What Is Man? and Other Essays. Марк Твен

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      O.M. To start with, he was not utterly and completely a coward, or the influences would have had nothing to work upon. He was not afraid of a cow, though perhaps of a bull: not afraid of a woman, but afraid of a man. There was something to build upon. There was a seed. No seed, no plant. Did he make that seed himself, or was it born in him? It was no merit of his that the seed was there.

      Y.M. Well, anyway, the idea of cultivating it, the resolution to cultivate it, was meritorious, and he originated that.

      O.M. He did nothing of the kind. It came whence all impulses, good or bad, come—from outside. If that timid man had lived all his life in a community of human rabbits, had never read of brave deeds, had never heard speak of them, had never heard any one praise them nor express envy of the heroes that had done them, he would have had no more idea of bravery than Adam had of modesty, and it could never by any possibility have occurred to him to resolve to become brave. He could not originate the idea—it had to come to him from the outside. And so, when he heard bravery extolled and cowardice derided, it woke him up. He was ashamed. Perhaps his sweetheart turned up her nose and said, “I am told that you are a coward!” It was not he that turned over the new leaf—she did it for him. He must not strut around in the merit of it—it is not his.

      Y.M. But, anyway, he reared the plant after she watered the seed.

      O.M. No. Outside influences reared it. At the command—and trembling—he marched out into the field—with other soldiers and in the daytime, not alone and in the dark. He had the influence of example, he drew courage from his comrades' courage; he was afraid, and wanted to run, but he did not dare; he was afraid to run, with all those soldiers looking on. He was progressing, you see—the moral fear of shame had risen superior to the physical fear of harm. By the end of the campaign experience will have taught him that not all who go into battle get hurt—an outside influence which will be helpful to him; and he will also have learned how sweet it is to be praised for courage and be huzza'd at with tear-choked voices as the war-worn regiment marches past the worshiping multitude with flags flying and the drums beating. After that he will be as securely brave as any veteran in the army—and there will not be a shade nor suggestion of personal merit in it anywhere; it will all have come from the outside. The Victoria Cross breeds more heroes than—

      Y.M. Hang it, where is the sense in his becoming brave if he is to get no credit for it?

      O.M. Your question will answer itself presently. It involves an important detail of man's make which we have not yet touched upon.

      Y.M. What detail is that?

      O.M. The impulse which moves a person to do things—the only impulse that ever moves a person to do a thing.

      Y.M. The only one! Is there but one?

      O.M. That is all. There is only one.

      Y.M. Well, certainly that is a strange enough doctrine. What is the sole impulse that ever moves a person to do a thing?

      O.M. The impulse to content his own spirit—the necessity of contenting his own spirit and winning its approval.

      Y.M. Oh, come, that won't do!

      O.M. Why won't it?

      Y.M. Because it puts him in the attitude of always looking out for his own comfort and advantage; whereas an unselfish man often does a thing solely for another person's good when it is a positive disadvantage to himself.

      O.M. It is a mistake. The act must do him good, first; otherwise he will not do it. He may think he is doing it solely for the other person's sake, but it is not so; he is contenting his own spirit first—the other's person's benefit has to always take second place.

      Y.M. What a fantastic idea! What becomes of self—sacrifice? Please answer me that.

      O.M. What is self-sacrifice?

      Y.M. The doing good to another person where no shadow nor suggestion of benefit to one's self can result from it.

II

       Table of Contents

      Man's Sole Impulse—the Securing of His Own Approval

      Old Man. There have been instances of it—you think?

      Young Man. Instances? Millions of them!

      O.M. You have not jumped to conclusions? You have examined them—critically?

      Y.M. They don't need it: the acts themselves reveal the golden impulse back of them.

      O.M. For instance?

      Y.M. Well, then, for instance. Take the case in the book here. The man lives three miles up-town. It is bitter cold, snowing hard, midnight. He is about to enter the horse-car when a gray and ragged old woman, a touching picture of misery, puts out her lean hand and begs for rescue from hunger and death. The man finds that he has a quarter in his pocket, but he does not hesitate: he gives it her and trudges home through the storm. There—it is noble, it is beautiful; its grace is marred by no fleck or blemish or suggestion of self-interest.

      O.M. What makes you think that?

      Y.M. Pray what else could I think? Do you imagine that there is some other way of looking at it?

      O.M. Can you put yourself in the man's place and tell me what he felt and what he thought?

      Y.M. Easily. The sight of that suffering old face pierced his generous heart with a sharp pain. He could not bear it. He could endure the three-mile walk in the storm, but he could not endure the tortures his conscience would suffer if he turned his back and left that poor old creature to perish. He would not have been able to sleep, for thinking of it.

      O.M. What was his state of mind on his way home?

      Y.M. It was a state of joy which only the self-sacrificer knows. His heart sang, he was unconscious of the storm.

      O.M. He felt well?

      Y.M. One cannot doubt it.

      O.M. Very well. Now let us add up the details and see how much he got for his twenty-five cents. Let us try to find out the real why of his making the investment. In the first place he couldn't bear the pain which the old suffering face gave him. So he was thinking of his pain—this good man. He must buy a salve for it. If he did not succor the old woman his conscience would torture him all the way home. Thinking of his pain again. He must buy relief for that. If he didn't relieve the old woman he would not get any sleep. He must buy some sleep—still thinking of himself, you see. Thus, to sum up, he bought himself free of a sharp pain in his heart, he bought himself free of the tortures of a waiting conscience, he bought a whole night's sleep—all for twenty-five cents! It should make Wall Street ashamed of itself. On his way home his heart was joyful, and it sang—profit on top of profit! The impulse which moved the man to succor the old woman was—first—to content his own spirit; secondly to relieve her sufferings. Is it your opinion that men's acts proceed from one central СКАЧАТЬ