WHY, even in conversation there is plenty of chance for the Educated Heart. Of course, unless you are a moron, you must have found out by this time that very few people ever really listen. They are usually merely waiting for a chance to say something themselves. It may be laid down as an axiom, then, that no habitual talker can have the Educated Heart. Even though these wordy pests go through all the motions of listening, say “Oh,” and “Ah,” and “Really, is that so?” and “How awful!” the moment you close your lips they pounce upon you with their own narrative.
Or if, peradventure, they do listen, is the story of your trials or disappointments heard with real sympathy? Not often. Your illness? Your divorce? Your losses? You are merely providing them with a more or less amusing entertainment.
Why, one of the best ways to make yourself popular—an infallible way—is to tell a story upon yourself. Give yourself the worst of it, and they’ll all roar.
But did anyone ever laugh with joy when you informed him that you had made ten thousand dollars, or won a beauty prize? How faint, oh, how pale are their congratulations! The lips move, but does the face really glow? Tell them you fell down two flights of stairs, though, and you’ll see a fine abandon of mirth. They’ll slap you on the back, by Jove, and invite you to dinner, so that you can repeat it to the wife.
YOU think I’m fooling? Not at all. A psychological fact it is, that, in nine cases out of ten, if you tell of an accident of which you’re the victim, your hearer will instantly laugh. Just try it yourself, and see.
Oh, of course, if you paint a vivid enough picture, if you say “I had three ribs and a shoulder blade broken and four others were killed,” then possibly you may awaken their sympathy. But the ordinary tale of suffering has pretty hard work getting more than half an inch inside people’s ears. Women love to tell of their operations, I hear, but do they love to listen? Doesn’t everyone smile when you say you haven’t slept a wink all night? Yes, all, save the one with the Educated Heart—and he’s your sweetheart, probably.
Queer, but the world, alas! is very hard of hearing. Unless people see the blood actually streaming, every sufferer is considered merely as a comedian. The banana-peel joke is still typical of our reactions to another’s woes.
AND so, it is my fearful opinion that but seldom has the Educated Heart a keen sense of humor. Didn’t an eminent mid-Victorian advise, “Be good, sweet maid, and let who will be clever!” Aren’t you already thinking over your own friends?
Am I not right? Is it the sparkling bright apostle of pleasantry to whom you go to borrow that ten dollars, or to the serious, kindly dub who never sees the point? Which dentist is most apt to drill that horrid millimetre too far into a shrieking nerve—he who tells you diverting anecdotes, the while, or the solemn conscientious drudge?
To whom do you tell your troubles— the agile wit, or the bromide-minded, solid, respectable Philistine, your uncle, with the shoestring tie? No, no; oh, no, my friend, you can’t be too quick on the comic trigger, if you would have the Educated Heart!