man whom we all have respected, but whose hard, steel-like nature has ever prevented his more than impinging upon our little clique. Of this one man’s support, generosity and stick - fastness in any hour, under any contingencies, I am more certain than I am that the sun shines this moment over yonder lawn! Ay, upon W— I could hang all my faith, no matter if mountains were crumbling about me. ( With a sudden thrill of enthusiasm.) See, see, Emily, how I surrender at the thought of him, — surrender to the truth of your whole proposition ! The coincidence overpowers my defense.

MISS M. Bravo, bravo ! Ah, truly one example is worth a million precepts ; especially when it contrives to thrill these sluggish mortal hearts of ours, Norman. (And how much of a heart you have, after all!) Nevertheless do not fancy that I would build upon your coincidence a theory that the majority of disagreeable people in this world — the man with the nasty temper, the woman with the peevish spirit —are sure to be generous and self-sacrificing in a stated emergency. I wish I could. But I do maintain that the proportion of disinterestedness in such as a class (largely through an overplus in particular individuals) aggregates more than in the smiling-eyed, smooth-browed fraternity— and sorosis, if you prefer to particularize.

MR. R. Yes, I was going to say that I hoped you used the word “ men ” inclusively. It has been said that women as a species are more amiable, —

MISS M. And, as a species, men more selfish : so I believe. You see how admirably I make the faults homogeneous. (She pauses : then adds slowly.) I have heard of women marrying drunkards, hoping, expecting, to reform them after marriage. I have heard of women who, knowing that their lovers might some day throw down upon the gamingtable the wedding-rings they had just bought, yet walked with such meu up to the altar and were married to them, reliant on the exorcism of wifely love and domestic calm. Ah, I deem her not less a fool, a fool of the first water, who, knowing the man whom she loves to be thoroughly and irremediably selfish, gives her hand to him and links her life to his, expecting happiness!

MR. R. (deliberately). It strikes me you — exaggerate — you are misled most oddly by your imagination, Emily.

MISS M. I ? (Smiling bitterly, and looking directly at Mr. R.) Not so, Norman. And all the worse, the more heinous her sin, if she knows that she herself is an amiable and a selfish woman.

(Mr. R. leans his head between his palms and looks at the rug. Evidently he is growing a wiser man than he was an hour earlier. He scarcely knows how to break the silence, yet he would do so. Miss M. also is studying the carpet in momentary abstraction).

MR. R. (hesitatingly). It strikes me, Emily — that you speak — as if a case of this peculiar character — (He looks up with a frown.)

MISS M. (meeting his eyes courageously). I have known such. I once knew a woman who cared for a man, and whose conviction of the truth of this very argument of mine was so strong that it stood between herself and him forever. As I think of her now, I can see that she must have been a strange girl ; but then she could not help that, and she luckily never appeared so odd to others as to her secret self. A little morbid ? Yes, and doubtless increasingly so as she grew older. He attracted her. He had many good traits ; but she had grown up with him, and she knew him to be a (with a forced laugh) — well, a kind of charming sublimation of selfishness. He always fancied her; and she — she fought him, quietly, determinedly, year by year, from her. She knew that she would have hard work to answer him point-blank ; she feared her own strength to do so. So she battled unceasingly, and the point never came bluntly to issue. And all the time she had her doubts; her spirit was weary and longing, and cried out against her unwomanly course. But she held to her philosophy, and in the desperate and cruel struggle of her theory and her reason against the passion of her youth she won (here Miss Mayberry’s voice, which has been low and yet unfaltering during the whole of this confession, sinks still lower as she adds) — won, perhaps at the price of her happiness, for which she believed it must be maintained.

(Here a complete pause naturally ensues. Finally, with an effort at sarcastic raillery, Mr. Rutgers raises his head and says.) It is unfortunate that any girl should be cursed with a mind of so morbid and generally obnoxious a sort. (Ah, I see this morning what I never have understood before, — never. She has held the mirror up to nature with a vengeance ! Confound it all ! What an ass I have been !)

MISS M. (recovering her self-control and speaking flippantly). Yes, a shockingly unfortunate thing. But come; how hideously solemn we have both grown ! One might really suppose we had known two such people. I dare say that you are horrified to hear me lecture so unequivocally. It’s a talent. Why, Norman, you ’re not angry at anything I ’ve said, are you ? (Miss M. realizes just here that she had best be cautious, since she herself is in a rather dangerously hysterical condition.)

MR. R. Angry ? No, of course I ‘m not. (Yes, yes, I understand. She has managed it wonderfully well, too. It would have been a blunt thing to hear, and I should have bored her to death with fighting such a point; at least, I would have, two years ago. But now — well, now it’s different, I suppose.) You argue as well as ever, Emily. In fact (looking gravely at her), — in fact you’ve afforded me such considerable food for meditation that I believe I “ll go off and think about it. (He shoves his chair back, rises, and goes for the hat and stick which are reposing on the sofa.)

MISS M. (Think about it! — as I have all these years. But I see he understands. Ah, why could I not have said less! This unlucky morning! No — no — it’s much better so. It had better have been this way than the other.) Well, good-by, then, Norman. I won’t keep you, for Andrew will be chafing already at my not getting down to the green-house. (She puts out her hand with charming frankness, and says, smiling, having by the time quite recovered herself.) Good-by, — Norman, most amiable of my friends.

MR. R. (bitterly). Thank you. The same to you. Good-morning.

[Miss Mayberry turns away with a deep sigh, and dropping his hand passes out of the door. Mr. R. stops before making his exit by the open French-window, looks at her retreating back with a melancholy air, — and then gives a short, hard laugh and disappears on the piazza.]

Edward Irenæus Stevenson.