ter,
extremely considerate to its own self, so that it may be displayed
without scruple, but troublesome to others, so that they may repress it
without pity; immediately repressible, so that our laughter may not
have been wasted, but sure of reappearing under fresh aspects, so that
laughter may always find something to do; inseparable from social life,
although insufferable to society; capable--in order that it may assume
the greatest imaginable variety of forms--of being tacked on to all the
vices and even to a good many virtues. Truly a goodly number of
elements to fuse together! But a chemist of the soul, entrusted with
this elaborate preparation, would be somewhat disappointed when pouring
out the contents of his retort. He would find he had taken a vast deal
of trouble to compound a mixture which may be found ready-made and free
of expense, for it is as widespread throughout mankind as air
throughout nature.

This mixture is vanity. Probably there is not a single failing that is
more superficial or more deep-rooted. The wounds it receives are never
very serious, and yet they are seldom healed. The services rendered to
it are the most unreal of all services, and yet they are the very ones
that meet with lasting gratitude. It is scarcely a vice, and yet all
the vices are drawn into its orbit and, in proportion as they become
more refined and artificial, tend to be nothing more than a means of
satisfying it. The outcome of social life, since it is an admiration of
ourselves based on the admiration we think we are inspiring in others,
it is even more natural, more universally innate than egoism; for
egoism may be conquered by nature, whereas only by reflection do we get
the better of vanity. It does not seem, indeed, as if men were ever
born modest, unless we dub with the name of modesty a sort of purely
physical bashfulness, which is nearer to pride than is generally
supposed. True modesty can be nothing but a meditation on vanity. It
springs from the sight of others' mistakes and the dread of being
similarly deceived. It is a sort of scientific cautiousness with
respect to what we shall say and think of ourselves. It is made up of
improvements and after-touches. In short, it is an acquired virtue.

It is no easy matter to define the point at which the anxiety to become
modest may be distinguished from the dread of becoming ridiculous. But
surely, at the outset, this dread and this anxiety are one and the same
thing