THE TWO-EDGED SWORD

Evening Star, Issue 25619, 20 October 1945, Page 11

THE TWO-EDGED SWORD

[Written by Mary Scott for the ' Evening Star.'] Since 1 wrote ■ last week of gossip and slander, the subject has remained unhappily uppermost in my mind. For the local storm has not yet spent itself. Bitterness increases daily and the telephone has been working overtime. To-day I have had to bake scones because it was quite impossible to find our party line unoccupied long enough for me to ring through my bread order to the baker. Naturally, therefore, my thoughts have,dwelt unlovingly upon sharp tongues, gossiping neighbours', party lines, and the lighter side of backblocks life. Not that I imagine the country-to hold a monopoly of gossip or mischiefmaking. I know very well that slander can run up and down city streets like a mad dog, but it is not hurried on its way by the lack of other interests, by loneliness, and the brooding that comes with it, and by the everlasting telephone. In town you may ring up your friend or your enemy and express yourself as frankly as you please; there is no danger of being overheard; you will not be called to account later for your words, the remonstrance being preceded by that evergreen and painfully thin explanation: " I don't want you to imagine I was listening; I merely took down the receiver to give the number, and it was impossible to avoid hearing." As if it is ever possible to hear anything lucid in that brief moment of lifting the receiver to inquire tvhether the line is working, and of replacing it. However, the excuse is as old as the telephone itself, and, although no one believes it, everyone has to accept it. Blame has now concentrated upon Mrs A. " She has a tongue like a two-edged sword," a much duller woman said to me to-day with virtous indignation. " She never can resist making fun of people. I know you consider her your friend, but she said to me the other day that you are . . . " Here I bleated loudly that the milk was boiling over and dropped the receiver as if it had stung me. And sting it would have done in another moment, when I had heard Mrs A's little gibe about me. It would have an-! noyed me, although I (know perfectly well that no one escapes her barbed wit. And why should I expect to be immune ? I enjoy Mrs A; her caustic i wit amuses me, and I must expect to pay for it. Even while I rejoice in her cleverness, I rejoice with trembling, knowing myself to be the next victim. Yet, so long as nobody tells me about it, 1 can remain quite calm. It is, of course, always true that, with such devastating critics, we all have our turn, and it is entirely fair. If I laugh when she makes fun of other people, I must not grudge them the same pleasure at my expense. Moreover, I find it quite possible to maintain this Olympian detachment, until some misguided wretch insists on repeating Mrs A's little joke to me. That, I find, is apt to -mar the serenity of our friendship. When I told my last informant this, she was most indignant. " Friendship, indeed," she snapped, " how can you call anyone a friend when they make fun of you behind your bac! P You're just like an ostrich, hiding your head in the sand." Quite logical, of course, but the fact remains that I find considerable pleasure in Mrs A's society, reprehensible though her tongue-may- be, and I do not ask for immunity, but only for ignorance. I have laughed with her at others; they are perfectly welcome to laugh at me. I am a willing sacrifice, but I prefer to be blindfolded during the process of being offered up. Curiously enough, Mrs A's criticisms never offend me when they are spoken to my face. They are shrewd enough hut not really hurtful, for, if we laugh together over my weaknesses, we find just as much amusement from hers. A caustic critic of others she may be, but she has the saving grace of seeing Herself just as clearly. But, once her remarks are repeated—never, of course, quite accurately—they become an entirely different matter. You have not been there to join in the. laughter; you have not heard the precise tone, seen the expression of the speaker; unless your informant is most exceptional, you have not heard anything even

closely resembling the actual words. But a seed has been sown that is likely, given favourable conditions, to develop into a very pretty little poison plant. After a lifetime of watching these petty storms wreck the peace of a community, of seeing susceptible feelings hurt and old friendships broken, I am firmly convinced that the only criticism which should ever be passed on is the favourable one. It is a pity that people cannot content themselves with repeating the pleasant things that are said, since everyone, including my friend with the tongue like a two-edged sword, really does say a great many kindly and amiable things about their neighbours. If these could be prized', remembered, passed on, with or without exaggeration, life would become so much simpler for everybody. The retailer of other people's talk would then become such a welcome guest and social intercourse such a pleasant affair. For. when one is able to report _ some pleasant remark, some appreciation or praise, there is an immediate and spontaneous rush of cordiality, a wave of kindly feeling that engulfs everybody in the room. Mrs A. rises in our estimation because she .has on this occasion been kind as well as clever, and Mrs A's confidante, who has repeated the conversation, basks in a reflected glory as an amiable individual who was probably responsible for -Mrs A's change of heart. In short, we are all pleased with each other and with our-' selves.

It is hard to understand why people so often' repress the pleasant remarks and pass on the severe ones. What fun does anyone get out of at? If people would only stop to reflect they would realise that they themselves will be the first victims of the general displeasure, and deservedly so, since it is a strange and unnatural instinct to enjoy hurting and be slow to please. People are not universally unkind or unpleasant, and if we were to repeat all the talk about others heard during the year I am sure we should find far the larger proportion to be praise rather than blame. Nor is the blame a serious matter; most of it comes from a desir« to show off, to he clever at others' expense—and it is always easier to ho clever when you are criticising than when you are praising. Most of us can find plenty of pleasant things to say, even about people we dislike. I think I shall suggest a competition for the

next institute meeting—to see how many nice things you can say in two minutes about the woman sitting next to you. Given a judicious arrangement of members, it should do. much to heal the present breach.