All great literary men are shy. I am myself, though I am told it ishardly noticeable.
I am glad it is not. It used to be extremely prominent at one time,and was the cause of much misery to myself and discomfort to every oneabout me--my lady friends especially complained most bitterly aboutit.
A shy man's lot is not a happy one. The men dislike him, the womendespise him, and he dislikes and despises himself. Use brings him norelief, and there is no cure for him except time; though I once cameacross a delicious recipe for overcoming the misfortune. It appearedamong the "answers to correspondents" in a small weekly journal andran as follows--I have never forgotten it: "Adopt an easy andpleasing manner, especially toward ladies."Poor wretch! I can imagine the grin with which he must have read thatadvice. "Adopt an easy and pleasing manner, especially towardladies," forsooth! Don't you adopt anything of the kind, my dearyoung shy friend. Your attempt to put on any other disposition thanyour own will infallibly result in your becoming ridiculously gushingand offensively familiar. Be your own natural self, and then you willonly be thought to be surly and stupid.
The shy man does have some slight revenge upon society for the tortureit inflicts upon him. He is able, to a certain extent, to communicatehis misery. He frightens other people as much as they frighten him.
He acts like a damper upon the whole room, and the most jovial spiritsbecome in his presence depressed and nervous.
This is a good deal brought about by misunderstanding. Many peoplemistake the shy man's timidity for overbearing arrogance and are awedand insulted by it. His awkwardness is resented as insolentcarelessness, and when, terror-stricken at the first word addressed tohim, the blood rushes to his head and the power of speech completelyfails him, he is regarded as an awful example of the evil effects ofgiving way to passion.
But, indeed, to be misunderstood is the shy man's fate on everyoccasion; and whatever impression he endeavors to create, he is sureto convey its opposite. When he makes a joke, it is looked upon as apretended relation of fact and his want of veracity much condemned.
His sarcasm is accepted as his literal opinion and gains for him thereputation of being an ass, while if, on the other hand, wishing toingratiate himself, he ventures upon a little bit of flattery, it istaken for satire and he is hated ever afterward.
These and the rest of a shy man's troubles are always very amusing toother people, and have afforded material for comic writing from timeimmemorial. But if we look a little deeper we shall find there is apathetic, one might almost say a tragic, side to the picture. A shyman means a lonely man--a man cut off from all companionship, allsociability. He moves about the world, but does not mix with it.
Between him and his fellow-men there runs ever an impassablebarrier--a strong, invisible wall that, trying in vain to scale, hebut bruises himself against. He sees the pleasant faces and hears thepleasant voices on the other side, but he cannot stretch his handacross to grasp another hand. He stands watching the merry groups,and he longs to speak and to claim kindred with them. But they passhim by, chatting gayly to one another, and he cannot stay them. Hetries to reach them, but his prison walls move with him and hem him inon every side. In the busy street, in the crowded room, in the grindof work, in the whirl of pleasure, amid the many or amid thefew--wherever men congregate together, wherever the music of humanspeech is heard and human thought is flashed from human eyes, there,shunned and solitary, the shy man, like a leper, stands apart. Hissoul is full of love and longing, but the world knows it not. Theiron mask of shyness is riveted before his face, and the man beneathis never seen. Genial words and hearty greetings are ever rising tohis lips, but they die away in unheard whispers behind the steelclamps. His heart aches for the weary brother, but his sympathy isdumb. Contempt and indignation against wrong choke up his throat, andfinding no safety-valve whence in passionate utterance they may burstforth, they only turn in again and harm him. All the hate and scornand love of a deep nature such as the shy man is ever cursed by festerand corrupt within, instead of spending themselves abroad, and sourhim into a misanthrope and cynic.
Yes, shy men, like ugly women, have a bad time of it in this world, togo through which with any comfort needs the hide of a rhinoceros.
Thick skin is, indeed, our moral clothes, and without it we are notfit to be seen about in civilized society. A poor gasping, blushingcreature, with trembling knees and twitching hands, is a painful sightto every one, and if it cannot cure itself, the sooner it goes andhangs itself the better.
The disease can be cured. For the comfort of the shy, I can assurethem of that from personal experience. I do not like speaking aboutmyself, as may have been noticed, but in the cause of humanity I onthis occasion will do so, and will confess that at one time I was, asthe young man in the Bab Ballad says, "the shyest of the shy," and"whenever I was introduced to any pretty maid, my knees they knockedtogether just as if I was afraid." Now, I would--nay, have--on thisvery day before yesterday I did the deed. Alone and entirely bymyself (as the school-boy said in translating the "Bellum Gallicum")did I beard a railway refreshment-room young lady in her own lair. Irebuked her in terms of mingled bitterness and sorrow for hercallousness and want of condescension. I insisted, courteously butfirmly, on being accorded that deference and attention that was theright of the traveling Briton, and at the end I looked her full in theface. Need I say more?
True, immediately after doing so I left the room with what maypossibly have appeared to be precipitation and without waiting for anyrefreshment. But that was because I had changed my mind, not becauseI was frightened, you understand.
One consolation that shy folk can take unto themselves is that shynessis certainly no sign of stupidity. It is easy enough for bull-headedclowns to sneer at nerves, but the highest natures are not necessarilythose containing the greatest amount of moral brass. The horse is notan inferior animal to the cock-sparrow, nor the deer of the forest tothe pig. Shyness simply means extreme sensibility, and has nothingwhatever to do with self-consciousness or with conceit, though itsrelationship to both is continually insisted upon by the poll-parrotschool of philosophy.
Conceit, indeed, is the quickest cure for it. When it once begins todawn upon you that you are a good deal cleverer than any one else inthis world, bashfulness becomes shocked and leaves you. When youcan look round a roomful of people and think that each one is a merechild in intellect compared with yourself you feel no more shy of themthan you would of a select company of magpies or orang-outangs.
Conceit is the finest armor that a man can wear. Upon its smooth,impenetrable surface the puny dagger-thrusts of spite and envy glanceharmlessly aside. Without that breast-plate the sword of talentcannot force its way through the battle of life, for blows have to beborne as well as dealt. I do not, of course, speak of the conceitthat displays itself in an elevated nose and a falsetto voice. Thatis not real conceit--that is only playing at being conceited; likechildren play at being kings and queens and go strutting about withfeathers and long trains. Genuine conceit does not make a manobjectionable. On the contrary, it tends to make him genial,kind-hearted, and simple. He has no need of affectation--he is fartoo well satisfied with his own character; and his pride is toodeep-seated to appear at all on the outside. Careless alike of praiseor blame, he can afford to be truthful. Too far, in fancy, above therest of mankind to trouble about thei............