“Pleasure,” he began low, “is power; conscious, unquestionable, superior power. In a small way we all experience it when we are hungry and have the ability to satisfy that hunger. The big animal feels it when the lesser animal is within its reach and the big animal knows it. The lover tastes it when he knows another returns that love completely, irresistibly—knows, I say. The student comprehends it when he is conscious of ability to solve the problem presented, to solve it unqualifiedly. The master of men realizes it when those in his command obey him implicitly; when his word is law. Pleasure is not necessarily an exercise of that power, in fact is not generally so; but it lies in the consciousness of ability to exercise it at will. For the big animal to annihilate the less would bring pain, not pleasure. Hunger satisfied is passivity, not pleasure. And so on down the list. Superior, conscious power exercised defeats its own purpose. 63 It is, as men say, unsportsmanlike. Held in reserve, passive, completely under control, it makes of a human being a god. This to me is pleasure, Miss Gleason.”
For a moment after he ceased speaking the room was quiet. Armstrong still sat staring at the ceiling; but the smile had left his lips. The girl was watching the visitor frankly, the tiny pucker, that meant concentration, between her eyebrows. Roberts himself broke the silence.
“You’ve heard my definition, Miss Gleason,” he laughed; “and no doubt think me a savage or something of that kind. I shan’t attempt to deny it if you do either. Just as a matter of curiosity and of interest, though, so long as the subject is up, I’d like to hear your own definition.” Of a sudden he remembered. “And yours, too, Armstrong,” he added.
The wrinkle vanished from the girl’s forehead. She smiled in turn. An observer might have said she sparred for time. “After you, Steve,” she accepted.
Armstrong shifted in his seat elaborately.
“This is indeed a bit sudden,” he remarked in whimsical commonplace, “however—” His hands went into his pockets automatically. His eyes followed a seam on the paper overhead 64 back and forth, before halting preparatorily.
“Pleasure with me,” he began, “is not practical, but very much the reverse.” His lips twitched humorously. “Neither has it reference to any superior power. I wouldn’t give one single round penny, providing I had it, to be able to whistle and have a thousand of my fellows dance to the tune—against their wishes. If I could whistle so sweetly or so enchantingly that they’d caper nimbly because they wanted to, because the contagion was irresistible, then—” The whimsical look passed as suddenly as it had come. “Pleasure with me, I think,” he continued soberly, “means appreciation by my fellow-men, in big things and in little things. I’m a kind of sunflower, and that is my sun. I’d like to be able to play marbles so well that the kids would stare in amazement; to fashion such entrancing mud pies that the little girls would want to eat them; to play ball so cleverly that the boys would always choose me first in making up sides; to dance so divinely that the girls would dream about it afterward; to tell so entertaining a story that men would let their cigars go dead while they listened, or under different circumstances the ladies would split their gloves applauding—if they happened to have them on; last of all, to write a novel so different and interesting that the reading public, and that means every one, would look on the cover after they’d turned the last sheet to see who the deuce did it; then trim the lamp afresh, loosen their collar comfortably and read it through again. This to me spells pleasure in capitals all the way through: plain appreciation, pure and simple, neither more nor less.”
“I’m tired of reading about life and hearing about life. I want to live it” (Page 66)