TACT IN CONVERSATION.
"Ask only the well about their health."
Discretion in speech is more than eloquence.
Bacon.
Brilliancy in conversation is to the company what a lighted candle is to a dark room—it lightens the whole of it. But every now and then some unskilful person, in attempting to clip the wick to make it brighter, snuffs it out.
James C. Beeks.
Seldom does there occur in society any lapse so astonishing as the uncomfortable remarks innocently made by men and women to each other. Some persons who are careful and considerate in other respects, seem to have a woeful lack of that quality which we call tact. They wish to be pleasing; they would not for the world intentionally say or do anything to injure or wound the sensitiveness of a friend; yet they are continually saying those "things that would better have been left unsaid."
Harper's Bazar mentions some of these speeches which have no excuse for being.
"What a dear little fellow that is!" said a caller to the mother of a three-year-old.
"He is a great comfort to us," replied the mother, stroking the child's long curls.
"Yes; I should think so. He is not pretty, is he? His hair is so beautiful now that at the first glance one would call him pretty. But if you imagine how he will look when those golden curls are cut off, you will see that he will be a very plain child."
Said another woman to an acquaintance: "Mrs. A., I hope you will pardon me for saying that I think I never saw a more beautiful piece of lace than the flounce on the gown that you wore to the Assembly Ball last week. I said to my husband afterward that if Mr. A. should fail again and lose everything, as he has done once or twice already, you could sell that lace and easily get a good price for it."
The same woman, while making a visit of several weeks, said to her hostess, as the time of her departure drew near: "I always think that the nicest thing about making a visit is the returning to one's home. One's family are always so glad to see one, and there is always great luxury to me in getting back to my own house, where I can do what I please, say what I please, and order what I want to eat."
Again, there are people who seem to think that it is their mission to puncture every person's infirmity with whom they come in contact. They study to speak disagreeably. They corner you in the social circle, and talk about the subject they know to be most disagreeable to you, and talk in a tone sufficiently loud to be heard by all the other persons in the room. If you have made a blunder they reveal it. If you have been unsuccessful in any of your undertakings they are sure to inquire about it, even to details. They unroll your past and dilate upon your future. They put you on the rack every time you meet them and there is an instinctive recoil when you perceive their approach.
"We all know these persons," says Zion's Herald, "the persons who always utter the unsuitable word, who make themselves generally disagreeable, who never, apparently, try to make a pleasing impression upon others, but who delight to sting and wound."
Are we not all acquainted with the neighbor mentioned in this quotation: "As a brief and sharp tormentor, as a nail in the boot, a rocker for the shins on a dark night, or a sharp angle for the ulnar nerve, Mrs. R——, our neighbor, excels all persons I ever saw. I am quite sure if she could disturb a corpse by whispering to it that its shroud was ill-fitting, and the floral gifts were not what had been expected, she would do it."
If you are a woman have you not more than once gone out for a walk with some other woman who is never satisfied with your appearance?
She gives your gown a pull, saying: "This dress never did fit you; it isn't at all becoming to you, why didn't you wear your other one?" You soon begin to feel uncomfortable, and to wish you were at home again. Your bonnet may be never so becoming, or your new jacket may fit you to perfection, but she never mentions either. She notices only defects; she sees all that is disagreeable. Such persons always leave an uncomfortable feeling behind them when they leave you.
Sarcasm is not a quality to be cultivated by either sex. Men do not like it in women. It may be amusing when it is directed against another, but there is always a lurking fear that it may some time be directed against one's self. Sarcasm is a rank weed, that, once sprouted, grows and grows, choking out the little plants of kindness, forethought and consideration, until it overruns the garden of the mind, dominating and controlling every thought with a disagreeable, pungent odor that cannot be eradicated.
The sarcastic girl is not fascinating, for she is not a pleasing companion. She is too sharp to be agreeable. She may possess talent above the average of her acquaintances; she may be able to talk in half a dozen different languages; she may be as beautiful as a Greek statue; but men fight shy of her. Sarcasm is not wit, though wit may be sarcastic. One may be bright and say all manner of clever things without hurting the feelings of others by keen, knife-edged opinions that are full of bitterness and teeming with gall.
The tactful person does not make the mistake of talking too much about himself. While we are young, at least, we are very interesting to ourselves, and we are likely to imagine that all the world is interested in our opinions, prejudices and tastes. But though this may be true of our dearest friends, it is not true as far as other people are concerned.
"Without question," says the Magnet, "our conversation must be based upon what we have experienced in one way or another. But that does not make it necessary for us to talk continually about ourselves. If we should examine carefully the things we say to the merest acquaintances, we would be astonished, oftentimes, to see that we assume an interest in ourselves which we have no right to expect." People who are ill are likely to make indiscriminate claims upon sympathy, entertaining strangers as well as friends with detailed descriptions of their latest symptoms, and the doctor's latest remedies. Some of us who have not the excuse of illness, impose on the persons we meet by obliging them to listen to a great deal of personal information which may be of interest to ourselves, and possibly to those who love us very dearly, but scarcely to any one else.
Several years ago the Christian Union related this incident: The social occasion was a dinner. One of the guests was a woman who had passed middle life; good taste, ample means, with womanly grace and natural refinement, made her an addition to any circle. The hostess of the occasion was a woman who prided herself on her ability to meet the requirements of her station. She had no doubt as to her fitness in any social capacity, but her friends had not the same unquestioning faith in her tact.
The gentle guest found to her delight that she was assigned to the care of the son of an old school friend, and inwardly thanked her hostess for the consideration and thoughtfulness which made it possible for her to hear from her friend, whom she had not met in years. The guests were no sooner seated at the table than the hostess leaned toward the young man, and, in a voice perfectly audible to the entire company, said: "Never mind, Bob, I will do better for you next time."
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?"
The lecturer replied: "They have been of great help to me all the evening. They are delightful listeners. They appeared to appreciate so thoroughly everything I said that I seemed to be talking especially for their benefit."
"That girl," said a teacher, pointing to an attractive young lady just leaving the school-room, "is the most restful pupil I ever had in my school. She is so gentle in her demeanor, so thoughtful and so attentive during recitations, that one cannot help loving her. No matter how restless the other members of the school become, she is always giving the closest attention. If one could have an entire school like her, teaching would be a delight; but she is one among fifty."
We gain many things besides the good will of others, by being good listeners, even though we must sometimes submit to be bored to an unlimited degree without interrupting the speaker, or responding in any other way than by "nods and becks and wreathéd smiles."
"Open your mouth and shut your eyes and see what heaven will send you," says the old maxim; but, "shut your mouth and open your eyes," has been suggested as much more sensible advice under some circumstances.
"But," you say, "we are told that Samuel Johnson, Tennyson and Macaulay, and many other great thinkers, usually monopolized the conversation when they were in company, and their friends delighted to listen to them. Surely they gave but little heed to 'the compliment of attention.'" Very true, but no doubt they would have been sometimes more agreeable to the company if they had been more considerate of the wishes of other people. Great men are great in spite of their weaknesses, not because of them. We can forgive unpleasant propensities in a genius more easily than in the average mortal, and as almost all of us are average mortals, without a trace of anything akin to genius, we cannot afford to dispense with any of those qualities which help to make us pleasing to others. We should remember that there was but one Macaulay—a man who could talk brilliantly on almost all subjects—and notwithstanding his brilliancy, his friends admitted that he was often something of a bore.
A very useful lesson may be learned from a little story which appeared some years ago in The Youth's Companion:
George Paul, a young civil engineer, while surveying a railway in the Pennsylvania hills, met a plain, lovable little country girl, and married her. After a few weeks he brought her home to his family in New York, and left her there while he returned to camp.
Marian had laid many plans to win the affections of her new kinsfolk. She had practiced diligently at her music; she was sure they would be pleased to hear her stories of her beautiful sister and her brother; she imagined their admiration of her new blue silk gown and winter bonnet. But the Pauls, one and all, were indifferent to her music, her family and her gowns. They gave "George's wife" a friendly welcome, and then each went on his or her way, and paid no more attention to her.
After the first shock of disappointment Marian summoned her courage.
"If I have nothing to give them, they have much to give me," she thought, cheerfully. She listened eagerly when Isabel sung, and her smiles and tears showed how keenly she appreciated the music. She examined Louisa's paintings every day with unflagging interest, discussed every effect, and was happy if she could help mix the colors or prepare the canvas. She questioned grandma about her neuralgia, advised new remedies, or listened unwearied to the account of old ones day after day. When Uncle John, just returned from Japan, began to describe his adventures, Marian was the only auditor who never grew tired nor interrupted him.
After a two hours' lecture, in which her part had been that of a dumb, bright-faced listener, Uncle John declared that George's wife was the most intelligent woman he had ever met.
When George came home the whole family was loud in her praises. She was a fine musician; she had unerring taste in art; she was charming, witty and lovable. But George soon saw that she had won them unconsciously—not by displaying her own merits, but by appreciating theirs.
This is a true story in fact, but the truth of its meaning is repeated wherever a woman is found who has that quality called charm. She may be plain or even deformed, but she will win friendship and love.
Many an attractive girl would save herself much anxiety and vain effort on her entrance into the world of society, if she understood that society, so called, is composed of individuals, the most of whom desire not to find the beauty, the wit, the talent of others, but to elicit the cordial recognition by others, of their own.