GIVE AND TAKE
By LAURENCE WHISTLER
POSTMPOSTMEN have been busy again. For weeks past we have been EN and scouring our impoverished shops—the book shops where the one book that would have done so well was sold out after two days: the toy shops where the toys took our breath away, not so much by their charm or novelty or strength as by what we read on the tickets: the clothing shops where the recollection of coupons placed a naked sword between us and the already-none-too-suitable it. Yet presents have been given, perhaps more than ever before— given too, this first Christmas of the frugal peace, with a gay and baroque gesture of the will, compounded both of relief and of defiance.
Postmen are generally gracious and genial men who do not rub the bloom from our presents by any apparent reluctance to handle them in such large quantities. Yet some of the presents they have brought us have met with a rather curious reception. There have been Tarcels which were opened with an exclamation, not of pleasure, but of dismay, even of downright indignation. "From Derek of all people! And we never send each other a present! He knows that perfectly well. Of course if I send anything now he'll think it's just a'retort. And look at it: genuine Battersea—I think. It's really too bad of him." Perhaps Derek's motive was above reproach. Perhaps he has acted on a sudden impulse of generosity. That might be true, and still not all the truth. For isn't it conceivable that he has been rubbing his hands at the thought of a little score over an old and dear sparring-partner?
For any 'present, but especially a Chrisurias present, to be given and received in this spirit is so laughably perverse that when we see it in that light we are jolted into reflecting on the nature of presents as a whole, on the idea of the gift in itself, involving, as it does, a small ritual of everyday life, performed by two persons, and best performed when they are physically in the same room. For like all acts of generosity, whether-between man and man; or between God and man, it does quite definitely require the collaboration of two ; there is no question of a passive participant. And it may be worth while to consider for a moment what is demanded of each in the perfectly conceived antiphony—an achievement rather less com- mon than we might suppose.
It is first, then, to the giver that we must listen. We want to know that his motive is pure—that he is truly thinking of the pleasure of the other ; feeling pleasure himself—that is important—but. finding it solely in that, not in his own bountifulness. All very trite, but how difficult to achieve! We may hardly achieve it in a whole life- -time. For egotism is at our elbow with the mere thought of giving a present. Why, for example, do we rub out the price? Is it honestly because we want the recipient to think we have paid less? Or are we secretly rather hoping he will think we have paid more? In any case, ought the price to occupy our attention so long? Mightn't we forget about it as soon as it is paid? Aren't we already, to continue the metaphor, singing a little flat? And here it is worth noticing that to give anonymously is, in itself, no sort of safeguard against egotism. Deprived of the fitting payment in thanks, we are even more likely, unless we are very exceptional, to pay ourselves in self-esteem. On the whole, it is better for most of us to accept the natural reward.
Now it is the recipient's turn. And his part is the easier of the two. All that is really required of him is to be pleased and say so effectively. No doubt this requires training through childhood, just as a voice needs to be trained, though there must also be sothething to train. But it is not essential for him to like the present. The pen-wiper may be in deplorable taste, the novel may be already on the table ; he is still pleased with the kindness that thought it worth giving. That is why it is so important for the kindness to have been there, since it is quite impossible to be convincingly grateful for a present one neither wants nor believes to have been given for the only good reason.
And now once again we are closely attending to the giver. For every gift does require to be paid for, and it can only be pad for in the currency of gratitude. When that has been offered and when it has also been accepted, payment has been made in full. There is no credit balance on the one side, no debit on the other. Every- one knows the man—it generally is a man—who cannot be thanked. His presents are handsome ; but he gives them brusquely and apparently without pleasure. As soon as they are in our hands he turns his back on us, or else he continues to talk us down, until our thank-yous have trailed away into nothing. By his manner he seems to suggest that we are ungrateful, but that of course he doesn't look for thanks ; and he leaves us with the uncomfortable feeling that we have confirmed him in his opinion of us. Little does he know hoiv transparent he is, how clearly we are able to perceive his unattractive design, and how much thereby he diminishes the value of his giving, so that we tend to become what he assumes us to be, ungrateful. For he too feels, as well as anyone, that gratitude is pay- ment ; and he doesn't want to be paid. He wants to indulge the self- satisfaction of the creditor. If he allowed us to thank him from our hearts we would no longer be under an obligation to him. The little ceremony has been spoilt.
Pleasure should be reflected to and fro in the act of generosity, just as light is reflected between two mirrors truly confronting one another. The obvious pleasure of giving increases the pleasure of receiving, and is shone back again in the pleasure of being thanked ; and so on towards infinity and out of reckoning. For pleasure, this multiplication of pleasure, is the object. Perfect harmony may be rare, but is not unknown. Lovers, for instance, may achieve it. Wherever it exists that maxim designed for an imperfect relationship —" it is better to give than receive "—no longer applies. For when the pleasure of one is at last wholly derived from the pleasure of the other and absorbed in it, then it becomes as gracious to receive as to give. It becomes in fact difficult to remember which is which. It seems for a moment as if while acting one part we might just as easily and with equal favour be acting the other ; as if, indeed, we were acting, and ultimately for the delight pf someone else altogether, that third undefinable person perpetually observing. And that is the best of it.
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