This Side of Paradise [54]
calls several times a week. "Of course I don't. What's prestige, at best?"
"Some people say that you're just a rather original politician." He roared with laughter.
"That's what Fred Sloane told me to-day. I suppose I have it coming."
One afternoon they dipped into a subject that had interested Amory for a long timethe matter of the bearing of physical attributes on a man's make-up. Burne had gone into the biology of this, and then:
"Of course health countsa healthy man has twice the chance of being good," he said.
"I don't agree with youI don't believe in 'muscular Christianity.'"
"I do-I believe Christ had great physical vigor."
"Oh, no," Amory protested. "He worked too hard for that. I imagine that when he died he was a broken-down manand the great saints haven't been strong."
"Half of them have."
"Well, even granting that, I don't think health has anything to do with goodness; of course, it's valuable to a great saint to be able to stand enormous strains, but this fad of popular preachers rising on their toes in simulated virility, bellowing that calisthenics will save the worldno, Burne, I can't go that." "Well, let's waive itwe won't get anywhere, and besides I haven't quite made up my mind about it myself. Now, here's something I do knowpersonal appearance has a lot to do with it."
"Coloring?" Amory asked eagerly.
"Yes."
"That's what Tom and I figured," Amory agreed. "We took the year-books for the last ten years and looked at the pictures of the senior council. I know you don't think much of that august body, but it does represent success here in a general way. Well, I suppose only about thirty-five per cent of every class here are blonds, are really lightyet two-thirds of every senior council are light. We looked at pictures of ten years of them, mind you; that means that out of every fifteen light-haired men in the senior class one is on the senior council, and of the dark-haired men it's only one in fifty."
"It's true," Burne agreed. "The light-haired man is a higher type, generally speaking. I worked the thing out with the Presidents of the United States once, and found that way over half of them were light-hairedyet think of the preponderant number of brunettes in the race."
People unconsciously admit it," said Amory. "You'll notice a blond person is expected to talk. If a blond girl doesn't talk we call her a 'doll'; if a light-haired man is silent he's considered stupid. Yet the world is full of 'dark silent men' and 'languorous brunettes' who haven't a brain in their heads, but somehow are never accused of the dearth."
"And the large mouth and broad chin and rather big nose undoubtedly make the superior face."
"I'm not so sure." Amory was all for classical features. "Oh, yesI'll show you," and Burne pulled out of his desk a photographic collection of heavily bearded, shaggy celebrities-Tolstoi, Whitman, Carpenter, and others.
"Aren't they wonderful?"
Amory tried politely to appreciate them, and gave up laughingly. "Burne, I think they're the ugliest-looking crowd I ever came across. They look like an old man's home."
"Oh, Amory, look at that forehead on Emerson; look at Tolstoi's eyes." His tone was reproachful.
Amory shook his head.
"No! Call them remarkable-looking or anything you wantbut ugly they certainly are."
Unabashed, Burne ran his hand lovingly across the spacious foreheads, and piling up the pictures put them back in his desk. Walking at night was one of his favorite pursuits, and one night he persuaded Amory to accompany him.
"I hate the dark," Amory objected. "I didn't use toexcept when I was particularly imaginative, but now, I really do-I'm a regular fool about it."
"That's useless, you know."
"Quite possibly."
"We'll go east," Burne suggested, "and down that string of roads through the woods."
"Doesn't sound very appealing to me," admitted Amory reluctantly, "but let's go."
They set off at a good gait, and for an hour swung along in a brisk argument until the lights of Princeton were luminous white blots behind
"Some people say that you're just a rather original politician." He roared with laughter.
"That's what Fred Sloane told me to-day. I suppose I have it coming."
One afternoon they dipped into a subject that had interested Amory for a long timethe matter of the bearing of physical attributes on a man's make-up. Burne had gone into the biology of this, and then:
"Of course health countsa healthy man has twice the chance of being good," he said.
"I don't agree with youI don't believe in 'muscular Christianity.'"
"I do-I believe Christ had great physical vigor."
"Oh, no," Amory protested. "He worked too hard for that. I imagine that when he died he was a broken-down manand the great saints haven't been strong."
"Half of them have."
"Well, even granting that, I don't think health has anything to do with goodness; of course, it's valuable to a great saint to be able to stand enormous strains, but this fad of popular preachers rising on their toes in simulated virility, bellowing that calisthenics will save the worldno, Burne, I can't go that." "Well, let's waive itwe won't get anywhere, and besides I haven't quite made up my mind about it myself. Now, here's something I do knowpersonal appearance has a lot to do with it."
"Coloring?" Amory asked eagerly.
"Yes."
"That's what Tom and I figured," Amory agreed. "We took the year-books for the last ten years and looked at the pictures of the senior council. I know you don't think much of that august body, but it does represent success here in a general way. Well, I suppose only about thirty-five per cent of every class here are blonds, are really lightyet two-thirds of every senior council are light. We looked at pictures of ten years of them, mind you; that means that out of every fifteen light-haired men in the senior class one is on the senior council, and of the dark-haired men it's only one in fifty."
"It's true," Burne agreed. "The light-haired man is a higher type, generally speaking. I worked the thing out with the Presidents of the United States once, and found that way over half of them were light-hairedyet think of the preponderant number of brunettes in the race."
People unconsciously admit it," said Amory. "You'll notice a blond person is expected to talk. If a blond girl doesn't talk we call her a 'doll'; if a light-haired man is silent he's considered stupid. Yet the world is full of 'dark silent men' and 'languorous brunettes' who haven't a brain in their heads, but somehow are never accused of the dearth."
"And the large mouth and broad chin and rather big nose undoubtedly make the superior face."
"I'm not so sure." Amory was all for classical features. "Oh, yesI'll show you," and Burne pulled out of his desk a photographic collection of heavily bearded, shaggy celebrities-Tolstoi, Whitman, Carpenter, and others.
"Aren't they wonderful?"
Amory tried politely to appreciate them, and gave up laughingly. "Burne, I think they're the ugliest-looking crowd I ever came across. They look like an old man's home."
"Oh, Amory, look at that forehead on Emerson; look at Tolstoi's eyes." His tone was reproachful.
Amory shook his head.
"No! Call them remarkable-looking or anything you wantbut ugly they certainly are."
Unabashed, Burne ran his hand lovingly across the spacious foreheads, and piling up the pictures put them back in his desk. Walking at night was one of his favorite pursuits, and one night he persuaded Amory to accompany him.
"I hate the dark," Amory objected. "I didn't use toexcept when I was particularly imaginative, but now, I really do-I'm a regular fool about it."
"That's useless, you know."
"Quite possibly."
"We'll go east," Burne suggested, "and down that string of roads through the woods."
"Doesn't sound very appealing to me," admitted Amory reluctantly, "but let's go."
They set off at a good gait, and for an hour swung along in a brisk argument until the lights of Princeton were luminous white blots behind