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Misfortunes, Mysteries, and the Happy Medium
Harper’s Weekly (April 17, 1909) : 27
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      A surprise that threatens to last us to our graves is that caused by people who have passed through a great trouble and appear afterward without shred of it clinging to their persons. Their hair does not turn white in a single night. That fit and dramatic legend was long ago proved impossible. They may have felt radical changes taking place in their inner recesses, but their outward appearance shocks us, it is so as it used to be. Not that one would wish to make it any harder for sorrowing folk than it now is, but one naturally protests against a man’s clothes fitting well and his wife not two hours dead. A woman who has survived an awful accident, yet does it with her usual plump curves and fluffy, cheery hair — why, there is an inherent bad taste in her character. It is, nevertheless, a bad taste shared by every one. People, delicate in their perceptions regarding everything else, when they mingle with their fellows after a cataclysmic occurrence publicly object to milk in their tea and, without a thought for the fine feelings of others, loudly demand cream. Their crassness is past belief. Is this what a revolutionizing tragedy has done them? How can they hope to make us believe in their suffering if they still feel so strongly about cream in their tea? It is difficult to sympathize with our friends as we know we ought to, so gasping are we to find that they have not changed. One retains his cowlick — this when he has accidentally shot his brother while hunting. Another is as witty after a fire as before. He turns his sentences neatly, and it is more than you can stand. The fire was bad enough, but the fact that his debonair English survived when none of his family did is something of which you do not care to think. It does seem that after such a happening his cowlick ought to have subsided. Another is as witty after a fire as before. He turns his sentences neatly, and it is more than you can stand. The fire was bad enough, but the fact that his debonair English survived when none of his family did is something of which you do not care to think.
      We hear of people being washed up on a beach with nothing on but a shirt, and we applaud their behavior. They knew how to manage such an event. Any one seeing them strolling up and down the beach would know that they had been shipwrecked. A first glance would show that they had been through so much that they had given up one by one everything they once clung to, the shirt even being a matter of indifference to them, a mere trick of the sea in which they took no interest. It is seldom, however, that a person shows with such delicacy or so sure an instinct the despair that rages within him. This rarity of proper emotion makes us think enthusiastically of those countries where they wail and howl to express their sorrow. Wailing is only meet at certain moments; to speak in a subdued voice offends the sensibilities of one’s hearers. There must be some contrasts in life. The ululation of the mourners should be different from the soft voices of the bridge-players. In fact, people who have just a month ago lost a leg or a fortune should not feel inclined to speak at all. What interest can they have if it rains or the train is late? They might carry a tiny drum, and when they feel like joining the conversation they would be encouraged to beat a dirge on that. Ashes in one’s hair in prescribed situations are infinitely preferable to a well-coifed head. A woman so upset as to be willing to wear bagging would receive our respect and hushed condolence. The world is not difficult to please; it just wants a sign or so that big moments were big, and stretched their victims a bit. Any sign will do. The utter lack of any indication is what shocks and amazes us.

      It is patient and admirably humble of the world to plod busily on making new mysteries when the ones that date from the time of the Garden have never been satisfactorily solved. We will never know what lies behind so many closed doors, and, though we want to know so badly that our fingers itch every time we see a knocker, we give up ultimate discoveries in a manner that is almost dull, and weave — by the mere act of living — mysteries that will tantalize to tears the generations that follow and weave — by the mere act of living — mysteries that will tantalize to tears the generations that follow. Why was that old tale hushed up? Who and what made it possible? How did Helen of Troy manage to keep her youth, and what became of the Dauphin of France? So often easily satisfied, voices murmur happily, “What an interesting, dramatic world it is!” Of course, no one denies it, only, if the things we know of are admittedly absorbing, why not realize that the things of which we know nothing are intoxicating in their interest? This once realized could be treated in one way only. The world would have to stop, its inhabitants bound under promise to create no new complications until the old mysteries were solved. Why was one of the most popular actresses of her day, in the days when actresses were really popular, never allowed to make the explanation she so longed to? Then we would find out why Lady Jane Gordon did not produce her dispensation to marry her cousin Bothwell at the time of his marriage to the Queen. At last we would be told whether Mary of Scots went willingly with him to Bothwell Castle. It would be settled to a certainty what became of the written directions for the finding of his treasures left by Captain Kidd. Why was one of the most popular actresses of her day, in the days when actresses were really popular, never allowed to make the explanation she so longed to? Is John Wilkes Booth alive in the West? How many hands did Lafayette actually kiss? Just what furniture came over in the Mayflower? What happens to all the things that are lost but never found? Are they used for fuel to keep the fire in the centre of the earth going? These questions, all questions of each avid questioner, would be answered, and we could then lead our own lives with some degree of satisfaction, What happens to all the things that are lost but never found? Are they used for fuel to keep the fire in the centre of the earth going? and a comforting sensation that we had tidied up the past. Is it possible that heaven will consist of eon-long chats between the shades when all will tell why they did what they did, and what were the exact facts of the little affair they were connected with? How heavenly it would be! At last the idea of the upper regions becomes alluring. If the supposition were ever settled, curiosity would cause an exodus which would depopulate the world.

      Is it absolutely necessary that a happy medium should be maintained? Humans so inconvenience themselves under the impression that a medium is imperative. If it by any chance is not, they should be told and allowed to enjoy themselves a little more than they now do. Tall women (the present-day women are so tall that they hit the eye in the form of walking exclamation marksthe present-day women are so tall that they hit the eye in the form of walking exclamation marks) marry little men until their reckless bravery and patriotism — it must be that — fairly bring tears to one’s eyes. The thing has been carried to such extremes that one feels all past mistakes are surely rectified and future ones guarded against for a long time to come. Young America might almost be told not to take the matter too seriously. So much unhappiness has been put up with in this great cause of striking a sensible half-way course that Mendel or his disciples should be applied to for mercy. If inches are not assimilable, let the suffering of the public with an eye for proportion cease. Women who hate the sea marry sailors; men who writhe under music marry singers; extreme people marry directly opposing types, and when their friends and familiars, unable to stand any longer the sight of their chafing uncongeniality, cry, “Why, why, do such people marry?” some knowing octogenarian buzzes, “It maintains the average.” Now any one can see that it is not worth the trouble. Always to follow the middle course savors of too much caution, and the tumbles follow that only come to over-careful voyagers.
 

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