The Confidence-Man: His Masquerade
wine-corker takes the best of care of his proved bottles. When a bottle
gets a sharp knock and don't break, he says, 'Ah, I'll keep that
bottle.' Why? Because he loves it? No, he has particular use for it."
"Dear, dear!" appealingly turning in distress, "that--that kind of
criticism is--is--in fact--it won't do."
"Won't truth do, Frank? You are so charitable with everybody, do but
consider the tone of the speech. Now I put it to you, Frank; is there
anything in it hortatory to high, heroic, disinterested effort? Anything
like 'sell all thou hast and give to the poor?' And, in other points,
what desire seems most in the father's mind, that his son should cherish
nobleness for himself, or be on his guard against the contrary thing in
others? An irreligious warner, Frank--no devout counselor, is Polonius.
I hate him. Nor can I bear to hear your veterans of the world affirm,
that he who steers through life by the advice of old Polonius will not
steer among the breakers."
"No, no--I hope nobody affirms that," rejoined the cosmopolitan, with
tranquil abandonment; sideways reposing his arm at full length upon the
table. "I hope nobody affirms that; because, if Polonius' advice be
taken in your sense, then the recommendation of it by men of experience
would appear to involve more or less of an unhandsome sort of reflection
upon human nature. And yet," with a perplexed air, "your suggestions
have put things in such a strange light to me as in fact a little to
disturb my previous notions of Polonius and what he says. To be frank,
by your ingenuity you have unsettled me there, to that degree that were
it not for our coincidence of opinion in general, I should almost think
I was now at length beginning to feel the ill effect of an immature
mind, too much consorting with a mature one, except on the ground of
first principles in common."
"Really and truly," cried the other with a kind of tickled modesty and
pleased concern, "mine is an understanding too weak to throw out
grapnels and hug another to it. I have indeed heard of some great
scholars in these days, whose boast is less that they have made
disciples than victims. But for me, had I the power to do such things, I
have not the heart to desire."
"I believe you, my dear Charlie. And yet, I repeat, by your commentaries
on Polonius you have, I know not how, unsettled me; so that now I don't
exactly see how Shakespeare meant the words he puts in Polonius' mouth."
"Some say that he meant them to open people's eyes; but I don't think
so."
"Open their eyes?" echoed the cosmopolitan, slowly expanding his; "what
is there in this world for one to open his eyes to? I mean in the sort
of invidious sense you cite?"
"Well, others say he meant to corrupt people's morals; and still others,
that he had no express intention at all, but in effect opens their eyes
and corrupts their morals in one operation. All of which I reject."
"Of course you reject so crude an hypothesis; and yet, to confess, in
reading Shakespeare in my closet, struck by some passage, I have laid
down the volume, and said: 'This Shakespeare is a queer man.' At times
seeming irresponsible, he does not always seem reliable. There appears
to be a certain--what shall I call it?--hidden sun, say, about him, at
once enlightening and mystifying. Now, I should be afraid to say what I
have sometimes thought that hidden sun might be."
"Do you think it was the true light?" with clandestine geniality again
filling the other's glass.
"I would prefer to decline answering a categorical question there.
Shakespeare has got to be a kind of deity. Prudent minds, having certain
latent thoughts concerning him, will reserve them in a condition of
lasting probation. Still, as touching avowable speculations, we are
permitted a tether. Shakespeare himself is to be adored, not arraigned;
but, so we do it with humility, we may a little canvass his characters.
There's his Autolycus now, a fellow that always puzzled me. How is one
to take Autolycus? A rogue so happy, so lucky, so triumphant, of so
almost captivatingly vicious a career that a virtuous man reduced to the
poor-house (were such a contingency conceivable), might almost long to
change sides with him. And yet, see the words put into his mouth: 'Oh,'
cries Autolycus, as he comes galloping, gay as a buck, upon the stage,
'oh,' he laughs, 'oh what a fool is Honesty, and Trust, his sworn
brother, a very simple gentleman.' Think of that. Trust, that is,
confidence--that is, the thing in this universe the sacredest--is
rattlingly pronounced just the simplest. And the scenes in which the
rogue figures seem purposely devised for verification of his principles.
Mind, Charlie, I do not say it _is_ so, far from it; but I _do_ say it
seems so. Yes, Autolycus would seem a needy varlet acting upon the
persuasion that less is to be got by invoking pockets than picking
them, more to be made by an expert knave than a bungling beggar; and for
this reason, as he thinks, that the soft heads outnumber the soft
hearts. The devil's drilled recruit, Autolycus is joyous as if he wore
the livery of heaven. When disturbed by the character and career of one
thus wicked and thus happy, my sole consolation is in the fact that no
such creature ever existed, except in the powerful imagination which
evoked him. And yet, a creature, a living creature, he is, though only a
poet was his maker. It may be, that in that paper-and-ink investiture of
his, Autolycus acts more effectively upon mankind than he would in a
flesh-and-blood one. Can his influence be salutary? True, in Autolycus
there is humor; but though, according to my principle, humor is in
general to be held a saving quality, yet the case of Autolycus is an
exception; because it is his humor which, so to speak, oils his
mischievousness. The bravadoing mischievousness of Autolycus is slid
into the world on humor, as a pirate schooner, with colors flying, is
launched into the sea on greased ways."
"I approve of Autolycus as little as you," said the stranger, who,
during his companion's commonplaces, had seemed less attentive to them
than to maturing with in his own mind the original conceptions destined
to eclipse them. "But I cannot believe that Autolycus, mischievous as he
must prove upon the stage, can be near so much so as such a character as
Polonius."
"I don't know about that," bluntly, and yet not impolitely, returned the
cosmopolitan; "to be sure, accepting your view of the old courtier,
then if between him and Autolycus you raise the question of
unprepossessingness, I grant you the latter comes off best. For a moist
rogue may tickle the midriff, while a dry worldling may but wrinkle the
spleen."
"But Polonius is not dry," said the other excitedly; "he drules. One
sees the fly-blown old fop drule and look wise. His vile wisdom is made
the viler by his vile rheuminess. The bowing and cringing, time-serving
old sinner--is such an one to give manly precepts to youth? The
discreet, decorous, old dotard-of-state; senile prudence; fatuous
soullessness! The ribanded old dog is paralytic all down one side, and
that the side of nobleness. His soul is gone out. Only nature's
automatonism keeps him on his legs. As with some old trees, the bark
survives the pith, and will still stand stiffly up, though but to rim
round punk, so the body of old Polonius has outlived his soul."
"Come, come," said the cosmopolitan with serious air, almost displeased;
"though I yield to none in admiration of earnestness, yet, I think, even
earnestness may have limits. To human minds, strong language is always
more or less distressing. Besides, Polonius is an old man--as I remember
him upon the stage--with snowy locks. Now charity requires that such a
figure--think of it how you will--should at least be treated with
civility. Moreover, old age is ripeness, and I once heard say, 'Better
ripe than raw.'"
"But not better rotten than raw!" bringing down his hand with energy on
the table.
"Why, bless me," in mild surprise contemplating his heated comrade, "how
you fly out against this unfortunate Polonius--a being that never was,
nor will be. And yet, viewed in a Christian light," he added pensively,
"I don't know that anger against this man of straw is a whit less wise
than anger against a man of flesh, Madness, to be mad with anything."
"That may be, or may not be," returned the other, a little testily,
perhaps; "but I stick to what I said, that it is better to be raw than
rotten. And what is to be feared on that head, may be known from this:
that it is with the best of hearts as with the best of pears--a
dangerous experiment to linger too long upon the scene. This did
Polonius. Thank fortune, Frank, I am young, every tooth sound in my
head, and if good wine can keep me where I am, long shall I remain so."
"True," with a smile. "But wine, to do good, must be drunk. You have
talked much and well, Charlie; but drunk little and indifferently--fill
up."
"Presently, presently," with a hasty and preoccupied air. "If I remember
right, Polonius hints as much as that one should, under no
circumstances, commit the indiscretion of aiding in a pecuniary way an
unfortunate friend. He drules out some stale stuff about 'loan losing
both itself and friend,' don't he? But our bottle; is it glued fast?
Keep it moving, my dear Frank. Good wine, and upon my soul I begin to
feel it, and through me old Polonius--yes, this wine, I fear, is what
excites me so against that detestable old dog without a tooth."
Upon this, the cosmopolitan, cigar in mouth, slowly raised the bottle,
and brought it slowly to the light, looking at it steadfastly, as one
might at a thermometer in August, to see not how low it was, but how
high. Then whiffing out a puff, set it down, and said: "Well, Charlie,
if what wine you have drunk came out of this bottle, in that case I
should say that if--supposing a case--that if one fellow had an object
in getting another fellow fuddled, and this fellow to be fuddled was of
your capacity, the operation would be comparatively inexpensive. What do
you think, Charlie?"
"Why, I think I don't much admire the supposition," said Charlie, with a
look of resentment; "it ain't safe, depend upon it, Frank, to venture
upon too jocose suppositions with one's friends."
"Why, bless you, Frank, my supposition wasn't personal, but general. You
mustn't be so touchy."
"If I am touchy it is the wine. Sometimes, when I freely drink, it has a
touchy effect on me, I have observed."
"Freely drink? you haven't drunk the perfect measure of one glass, yet.
While for me, this must be my fourth or fifth, thanks to your
importunity; not to speak of all I drank this morning, for old
acquaintance' sake. Drink, drink; you must drink."
"Oh, I drink while you are talking," laughed the other; "you have not
noticed it, but I have drunk my share. Have a queer way I learned from a
sedate old uncle, who used to tip off his glass-unperceived. Do you fill
up, and my glass, too. There! Now away with that stump, and have a new
cigar. Good fellowship forever!" again in the lyric mood, "Say, Frank,
are we not men? I say are we not human? Tell me, were they not human who
engendered us, as before heaven I believe they shall be whom we shall
engender? Fill up, up, up, my friend. Let the ruby tide aspire, and all
ruby aspirations with it! Up, fill up! Be we convivial. And
conviviality, what is it? The word, I mean; what expresses it? A living
together. But bats live together, and did you ever hear of convivial
bats?"
"If I ever did," observed the cosmopolitan, "it has quite slipped my
recollection."
"But _why_ did you never hear of convivial bats, nor anybody else?
Because bats, though they live together, live not together genially.