Ambitions and Things.
"Ambition is a good thing," said the Observer, deftly flicking the ash from his cigar. "It provides one with a certain amount of incentive which may prove useful in developing latent resources, but it ought to be carried about in a glass case and labeled, 'Handle with care.'
"Cæsar had an ambition, but he overworked it with disastrous effect. Napoleon got good results from his for a while, but it finally gave out on him, and William Jennings Bryan, the latest prominent victim of ambition is in such a bad way that he has to ride on tourist cars, like 'common people.' This may be due to a beautiful spirit of consistency on his part, as editor of the 'Commoner,' but it is not in line with his ambition. All of which goes to show that ambition is no more subject to a guarantee than a patent-leather shoe—it looks very fine when you first get it, but it cracks.
"Then there is the ideal, which is even more perishable, but can fortunately be replaced when it breaks—for it does not wear out. Like a Prince Rupert drop, it is just as good as new until something steps on its tail, and then there is nothing left but a noise and a disturbed atmospheric condition.
"After a fellow's ideal, explodes he generally idles away his time pitying himself and saying sarcastic things about the entire human race, until he achieves a local reputation as a cynic. When in this state of mind there is no use in telling him that he is not the only original possessor of a bona fide broken ideal. He'll show you a little superficial scratch and say in husky tones, 'see this great wound it has made in my constitution, it will never heal. Happiness is an iridescent dream. Go and leave me to my fate! 'Then he'll heave a sigh which he thinks comes from a broken heart, but which really emanates from a dyspeptic condition, caused by lack of exercise. After a while he finds that this brand of romance is an overcrowded field and that he doesn't get sufficient sympathy to make it pay. When he realizes that he is up against the competitive system good and hard, he bids a fond farewell to sentiment and goes to work.
"It is interesting to watch young women, just after they lose an ideal. They generally have more time to indulge the 'broken heart' idea and do it so much more scientifically than men. It is very effective to lounge about in a darkened room, wearing a pale, hopeless expression and picturesque négligée. They usually read Faust and Dante's Inferno and think how sweet it is to suffer.
"When friends come to cheer them up they sigh softly and say, 'Ah, no; it is too late. Once I had aims and aspirations, but Fate has swept them all away. I shall only drift and drift now, until it is all over.'
"Then, the comforters go away with tears in their eyes and send her flowers.
"'How the poor child has suffered,' they say. But Providence only has a quiet laugh up her sleeve and says, as she winks the other eye,
"'What fools these mortals be!'"
"What's the matter with that man?" said the Observer, repeating his friend's interrogation, as they passed a pedestrian wearing a most prodigious frown. "Don't you know what's the matter with him? He's got the telephone face.
"Never heard of it, eh? Well, that shows that your powers of perception are not particularly acute. The telephone face is no longer a physiognomical freak, but a prevalent expression among the several thousand unfortunate clerks and business men who find extensive use for the telephone necessary. It is a distinctive cast of features, too, which can readily be distinguished from any other by one who can read faces at all.
"The dyspeptic has a 'face.' His expression is fitful and disgruntled, but underlying it is a gleam of hope; the insolvent man, harassed by creditors, has another well-defined type of facial mold. It is haunted and worried, with a tinge of defiance in it; the owner of the 'bicycle face' has his features set in lines of deadly resolution; the 'golf face' displays fanatical enthusiasm and a puzzled look resulting from a struggle with the vocabulary of the game; the 'poker face' shows immobility and superstition; the 'telegraph face,' according to a well-known New York professor, is 'vacant, stoic and unconcerned,' but the 'telephone face' stands out among all of these in a class peculiar to itself. There are traces of a battle and defeat marked on it; the stamp of hope deferred and resignation, yet without that placidity which usually betokens the acceptance of an inevitable destiny. The brows are drawn together above the nose, and at times a murderous glint shows in the half-closed eyes of the possessor.
"The peculiar feature about the man with the 'telephone face' is, that he always believes the day will come when he will be able to get the right number and the right man without being told that the 'line's busy,' 'party does not reply,' or 'phone is out of order.' He is like the man who always backs the wrong horse, the poet with an 'Ode to Spring,' or the honest man seeking a political job, continually defeated, but ever dreaming of ultimate success.
"I know of only one instance in which the dream was realized. A new girl had been installed in a telephone office without proper instructions—a most unprecedented case. A bookkeeper, grown gray in the service of a large mercantile house, picked up his receiver wearily. It rang the new girl's bell, and like a flash, she said, 'Hello.' The bookkeeper gasped. 'Is that you, Central?' he asked huskily. 'Yes,' replied the unsophisticated maiden, pleasantly. 'What number, please?' The old man sat bolt upright and clutched the desk. 'Give me purple six double-nine,' he said, in quavering tones, and his weak form trembled as he spoke. Nimbly worked the fingers of the uninitiated telephone girl, as she struck a peg in the switchboard and quickly rang a bell. A voice at the other end responded promptly, and the bookkeeper wiped cold beads of perspiration from his brow before he answered. 'Is this Jones & Company?' he almost shrieked. 'Yes,' came the reply, full and clear, 'this is Jones talking.'
"A dull thud followed, and, when the other clerks rushed in, they found the old man lying still and cold, his right hand still grasping the receiver of the telephone, which had fallen to the floor beside him, and a smile of the most transcendent happiness they had ever seen, upon his faded lips."