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I knew a man once (I will not name him even with an initial) who was
malignant to the core. Learned, industrious, accomplished, he kept
all his talents at the service of a perfect genius for hatred. If
you crossed his path but once, he would never cease to curse you.
The grave might close over you, but he would revile your epitaph and
mock at your memory. It was not even necessary that you should do
anything to incur his enmity. It was enough to be upright and
sincere and successful, to waken the wrath of this Shimei.
Integrity was an offence to him, and excellence of any kind filled
him with spleen. There was no good cause within his horizon that he
did not give a bad word to, and no decent man in the community whom
he did not try either to use or to abuse. To listen to him or to
read what he had written was to learn to think a little worse of
every one that he mentioned, and worst of all of him. He had the
air of a gentleman, the vocabulary of a scholar, the style of a
Junius, and the heart of a Thersites.
Talk, in such company, is impossible. The sense of something evil,
lurking beneath the play of wit, is like the knowledge that there
are snakes in the grass. Every step must be taken with fear. But
the real pleasure of a walk through the meadow comes from the
feeling of security, of ease, of safe and happy abandon to the mood
of the moment. This ungirdled and unguarded felicity in mutual
discourse depends, after all, upon the assurance of real goodness in
your companion. I do not mean a stiff impeccability of conduct.
Prudes and Pharisees are poor comrades. I mean simply goodness of
heart, the wholesome, generous, kindly quality which thinketh no
evil, rejoiceth not in iniquity, hopeth all things, endureth all
things, and wisheth well to all men. Where you feel this quality
you can let yourself go, in the ease of hearty talk.
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