Pots and Kettles

THE world is so full of a number of things that it is a difficult, task to sort out from the cosmic pot-pourri those rare nuggets which yield unalloyed pleasure to the rummager.

To those in whose veins the sluggish flow of thick red blood is enlivened by a few drops of cynicism (not sufficient to poison, but enough to stimulate), I think there is no more acute joy than that which comes from finding unsuspected weak spots in the armor of their friends. Of course we all like to know that our enemies are vulnerable, but it is only the cynical elect who can appreciate with fine Epicurean fastidiousness the glorious revelation that their friends are human after all. And it is not only the weaknesses of those near and dear to us, it is their misfortunes and annoyances which give a thrill of illicit joy to those honest contortionists who can look into their own hearts. I once heard a young mother say that there was only one thing which gave her greater pleasure than hearing that the children of her friends were sick, and that was to hear that they were bad. No one but a Brom-idiot (to borrow the excellent root with which Mr. Gelett Burgess has enriched us) would think of condemning this young woman for being malicious or unkind. Misery is not the only human quality that loves company. Some of her distant relatives — Anxiety, Discouragement, Annoyance — are equally sociable.

Certain manifestations of what I call ‘human nature ’ are the jewels I like best to pick out from the jumble of human characteristics which a prodigal Providence has cast as rubbish to the void, and of these precious stones I make a specialty of collecting those which seem to me of purest ray, namely, gems of Self-deception. To be a human being is to be self-deceived, and watching the manifestations of this universal attribute gives a very rare quality of enjoyment to the exceptional soul who is the only enameled utensil in a world of Pots and Kettles all busily engaged in calling each other black, — that one white utensil, being always one’s self.

Why do the Pot and the Kettle delight in accusing each other of having at. least a strain of colored blood, when they might unite their jibes at the expense of the Saucepan for being what the Society Column in the Kitchen Companion would call ‘charming in baby-blue agate’? Why do they not sneer cynically at the questionable purity of a white enameled Frying-pan? Simply because it is always our own most conspicuous fault to which we are most keenly alive when it is reproduced in a neighbor, though sublimely unconscious of its existence in ourselves.

I know of nothing more satisfying than to hear Mrs. Parvenue criticise Mrs. Nouveau-Riche for being ‘just a thought too cautious in her social relations.’ ‘I think it is a little mite pretentious to use a hyphen in one’s name,’ says Mrs. P., moistening her lips with a tentative tongue, ‘and if there is one thing that I can’t stand it is pretense. I am afraid that Mrs. Nouveau-Riche isa little bit of a Climber, and I for one don’t care to be made use of as a rung in her social ladder.’ This subtle figure of speech comes out with a mechanical exactness that suggests constant repetition, and Mrs. Parvenue then proceeds to attach to Mrs. N.-R.’s absent back a list of her own most flagrant faults. This is of course ecstasy to me, though it has to be bottled up in a sympathetic demeanor. But the ecstasy effervesces and overflows a few days later when I meet Mrs. Nouveau-Riche at a friend’s house, and after a little skillful guiding of the conversation on my part she whispers confidentially, ‘I believe you are acquainted with Mrs. Parvenue. Cannot you hint to her that it is not good form to make her social aspirations so evident? It. really embarrasses me sometimes to see her play her cards so openly. It makes people laugh, and in spite of her foolish little pretenses she is too nice a woman to be laughed at.’ I do not laugh. There is a pleasure too deep to be expressed by the crackling of thorns under a Pot — or a Kettle; but, like a hero of George Meredith’s on a somewhat similar occasion, ‘At the two I stand amazed.’

If your eyes are once opened to this wonderful truth that other people are all self-deceived, you will find new vistas of enjoyment opening up before you. I know a man — the most irritable, the most impatient, the most querulous and undisciplined of his sex — the husband of a cowamong women. He has a son ten years old who is a diminished replica of himself, snarly, fretful, spoiled. It is the father’s constant astonishment that the child of such parents should display traits so unaccountable. ‘Of course I have many faults,’ he magnanimously concedes, ‘but I think I can truthfully say that an irritable disposition is not one of them. As for my wife, she has the temperament of a pillow, so I suppose the boy reverts to some remote ancestor.’

These examples of Pots and Kettles calling each other black will be sufficient to indicate to the thoughtful student the pleasure that may come to the rescuer of broken bits of human nature which may be cunningly pieced together and added to the museum of the Society for Cynical Research, Yet the novice must never forget the fundamental truth that it is one’s own worst fault that one can never see;

For that reflection his vision is preternaturally keen.

I myself am tolerant of all faults but one. I cannot bear to hear a person laugh at foibles of his fellows, or extract enjoyment, from others’ mistakes. It is like laughing at a blind man’s blunders, and if I am ever guilty of it I hope some kettle will call me black.