Morning Read: Consequence
¶ Lord Chesterfield advises his son to stay in touch with one Lord Pulteney, who is not only good-natured and a man of parts but —
but there is also a third reason, which, in the course of the world, is not to be despised; his father cannot live long, and will leave him an immense fortune: which, in all events, will make him of some consequence, and if he has parts into the bargain, of very great consequence; so that his friendship may be extremely well worth your cultivating, especially as it will not cost you above one letter in one month.
This calculating will make many readers bristle — or perhaps it will be the teaching of a younger person to make such calculations that offends. It sounds incompatible with our idea that friendship ought to be disinterested. But friendship is never disinterested, or we should make friends with anyone and everyone. What is the difference between a friend’s charm, intelligence, and great wealth? The last attribute, we feel, doesn’t belong on a par with with the first two, but that, I daresay, is wishful thinking. It’s vanity, too: we flatter ourselves to think that we would be who were are without the advantages of healthy upbringing, material comforts, and so on.
¶ In Moby-Dick, Tashtego falls into the “tun” of spermaceti. Truly objectionable comparisons to childbirth are made: “Midwifery should be taught in the same course with fencing and boxing, riding and rowing.” This jocularity is followed by a chapter that blends whale- worhip with phrenology.
Genius in the Sperm Whale? Has the Sperm Whale ever written a book, spoken a speech? No, his great genius is declared by his doing nothing particular to prove it. It is moreover declared in his pyradmidal silence.
The last bit leads Melville into a flight of fancy about how the Egyptians would have deified the whale (had they known whales) for the same reason that they deified the crocodile: no tongue. What self-indulgent twaddle!
¶ In Don Quixote, Quixote and Sancho encounter a troupe of actors, and for a moment it looks as though the knight errant is going to challenge them to some sort of contest. But, no: this is the Second Part, far less bumptious than the First. Quixote is persuaded to rise above a perceived slight. Phew! But a player in motley scares Rocinante, and the poor knight’s bones are bruised in yet another fall.
¶ In Squillions, Alexander Woollcott dies (with his boots on), and Noël writes about the annealing aspect of London life in wartime.
We are aware in our minds all the time that invasion, either by us or by the enemy, is imminent and might occur at any moment. We are aware all the time that only twenty miles separates us from the enemy and that, however many plays we play and however many jokes we make and however many lunches we may have at the “Ivy” or “Apéritif” or Savoy or Claridges, that anything might happen at any minutes and it is the fact that we are all subconsciously prepared for this that makes the difference that I am trying, so unsuccessfully, to explain.
Not unsuccessfully at all.