University of Virginia Library

43. CHAPTER XLIII.
VERY CHARMING.

“So you are a philanthropist, sir,” added the barber
with an illuminated look; “that accounts, then, for all.
Very odd sort of man the philanthropist. You are the
second one, sir, I have seen. Very odd sort of man,
indeed, the philanthropist. Ah, sir,” again meditatively
stirring in the shaving-cup, “I sadly fear, lest you
philanthropists know better what goodness is, than
what men are.” Then, eying him as if he were some
strange creature behind cage-bars, “So you are a philanthropist,
sir.”

“I am Philanthropos, and love mankind. And, what
is more than you do, barber, I trust them.”

Here the barber, causally recalled to his business,
would have replenished his shaving-cup, but finding
now that on his last visit to the water-vessel he had not
replaced it over the lamp, he did so now; and, while
waiting for it to heat again, became almost as sociable
as if the heating water were meant for whisky-punch;
and almost as pleasantly garrulous as the pleasant barbers
in romances.

“Sir,” said he, taking a throne beside his customer

(for in a row there were three thrones on the dais, as
for the three kings of Cologne, those patron saints of the
barber), “sir, you say you trust men. Well, I suppose
I might share some of your trust, were it not for
this trade, that I follow, too much letting me in behind
the scenes.”

“I think I understand,” with a saddened look; “and
much the same thing I have heard from persons in
pursuits different from yours—from the lawyer, from
the congressman, from the editor, not to mention others,
each, with a strange kind of melancholy vanity, claiming
for his vocation the distinction of affording the
surest inlets to the conviction that man is no better
than he should be. All of which testimony, if reliable,
would, by mutual corroboration, justify some disturbance
in a good man's mind. But no, no; it is a mistake—all
a mistake.”

“True, sir, very true,” assented the barber.

“Glad to hear that,” brightening up.

“Not so fast, sir,” said the barber; “I agree with you
in thinking that the lawyer, and the congressman, and
the editor, are in error, but only in so far as each claims
peculiar facilities for the sort of knowledge in question;
because, you see, sir, the truth is, that every trade or
pursuit which brings one into contact with the facts,
sir, such trade or pursuit is equally an avenue to those
facts.”

“How exactly is that?”

“Why, sir, in my opinion—and for the last twenty
years I have, at odd times, turned the matter over some in

my mind—he who comes to know man, will not remain
in ignorance of man. I think I am not rash in saying
that; am I, sir?”

“Barber, you talk like an oracle—obscurely, barber,
obscurely.”

“Well, sir,” with some self-complacency, “the barber
has always been held an oracle, but as for the obscurity,
that I don't admit.”

“But pray, now, by your account, what precisely
may be this mysterious knowledge gained in your trade?
I grant you, indeed, as before hinted, that your trade,
imposing on you the necessity of functionally tweaking
the noses of mankind, is, in that respect, unfortunate,
very much so; nevertheless, a well-regulated
imagination should be proof even to such a provocation
to improper conceits. But what I want to
learn from you, barber, is, how does the mere handling
of the outside of men's heads lead you to distrust the
inside of their hearts?

“What, sir, to say nothing more, can one be forever
dealing in macassar oil, hair dyes, cosmetics, false moustaches,
wigs, and toupees, and still believe that men are
wholly what they look to be? What think you, sir, are a
thoughtful barber's reflections, when, behind a careful
curtain, he shaves the thin, dead stubble off a head, and
then dismisses it to the world, radiant in curling auburn?
To contrast the shamefaced air behind the
curtain, the fearful looking forward to being possibly
discovered there by a prying acquaintance, with the
cheerful assurance and challenging pride with which

the same man steps forth again, a gay deception, into
the street, while some honest, shock-headed fellow
humbly gives him the wall. Ah, sir, they may talk of
the courage of truth, but my trade teaches me that
truth sometimes is sheepish. Lies, lies, sir, brave lies
are the lions!”

“You twist the moral, barber; you sadly twist it.
Look, now; take it this way: A modest man thrust out
naked into the street, would he not be abashed? Take
him in and clothe him; would not his confidence be
restored? And in either case, is any reproach involved?
Now, what is true of the whole, holds proportionably
true of the part. The bald head is a nakedness which
the wig is a coat to. To feel uneasy at the possibility
of the exposure of one's nakedness at top, and to feel
comforted by the consciousness of having it clothed—
these feelings, instead of being dishonorable to a bold
man, do, in fact, but attest a proper respect for himself
and his fellows. And as for the deception, you may as
well call the fine roof of a fine chateau a deception,
since, like a fine wig, it also is an artificial cover to the
head, and equally, in the common eye, decorates the
wearer.—I have confuted you, my dear barber; I have
confounded you.”

“Pardon,” said the barber, “but I do not see that you
have. His coat and his roof no man pretends to palm
off as a part of himself, but the bald man palms off hair,
not his, for his own.”

“Not his, barber? If he have fairly purchased his
hair, the law will protect him in its ownership, even

against the claims of the head on which it grew. But
it cannot be that you believe what you say, barber;
you talk merely for the humor. I could not think so
of you as to suppose that you would contentedly deal
in the impostures you condemn.”

“Ah, sir, I must live.”

“And can't you do that without sinning against your
conscience, as you believe? Take up some other calling.”

“Wouldn't mend the matter much, sir.”

“Do you think, then, barber, that, in a certain point,
all the trades and callings of men are much on a par?
Fatal, indeed,” raising his hand, “inexpressibly dreadful,
the trade of the barber, if to such conclusions it
necessarily leads. Barber,” eying him not without
emotion, “you appear to me not so much a misbeliever,
as a man misled. Now, let me set you on the right
track; let me restore you to trust in human nature, and
by no other means than the very trade that has brought
you to suspect it.”

“You mean, sir, you would have me try the experiment
of taking down that notification,” again pointing
to it with his brush; “but, dear me, while I sit chatting
here, the water boils over.”

With which words, and such a well-pleased, sly, snug,
expression, as they say some men have when they think
their little stratagem has succeeded, he hurried to the
copper vessel, and soon had his cup foaming up with
white bubbles, as if it were a mug of new ale.

Meantime, the other would have fain gone on with

the discourse; but the cunning barber lathered him with
so generous a brush, so piled up the foam on him, that
his face looked like the yeasty crest of a billow, and vain
to think of talking under it, as for a drowning priest in
the sea to exhort his fellow-sinners on a raft. Nothing
would do, but he must keep his mouth shut. Doubtless,
the interval was not, in a meditative way, unimproved;
for, upon the traces of the operation being at last removed,
the cosmopolitan rose, and, for added refreshment,
washed his face and hands; and having generally
readjusted himself, began, at last, addressing the barber
in a manner different, singularly so, from his previous
one. Hard to say exactly what the manner was, any
more than to hint it was a sort of magical; in a benign
way, not wholly unlike the manner, fabled or otherwise,
of certain creatures in nature, which have the power of
persuasive fascination—the power of holding another
creature by the button of the eye, as it were, despite
the serious disinclination, and, indeed, earnest protest,
of the victim. With this manner the conclusion of the
matter was not out of keeping; for, in the end, all argument
and expostulation proved vain, the barber being
irresistibly persuaded to agree to try, for the remainder
of the present trip, the experiment of trusting men, as
both phrased it. True, to save his credit as a free agent,
he was loud in averring that it was only for the novelty
of the thing that he so agreed, and he required the other,
as before volunteered, to go security to him against any
loss that might ensue; but still the fact remained, that
he engaged to trust men, a thing he had before said he
would not do, at least not unreservedly. Still the more
to save his credit, he now insisted upon it, as a last point,
that the agreement should be put in black and white,
especially the security part. The other made no demur;
pen, ink, and paper were provided, and grave as any
notary the cosmopolitan sat down, but, ere taking the
pen, glanced up at the notification, and said: “First
down with that sign, barber—Timon's sign, there; down
with it.”

This, being in the agreement, was done—though a little
reluctantly—with an eye to the future, the sign being
carefully put away in a drawer.

“Now, then, for the writing,” said the cosmopolitan,
squaring himself. “Ah,” with a sigh, “I shall make a
poor lawyer, I fear. Ain't used, you see, barber, to a
business which, ignoring the principle of honor, holds no
nail fast till clinched. Strange, barber,” taking up the
blank paper, “that such flimsy stuff as this should make
such strong hawsers; vile hawsers, too. Barber,”
starting up, “I won't put it in black and white. It
were a reflection upon our joint honor. I will take your
word, and you shall take mine.”

“But your memory may be none of the best, sir. Well
for you, on your side, to have it in black and white, just
for a memorandum like, you know.”

“That, indeed! Yes, and it would help your memory,
too, wouldn't it, barber? Yours, on your side, being a
little weak, too, I dare say. Ah, barber! how ingenious
we human beings are; and how kindly we reciprocate
each other's little delicacies, don't we? What better

proof, now, that we are kind, considerate fellows, with
responsive fellow-feelings—eh, barber? But to business.
Let me see. What's your name, barber?”

“William Cream, sir.”

Pondering a moment, he began to write; and, after
some corrections, leaned back, and read aloud the following:

“There, barber; will that do?”

“That will do,” said the barber, “only now put down
your name.”

Both signatures being affixed, the question was started
by the barber, who should have custody of the instrument;
which point, however, he settled for himself, by
proposing that both should go together to the captain,

and give the document into his hands—the barber hinting
that this would be a safe proceeding, because the
captain was necessarily a party disinterested, and, what
was more, could not, from the nature of the present
case, make anything by a breach of trust. All of which
was listened to with some surprise and concern.

“Why, barber,” said the cosmopolitan, “this don't
show the right spirit; for me, I have confidence in the
captain purely because he is a man; but he shall have
nothing to do with our affair; for if you have no confidence
in me, barber, I have in you. There, keep the
paper yourself,” handing it magnanimously.

“Very good,” said the barber, “and now nothing remains
but for me to receive the cash.”

Though the mention of that word, or any of its singularly
numerous equivalents, in serious neighborhood
to a requisition upon one's purse, is attended with a
more or less noteworthy effect upon the human countenance,
producing in many an abrupt fall of it—in others,
a writhing and screwing up of the features to a point
not undistressing to behold, in some, attended with a
blank pallor and fatal consternation—yet no trace of
any of these symptoms was visible upon the countenance
of the cosmopolitan, notwithstanding nothing could be
more sudden and unexpected than the barber's demand.

“You speak of cash, barber; pray in what connection?”

“In a nearer one, sir,” answered the barber, less
blandly, “than I thought the man with the sweet voice

stood, who wanted me to trust him once for a shave, on
the score of being a sort of thirteenth cousin.”

“Indeed, and what did you say to him?”

“I said, `Thank you, sir, but I don't see the connection.'”

“How could you so unsweetly answer one with a
sweet voice?”

“Because, I recalled what the son of Sirach says in
the True Book: `An enemy speaketh sweetly with his
lips;' and so I did what the son of Sirach advises in such
cases: `I believed not his many words.'”

“What, barber, do you say that such cynical sort of
things are in the True Book, by which, of course, you
mean the Bible?”

“Yes, and plenty more to the same effect. Read the
Book of Proverbs.”

“That's strange, now, barber; for I never happen to
have met with those passages you cite. Before I go
to bed this night, I'll inspect the Bible I saw on the
cabin-table, to-day. But mind, you mustn't quote the
True Book that way to people coming in here; it would
be impliedly a violation of the contract. But you don't
know how glad I feel that you have for one while signed
off all that sort of thing.”

“No, sir; not unless you down with the cash.”

“Cash again! What do you mean?”

“Why, in this paper here, you engage, sir, to insure
me against a certain loss, and—”

“Certain? Is it so certain you are going to lose?”

“Why, that way of taking the word may not be

amiss, but I didn't mean it so. I meant a certain loss;
you understand, a CERTAIN loss; that is to say, a certain
loss. Now then, sir, what use your mere writing
and saying you will insure me, unless beforehand you
place in my hands a money-pledge, sufficient to that
end?”

“I see; the material pledge.”

“Yes, and I will put it low; say fifty dollars.”

“Now what sort of a beginning is this? You, barber,
for a given time engage to trust man, to put confidence
in men, and, for your first step, make a demand
implying no confidence in the very man you engage
with. But fifty dollars is nothing, and I would let you
have it cheerfully, only I unfortunately happen to have
but little change with me just now.”

“But you have money in your trunk, though?”

“To be sure. But you see—in fact, barber, you
must be consistent. No, I won't let you have the money
now; I won't let you violate the inmost spirit of our
contract, that way. So good-night, and I will see you
again.”

“Stay, sir”—humming and hawing—“you have forgotten
something.”

“Handkerchief?—gloves? No, forgotten nothing.
Good-night.”

“Stay, sir—the—the shaving.”

“Ah, I did forget that. But now that it strikes me,
I shan't pay you at present. Look at your agreement;
you must trust. Tut! against loss you hold the guarantee.
Good-night, my dear barber.”

With which words he sauntered off, leaving the barber
in a maze, staring after.

But it holding true in fascination as in natural philosophy,
that nothing can act where it is not, so the
barber was not long now in being restored to his self-possession
and senses; the first evidence of which perhaps
was, that, drawing forth his notification from the drawer,
he put it back where it belonged; while, as for the
agreement, that he tore up; which he felt the more free
to do from the impression that in all human probability
he would never again see the person who had drawn it.
Whether that impression proved well-founded or not,
does not appear. But in after days, telling the night's
adventure to his friends, the worthy barber always
spoke of his queer customer as the man-charmer—as
certain East Indians are called snake-charmers—and all
his friends united in thinking him quite an Original.