<SPAN name="chap08"></SPAN>
<h3> VIII </h3>
<h3> FEARS OF YOUTH </h3>
<p>The fears of youth are as a rule just the terrors of self-consciousness
and shyness. They are a very irrational thing, something purely
instinctive and of old inheritance. How irrational they are is best
proved by the fact that shyness is caused mostly by the presence of
strangers; there are many young people who are bashful, awkward, and
tongue-tied in the presence of strangers, whose tremors wholly
disappear in the family circle. If these were rational fears, they
might be caused by the consciousness of the inspection and possible
disapproval of those among whom one lives, and whose annoyance and
criticism might have unpleasant practical effects. Yet they are caused
often by the presence of those whose disapproval is not of the smallest
consequence, those, in fact, whom one is not likely to see again. One
must look then for the cause of this, not in the fact that one's
awkwardness and inefficiency is likely to be blamed by those of one's
own circle, but simply in the terror of the unknown and the unfamiliar.
It is probably therefore an old inherited instinct, coming from a time
when the sight of a stranger might contain in it a menace of some
hostile usage. If one questions a shy boy or girl as to what it is they
are afraid of in the presence of strangers, they are quite unable to
answer. They are not afraid of anything that will be said or done; and
yet they will have become intensely conscious of their own appearance
and movements and dress, and will be quite unable to command
themselves. That it is a thing which can be easily cured is obvious
from the fact which I often observed when I was a schoolmaster, that as
a rule the boys who came from houses where there was much entertaining,
and a constant coming and going of guests, very rarely suffered from
such shyness. They had got used to the fact that strangers could be
depended upon to be kind and friendly, and instead of looking upon a
new person as a possible foe, they regarded him as a probable friend.</p>
<p>I often think that parents do not take enough trouble in this respect
to make children used to strangers. What often happens is that parents
are themselves shy and embarrassed in the presence of strangers, and
when they notice that their children suffer from the same awkwardness,
they criticise them afterwards, partly because they are vexed at their
own clumsy performance; and thus the shyness is increased, because the
child, in addition to his sense of shyness before strangers, has in the
background of his mind the feeling that any mauvaise honte that he may
display may he commented upon afterwards. No exhibition of shyness on
the part of a boy or girl should ever be adverted upon by parents. They
should take for granted that no one is ever willingly shy, and that it
is a misery which all would avoid if they could. It is even better to
allow children considerable freedom of speech with strangers, than to
repress and silence them. Of course impertinence and unpleasant
comments, such as children will sometimes make on the appearance or
manners of strangers, must be checked, but it should be on the grounds
of the unpleasantness of such remarks, and not on the ground of
forwardness. On the other hand, all attempts on the part of a child to
be friendly and courteous to strangers should be noted and praised; a
child should be encouraged to look upon itself as an integral part of a
circle, and not as a silent and lumpish auditor.</p>
<p>Probably too there are certain physical and psychological laws, which
we do not at all understand, which account for the curious subjective
effects which certain people have at close quarters; there is something
hypnotic and mesmeric about the glance of certain eyes; and there is in
all probability a curious blending of mental currents in an assembly of
people, which is not a mere fancy, but a very real physical fact.
Personalities radiate very real and unmistakable influences, and
probably the undercurrent of thought which happens to be in one's mind
when one is with others has an effect, even if one says or does nothing
to indicate one's preoccupation. A certain amount of this comes from an
unconscious inference on the part of the recipients. We often augur,
without any very definite rational process, from the facial
expressions, gestures, movements, tones of others, what their frame of
mind is. But I believe that there is a great deal more than that. We
must all know that when we are with friends to whose moods and emotions
we are attuned, there takes place a singular degree of
thought-transference, quite apart from speech. I had once a great
friend with whom I was accustomed to spend much time tete-a-tete. We
used to travel together and spend long periods, day after day, in close
conjunction, often indeed sharing the same bedroom. It became a matter
at first of amusement and interest, but afterwards an accepted fact,
that we could often realise, even after a long silence, in what
direction the other's thought was travelling. "How did you guess I was
thinking of that?" would be asked. To which the reply was, "I did not
guess—I knew." On the other hand I have an old and familiar friend,
whom I know well and regard with great affection, but whose presence,
and particularly a certain fixity of glance, often, even now, causes me
a curious subjective disturbance which is not wholly pleasant, a sense
of some odd psychical control which is not entirely agreeable.</p>
<p>I have another friend who is the most delightful and easy company in
the world when we are, alone together; but he is a sensitive and
highly-strung creature, much affected by personal influences, and when
I meet him in the company of other people he is often almost
unrecognisable. His mind becomes critical, combative, acrid; he does
not say what he means, he is touched by a vague excitement, and there
passes over him an unnatural sort of brilliance, of a hard and futile
kind, which makes him sacrifice consideration and friendliness to the
instinctive desire to produce an effect and to score a point. I
sometimes actually detest him when he is one of a circle. I feel
inclined to say to him, "If only you could let your real self appear,
and drop this tiresome posturing and fencing, you would be as
delightful as you are to me when I am alone with you; but this hectic
tittering and feverish jocosity is not only not your real self, but it
gives others an impression of a totally unreal and not very agreeable
person." But, alas, this is just the sort of thing one cannot say to a
friend!</p>
<p>As one goes on in life, this terrible and disconcerting shyness of
youth disappears. We begin to realise, with a wholesome loss of vanity
and conceit, how very little people care or even notice how we are
dressed, how we look, what we say. We learn that other people are as
much preoccupied with their thoughts and fancies and reflections as we
are with our own. We realise that if we are anxious to produce an
agreeable impression, we do so far more by being interested and
sympathetic, than by attempting a brilliance which we cannot command.
We perceive that other people are not particularly interested in our
crude views, nor very grateful for the expression of them. We acquire
the power of combination and co-operation, in losing the desire for
splendour and domination. We see that people value ease and security,
more than they admire originality and fantastic contradiction. And so
we come to the blessed time when, instead of reflecting after a social
occasion whether we did ourselves justice, we begin to consider rather
the impression we have formed of other personalities.</p>
<p>I believe that we ought to have recourse to very homely remedies indeed
for combating shyness. It is of no use to try to console and distract
ourselves with lofty thoughts, and to try to keep eternity and the
hopes of man in mind. We so become only more self-conscious and
superior than ever. The fact remains that the shyness of youth causes
agonies both of anticipation and retrospect; if one really wishes to
get rid of it, the only way is to determine to get used somehow to
society, and not to endeavour to avoid it; and as a practical rule to
make up one's mind, if possible, to ask people questions, rather than
to meditate impressive answers. Asking other people questions about
things to which they are likely to know the answers is one of the
shortest cuts to popularity and esteem. It is wonderful to reflect how
much distress personal bashfulness causes people, how much they would
give to be rid of it, and yet how very little trouble they ever take to
acquiring any method of dealing with the difficulty. I see a good deal
of undergraduates, and am often aware that they are friendly and
responsive, but without any power of giving expression to it. I
sometimes see them suffering acutely from shyness before my eyes. But a
young man who can bring himself to ask a perfectly simple question
about some small matter of common interest is comparatively rare; and
yet it is generally the simplest way out of the difficulty.</p>
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