“Women are strange and incomprehensible, a device invented by Providence to keep the wit of man well sharpened by constant employment”
she demanded.
Carlos was her pet name for him.
“I don’t know,” he said lamely.
“My poor dear,” she smiled, approaching him. “I haven’t said good-night
to you.”
She put her long and elegant hands on his shoulders, as was her wont
each evening, and kissed him on both cheeks in her French fashion. The
affection between Carlos and his half-French half-sister was real
and profound. He liked her for her Parisian daintiness, and for the
eminently practical qualities which she possessed in common with most
Frenchwomen, and also because she regarded him as a genius. To-night he
thought she was sweeter and more sisterly than ever.
“Good-night,” she said, and her voice trembled, and a slight humidity
glistened in her eyes.
“Good-night,” he responded.
And she tripped off, swinging the perfect skirt of her black
_mousseline_ dress round the edge of the door.
“She’s mightily excited to-night,” he murmured to himself; and he
reflected, as all men reflect from time to time, that women are strange
and incomprehensible, a device invented by Providence to keep the wit of
man well sharpened by constant employment.
He passed into his bedroom, and went out on to the wooden balcony of
the bedroom, which commanded a view of Ilam’s side-door. A light showed
through the glass above the door, and Carpentaria noticed at length
that the door was slightly ajar. He stepped back into the bedroom,
extinguished all his own lights, and returned to the balcony to watch.
He determined to watch as long as Ilam’s door remained ajar. He sat down
in a cane chair provided for repose on the balcony, and his one regret
was that the glow of a cigarette or a cigar would betray him.
He grew calmer. The frenzy into which music always threw him had quite
worn itself away. He was able to think clearly. He did not, however,
think so much upon the incident of the drunken man as upon the incident
of the bullet; and this was perhaps natural. He was astounded now that
he could have remained in the bandstand, so utterly careless of
danger, after the arrival of the bullet. He was astounded, too, at the
sang-froid of his musicians.
“It is well, when judging a friend, to remember that he is judging you with the same godlike and superior impartiality.”
This cold, impartial judgment, this keen
vision for my faults, this implacable memory of little slights, and
injustices, and callousnesses committed long ago, in the breast of my
mother!" Yes, my friend, in the breast of your mother. The only
difference between your mother and another person is that she takes
you as you are, and loves you for what you are. She isn't blind: do
not imagine it.
The marvel is, not that people are such bad judges of character, but
that they are such good judges, especially of what I may call
fundamental character. The wiliest person cannot for ever conceal his
fundamental character from the simplest. And people are very stern
judges, too. Think of your best friends--are you oblivious of their
defects? On the contrary, you are perhaps too conscious of them. When
you summon them before your mind's eye, it is no ideal creation that
you see. When you meet them and talk to them you are constantly making
reservations in their disfavour--unless, of course, you happen to be a
schoolgirl gushing over like a fountain with enthusiasm. It is well,
when one is judging a friend, to remember that he is judging you with
the same godlike and superior impartiality. It is well to grasp the
fact that you are going through life under the scrutiny of a band of
acquaintances who are subject to very few illusions about you, whose
views of you are, indeed, apt to be harsh and even cruel. Above all
it is advisable to comprehend thoroughly that the things in your
individuality which annoy your friends most are the things of which
you are completely unconscious. It is not until years have passed that
one begins to be able to form a dim idea of what one has looked like
to one's friends. At forty one goes back ten years, and one says
sadly, but with a certain amusement: "I must have been pretty blatant
then. I can see how I must have exasperated 'em. And yet I hadn't the
faintest notion of it at the time. My intentions were of the best.
Only I didn't know enough." And one recollects some particularly crude
action, and kicks one's self.... Yes, that is all very well; and the
enlightenment which has come with increasing age is exceedingly
satisfactory.
“All wrong-doing is done in the sincere belief that it is the best thing to do”
(I do not suggest the occasional use of trowels, but the regular use of
salt-spoons.) Anyhow, the triumph of the brain over the natural
instincts (in an ideally organised man the brain and the natural
instincts will never have even a tiff) always means the ultimate triumph
of kindness.
And, further, the culture of the brain, the constant disciplinary
exercise of the reasoning faculty, means the diminution of misdeeds. (Do
not imagine I am hinting that you are on the verge of murdering your
wife or breaking into your neighbour's house. Although you personally
are guiltless, there is a good deal of sin still committed in your
immediate vicinity.) Said Balzac in _La Cousine Bette_, 'A crime is in
the first instance a defect of reasoning powers.' In the appreciation of
this truth, Marcus Aurelius was, as usual, a bit beforehand with Balzac.
M. Aurelius said, 'No soul wilfully misses truth.' And Epictetus had
come to the same conclusion before M. Aurelius, and Plato before
Epictetus. All wrong-doing is done in the sincere belief that it is the
best thing to do. Whatever sin a man does he does either for his own
benefit or for the benefit of society. At the moment of doing it he is
convinced that it is the only thing to do. He is mistaken. And he is
mistaken because his brain has been unequal to the task of reasoning the
matter out. Passion (the heart) is responsible for all crimes. Indeed,
crime is simply a convenient monosyllable which we apply to what happens
when the brain and the heart come into conflict and the brain is
defeated. That transaction of the matches was a crime, you know.
Lastly, the culture of the brain must result in the habit of originally
examining all the phenomena of life and conduct, to see what they really
are, and to what they lead. The heart hates progress, because the dear
old thing always wants to do as has always been done. The heart is
convinced that custom is a virtue. The heart of the dirty working man
rebels when the State insists that he shall be clean, for no other
reason than that it is his custom to be dirty.
“There can be no knowledge without emotion. We may be aware of a truth, yet until we have felt its force, it is not ours. To the cognition of the brain must be added the experience of the soul.”
“The parents exist to teach the child, but also they must learn what the child has to teach them; and the child has a very great deal to teach them”
“We shall never have more time. We have, and always had, all the time there is. No object is served in waiting until next week or even until tomorrow. Keep going... Concentrate on something useful.”
“The real tragedy is the tragedy of the man who never in his life braces himself for his one supreme effort, who never stretches to his full capacity, never stands up to his full stature”
“Good taste is better than bad taste but bad taste is better than no taste”
“Pessimism, when you get used to it, is just as agreeable as optimism.”
The chief beauty about timeis that you cannot waste it in advance.The next year, the next day, the next hour are lying ready for you,as perfect, as unspoiled,as if you had never wasted or misapplieda single moment in all your life.You can turn over a new leaf every hourif you choose.
The proper, wise balancingof ones whole life may depend upon thefeasibility of a cup of tea at an unusual hour.
Money is far commoner than time. When one reflects, one perceives that money is just about the commonest thing there is.
Ardour in well-doing is a misleading and a treacherous thing. It cries out loudly for employment; you cant satisfy it at first; it wants more and more; it is eager to move mountains and divert the course of rivers. It isnt content till it perspires. And then, too often, when it feels the perspiration on its brow, it wearies all of a sudden and dies, without even putting itself to the trouble of saying, Ive had enough of this.
It is easier to go down a hill than up, but the view is from the top.
Its language is a language which the soul alone understands, but which the soul can never translate.
There can be no knowledge without emotion. We may be aware of a truth, yet until we have felt its force, it is not ours. To the cognition of the brain must be added the experience of the soul.
You probably think of the orchestra as a heterogeneous mass of instrumentsproducing a confused agreeable massof sound. You do not listen for details because you have never trained your ears to listen to details.
It is difficult to make a reputation, but is even more difficult seriously to mar a reputation once properly made --- so faithful is the public.
without the power to concentrate thatis to say, without the power to dictate to the brain its task and to ensure obedience true life is impossible. Mind control is the first element of a full existence.
The man who begins to go to bed forty minutes before he opens his bedroom door is bored; that is to say, he is not living.
