The Girl and the Game and Other College Stories/Talks with a Kid Brother/The Best Thing in the World
THE BEST THING IN THE WORLD
I knew something of this sort was about due. Of course, it would have been preferable if it had come a little earlier in your college course. But I knew better than to try to force it on in these pow-wows with you. For it's one of those things every man has to learn for himself. However, I am glad it has come at last. I am glad to hear that you have made the great discovery that, "after all, a man comes to college to study." How did you find it out!
I suppose it is because you are now beginning the fourth and last lap of the race that you have suddenly taken to looking back over your course, and sigh at having loitered so much along the way. Possibly it is because you have at last become a man and desire to put away childish things. Well, you have, to be sure, lost a great many prizes, but you have gained certain things too.
And as long as you will never have a chance to run the race over, and as. you cannot entirely make up, in this one sober year left, all that you lost in the other three rollicking ones, why, stop worrying over it and think occasionally about what you have gained instead of what you've lost. One's mistakes should not be dignified by so much attention as we are inclined to give them. You have to pay for what you get in the college world as well as in the big one. If you had got more out of your studies you might have got less out of your fellow-students. Who is it—Emerson?—says that a young man goes to teachers for instruction but it's his fellow-pupils that educate him?
Much of the time you were not poling but ought to have been was spent in running athletics, which is a good experience. If you had devoted yourself to books to the entire exclusion of beer and skittles you might have prolonged the evil day of puppishness to a more unbecoming age. If you had fastened your eye on literary prizes you might not have done so much miscellaneous reading—though the Lord knows you haven't done much. And, finally, if you had poured all your attention and admiration upon your teachers you might not have made so many good friends.
Some fellows can get the cream of both things. The leader of our class happened also to be the best of fellows and truest of friends, but I don't believe you could have led the class if you wanted to, and I'm sure you would not have tried to if it had been at the risk of missing Dan and Tom and Shorty and Jim who overran the house last summer. After all, friends and what they do to you are about the best and most lasting things most of us get out of a college course or any other course.
Now, there is much nonsense spoken and written about this thing called friendship. Generally those who do the most talking know the least about it—that's the reason, I suppose. For if they had the real thing they would perceive that it was too fine to be dissected. Speaking of Emerson, by the way, his essay on this subject seems to me a good case in point. He gives us a lot of what you and I might irreverently call "hot air"—wonderfully written hot air—about friendship as it might be among people who lived in the stars, but it does not seem to me to have much to do with the real, practicable, warm, useful, bully good thing which, you and I know, can and does exist among exceedingly human individuals.
Of course, it may be because you are only a kid and I am only a plain, ordinary business man that we do not find ourselves capable of appreciating all that esoteric Ralph Waldoism; but it would take a great deal to convince me that my friends do not mean a heap more to me than his ever did to him, who said, "I please my imagination more with a circle of godlike men and women variously related to each other, and between whom subsists a lofty intelligence." He has disciples, intellectual associates, soul comrades, no doubt, but friends? He was a genius; he was no friend.
Of course, it must be fine to be "godlike" and to have a "lofty intelligence." but so few of us are and have, that this sort of thing puts false ideals into young people's heads which jar them when they flop down to plain earth. Unless you can manage to live among stars it's rather futile to hitch your wagon to one of them.
However that may be, I knew of one case where the hifalutin, girly-girly gush about capital-F friendship as depicted in novels produced not merely an absurd but a pathetic result.
Once there were two "Friends" here in college—roommates; and they both wanted the same thing. One of them got it by being a blackguard. To be specific, it was a prize they were after and the essays which they handed in—anonymously, of course—were written on their common typewriter. They were the only two competitors. One of the essays was a plagiarism. The judges discovered it, summoned the two contestants and confronted them with the fact. Being terribly rattled and at bay, the cribber lied, like the thieving coward he was. "I wrote the other essay," he said, and told the title of it in corroboration. Accordingly they gave the prize to him; and to the other, who was white and ghastly, they gave a contemptuous look.
An hour later the two roommates met in their rooms. The thief and liar, now being the cooler of the two, said, "Well, here we are; what are you going to do about it?"
The other "drew himself up to his full height" and spoke. "Nothing, Charles; you are my friend!"—which he had read in a book.
He did not do this because he loved "Charles"; naturally, he hadn't much use for him any more; but he thought he was doing the fine, magnanimous, grand-stand thing, and he loved that. He had the self-conscious satisfaction of living up to an ideal of friendship as exemplified in romance. And, let me tell you, all the time he was doing it and exulting in his heroism he was secretly expecting and counting upon the day of triumph when "all would be revealed and righted" as in the last chapters. But this was not the world of romance but of reality. That day never came. After several years he became tired of waiting, sick of his undeserved disgrace, and, in short, found the role of hero wasn't what it was cracked up to be. So one day at the decennial reunion of the class he turned up and made a little speech. "I know you are all surprised to see me here. I know you think I have no right to show my face, but I have. I hate to do my old friend Charlie a bad turn, but the fact of the matter is, he was guilty of the thing for which I have suffered so long and the time has come when he must confess it."
Whereupon Charlie brought suit for libel, and as his accuser had no shred of evidence to back the serious accusation he was obliged to pay $5,000 damages, which broke him, and which Charlie "with characteristic generosity forthwith turned over to charity," the newspapers said, which had given the case extensive notoriety. Charlie became a prominent and successful citizen. The other sank out of sight and soon died in disgrace and poverty. The wicked wouldn't flourish so much if people did not imagine such vain things.
I may just add that a few years later Charlie also died, and among his papers was found the original draft of the innocent essay, which he had with characteristic foresight filched from his roommate's desk upon the discovery of the plagiarism. It was unmistakably in the latter's handwriting, as was afterward proved beyond peradventure. Why Charlie had preserved instead of destroyed this damaging bit of evidence was shown by the inscription on the envelope—in his own handwriting: "I do solemnly swear to produce this document at the decennial reunion of my class, and to make such other amends as shall be decided by a committee of the class." Through which he had afterward drawn his pen and added, "Changed my mind owing to an unforeseen circumstance," meaning that the other man took the floor a few minutes too soon.
A disquieting story, I admit, and an extreme case, but it illustrates what I mean by the mawkish, maudlin thing in friendship, as it is sometimes depicted in books—often by men who know better but who want to make us see how lofty their ideals are. There are times when good old human nature is a better guide for our actions than the unnatural humanity of novels.
I don't see how there can be much of the real thing there when a man has to poke himself, and say, "Now, then, let's see: what is my duty as a friend?"
It would be as bad as a man's asking himself, "How ought a gentleman to act?" You ought to want to do it; your heart ought to make you jump at it without submitting the matter to your head at all. If you hesitate you are lost, as a friend.
How much ought you to want to do for a friend? Well, that depends. It may be that the poor devil I told you about ought in the first place to have yearned to have Charlie beat him in the contest for which they were both supposed to be working in earnest man-fashion. But I don't think so. He should have kept out of the contest, in that case. But as he went into it, it goes without saying that it was quite right and normal to prefer to win out himself, and certainly to prefer not to take the blame, under the circumstances, for something he did not do, and thus bring undeserved disgrace upon his "innocent old mother." Besides which, we, too, are human beings and have some rights—which ought to be respected by ourselves. Oh, the trouble with so much of this friendship business is that it is a pose.
This is the sensible way two of the best friends I know came together. During the summer vacation of Junior year one of them wrote a letter to the other saying that the college authorities had notified him that owing to the growth of the student body and the consequent demand for rooms he would be obliged to get a new roommate—his former chum had left college to study music—or else vacate the suite. Three rooms were too many for a rather small man. "Now I should much prefer to room alone than with you," he wrote, "but those quarters sort of suit me, and I don't like the idea of overhauling my things and moving. So, as long as I've got to have a roommate, I'd rather have you than any one else, if you care to join me."
To this the other replied: "I don't want to room with you, though I like you; but I don't like my present rooms and I am willing to try you for a year upon condition that we call it off if we don't suit each other." It is partly, though only partly, because they have gone on that same frank basis ever since that they hit it off so well to this day, and always will, I suppose.
As you know, I do not believe in the disgusting and unnecessary habit of habitual and promiscuous candor in which some people indulge themselves with considerable self-satisfaction. There are lies which are founded on the highest Christian principle, namely, that of self-sacrifice for the benefit of others' feelings. It's largely in the motive whether a lie is right or wrong. It was not right in the case of Charlie's roommate. The lie was not so much due to a generous impulse as to a deliberate intention of acting the part of a friend as acted upon the stage. And imitation, while sometimes noble, is not what you want or what you can comfortably lean upon in a friend. If you can't be honest with your friend, then he is not your friend—or else you are not his.
When your old pals, tried and true, can see you succeed and hear you praised and honestly feel glad about it clear inside, then they are pretty likely to be your real friends, especially if they are in a similar line of business. Contrary to the proverbial way of stating the case, it is not on the sunken rocks of misfortune but on the conspicuous Gibraltars of success that many friendships are broken. It isn't necessary, even if it were probable, for you to have these grand-stand tests you read about in books; if you can stand the every-day trial of seeing your friends get ahead of you, then you will pass the examination.
But we hate to acknowledge even to ourselves that we are at fault, that we are the least bit envious, or even that our conviction of the other fellow's swell-headedness is a hastily formed conclusion. He is so irritatingly successful, and we have missed it, and confound him anyway!
If he has become grave and reserved in these years of hard work and success we are sure he is conceited and intolerable. If he is suave and smiling we are sure to detect a patronizing note. Who is he, to be patronizing us? Why, we can remember when—and so on. If he is hurt and draws in when we have taken great pains to show him that we are not greatly flattered merely because he likes us—there! didn't we tell you he was haughty and queer? And if he overlooks our snubs—Ha! he thinks he can afford to be magnanimous to us.
And so on. As a man grows older he finds that he has fewer real friends than he thought he had, and that it takes only a trifling puff of success to blow away some of those he had not thought were chaff. You have to pay for success as well as for thing else in the world, but that is only right and reasonable.
"Laugh and the world laughs with you, weep and you weep alone," has been accepted as a truism, and yet I have observed that most of us find it much easier to weep with them that weep than to rejoice with them that do rejoice, though weeping is a disagreeable process and smiling rather pleasant. This maudlin world is pretty generous in its sympathy with your sorrows, if you will but voice them loud enough; but you get precious little of it for your triumphs—even when you say nothing about 'em. A mere acquaintance will supply sympathy for your troubles. Some people find all they want of it in smoking-cars. But it takes a real friend to be glad when you are glad.
Walk along the street and hear the pennies jingle in the beggar's tin cup. But on the very next corner we read on a news bulletin that Buller Wall has cleverly cleaned up a million or so in the Stock Exchange, or that young Mr. So-and-So has scored a hit in "Hamlet," and how many of us care a hang about it. At best we say "Ah" and walk on. Yet both of these chaps, presumably, worked for what they have achieved, while the beggar gets his pathos by abstaining from working. "Nothing succeeds like a failure," as the Hester Street clothing merchant once remarked. We give pennies and sympathy both to the beggar who wants only our pennies. To Success, which would like merely a little of the former, we give neither.
Success doesn't need it? I have an idea it is a more available asset for success than it ever can be for failure. Sympathy alone does failure very little good, but it is sympathy only, good-will, approbation, that success really needs in its business as much as other sorts of growth need sunshine. Without it, moreover, what is the use of making the business so successful? If our friends aren't going to share the fun of it with us—if we aren't going to have any friends—where should we find any real success in success?
"In this I find I have been anticipated by Aristotle," a dear old professor of ours used to say. In one respect I have been anticipated by the very poet of peace and concord whom you and I patronized so complacently a while ago. So much is being said about him these days that I suppose his centennial bacillus has got into my blood too. Well, there was this difference at least! Emerson talked about friendship and thought he could define it; I talk about it and know I can't. Even while I was talking I was reminded that there were certain friends of mine who wouldn't feel especially jubilant if I were ever lucky enough to make a ten-strike. And yet they are bully, good fellows all the same, and I mean to keep and call them friends as long as they let me. There are flaws in all human relations. But that's no reason for not swearing by them. All we really know is that there is such a thing as real friendship. It's there. It's a great, fine thing. Some of us are lucky enough to have it. Others never can get it. You, I believe, are by way of knowing the real thing. It's a great possession. Hang on to it.
You are a rather crude young person. You don't know much. You have been a great fool in a great many ways. You have neglected opportunities which will never come again. But though much culture has not stuck to you from your studies, yet I am pleased to observe that some character has been pounded into you by your friends. It is within your power to keep up both your friends and your character. And so, when you are blue during these last months of your college course you may tell yourself that, after all, character is better than culture, and friendship than much fine learning. I sha'n't see you again till Commencement.