All great literary men are shy.I am myself,though I am told it is hardly noticeable.
I am glad it is not.It used to be extremely prominent at one time,and was the cause of much misery to myself and discomfort to every one about me--my lady friends especially complained most bitterly about it.
A shy man's lot is not a happy one.The men dislike him,the women despise him,and he dislikes and despises himself.Use brings him no relief,and there is no cure for him except time;though I once came across a delicious recipe for overcoming the misfortune.It appeared among the "answers to correspondents"in a small weekly journal and ran as follows--I have never forgotten it:"Adopt an easy and pleasing manner,especially toward ladies."Poor wretch!I can imagine the grin with which he must have read that advice."Adopt an easy and pleasing manner,especially toward ladies,"forsooth!Don't you adopt anything of the kind,my dear young shy friend.Your attempt to put on any other disposition than your own will infallibly result in your becoming ridiculously gushing and offensively familiar.Be your own natural self,and then you will only be thought to be surly and stupid.
The shy man does have some slight revenge upon society for the torture it inflicts upon him.He is able,to a certain extent,to communicate his misery.He frightens other people as much as they frighten him.
He acts like a damper upon the whole room,and the most jovial spirits become in his presence depressed and nervous.
This is a good deal brought about by misunderstanding.Many people mistake the shy man's timidity for overbearing arrogance and are awed and insulted by it.His awkwardness is resented as insolent carelessness,and when,terror-stricken at the first word addressed to him,the blood rushes to his head and the power of speech completely fails him,he is regarded as an awful example of the evil effects of giving way to passion.
But,indeed,to be misunderstood is the shy man's fate on every occasion;and whatever impression he endeavors to create,he is sure to convey its opposite.When he makes a joke,it is looked upon as a pretended relation of fact and his want of veracity much condemned.
His sarcasm is accepted as his literal opinion and gains for him the reputation of being an ass,while if,on the other hand,wishing to ingratiate himself,he ventures upon a little bit of flattery,it is taken for satire and he is hated ever afterward.
These and the rest of a shy man's troubles are always very amusing to other people,and have afforded material for comic writing from time immemorial.But if we look a little deeper we shall find there is a pathetic,one might almost say a tragic,side to the picture.A shy man means a lonely man--a man cut off from all companionship,all sociability.He moves about the world,but does not mix with it.
Between him and his fellow-men there runs ever an impassable barrier--a strong,invisible wall that,trying in vain to scale,he but bruises himself against.He sees the pleasant faces and hears the pleasant voices on the other side,but he cannot stretch his hand across to grasp another hand.He stands watching the merry groups,and he longs to speak and to claim kindred with them.But they pass him by,chatting gayly to one another,and he cannot stay them.He tries to reach them,but his prison walls move with him and hem him in on every side.In the busy street,in the crowded room,in the grind of work,in the whirl of pleasure,amid the many or amid the few--wherever men congregate together,wherever the music of human speech is heard and human thought is flashed from human eyes,there,shunned and solitary,the shy man,like a leper,stands apart.His soul is full of love and longing,but the world knows it not.The iron mask of shyness is riveted before his face,and the man beneath is never seen.Genial words and hearty greetings are ever rising to his lips,but they die away in unheard whispers behind the steel clamps.His heart aches for the weary brother,but his sympathy is dumb.Contempt and indignation against wrong choke up his throat,and finding no safety-valve whence in passionate utterance they may burst forth,they only turn in again and harm him.All the hate and scorn and love of a deep nature such as the shy man is ever cursed by fester and corrupt within,instead of spending themselves abroad,and sour him into a misanthrope and cynic.
Yes,shy men,like ugly women,have a bad time of it in this world,to go through which with any comfort needs the hide of a rhinoceros.
Thick skin is,indeed,our moral clothes,and without it we are not fit to be seen about in civilized society.A poor gasping,blushing creature,with trembling knees and twitching hands,is a painful sight to every one,and if it cannot cure itself,the sooner it goes and hangs itself the better.
The disease can be cured.For the comfort of the shy,I can assure them of that from personal experience.I do not like speaking about myself,as may have been noticed,but in the cause of humanity I on this occasion will do so,and will confess that at one time I was,as the young man in the Bab Ballad says,"the shyest of the shy,"and "whenever I was introduced to any pretty maid,my knees they knocked together just as if I was afraid."Now,I would--nay,have--on this very day before yesterday I did the deed.Alone and entirely by myself (as the school-boy said in translating the "Bellum Gallicum")did I beard a railway refreshment-room young lady in her own lair.Irebuked her in terms of mingled bitterness and sorrow for her callousness and want of condescension.I insisted,courteously but firmly,on being accorded that deference and attention that was the right of the traveling Briton,and at the end I looked her full in the face.Need I say more?
