“Oh, one doesn’t bother to like or dislike that sort of chap.” He said this in a supercilious manner—a manner he had never had in the earlier period of our acquaintance. How the inner man does poke through the surface when the veneer of youth wears thin!
“For one who despises birth and wealth and rank,” said I, not without a certain malice, “you have a queer way of talking at times.”
Armitage winced, changed the subject by saying: “And what the devil’s the matter with you? You’re looking anything but fit yourself.”
“Oh—I’m up against it, as usual,” said I gloomily.
He laughed. My pessimism was one of the jokes of my friends. But, having seen so much of the ravages of optimism—of the cheer-boys-cheer and always-look-at-the-bright-side sort of thing, I had given myself the habit of reckoning in the possibilities of disaster at full value when I made plans. Little people ought always to be optimistic. Then, their enthusiasm—if directed by some big person—produces good results, where they would avail nothing could they see the dangers in advance. But big people must not be—and are not—optimists, whatever they may pretend. The big man must foresee all the chances against success. Then, if his judgment tells him there is still a chance for success, his courage of the big man will enable him to go firmly ahead, not blunderingly but wisely. The general must be pessimist. The private must be optimist; for if he were pessimist, if he saw what the general must see, he would be paralyzed with fear and doubt.
“You’re always grumbling,” said Armitage. “Yet you’re the luckiest man I know.”
“Perhaps that’s why,” replied I.
He understood, nodded. “Doubtless,” said he.
“What’s luck? Nothing but shrewd calculation. The fellow who can’t calculate soon loses any windfalls that may happen to blunder his way. But what’s the grouch now?”
I was so helplessly befogged that I resolved to tell him.