On Being Nice Read online

  The confident confessor is sure we all do equally odd (but very different) things. These unusual things, they suggest, are highly compatible with being a pleasant person deserving of love. Through their cheerful acceptance of their own strangeness, they break the oppressive link between being similar and being thought nice, which is otherwise so often active as a punitive force in our minds.

  Charming frankness isn’t merely engaging to encounter; it is a guide to our own less lonely future.

  14

  The Ultimate Test of Your Social Skills

  It can be easy to imagine that we possess reasonable social skills, because we know how to maintain conversation with strangers and – every now and then – manage to make a whole table laugh.

  But there’s a test far sterner than this, surprising in its ability to trip us up: the challenge of having a pleasant time with a child we don’t know. Theoretically speaking, this should be easy. We were all kids once. We know a great deal more than they do and – as far as they’re concerned – hold all the cards: if we felt like it, we could buy 26 packets of biscuits and go to bed whenever we wanted.

  Yet, in reality, it is strangely hard to feel at ease around children we’re not already close to. Imagine being invited around to your boss’s house for lunch and being left alone at the kitchen island with her moody ten-year-old son, or being introduced into a playroom with two shy five-year-old girls, the children of a friend. We may swiftly become bewilderingly tongue-tied and inept.

  The reason is that children are unable to do any of the normal things that ease social encounters between adult strangers. They don’t ask polite questions about what we’ve been up to. They have no feeling for our lives or what might be important to us. They don’t talk about the news or the weather. They can’t usually tell us much about themselves and their enthusiasms. If we ask them why they like a toy or a film, they tend to look blank and say they just like it, that’s all.

  So, for all their sweetness, children present formidable and fascinating barriers to social fluidity – which is also why they are the greatest tests of one’s mastery of the arts of charm and kindness.

  Across cultural history we have a few moving examples of accomplished adults getting on well with children. The French philosopher Michel de Montaigne (1533–1592) remarked that he found ‘nothing more notable’ in the life of Socrates (the man who more or less began Western philosophy) than that he was exceptionally gifted at playing with children, and would, especially in his later years, spend many hours playing games and giving them piggy-backs. ‘And it suited him well,’ added Montaigne, ‘for all actions, says philosophy, equally become and equally honour a wise man.’

  Jean-Auguste-Dominique Ingres, Henry IV surprised by the Spanish Ambassador while playing with his children, 1817.

  Henri IV was one of the rare cases of a high-status adult who took care to cultivate kind and playful relationships with children.

  Henri IV, king of France from 1589 to 1610, is remembered as one of the most benign French monarchs who also happened to be very sweet around children. On one occasion, famously painted by Ingres (recreating the scene two centuries after its occurrence), the Spanish ambassador came to see the king and found him pretending to be a horse for his children to ride on. Rather than interrupt the game immediately, Henri kept the ambassador waiting a little while, sending out a strong signal of where he felt sensible adult priorities should sometimes lie.

  What is touching in these cases is that the adults did not insist on using their obvious, socially endorsed, strengths around children. Socrates did not opt to deliver lectures about metaphysics, and Henri IV did not sit impassively on a throne discussing how to rule a kingdom. They put aside their well-known virtues and prestige in order to make themselves vulnerable – as one must whenever friendship is at stake. They dared to lay themselves open to attack by those who might have described them as ‘silly’ or ‘undignified’, implicitly understanding that friendship can only emerge when we let the fragile, unadorned parts of us meet without artifice the fragile, unadorned parts of others.

  Furthermore, these two grand men knew how to find common ground with creatures who were, in so many respects, entirely alien to them. Cosmopolitans of the mind, they imaginatively searched for what unites rather than what divides people and were able to locate, somewhere within their characters, the joys and excitements of someone who has only been on the earth a few years.

  The socially adept know that we contain (even if only in trace, embryonic forms) all human possibilities within us, which they draw upon to feel their way into the needs and points of view of strangers. Even if they happen to be confident, they will know how to be in touch with the more timid version of themselves; even if they are financially secure, they can mobilise their own experience of anxiety to enter the inner world of someone beset by money worries; even if their careers have not gone well, they can, without bitterness, find a part of themselves that would love to prosper and use this to engage warmly with someone whose professional life has gone very well indeed.

  The moves that these grand people made with children are ones we should all learn how to make with anyone, of whatever age, who we want to bond with. But it is particularly useful that these were grand people who made neighing sounds, for what so often holds us back around others, and makes us cold when we deep down long to be close, is a fear of a loss of dignity. Friendship begins, and loneliness can end, when we cease trying to impress, have the courage to step outside our safety zones and can dare, for a time, to look a little ridiculous.

  Credits

  p. 100 View of Dosseringen, Copenhagen, with Willows in the Foreground, c. 1837, Christen Købke. Ordrupgaard, Copenhagen. Photo: Pernille Klemp

  p. 116 Henry IV surprised by the Spanish Ambassador while playing with his children, 1817, Jean-Dominique Ingres. Musée des Beaux-Arts de la Ville de Paris, Petit Palais. Credit: Roger-Viollet / Topfoto

  Other titles by

  The School of Life Press

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  The School of Life is dedicated to developing emotional intelligence through the help of culture – believing that a range of our most persistent problems are created by a lack of self-understanding, compassion and communication. We operate from ten physical campuses around the world, including London, Amsterdam, Seoul and Melbourne. We produce films, run classes, offer therapy and make a range of psychological products. The School of Life Press publishes books on the most important issues of cultural and emotional life. Our titles are designed to entertain, educate, console and transform.

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