A man once asked me what special impression or effect I should like to have on a man of the world who had been every where, done every thing, seen every thing, knew every thing (or at least thought so)—in fine, a man with the edge of every desire dulled, the glow of every passion cooled. My answer was simply this: I should try to give him what I constantly and without much effort gave most men—A new sensation. After all it is not such a hard thing to do. Blase men are my especial prey; they can always be reached; their vulnerable points are many, but generally well concealed.
I have lost my early enthusiasms, but my enthusiastic manner still remains. A genuine, cynical touch has, here of late, fallen into my life. It is not an affectation. I am all the better for that touch; it makes me more of a power among my subjects. For they are in reality my subjects. In the main they are loyal. They are ready to fight for me and my cause—if I had one.
I have divided my subjects—and other men—into:
I. Platitudes,
II. Pleasures.
Platitudes are men who lead an honest, stupid existence. They are contented with their lot—because ignorant of any other. They are resentful of all innovations—because they are narrow-minded and full of deep ruts; they are guiltless of one clever thought; they sometimes stumble into somewhat of a clever action, but humbly deprecate the move, unconscious of having done a clever thing. Such men used to float about me in shoals of delicious stupidity. I was such a new creature! I was so different from the women they had met and always known. They were the foolish moths, I the candle-flame. They dashed blindly into danger; they fluttered about in ungraceful, ungracious misery. Finally, they would fly out and go on their little commonplace ways full of scars and petty burns, but not altogether marred—all the better for their uncomfortable but harmless burning. But nowadays it is quality not numbers which I desire, so they let me alone and are indeed astonished, bewildered, to find that I can go on, quite successfully too, and without them. Poor little fools; they are not an absolute necessity to any one—hardly to themselves.
A Platitude is a selfish creature, and never very grateful unless he expects a continuance of past favors. With him a cessation of favors means a cessation of gratitude. A limited number of the Platitude class still linger about me—principally on account of a long-contracted habit. They are content with whatever they get; they are entirely harmless, always useful in some way, and occasionally quite interesting.