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Page 42
But the novelist, when he takes himself too seriously as the man who is
to show us "life as it is," is not content to acknowledge his
limitations. When he pictures a situation in which there is nothing but
a succession of problems and misunderstandings, he asks us to admire his
austere faithfulness. Faithful he may be to his Art, as he understands
it, but he is not faithful to reality, unless he is able to make us see
ordinary people in the act of enjoying themselves.
The most obvious thing in life is that people are seldom as unhappy as
their circumstances would lead us to expect. Nobody is happy all the
time, and if he were, nobody is enough of a genius to make his
undeviating felicity interesting. But a great many people are happy most
of the time, and almost everybody has been happy at some time or other.
It may have been only a momentary experience, but it was very real, and
he likes to think about it. He is excessively grateful to any one who
recalls the feeling. The point is that the aggregate of these good times
makes a considerable amount of cheerfulness.
Dickens does not attempt the impossible literary feat of showing us one
person who is happy all the time, but he does what is more obvious, he
makes us see a great many people who have snatches of good cheer in the
midst of their humdrum lives. He lets us see another obvious fact, that
happiness is more a matter of temperament than of circumstance. It is
not given as a reward of merit or as a mark of distinguished
consideration. There is one perennial fountain of pleasure. Any one can
have a good time who can _enjoy himself_. Dickens was not above
celebrating the kind of happiness which comes to the natural man and the
natural boy through what we call the "creature comforts." He could
sympathize with the unadulterated self-satisfaction of little Jack
Horner when
"He put in his thumb
And pulled out a plum,
And said, 'What a great boy am I!'"
The finding of the plum was not a matter of world-wide importance, but
it was a great pleasure for Jack Horner, and he did not care who knew
it.
What joy Mr. Micawber gets out of his own eloquence! We cannot begrudge
him this unearned increment. We sympathize, as, "much affected, but
still intensely enjoying himself, Mr. Micawber folded up his letter and
handed it with a bow to my aunt as something she might like to keep."
And R. Wilfer, despite his meagre salary, and despite Mrs. Wilfer,
enjoys himself whenever he gets a chance. When he goes to Greenwich with
Bella he finds everything as it should be. "Everything was delightful.
The Park was delightful; the punch was delightful, the dishes of fish
were delightful; the wine was delightful." If that was not happiness,
what was it?
Said R. Wilfer: "Supposing a man to go through life, we won't say with a
companion, but we will say with a tune. Very good. Supposing the tune
allotted to him was the 'Dead March' in 'Saul.' Well. It would be a very
suitable tune for particular occasions--none more so--but it would be
difficult to keep time with it in the ordinary run of domestic
transactions."
It is a matter of common observation that those who have allotted to
them the most solemn music do not always keep time with it. In the
"ordinary run of domestic transactions" they find many little
alleviations. In the aggregate these amount to a considerable blessing.
The world may be rough, and many of its ways may be cruel, but for all
that it is a joyful sensation to be alive, and the more alive we are,
the better we like it. All of which is very obvious, and it is what we
want somebody to point out for us again and again.
THE SPOILED CHILDREN OF CIVILIZATION
To spoil a child is no easy task, for Nature is all the time working in
behalf of the childish virtues and veracities, and is gently correcting
the abnormalities of education. Still it can be done. The secret of it
is never to let the child alone, and to insist on doing for him all that
he would otherwise do for himself--and more.
In that "more" lies the spoiling power. The child must be early made
acquainted with the feeling of satiety. There must be too much of
everything. If he were left to himself to any extent, this would be an
unknown experience. For he is a hungry little creature, with a growing
appetite, and naturally is busy ministering to his own needs. He is
always doing something for himself, and enjoys the exercise. The little
egoist, even when he has "no language but a cry," uses that language to
make known to the world that he wants something and wants it very much.
As his wants increase, his exertions increase also. Arms and legs,
fingers and toes, muscles and nerves and busy brain are all at work to
get something which he desires. He is a mechanic fashioning his little
world to his own uses. He is a despot who insists on his divine right to
rule the subservient creatures around him. He is an inventor devising
ways and means to secure all the ends which he has the wit to see. That
these great works on which he has set his heart end in self is obvious
enough, but we forgive him. Altruism will come in its own time.
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