The Man in the Mirror

THE old superstition that a broken looking-glass presages death is not without its element of meaning. How strangely is that counterfeit presentment that gazes back at me identified with my conception of myself! If it should cease to come at my bidding — if by some mysterious change the reflecting power of polished surfaces should be lost, and that image erased from my mind, should I be I to my own consciousness still ? How many of my acts are my own, and how many are merely tributes to what seems to be expected of that figure which I have somehow identified with me, and yet which seems strangely distinct ? Is that I ? or am I, I ? or am I that ?

For from childhood I was conscious of a strange sense of duality. The face that looked back at me was hardly I. Indeed, at first it seemed almost strange, or at most half remembered. Again and again with a start of surprise I have said, “I had forgotten I looked like that!” I found it impossible to call up in my mind my own face. I did not know how I looked. In fact, even with the glass before me I seemed to receive details rather than a unified and consistent impression.

Strangely enough, this peculiar imaginative defect was exactly paralleled by a similar inability to picture to myself my own nature. Not only was it a mystery to me how I really looked, but also what I was. I could recognize characteristics, but not the whole.

Naturally enough, in this state of bewilderment I utterly failed in self-confidence. What should I do in given circumstances ? How should I comport myself ? Having now no idea, now a variable one, of what I was, I could not guess what I should do. I am not exaggerating when I say that this lack of a conscious conception of a familiar self sent me into every unusual act in a panic of apprehension. I could not enter a drawing-room, or meet a stranger, without fearing for the conduct of my unknown self — a fear that so far as I know was never seriously justified.

By degrees, however, I became familiar with my counterpart of the mirror. I recognized him as a familiar figure; I could recall his face; I identified him with myself; I knew how I looked. At the same time, and by parallel steps, I came to know somewhat the manner of man I was.

That identification of myself with the man in the mirror was an inexpressible comfort to me. It was not vanity; I do not possess a handsome exterior. But the figure that faced me from above my dressing-table and under the hall lamp gave evidence of some degree of assurance and address. And that was I. There was no need, then, of my being afraid to face other men. I knew my limitations, many and vital, as well as the mirror knew my facial defects. But I had at last a strong sense of personal identity.

The mirror has proved an invaluable friend. In moments of self-distrust I frequently examine the features of the man in the mirror. Enough of my old personal detachment remains to allow me to do so judicially. And if the examination proves in the main satisfactory, I address him: “Sir, a man who looks like that ought to be able to carry this matter through.”

But I wonder, if I had never seen a looking-glass —