In defense of shyness

HAROLD NICOLSON

A plea for the modest manner, including some practical hints to the young who suffer from it

It is surely discreditable, under the age of thirty, not to be shy. Self assurance in the young betokens a lack of sensibility: the boy or girl who is not shy at twenty-two will at forty-two become a bore. "I may be wrong, of course",—thus will he or she gabble at forty-two, "but what I always say is. . , And then he or she will repeat, "what they always say".

No, let us educate the younger generation to be shy in and out of season: to edge behind the furniture: to say spasmodic and ill-digested things: to twist their feet round the protective feet of sofas and armchairs: to feel that their hands belong to someone else—that they are objects, which they long to put down on some table away from themselves.

For shyness is the protective fluid within which our personalities are able to develop into natural shapes. Without this fluid the character becomes merely standardized or imitative: it is within the tender velvet sheath of shyness that the full flower of idiosyncracy is nurtured: it is from this sheath alone that it can eventually unfold itself, coloured and undamaged. Let the shy understand, therefore, that their disability is not merely an inconvenience but also a privilege. Let them regard their shyness as a gift rather than as an affliction. Let them consider how intolerable are those of their contemporaries who are not also shy.

There was a boy once who lived near my grandmother in Ireland. He was fourteen at the time and I was twelve. His name, and it was well chosen, was Everard. I loathed that boy. My grandmother was in the habit of giving tea parties, at which there were hot tea cakes in an inimical little dish with a cover. I was told that it was my duty to hand round this hostile dish to the assembled ladies, and that to do this elegantly, I should hold the dish in my right hand and raise the cover successively, when offering the tea cakes, with my left. To me this process was a physical impossibility: it was as irksome as those excruciating exercises which entail having to rub with one hand and pat simultaneously with the other. I would pass from old lady to old lady,— (that feeling about one's boots being untidy and loose, that feeling of the sock descending)—and I would hold the lid open widely when crossing carefully from group to group, and close it firmly when offering it to my grandmother's guests. Never could I achieve the right combination: never could I manage to close the dish protectively when walking about, or open it hospitably when offering its contents. On one occasion I placed the lid upon a side-table, hoping to be unobserved. I was not unobserved. "What", my grandmother exclaimed, "have you done with the dish-cover?" Unfortunately I had placed it, not on a table, but upon a leather album containing photographs of Pompeii, and, if I remember right, of Paestum. The dish-cover left a neat circle of grease upon that album. I was sharply reproved. I was told that Everard was not so clumsy: that Everard was already a perfect little gentleman: that next time it should be Everard who would hand the cakes. He did so. An ingratiating but deft manner was his, such as I have observed in the more expensive class of hairdressers.

My grandmother kept on casting glances at me where I hid in the corner, glances exhorting me to observe, to draw comparisons, to profit from the egregious example of Everard. And yet today I am convinced that in comparison to that trim little poodle I was (I repeat, in comparison) a nice little boy. A little soiled, perhaps, and apt to stumble, but still, in comparison, nice. I tell this story in order that those of my dear readers who are shy and awkward may realize that the advice I give them comes from the heart.

This advice, I fear, is somewhat worldly, or let us call it realistic. I do not think that shyness can be kept within bounds by any ethical arguments. I used to tell myself, for instance, at those moments outside the doorways of the great when shyness becomes a laughing monster with its fangs already gaping at one's heart,—I used to tell myself that I was as good, as powerful, as rich, as beautiful and as magnificent as any of those I was about to meet. This was not a good system. It made me pert. I would bounce into the room gaily, as if I were the Marquis de Soveral; be somewhat impudent to my hostess, cut my host dead, show undue familiarity towards the distinguished author who had once lectured to us at Balliol, and fling myself noisily, completely at my ease, into an armchair. The chair would recede at this impact and upset a little table on which were displayed a bottle of smelling salts, a little silver cart from Rome, a Persian pen-box, a photograph of the Grand Duchess of Saxe Meiningen, and a bowl of anemones. These objects would rattle loudly to the floor, and with them would tumble my assertiveness.

Such deductive systems invariably fail. Fatal also is the reverse process of behaving like the worm one feels. "Remember", I have said to myself on giving my hat and coat to the footman, "remember that you are a worm upon this earth. These people have only asked you because they met your aunt at St. Jean de Luz. They do not wish to see you, still less do they wish to hear you speak. You may say good evening to your hostess, and then you must retreat behind a sofa and remain unobserved. There is no need for you, when in your retreat, to behave self-consciously—to examine the French engravings on the wall, or the lacquer of the incised screen. You can put both your hands upon the back of the chair, and then just look (without blinking) in front of you. If addressed, you will reply with modesty and politeness. If not addressed, you will not speak at all". Things do not work out that way. The place behind the sofa is, when you get there, fully occupied by an easel containing a picture by Carolus Duran: and then one falls over the dog. No,—shyness must be controlled and conquered by more scientific methods.

In the first place you must diagnose the type of shyness from which you suffer. There are two main divisions of the disease, the physical type and the mental type. The physical type are shy about their limbs,—their arms and legs make jerky automatic movements which cause breakages and embarrassment. The mental type are shy about what they say or where they look. It is the latter who are most to be pitied. For whereas the physical sufferer can generally, by using great circumspection, avoid the worst consequences of his affliction, and can in the end sit down and sit even upon his heated hands,—the mental type is not released until he finds him or herself alone again within the motor, homeward bound. It is upon the latter type that I desire to concentrate.

The first rule is to make it perfectly clear to one's parents before arriving at the party that one is to remain unnoticed. One's mother, sitting next to the host, should not be allowed to make gestures at us—down the table—of encouragement and love. One's father, sitting next to the hostess, should be forbidden to confide in her that this is the first time that you have worn an evening suit or a low necked dress,—should be forbidden to cast sly paternal glances at one, or to observe whether one does, or does not, enjoy oneself. All parental responsibility or interference must be excluded from the outset. One must be left alone with one's shyness as with some secret possession.

The second rule is to determine from the outset that one does not desire to shine either socially or intellectually. Nor should one attempt to appear older than one actually is. These things do not carry conviction. You will find yourself, if you give way to these ambitions, slipping into phrases which are not your own phrases and of which, once they have escaped the barrier of your lips, you will feel ashamed. You may be calling, for instance, upon the wife of a neighbour: you will find her sitting on the veranda in a green deck chair: if you are wise, you will have the modesty to say merely "How are you, Mrs. Simpson?": but if you are unwise, and wish to appear at your ease as you come into the room, you will exclaim "Please don't get up!". Having said this, you will reflect that Mrs. Simpson had no idea of getting out of her deck chair for such a worm as you: and you will be mortified by this reflection. Do not, therefore, adopt or even adapt the phrases of your elders. Above all do not break into conversations. It may well be that the Primavera is a picture painted, not by Cimabue, but by Botticelli. But it is not for you, when others attribute the painting to an earlier artist, either to interfere or to correct. A slight pursing of the lips is all that you may allow yourself. The only justification for being shy is to be shy to all the people all the time. You must avoid being pert to governesses and polite to bishops. But if you are always shy, people will end by imagining that you have a modest nature: and that, since it will flatter their own self-esteem, will make you extremely popular. Only when you have become popular can you afford to be interesting, intelligent or impressive. It is a great mistake to endeavour to awake admiration before you have stilled envy, it is only when people have started by ignoring the young that they end by liking the young. It may be a comfort to you therefore to consider that it is an excellent thing, at first, to be regarded as being of no importance. You can hide behind your chair.

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There are certain more practical hints which I should wish to furnish to the youthful shy. It is essential, for instance, to have quite clear in your mind what are to be the opening words which you will address to your hostess. Unless you have prepared these words, other words may come skipping into their place, and instead of saying "How are you, Mrs. Simpson? It was too kind of you to let me come," you will say, "Your butler has got the largest carbuncle I have ever seen." Then there is that business about the palm of the hand. When I was a young man women wore long kid gloves which were particularly sensitive to any humidity of the palm. "POP!" they went as one shook hands, and they came away stickily after the explosion. Today, this particular terror is diminished. It is a fact, however, that damp palms are things that go with shyness. My own palm, at the age of eighteen, was as firm and dry as the desert of Takla Makan. But at the slightest menace of a hostess it became moist, and at the thought of that impending kid glove this moisture oozed. I am sorry to become unpleasant about it, but my sufferings were so acute that I wish to impart to others the cure which I discovered. It was called "Papier Poudre" and took the form of a neat little book of which the pages were tissue paper, backed by a thin layer of powder. By passing successive sheets of this paper, one at a time, over the palm of the hand all moisture disappeared.

Then there was that business about saying goodbye. I became quite good at what we might call "set" good-byes, the ones, that is for which I was prepared in advance. It was the unexpected greetings and farewells that I failed, for so long, to manage. The meeting with one's school-master in Regent Street. The few minutes conversation,—the terror of how to get away. One cannot swing round on those occasions and walk off briskly in the opposite direction. The dodge is to begin to move while still speaking. "Well, don't forget to ring me up", one says—walking backwards and away from the man, "Central 4689", one shouts at a receding figure. Having thus increased the distance between your school-master and yourself, it is possible without abruptness to turn round and walk down Regent Street. But there must in all such cases be an interval in which, while still facing him, you walk, like the Lord Chamberlain, away.

I mention this point in social difficulty since it is illustrative of a method which has cured me of the malady and rendered me a sturdy, though amiably lump of self-assurance. It is only when the unexpected happens that I today am shy. I then,—for why deny it?,— lose my head. I blush and wobble and my throat becomes slightly dry. Generally, however, it is the expected which happens in life, and for the expected. I am now magnificently prepared. It is a question of industry and experience. It is also a question of forethought. One should be prepared for all eventualities. One should be prepared, for instance, for one's hostess to ask after one's grandfather when the only honest answer to such a question is that one's grandfather is dead. An awkward pause will follow, and one should have ready some quip or quotation by which that pause can be filled. If taken unawares one may stumble: but if fore-armed one can play with the situation as Rubinstein with his submerged sevenths. But then, to do this, one must already be middle aged. And I for one would rather be shy, to the point even of shaking hands with the butler, than be middle aged.

Then there are those of course who are shy for life. Such people suffer the pangs both of bashfulness and of being no longer very young. This malady is one that at times afflicts successful writers. Oliver Goldsmith and Charles Lamb were shy: Mr. E. M. Forster and Virginia Woolf are shy to the point even of appearing rude: I have seen Mr. Lytton Strachey hiding in agony behind a door, Mr. Arnold Bennett struck dumb, Mr. Sassoon writhing, Mr. Hugh Walpole (yes, even Mr. Hugh Walpole) dither. And yet other writers are not shy. I should not describe Mr. Sinclair Lewis as a shy man, nor have I often observed the blush of shame mantling in the cheek either of Michael Arlen or Philip Guedalla. One never can tell.

Perhaps shyness is a purely AngloSaxon failing. I doubt whether even the tenderest of the Roman poets, whether Virgil even, was shy. Horace, as we know, was one large lump of bounce. Nor was Dante shy—disagreeable was Dante, but never shy. Ah, yes,—there is Racine. He at least was so shy that he ran away and hid himself at Port Royal. But then Racine, as M. Lemaitre has remarked, stands apart Yes, I think shyness is an Anglo-Saxon quality. And as such it should be honoured as a bond between the Englishspeaking nations.