The Curse of Deliberation

THE CONTRIBUTORS’ CLUB

I would fain learn which is worse, to be thoughtless, or to be thought-tied ? If there be any moral quality in the world I utterly envy and hanker after, it is impetuosity; precipitation; the priceless faculty of talking before you think; of not looking before you leap; of catching bald Time by the forelock; of bolting and running; of counting chickens ere they are hatched; of marrying in haste and repenting at leisure. Were I a correspondent of Mr. Spectator, in the year 1711, I should be fairly certain that my case would receive respectful consideration, and an infallible remedy both golden and ironical. But what, Sir, am I to do in this day of anointed hurry ? I find myself incapable of action save on the ultimate consideration; muscle-bound, as it were, with second thoughts. I must chew the cud, be the occasion trivial or the reverse, first of all, and for a smug space of time. The day is fine: will I go canoeing ? asks Vespertina. No: it should have been mentioned yesterday. The delightful prospect stirs my blood no whit, and there is no valid reason against the pastime. But I observe that it should have been mentioned yesterday, whereupon Vespertina weeps immoderately. “ Let there be a poem on the Aurora Borealis!” whispers the Muse. “Hussy,” say I, “thou’rt too sudden. On what known historic incident, on what pre-natal impression, can I found a poem on the Aurora Borealis ? Go to.” Alas, she goes.

I wish to cultivate inner heat, and a furious hand and foot: my sad lucidity of soul shall be bartered cheap for these. I long to stumble into swear-words, to be mastered by irrational impulse, and to be capable of remorse. I wish to see and love, like any fool, before I see through and doubt, like any knave. It would crown my career could I be born suddenly and happily, at last, into a Heaven which has been the too intermittent subject of my cogitations: the indecent unprepared novelty of it all might make a man of me. I am self-hesternized, precedent-ridden, obsessed by the fatal habit of having no habits, and of being obliged, at every turn and at all hours, to use my will anew, instead of the ready money of instinct, or even that of social custom.

Mr. Editor, there is a most serviceable asset called the muscular intelligence; but even that the fairies stole from my cradle. Other mortals, more favored, are able to do the same deed for the thousandth time, with some degree of mechanical celerity and of cerebral unconsciousness. But each morning, when I have thrust first my left, then my right foot into the right shoe (thank Heaven I am not a centipede, and am subject only to one error of the sort per diem!), and when I have tied, after convolute labors, my simple four-in-hand, I have wasted, not only the congested lifetime of Methusalem, but as much genius and industry, in a way, as would have set up Sir Isaac Newton! Again, Sir, it is an heroic feat, and nothing less, when I shake my ideas free of confusion, and rise into exact knowledge of some bit of etiquette which for my sixty-odd years has been staring me in the face: such, say, as preceding a lady up the stair. Nor could I ever learn to dance.

It is my bitter destiny to punctuate my page, and more: to stake my peace on every comma of my own placing in a world of wild unfettered prose-poems and of split infinitives. My microbe, my daimon, is deliberation. But I apprehend, with no small pang, that nobody will believe it; that I shall never win the pity and indulgence so richly my due: for I have maintained only too successfully an air of inspiration, bonhomie, and bluster, to cover my congenital unreadiness. Now that I have made a clean breast of it I feel better. Did you ask me to have this cigar ? Sir, to be perfectly frank with you, I must take time to think it over.