Reserve

In Colm Tóibín's 2004 novel, The Master, Henry James is visiting his old friend, the wealthy Paul Bourget, an "unpleasantly rigid and authoritarian" anti-Semite:

Henry did everything he could, in the early days of his stay, not to discuss Zola or the Dreyfus case with Paul or Minnie Bourget or their guest, feeling that his own views on the matter would diverge from those of his hosts. His support for Zola and, indeed, for Dreyfus was sufficiently strong not to wish to hear the Bourgets' prejudices on the matter.

    Note that Henry is confident that his "sufficiently strong" views are more or less the true ones, for the contrary views of the Bourgets he regards as "prejudices." Aren't we all like that? We think we know what's true about religion, or politics, or marriage, and the people whose views we don't "wish to hear" are bigots.
    But Henry, his judgment of Bourget aside, seems to like the man well enough.

[Henry] knew Bourget, he felt, as though he had made him. He knew his nature and his culture, his race and his type, his vanity and his snobbery, his interest in ideas and his ambition. But these were small matters compared to the overall effect of the man, and the core of selfhood which he so easily revealed. This was richer and more likable and more complicated than anyone supposed.

I recognize that there's a lesson for me here. Over the past decade and a half of partisan politics in this country (I'm going all the way back to the 1994 mid-term election), I've observed my tendency to write bigots off and grant them no hope of reprieve in my estimation. Fortunately, I have a few counterexamples of bigots with whom I have, for various reasons, nevertheless maintained friendships. The fact that I have been able to do that gives me hope to believe that I may grow past this shortsighted intolerance.
    Tóibín continues:

In return for all Henry's attention, he knew, Bourget noticed nothing [emphasis mine]. His list of Henry's attributes, were he to make one, would be simple and clear and innacurate. He did not observe the concealed self, nor, Henry imagined, did the idea interest him. And this, as his stay with the Bourgets came to an end, pleased him. Remaining invisible, becoming skilled in the art of self-effacement, even to someone whom he had known so long, gave him satisfaction. It was not a deliberate strategy, but it was central to his very presence in a room or at a table. Those in his company could enjoy what he said, but most of the time they found a polite and polished blankness. He was ready to listen, always ready to do that, but not prepared to reveal the mind at work, the imagination, or the depth of feeling.

    I much admire Henry's reserve, his ability to hang back in the shadows and observe without revealing himself.
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The original version of this article was published on December 16, 2006 (as "Withholding yourself").